It’s a hot summer night. I’m wearing my "go-get-him-tiger" dress and I’ve already consumed the right amount of liquor to cloud my judgment. At this point, whatever or whoever I choose to do next will not burden my conscience until the next day. I’ll let the future me handle the shame and low self-esteem issues that will arise as a consequence.
As I take my last drink for the night and officially let my dress get a taste of it - I swear a bib would be a better accessory than my Tiffany necklace - I remember I have two options for an easy score tonight, one of which I desire more than the other.
This is a crucial moment. I message both, already knowing that fate is a nasty bitch I cut off in line earlier to get into a club and will do anything to screw with me when I’ll be waiting over at the bar to order my drink only to realize the bartender is her best friend.
So clearly the one I less desire will answer first. I knew it, you knew it, and Fate knew it.
Ideally if my number one cock replied five minutes later I could still somehow get rid of number two, but who am I kidding? Time drags on like commercial breaks during an HBO movie premier when you're intoxicated, and five minutes in sober time mean a less than a 20 second wait before I reply.
Things are settled now,cock number two, the less desirable candidate will be my pussy whisperer tonight.
I enter his car and already give him a preview a-la Britney crotchflash. He loves it...
I don’t know how we got to his place safely because for the majority of the ride it felt like he was maneuvering the vehicle Criss Angel style – his eyes weren’t on the road they were stuck on my dress like the tequila stains. That’s fine, I’ll just have the dry cleaning lady take care of it along with the cum stains. I’m a messy girl.
What happens next is hard to describe, if someone was watching us they would equate it to watching a handicap person try to park in a regular parking spot of an Asian supermarket.
It wasn’t glorious, how hard is it to direct a regular sized penis into my vjayjay?
I wasn’t the one to blame. My coordination is better when I’m drunk – I’m like an American airline pilot.
After it was properly placed and in the next three minutes that it lasted (and that’s in drunk time) I remembered why he was my second choice. I literary wanted to scream “HEY!! Ms. Bullock!! Keanu here!! Slow the fuck down – I swear I won’t instantly combust if you go under 60 miles an hour!” You drilling me for a minute just to catch your breath for the next two trying not to finish prematurely does not impress me.
I've got to leave - sobriety is creeping slowly and so is the feeling of shame.
To make matters worse, just when I was done and getting my purse to leave, I saw a red flashing light from my Blackberry. It was Cock number one... I felt like my father the evening he watered the lawn only to wake up to a thunderstorm later that night,
If only we waited.
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