Based on a True Story

This is a tough story to write.  Not because it’s embarrassing like most of my stories, but because I have to be very careful to protect the identity of my friend, for reasons that will become obvious soon.  As such, I’m going to have to be really creative in changing names, dates, locations and cast of characters.

So, I can’t tell you how old I was when this story took place.  I can’t tell you if I was living in Champaign, Illinois; or San Diego, California; or End Of The World, Utah.  I can’t tell you why I was getting on a plane the next morning, because the sporting event I was heading to would make it too obvious.  I even have to give aliases to my aliases so no one can piece together who was involved in the story.

In other words, I can’t promise you that any of this story is actually “true.”  I’ve changed so many things it could probably best be described as “Based on a True Story.”

About all I can tell you is that it was my birthday, and I was catching a 7am flight the next morning.  Now, I’ve never been a big fan of my own birthday.  But, I’ve learned over the years that if I try to do nothing for my birthday, someone invariably tries to plan something on my behalf and it ends up sucking.  So I’ve started taking matters into my own hands and planning my own birthday party.  And by “party” I mean telling people what bar I’ll be getting drunk at.  If they want to come and buy me drinks, great; if not, that’s fine too.

So for this particular birthday I chose my local sports bar.  It was a weeknight so I didn’t feel compelled to go to some cool bar or club, and the waitresses and bartenders at this bar were hotter than anything we were likely to find out in the middle of the week.

My buddy Top Gun and I headed out early and started drinking probably about 6.  We flirted with the waitresses and watched whatever sporting event was on TV while drinking heavily.  I was knockin’ back my old standby, gin and tonic, while Top Gun was drinking either vodka tonics or red bull and vodka (sorry, my memory is a little hazy).  I thought we had an understanding that we would hold off on the shots for a couple hours, until other people started showing up.

Apparently Top Gun had no such understanding.

Top Gun was in the midst of trying to break up with his girlfriend of several years.  This had been going on for about two months.  He had had “The Talk” with her on at least two occasions, and both times she had completely lost it, crying and wailing and begging and fucking his brains out until he was powerless to go through with it.  A couple weekends before he had broken up with her on a Friday night, thought he was a free man, but as we were coming back from grabbing dinner and beers as prelude to his first Saturday as a free man, his roommate called to tell him the ex?girlfriend had been sitting on the front porch waiting for him for the better part of an hour.  We changed routes, headed to a bar to grab a drink and wait her out, but after another hour she was still waiting on the porch, crying, and Top Gun didn’t have the heart to put her through it anymore.  We went to his place, they fought, made up, fucked, fought some more, cried some more, fucked some more, and by Sunday morning he was more or less back with her. And I was out a wingman.

Now, Top Gun was a stand-up guy and hadn’t cheated on his ex?girlfriend through any of this, but he was at the end of his rope by now.  He wanted out.  Further complicating matters, there was a girl (we’ll call her Sweet Tits) he worked with who had been sniffing around him for several weeks.  Sweet Tits had invited herself out with us a couple times, gotten rip-roaring drunk with us, and then proceeded to throw herself at him.  To Top Gun’s credit, he had stayed faithful to the ex?girlfriend despite the new girl being hot and extremely available.

Sweet Tits had been texting him while we were drinking, and about the time a few more friends started showing up, she came strolling through the door looking smokin’ hot in a tight little dress.

Things were about to get interesting.

My friend Captain Caveman was on the scene now, and he was a fiend for shots.  We were knocking them back at an alarming rate.  Marlboro Men, Washington Apples, Sicilian Kisses, Jagerbombs, some other things I can’t remember.  I was quickly becoming a mess and it wasn’t even 9 o’clock yet.  And then Buddha showed up and ordered tequila, my old nemesis.

Bad news.

I have to be honest, there’s very little I remember about the rest of our stay at the bar.  I don’t know who was there, I don’t remember what girl I was trying to sleep with at the time that undoubtedly shot me down.  But here’s what I do remember:

At some point in the evening, after ogling Sweet Tits’ sweet tits for awhile, I leaned over and drunkenly draped my arm around Top Gun.  He was no doubt afraid I was about to become one of those emotional drunks that starts telling everyone what a good friend they are and how much I love him.  Not me.

“You know what I want for my birthday?” I said to him in my quietest drunk voice (which is probably just slightly below a roar).  “I want you to fuck the shit out of Sweet Tits!”

Top Gun looked at me quizzically, like this was the oddest request he’d ever heard in his life.  But then he shrugged, smiled, and just said, “Okay.”

A little while later, after Buddha and Captain Caveman had very nearly made me puke with their endless parade of shots, Top Gun appeared by my side with a shit eating grin on his face.  “Done,” was all he said.

It took a moment for it to register with me.  “Wait… what? … You mean? … No! … You didn’t! … You fucked her?!? … In the parking lot?!? … No!  Get the fuck outta here! … You fucked her?!?  Just now?!? … No fuckin’ way! … You really did it???”

I was babbling incoherently, and then I was high fiving and hugging him and dancing around like a fool celebrating a touchdown.  “That’s fucking great!”  I looked across the bar and saw Sweet Tits checking her makeup while she waited for a drink.  “That is the greatest birthday present ever!” I hollered, forcing Top Gun to tell me to keep it down.  “So you’re a free man now!  I’ve got my wingman back!  This is the best birthday ever!!!”

But the night didn’t end there.  Inspired by my friend’s bold parking lot fornication, I decided I needed to get laid myself.  Somewhere between wasted and blacked out, I decided it would be an outstanding idea to drunk text my ex-girlfriend, who lived about 45 minutes away.  I can’t actually remember the conversation that transpired, but here’s a rough simulation:

SWASS- Hey, it’s my birthday!  Wanna fuck???

Ex-GF- Now?

SWASS- Yeah!  It’s my birthday and I miss you!

Ex-GF- Really?

SWASS- Hell yeah!

Ex-GF- Where are you?

SWASS-  XXXXXX’s Bar

Ex-GF- That’s like 45 min away!  I’m already in my PJ’s!

SWASS- Don’t worry, I’ll find a ride up there.  But can you take me to the airport in the morning?

Ex-GF- What time?

SWASS- 5?

Ex-GF- WTF?  Are you kidding me???

SWASS-  But it’s my birthday!  And I miss you!

As long as we're "based on a true story," we'll say my ex looked like this

And it went on like this for some time, only with a lot more misspellings on my part.  When she finally relented I pulled the birthday card on Buddha and made him drive me all the way up to her place.

I’m pretty sure I passed out on the way up to her place, because I really don’t remember anything about the drive.  Buddha was a true friend and got me up there, waited patiently while I had to call her for the specific directions to her place, and finally dropped me off with an apology to my ex.  By this time it was close to 2 in the morning.  That meant two things: First, I had been drinking for somewhere near 8 hours.  And second, I needed to get up in about three hours for my flight.

So, not wasting anytime, I tried to get busy with her on a park bench outside her apartment.  When she refused me that we stumbled up to her apartment and went straight to bed.

Now, I’m sure you have all experienced Whiskey Dick before.  Well, this was Whiskey Dick’s evil cousin, Super Dick.  That’s when you’re hard as a rock but can’t climax.  Super Dick sounds like a great thing (“Hey, I can fuck all night!”).  But in reality, when you’re stupid blind drunk all you really want to do is cum and pass out.  It’s a cruel irony; you never last as long as you want when you’re sober, but when you’re drunk you’re like a machine.

I pounded on the ex forever.  It was the best cardio workout I’d had in weeks.  But there was no way I was going to cum.  The ex was moaning and groaning (she had to be faking it), telling me how much she missed me.  Finally, after an eternity, and when I felt like I might just puke if I exerted myself anymore, I faked my orgasm.

That’s right, I faked it.

Take that, ladies!

I rolled off her, told her how great she was, and before passing out set my alarm for 4:45.  Fifteen minutes before we technically needed to get on the road for the airport.

It’s amazing what two hours of sleep can do when you’re shitfaced.  I was still drunk when I woke up, but no longer a total trainwreck.  So, confident that Super Dick had passed, I nudged the ex awake, rolled back on top of her, and went at it again.

It couldn’t have taken me more than three minutes to cum.

In retrospect I feel a little bad, because even though it had lasted longer the night before I seriously doubt my performance had been anything to write home about.  But oh well.

So then the ex, bless her heart, drove my ass all the way back to my place to grab my bag, then drove me to the airport.  And all she got out of it was a beautiful sunrise.

In the aftermath of this epic night, the ex got the crazy idea in her head that we might get back together.  Thankfully I was gone for about a week so that helped a bit.

But the real story was Top Gun.  I think he felt guilty about finally cheating on his ex?girlfriend, even if it was barely more than a technicality.  He broke up with her, and almost immediately started dating Sweet Tits.

They were married a few years later.

Now isn’t that a happy ending?  And it was all because of me!  Of course, Sweet Tits has no idea about any of this, so we’ll have to keep it our little secret.

Who says I’m not a romantic???

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What’s Your Favorite Sexual Position?

My latest story is taking a bit longer than expected, so in the meantime, here’s a debate for you to chew on.

You Think It’s Break-Up Sex, She Thinks It’s Make-Up Sex

In a previous post, I admitted that I did not lose my virginity until I was 26.  Well, a little over a year after that I had my first girlfriend, Lacey.  At the risk of sounding like a total asshole, I never really liked her that much.  But she was into me, she was a fellow Illini fan in San Diego, and I figured I should at least experience a relationship so I’d have some idea what to expect in the future.  So I dated her for about four months.  This is the story about what happened next.

It was a chilly Friday night in lovely San Diego.  At the Division II school I worked at we were hosting women’s volleyball and men’s soccer at the same time.  Volleyball was ranked #2 in the nation and dispatched their foe in less than 90 minutes, so that by 8:30 I was beginning to get the wild notion in my head that I might actually get to go out and get drunk tonight.  After finishing up I went out to the soccer field to see where things were at.  Surprise, surprise, we were deadlocked in a 0-0 tie late in the second half.  (When I die and go to hell I’m sure it will be a neverending scoreless soccer game.  With stands full of foreigners and sell-out Americans trying to tell me how futbol is the purest sport.)  My dreams of intoxication were fading fast.

But then my buddy G-Man called me.  “Dude, what’re you doin’ tonight?”

“Well, right now I’m watching a bunch of soccer fags not score.”

“Dude, I’ve got twelve super-hot chicks on their way over to my place right now to pre-party, then we’re goin’ to Typhoon.”

“Damn you!” As most of you know by now, Typhoon was my favorite bar in San Diego.

G-Man replied with, “You remember that chick Meghan?  She’s gonna be there.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Let me tell you a little about Meghan.  I’d only met her once, I couldn’t tell you a single thing about her other than the fact that she knew G-Man from college.  But I did know that she was hot.  Smokin’ hot.  About 5’8″, blond with blue eyes and a killer California tan, great tits and an ass that wouldn’t stop.  Everything about her was pure sex appeal.  Mind you, she might have been retarded or gay or even a communist for all I know, but just the opportunity to stare at her cleavage all night was more than enough to make me pull rank on my staff and cut out of the soccer game just as it was heading for double overtime.

(Sidebar: I’m sure there are some soccer fans reading this story, and I do not mean to offend, but honestly, is there anything dumber than the term “Sudden Victory?”  Not “sudden death,” no, that would be too manly, too aggressive, too much like real sports.  Sudden Victory.)

So as I’m slinking away into the night, hiding from upper management types that might question my decision to leave things in the hands of my borderline-retarded assistant, my phone rings again.  It’s the ex- girlfriend.

Since our break up, we had been on surprisingly good terms, mostly due to the fact that we had kept a pretty safe distance from one another, making it easy to avoid those tough “We need to talk” moments.

She was piss drunk at a friend’s party (a friend I’d love to sleep with, but that another story).  I told her I was heading out to Typhoon with G-Man.  “Ohhh,” she said, “I was going to go there but now I’m too drunk and I don’t have a ride.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I answered, not meaning it.  We exchanged a few pleasantries and that was that.

Before I go any further, I should roll back the tape a bit.  After breaking up with Lacey I had sent an email to a couple of my closest friends explaining the reasons for my dumping her.  I won’t bore you with that lengthy diatribe, but I will quote the brilliant email my buddy Family Man sent me in response:

“[Single White Alcoholic], while all of these are valid reasons for a split, I’m willing to bet a nice bottle of gin that you will get to experience some good old fashioned break-up sex in the next 30 days. Scientific studies have shown that male/female relationships ending due to break up are closely followed by a one-time intense sexual encounter involving the split couple 94% of the time.  I’m sorry to say it’s a virtual scientific fact that you will have to experience some break up sex at least one more time in the near future.  The fact that it’s football season and both your favorite college football team and your fantasy football team are going to suck will ensure that September will be a very emotional time for you. Throw in your normal rate of alcohol consumption and a little bad judgment and you’ll be up to your ears in reason #4 [bad blowjobs] before you know it.

Although this piece of brilliant illumination was fresh in my mind, I wasn’t really considering it at that moment.  I was just thinking about a great night of drinking with G-Man and staring at the beautiful angel Meghan.

I raced home, took two shots, made myself a fat Red Bull and vodka for the shower (sippy cups: they’re not just for kids!), and raced out the door.  Along the 15 minute walk to the bar, sipping on another cocktail, I got a text from Lacey: “R U at Typhoon?”

Oh Lord.  I should have lied, but being new to relationships (and break-ups), I fired back a quick “On my way,” to which she responded “I’m trying to find a ride but everyone is drunk.”

I got to Typhoon and found G-Man so drunk he could barely stand.  “Been drinking since 4,” he announced, putting his arm around me.  “I’m toast… Come on, let’s do shots.”  We knocked back some Jager, then he said, “Come on, let’s go find Meghan.”

We found Meghan and her friends in a corner of the bar.  She was almost as hammered as G-Man.  G-Man immediately seemed to sober up (he’s a world-class wingman) and with absolute clarity introduced me to her, even though we’d met before.  He raved about what a great guy I was, how good of friends we were, everything to set me up as well as possible.  Then he gave me a quick look, a conspiratorial smile, and told her, “And he’s a huge Lakers fan.”  Then he disappeared.

(For the record, I am NOT a Lakers fan.  I don’t even particularly like the NBA.  What a guy.)

Meghan took my hand extra affectionately and started talking some nonsense about her Lakers.  I stepped right into character, talking about the Purple and Gold like they were my favorite team.  I lamented the loss of D-Fish; talked optimistically about Lamar Odom; reminisced about countless smackdowns laid on the hated Sacramento Queens.  I was on top of my game.  And the best part was she was so drunk I had free rein to ogle her marvelous breasts to my heart’s content.

G-Man hadn’t been lying about there being a dozen girls in the group, so I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have liked.  They drug her off to the dance floor, and while she was dancing G-Man and I drank more.  And it was just about that time that Lacey started calling.  “We’re on our way there.  Don’t leave!”

Shit.

How to handle this one?  I knew I was getting too drunk to juggle.  Without a solid solution, I decided to immerse myself in more booze in the hope that it might spur some ingenious plan.

The alcohol didn’t help, but G-Man did.  When Lacey walked in I turned to him with a look of confused desperation, to which he just patted me reassuringly on the shoulder and said, “She’s the bullpen dude.  You hope you don’t have to turn to your bullpen, but it’s there if you do.”

Wiser words have never been spoken.

Lacey arrived with one of her law school friends and some random dude she knew from somewhere.  I had met him once before but had been drunk at the time, and upon learning he was a Michigan grad I’d rudely ignored him.  This time I gave him an aloof handshake and continued to ignore him.  I was friendly enough to Lacey and her other friend, but I was definitely focused elsewhere.

At this point the night begins to get fuzzy.  Meghan came back our direction and I was talking to her, probably too drunk to even think about whether Lacey was noticing.  As it turned out it wasn’t necessary.  Apparently the Michigan guy was trying to make a move on her.  Had I known this my reaction would have been, “Great, have at it.”  But instead, while I was diverted, G-Man took it upon himself to bitch Lacey out for “pulling that bullshit” in front of me.  He ripped her up and down, tearing her apart not only for bringing another guy around to “make me jealous,” but a scumbag from a rival school on top of it.  Stumbling drunk and slurring his words, G-Man then threatened to beat the Michigan guy up.

G-Man was so effective Lacey came up to me apologizing for her behavior, and I just nodded drunkenly, telling her it was alright (it would be several days before I pieced things together enough to know what the fuck she was talking about).  It was nearing last call and Meghan was about to puke, her friends carrying her to the door, and I realized I’d missed my chance.

So, with sad reluctance I walked out to the mound and called for the bullpen…

And it was just that easy.  The Michigan boy disappeared, the other friend drove us to my apartment, and drunken sloppy monkey sex ensued.

In the morning there was that agonizing awkwardness, that terrified sense that at any moment she would say something like “We need to talk,” or “Does this mean we’re back together?” or “Wow, you’re a lousy lay when you’re drunk.”  But fortunately she was in even worse shape than I was, half sick with a hangover and trying to piece together the previous night’s events.  She didn’t even remember how she had gotten to my place.  I just laid there in a hungover stupor, trying to put off getting up as long as possible.  Somehow I lucked out and her friend returned to pick her up, so I was free to stay in bed and sleep off my hangover.

But in the aftermath things definitely got more awkward between us.  Lacey’s law school friend informed her about G-Man’s threatening to beat up the Michigan boy and she wasn’t happy about it.  I refrained from making an issue of why G-Man felt compelled to take such action (i.e. the Wolverine was trying to get in her pants) because that would have required more talking, and because it would have implied that I cared who she slept with.

The next day I saw her at the bar during the Bears game, and thankfully she waited until after the game to start in again, but she still wanted to complain about the way I had been treating her since the breakup.  Then, not 15 minutes after she had walked out the door, she was texting me apologizing and inviting me to dinner with her friends.  I turned off my phone and took a nap.  I may not have known much about relationships, but I knew things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.

As a follow up to the weekend’s events, I had to email Family Man to concede our bet of a bottle of gin.  And I also had to ask him a question:

“You said it was a 94% probability of a one-time break-up sex… what are the odds of it happening more than once?  Others have said that break up sex can be some of the best sex ever… was this not the case because we were so hammered, or is there just no hope whatsoever of ever having good sex with this girl?  And what are the odds of us staying at least civil enough that I don’t have to find another bar to watch the Illini’s next seven losses?”

...Or is it?

An Easy Girl

Her name was Hailee.  She had a great body, long legs, nice ass, toned stomach and great breasts.  Unfortunately, Hailee had a face that could stop traffic.  She was in her mid-20’s but she had acne like the worst 16-year-old you’ve ever seen.  It wasn’t pretty.

I hooked up with Hailee one very drunken night when we all wound up at her place after the bar closed.  There were about a dozen people in her tiny studio apartment, playing drinking games until the wee hours of the morning.  Details are extremely hazy because I was drunker than three Indians on payday, but somehow as I was getting ready to leave I found myself making out with her.  (I think I made the first move but I honestly don’t remember.)  I took a step back into her apartment and kicked the door shut on my friends (the international sign for “get lost”) and we stumbled to her bed.

Once in bed I got her top off and discovered that her breasts were even better than they appeared under her shirt.  They were above average size for someone as skinny as she was, and so perfectly shaped I couldn’t be completely certain they were real.  (I consider myself a connoisseur of the breast augmentation business and can usually tell the difference with ease.)  And to top it all off, she had these spectacular eraser tip nipples that stuck out nearly a full inch.

I was so mesmerized by her rack that I was ready to forget about her unfortunate face and dive in… until my hand crept down inside her panties and found a string hanging out.

Sonuvabitch.

Well that sucks.  So we made out a little more, I played with her boobs a lot more.  I tried to get her to blow me but she wasn’t having any of it.  So I tried to get her to jerk me off but she was as inept at it as most girls.  So I passed out for a couple hours on her tiny bed before making the mile-plus walk of shame with no coat in the middle of December.

It might have been the coldest walk of my life.

But the story doesn’t end there.  A few weeks later a man named Blackout moved to town.  Blackout and I immediately hit it off and became drinking partners.  A few weeks into his arrival in Utah we were shitfaced at a bar and he was lamenting the lack of available females in this godforsaken wasteland we call home.

“You want some ass tonight?” I asked.  “I can deliver it to your door!”

Blackout hadn’t known me for very long, but it was long enough to know I’m no ladies man.  So he was skeptical.  But as we were piling into our designated driver’s car I pulled out my phone and shot a text to Hailee.  It took about two minutes and three texts to have her lined up.  Our sober driver swung by her place, picked her up, and dropped the three of us off at Blackout’s apartment.

Once there, I helped myself to a beer and hung out for about five minutes, just long enough to make sure everything was going smoothly.  Then I feigned like I needed to get something at my place (I lived in the same complex about a hundred yards away), said I’d be right back, and went home to bed.

The next day I asked Blackout how it went.  “Good, I think.  I don’t really remember.  Don’t think I fucked her, but you’re right, she has a great rack.”

But the story still isn’t over.

A couple weeks after that we once again found ourselves at Blackout’s apartment after a long night of drinking.  This night was an absolute trainwreck; I don’t remember where we were, who we were with, or how we wound up at home with Hailee in tow.

Here’s what I do remember.  Blackout was sitting in his recliner chair, chugging a beer.  I was on the couch chugging a beer.  Hailee was on the end of the couch, between us, chugging a beer.  It was cold out and she had on this long sweater that was almost like a dress, hanging down so low it practically covered her ass.  She had some kind of black tights on that probably would have shown off her ass quite nicely were it not for that sweater.  After the three of us had chilled for awhile, Hailee got up and went to the bathroom.  And when she came back she wasn’t wearing her tights!

I was bewildered.  Hammered and bewildered.  She slid past me on her way back to her spot on the couch, and as she did I could just see under her long sweater that she wasn’t wearing anything else.  Just a bare ass and an uncaged beaver.

So… what do you do in a situation like this?  She didn’t say a word, just sat back down between us and started drinking her beer and staring straight ahead at the TV.

Is this what you're looking for?

A million thoughts were racing through my drunken head.  What the fuck is going on?  Does she want us to take turns on her?  Does she want to get tag teamed?  Is she just totally fucked in the head???

I wanted desperately to confer with Blackout about this situation, but obviously that couldn’t be done with her sitting there.  Even worse, he was so fucked up he wasn’t even aware that she was now sitting in his living room with no pants on.  I was frantically trying to get his attention without alerting Hailee, leaning back in the couch and trying to make eye contact behind her back.

'Cause this ain't happenin'!

Now, I’m not going to say that I was down with the idea of having the wrong kind of threesome.  But I will say that I would have loved to have that conversation.  “So… you want me and Blackout to both fuck you?  At the same time?  Exactly how would you like this to work, which hole do I get?  Oh, and by the way, are you completely out of your fucking mind?!?”

But, alas, Blackout was totally out of it.  Short of me standing up and boldly announcing that there was a pants-less, classless, respect-less whore in his living room, nothing else was going to get his attention.  (In retrospect that’s exactly what I should have done.)

After what seemed like an ungodly length of time (it might have been just 5 minutes, but in my state time doesn’t have much meaning) Hailee huffed angrily, got up and stormed back into the bathroom.  The moment the door shut I whispered, “Dude!  That crazy bitch isn’t wearing any pants!  I think she wants us to run a train on her!’

Blackout stirred the tiniest bit, as if deciding whether this interested him, but then he slouched back in the chair and told me I could have her.  About that time Hailee came out of the bathroom, but instead of re-joining us in the living room she just helped herself to Blackout’s bed and passed out.

“Dude!” I whispered again, “She’s in your bed!  I think that means she wants to fuck you!”

Again, a half-stir out of Blackout, but then he shrugged and curled up in the recliner chair.  “You go for it.  I’m just gonna sleep here tonight.”

Now my bewilderment was making my head spin more than the booze.  “You want me to fuck her?  In your bed?”

“Sure.  I’ll clean the sheets tomorrow.”

To my great shame and embarrassment, I must admit I actually contemplated this.  I stood up, walked into the bedroom, as if to assess the situation.  I might have even called out to see if she was awake, I don’t remember.  But she didn’t stir, certainly didn’t say, “Oh, Single White Alcoholic, come fuck me in Blackout’s bed!”  So I decided the best course of action was to go home to bed.

The next day Blackout had no memory whatsoever of the incident.  When I recapped it for him he was just as intrigued as I had been.  “Do you think she wanted us to gangbang her?  Dude, that chick is nuts!  We should probably avoid putting anything inside her.”

“Agreed!”

The Slap

My girlfriend has forbidden me to tell anymore stories about her.  But she has granted me a special exemption to tell this doozie.  (I think she felt so guilty that she figured she had to let me write it.)  So here goes…

 —

This summer we took a roadtrip from End Of The World, Utah to attend a wedding in San Diego.  Since she had never seen that part of the country we decided to drive.  With summer construction it took us a good 13 hours, and in our haste to make it and get off our asses we skipped dinner to motor through, pulling into my friends’ place (the infamous Dead Wing and Prada) around 10 or 11pm.

We promptly started drinking.  It was my girlfriend’s first time meeting Prada and Dead Wing and I had been a little nervous of how everyone would get along.  You know how it is the first time your new girlfriend meets your friends, you worry about it way more than you should and it ends up being totally fine.  Same thing here.  Dead Wing and I started knockin’ back a refreshing gin and tonic, while Prada and my girlfriend went for a bottle of wine.

Before long, they opened a second bottle of wine.  Meanwhile, on an empty stomach I was beginning to feel a little buzzed after just one oversized and overpoured G&T.  It was going to be a good night.

I should probably explain here that my girlfriend can drink with the best of ‘em.  I mean, she can put ‘em away like a champ.  We haven’t actually had a drinking competition (I’m too old for that, plus I don’t think drinking should be a challenge; as long as everyone gets fucked up everyone wins) but I’m quite certain she could outdrink me.  She does, however, have one weakness: when she gets truly hammered she blacks out completely.  I’m not talking a spotty memory like most of us.  No, her mind just goes blank.  So, she often does or says things while intoxicated that she has no memory of, and many times she amazes even herself at the shit she does (i.e. saying we might be soul mates after knowing each other less than a month).  When this happens, she refers to it as having an alter-ego.  She even has a name for her alter-ego: Trixie.

This was definitely a Trixie night.

It started when she decided to invite herself into their hot tub.  Not that anyone minded, this was a splendid idea, and it actually made me feel good that she felt comfortable enough around my friends to do so.  So we all got into our suits and piled into the hot tub, pausing only long enough to refill our drinks.

It was a warm night and before long we were all rotating back and forth from the hot tub to the refreshingly cool swimming pool.  And the girls were cracking open a third bottle of wine.  We were all having a grand time.

But Trixie doesn’t have a very long shelf life.  When she comes out to play there’s only a short window before she is completely obliterated and the night is over.  On an empty stomach and after a long day on the road she went from drunk to sloppy to obliterated in the blink of an eye.  It was time to go to bed.  So I helped her out of the pool (almost losing her into the deep end), walked her into the house (almost losing her through the screen door) and into the guest bedroom, and let her fall onto the most comfortable aerobed I’ve ever slept on.

Of course, before we could go to bed we had to get out of our wet swimsuits.  My girlfriend was no help whatsoever, so I had to untie her bikini (yes, it was the infamous Buffalo Sabres bikini) and pull it off her while she laid half passed out on the aerobed.  With that job done, all that was left was to get out of my own swim trunks and I could pass out.

Now, at this point I would like to remind everyone that I had been in the pool for some time.  You’ve all seen the Seinfeld shrinkage episode, right?  It happens.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of, everyone’s dick shrivels up when it’s cold and wet.

Well, as soon as I pulled my trunks down my girlfriend stirred and lifted her head just enough to give me a look.  Then, with a look of drunken disgust on her face, she said, “I don’t like it.  It’s small.”  As if that wasn’t insulting enough, she then reached out and slapped dismissively at my shriveled cock and balls.  Not hard, mind you, it’s not like she hurt me.  No, this was worse, because it was so dismissive, as if my penis were completely irrelevant.

I began to mutter something along the lines of Costanza’s shrinkage speech, but she was already passed out.

So, what did I do next?

Well, let me tell you.  With my pride wounded there was only one thing to do:

I fucked her.

Hard.

She was basically passed out when I climbed on top of her, but I quickly brought her back to semi-consciousness with my crude, rough, drunken advances.  I pounded away at her while she more groaned than moaned, still not entirely aware of what was going on.  I knew I was too drunk to cum but I didn’t care.  This wasn’t about pleasure.  This was about restoring my manly pride.  And after I had satisfied myself that I had proven my manhood again I rolled over and passed  the fuck out out.

The next morning she awoke with a start, half jumping out of bed.  “Why am I naked?”

Not quite sure how I felt about the previous evening yet I gave the most simple answer.  “We had sex.”

“Oh… Was it good?”

I waited about a day and a half to finally tell her what had happened.  She was horrified.  Absolutely mortified.  But she also thought it was pretty fucking hilarious.  And, to be honest, once I had gotten over the initial shock, I thought it was pretty damn funny myself.  And after she spent the next week apologizing and reassuring me that my penis was perfectly decent, we reached an understanding that we could all laugh about this, the latest of Trixie’s antics.

Guess I'll never have to read this book...

The Girl Who Wanted to Learn to Deepthroat

If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you no doubt realize that I am no great ladies man.  I am not Tucker Max.  I’ve had my triumphs, sure, who hasn’t, but more often than not my stories end in disaster (i.e. The Girl With the Glasses).  But as they say, sometimes even a blind squirrel finds a nut.

And that’s where BJ comes in.

You might remember, BJ was The Mormon Stalker‘s friend, the one I thought was being offered up to me for a threesome.  Alas, that wasn’t meant to be.  And, to be completely honest, I didn’t even like BJ very much at first.

In retrospect, I should have realized she was into me.  After the night we met she started texting and Facebooking me, which I now see was her shy attempt at flirting.  Unfortunately, one of her ways of flirting was to taunt me about my beloved Buffalo Sabres.  Just as they were swirling down the drain of another failed playoff run.

I didn’t take it well.  I was rude to her.  Then, when she persisted, I ignored her altogether.  Bitch, no one gets to mock my Sabres, no matter how cute you are or how perky your breasts are.  And as she was moving cross country to New York for grad school, I figured that was the end of that.  Good riddance.

Fast forward about four months.  It was Labor Day weekend and I was in Nashville for the wedding of my good friend Country, star of my previous post Taking One for the Team(This was the wedding where I met the infamous Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress.  But alas, she still forbids me to discuss her on this blog.  Sorry.)

Actual photo of the Single White Alcoholic being iced

It was a truly epic wedding weekend.  My first night in town we all went out and got absolutely shitfaced on Broadway, the main drag in Nashville.  I skipped dinner to intensify my buzz, and I was successful in my mission; in short order I was a fucking trainwreck.  Among other things, I managed to get iced by a fake-breasted bartender who motorboated me while I chugged my Smirnoff Ice.  (Yuck.)  Somewhere in all that debauchery –I think it was our third or fourth bar of the night– I started hitting on an attractive older woman.  My memory is sketchy because I was so wasted, but fortunately my buddy Dead Wing was there to help.  He was so amused by my drunken stupidity he whipped out his iPhone and started basically live-blogging my pursuit of the woman on my Facebook wall.

12:05am: “I’m recording this for prosperity.  The woman you’re talking to just said, ‘Wow, you’re only 34?!?”

12:13am: “Tell your grandma I said hi.”

12:38am: “Maybe she will get a senior discount on breakfast at Denny’s in the morning.”

1:18am: “Senior cougar”

1:27am: “Then she said… ‘Cedric Benson?  I thought he was in prison.’ Go Bears”

**For the record, I have no idea what that line meant.  Perhaps I was trying to woo her into bed with my vast knowledge of fantasy football?  Yeah, I’ve got mad game with the ladies…**

2:00am: “AARP!”

And that’s pretty much how the whole weekend went.  And little did I know, but from about a thousand miles away, BJ was reading it all.  And apparently my drunken charms were just too much for her to resist.  (I think the fact the Mormon Stalker had told her I had the biggest dick she’d ever seen might have helped too; boy would she be disappointed when she finally saw it for herself!)  By the day of the wedding she had started text-flirting me —I think the kids call it flirxting but I’m not that hip.  Being somewhat intoxicated with vodka, and highly intoxicated by my smokin’ hot wedding date Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress, I flirted right back.

And thus started a four month stretch of dirty texting —I think the kids call it sexting but I’m not that hip— that reached Biblical proportions.  You all can see how verbose I am, and if you’ve read her blog then you know she is too.  This wasn’t your normal run-of-the-mill “I want to fuck you” texting.  No, this was like a novel.  Within two weeks I had to upgrade to an unlimited text plan.  We were writing in-depth commentaries back and forth, starting with foreplay and usually ending with me cumming in her mouth or on her face.

And along the way a strange thing happened.  We actually started to like each other.  And not just in a sexual way.  Her wit made a nice counterpoint to my sarcasm.  My angry conservo-libertarianism was offset by her kindhearted social consciousness.  And of course it helped that now that she was in New York she had started following my beloved Buffalo Sabres.  She wasn’t exactly a diehard but at least she wasn’t talking shit on them anymore.

As we got to know each other she confessed that she didn’t have a lot of experience with sex.  She hadn’t even lost her virginity until she moved to New York.  (You can read that epic story here.)  But she admitted that she truly loved giving head, and she wanted to get better at it.  When I told her no woman had ever been able to make me climax from a blow job she took it as a challenge.  She wanted me to teach her to deep throat, and she wanted to make me cum in her mouth.

When she came home for the holidays we finally got to hook up.  And so began one of the better weekends of my life.  We had already established that this wasn’t going anywhere, there was no future for us.  I was still in Utah and she was going back to school in New York.  Neither of us wanted a relationship, so this was a hook up and nothing more.

The only drawback was that she was on the tail end of her period, so there wasn’t going to be a whole lot of sex.  The good news was that all she really wanted was to practice sucking cock anyway.  Who was I to argue?

We walked in the door to my apartment and kissed for about five seconds before getting down to business.  And, truth be told, BJ did not need a whole lot of lessons on BJ’s.  She was a very talented girl.  She attacked my cock with a vengeance.  She licked, sucked, kissed and slurped for damn near an hour.  We started on the bed, with me laying back and her crouched between my legs.  Then I sat on the edge of the bed with her kneeling before me, giving her a chance to use her hands more.  Then I hung her head off the bed and fucked her mouth.  She gagged and sputtered a bit at that last one, but she persevered and took it like a champ.  Alas, she still couldn’t get me off (I think I might have issues), so after the marathon blow job I took the reins porno-style and jerked myself off and let her swallow my load.  It was fucking amazing.

Over the next 36 hours I put her through an intensive training course on fellatio.  She sucked me off three more times, each time ending with me jerking off and letting her suck me dry.  My one regret is that I didn’t get around to cumming on her face; her mouth was just too damn good.

We tried having regular sex too, but as she was in her “heavy flow” period, it didn’t work out so well.  We were going at it doggy style, and when she orgasmed she kind of collapsed forward on the bed so my cock popped out of her…completely covered in blood.  Now, I’m no prude.  I’m not afraid of riding the crimson river now and again.  But I’m not just talking a little bit of blood, a little crustiness around the base.  I’ve experienced that before.  No, I mean absolutely covered in it.  My entire cock was glowing bright red.  So what did I do?  Well, I freaked the fuck out, of course.  Jumped off the bed, ran to the shower and used the detachable shower head to hose my poor penis off.

But it was totally worth it.

BJ is back East now, and she now has a boyfriend who apparently has a penis roughly twice the size of mine.  Hopefully my weekend tutorial taught her a few things that will keep her lucky guy happy and coming back for more.  I feel like that guy owes me a drink or two…

 

**On a side note, please go to BJ’s blog and tell her to start posting more often.  If enough people pester her I bet we could even get her to write a rebuttal to this story.**

Ace in the Hole

This is a story my buddy Ace sent me a little while back.  Since the majority of my stories end in epic failure, I thought it’d be nice to read about someone actually hitting paydirt for a change.

It was two days before Cinco de Mayo.  As much as I love Cinco, my fiesta came just a little early this year.

I’d been drinking on and off all day and had a decent buzz goin’ when I went to one of my favorite bars, the Glass Turtle, which has $3 you-call-its on Tuesday nights.  I had rolled there by myself but I knew there’d be plenty of people I knew and I wasn’t disappointed, running into Drew Down and Mr. Never On Time almost immediately.  It had the makings of a good night.

Mr. Never On Time and I were making our way through the bar when we saw this hot red head girl.  She had the body of an athlete, maybe a sexy softball player, but she still looked very feminine.  Great tan, big ass tits and a personality to match.  Mr. Never On Time and I exchanged a few lewd but approving comments as we went past her, and she must have heard them because she stepped in front of us to cut us off.  She said she wanted me to buy her a drink.  I told her there was potential for such but I didn’t just hand out free drinks to anyone.  She then proceeded to offer to do a “trick” in exchange for a drink.  I was intrigued.  Not sold yet, but definitely intrigued.

She started shaking her tits in my face.  Well I’d be a fool if I still wasn’t buying at that point.  She just kept sticking those ridiculously nice breasts in my face.  Call me a sucker, but she had my attention.  But it got better.  Next she proceeded to flex her tits like a body builder.  It was fucking hot!  She even lowered her shirt and let me touch them.  Very nice.  This, in my mind, was going somewhere.  Until…

And then some girl calls my name.  Now, I don’t wanna sound like an ass, but lots of people know my name around here.  It’s not arrogance, just fact.  So this girl calls my name and I have no idea who she is.  She says I may not know who she is but she is “well aware” of who I am.  I was puzzled but very intrigued.  She was blonde with a nice rack poking out from her black shirt and a solid ass wrapped up tight in her jeans.

She said her name was Mandi and she invited me to come sit outside on the patio with her and her friend Candi.  Candi could have been her sister, blonde with a nice lean body and a flat stomach.  I love flat stomachs, not washboard abs mind you, but a nice toned stomach.

So I kicked it with these two girls outside until last call came around.  By this point I was hammered.  I’d been drinking Crown, Kettle, beer and god knows what else since mid-day.  Sometimes I think I don’t do anything different from when I was 16 years old.  But oh well, I was hangin’ with two hot white girls.  Life was good and things were about to get crackin’.

We drank ‘til last call and I was just beginning to wonder how I was going to get one or both of these girls home with me when a friend I hadn’t seen in ages appeared out of nowhere.  We caught up on life real quick (because there were more pressing matters to attend to) and then he invited all of us back to his house for some post-partying.  I made sure he had booze because that was the only way I rollin’ there.  I had a hot chick with me and all I wanted to do was drink and fuck.  He assured me there was indeed alcohol so we rounded everyone up and headed for his place.

His place was really close to the bar, which is a good thing because I don’t think anyone should have been driving that night.  Along with the two blonde girls we had picked up a few of my buds, Reggie and Matty.  Not a good girl-to-guy ratio, but since I already had my target I didn’t mind.

Almost as soon as we walked in the door Mandi started looking for a bedroom.  I barely even got myself a drink made.  I wanted to fuck her just as bad she wanted to fuck me but I suggested we use the bathroom instead of someone’s bedroom.  That’s just rude.

When we got in the bathroom shit got wild.  I felt like I was in a porno movie, it was that good.  The bathroom was newly remodeled and very clean, I felt a little bad defiling it, but as soon as she started taking off her clothes I forgot all about that.  We both stripped down and I started sucking on her great titties.  She didn’t waste any time dropping to her knees and sucking me off.  Then I bent her over the sink and started hittin’ it from behind.  That was cool for several minutes, then I pulled out and had her suck my rod again.  (Yeah, I was drunk and hit it bareback.  Not smart but what’re ya gonna do?)  I fucked that pussy real good and she gave me all the much-appreciated compliments on my dick.  It was awesome.

Then I started getting creative.  I had her sit on the sink, I got a boost from the neighboring toilet seat and started hittin’ it with her right leg over my shoulder and her left leg spread out wide.  That was cool too.  It was fucking hot the way she kept yelling “fuck my pussy!” like we really were making a porno flick.  But then it was time for the rodeo.  I laid down on the fresh new tile and she rode me like a pro.  That was great too.  She rode the shit out of me and kept talking dirty the whole time.

Then she told me to stick it in her butt.

I was totally unprepared for this.  My first thought was, “How the fuck is my dick gonna get in there?”  But this girl was a true professional.  She turned on the sink and used the water as lube, albeit not a very good one.  Once my cock finally went in she was in ecstasy.  My dick, not so much.  I felt like her ass was going to pull the skin right off.  (Thank god I was drunk.)

Now, I had sodomized a girl before, but that was by accident.  (Editor’s Note: Ace, someday you HAVE to tell me how you “accidentally” sodomized a girl!)  The only embarrassing part was that after the butt sex I was so surprised and shocked that I couldn’t nut.  Or maybe that was just the whiskey dick finally setting in.  We’d been going at it for near 45 minutes.  So finally we got dressed and emerged from the bathroom like nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, Mandi’s friend Candi was apparently just as horny, because she was all over my buddy Matty.  As soon as we came out of the bathroom she pulled him into the same bathroom and went to town.

I had gone from seeing some redhead’s tits stuck in my face to sticking my dick in some chick’s ass in a matter of hours, and now my buddy was getting’ some too.  What a night.

But by this time it was getting really late (I was too drunk to know for sure, but it had to be near 4 in the morning) and Tim wanted everyone to get the fuck out of his house so he could go to bed.  I was drunk and spent so I was ready to go too.  Somebody interrupted Candi and Matty in the bathroom and told them it was time to go.  Instead of just leaving and finding someplace else to finish, this crazy bitch wanted to talk shit.  She started mouthin’ off to Tim, saying he was just mad that he wasn’t getting any.  Maybe true, but still way out of line.

Candi just kept talkin’ shit and wouldn’t shut up.  She had a fire in her eyes, probably ‘cause her fuck got interrupted.  She got so worked up she took a swing at Tim!  Popped him right in the eye and made it swell up.  I felt bad for him.  He had invited us all over to his place and now he just wanted to go to bed.  I had no beef with him.  For all his generosity he got socked in the eye by a crazy bitch that he couldn’t hit back.  So he kicked us all out.

And on our way out the door this crazy bitch punched out his window!  Now, when you punch glass, your hand is likely to get fucked up.  Hers was all cut up but fortunately for her it wasn’t too bad, no deep cuts or anything that would likely be permanent.  She got lucky.  We also somehow avoided the cops, which is amazing considering how much commotion we were causing at 4 in the morning.

So we piled in my buddy’s car and took off.  I took off my undershirt and told Candi to wrap her hand up.  She was lucky to have a new friend like me.  And I was already starting to think maybe I could get a threesome out of Mandi and her crazy bitch friend.  That would be fucking awesome.

We ended up back at my buddy’s place, where the crazy bitch was finally able to properly wash her hand out and stop the bleeding.  It was nasty, believe me.  My undershirt was a total loss.

But meanwhile, Mandi reminded me that she wanted to fuck again, maybe next weekend.  I told her that was a fine idea and even suggested she invite her friend Mike Tyson for a threesome.

I sure hope it happens.