A tale from the mental archives--don't tell my lady friend
A tale from the mental archives—don’t tell my lady friend
Dry land may be a myth, but this tale is Dogma.
This story took place this past Easter. Following the culmination of the coming tale, I felt something that for years had been foreign to me: guilt. This guilt has since ebbed to the point where I feel not only okay to share this story, but a deep need to release this comic burden from within. My being absolved of guilt comes from no measure of my own sacrifice or enlightenment, but simply that I walked in on my lady friend pooping. I know, gross.
Though I feel comfortable sharing this story with the entire internet community (AKA Brian’s little brother who keeps this site as his home page), I must stress that this is being told in the utmost secrecy and understanding that all that is written here, stays here. The series of events takes place on Marco Island, which is located on the Gulf of Mexico side of Florida. Like most of the Sunshine State, it’s a series of condominium buildings erected on backfilled swamp so that our more financially savvy elder generation has a comfortable place to die. Though that sounds dreary, this place is like college for old people without the restraint of classes and parents. Though beer pong has made way for golf, the card game asshole for bridge, and the definition of early bird has gone from sex before class to a steak before sunset (accompanied with a free salad bar), I cannot think of a better place to go spend my final years. Again, I mean no disrespect to old people as I someday hope to be one.
We arrived a few days before Easter with the goal of a little rest, relaxation, and fun in the sun before gearing up for the final month of school. The Florida heat was a warm welcome from the dreary Boston cold and all of us seemed instantly relaxed by the time we cracked the first round of beers on the porch of Greg’s condo. The rest of the group reached for Corona’s and Corona Light, while I stayed local with a Michelob Ultra. Now I’m sure this sparks the attention of a few who believe Michelob Ultra to be a fruity gay beer, but I’ll take homeland homosexual hops before Mexican beer any day of the week. Not that I dislike the taste of Corona, but simply that I despise Mexico and have a self imposed trade embargo with that wretched nation. I encourage you to do the same.
Back to the condo: this place is sweet. I mean flat screens in every room, couches that engulf you, and views that would make the most curious seventeen year old coed moist between the legs. (If Vinny T’s pension plan was plush, I’d retire and move their on the spot.) By day three we had consumed cases of beer, realized that Adam is a miserable cook (proving that the hours he spends watching Paula Dean must be completely carnal and not the least bit culinary), and that sun screen does need to be applied to the upper foot as Greg wouldn’t stop lamenting about the burns on his, aptly put, “foot tops”. It was during this third day that Kyle took on the complex of a schizophrenic meat stick that jockeyed between the personality of a World War I British soldier determined to build the biggest trench in all of Western Europe and King Tutankhamen himself, driving his minions to create the perfect tomb in which to meet Ra the Sun God. For those of you who slept through middle school history, the kid spent the entire day digging a ridiculous moat and then spent the remaining hours of sunlight molding it into a huge fucking pyramid. The only thing better than the structure itself was his tyrannical stance on not letting Adam “decorate” the building at all. Nonetheless, we were all exhausted from watching him build the damn thing, but still rallied to find and old persons sports bar to watch the NCAA Ice Hockey National Championship that featured Boston College against Michigan State University.
It’s at this point where things begin to get vague. Adorned in head to toe with various Boston College gear (for the record, I don’t consider Roche/Norton t-shirts to be BC gear as they are more of an embarrassment to the university than I am) it became completely evident to the entire bar and restaurant why we were acting so belligerently at every move of the game. Instead of quieting our hubris they exacerbated it with continued complementary shots and pitchers the entire night.
Needless to say, the Eagles were downed in the championship game for the second straight year, but this time my sorrows grew exponentially. Beer muscles flexed, I tore my hoodless Boston College 2001 National Championship sweatshirt down the middle immediately after not tipping the bartender for my 3 hours of drinking. Wearing it wide open, I stormed out of the bar grabbing my schitzo friend for solace. Realizing that our identities as Boston College students was no longer a thing of pride, the two of us, without words, assumed the character of drunken New Zealand sailors. Stumbling down the beach, we communicated our inconsolable sorrows in an incomprehensible manner. When dialect failed, fisticuffs ensued. The combination of depression, disorientation, and being punch drunk soon took its toll as we found ourselves mooching cigarettes and beer off of unsuspecting vacationing teens embracing their vices in the secrecy of the abandoned beach. It was close to a forty-five minutes of chain smoking, story telling, and email address exchanging, without breaking character, before Greg came and found us, demanding the keys to the condo. Our cover blown and the sobering reality that we were still BC students, we returned defeated.
I’ve always thought it cliché, but never before has the saying “you can’t see the rainbow without first going through the rain” been more true. Inside of Greg’s penthouse was the most beautiful, most buxom, most red-rainbow I had never laid eyes on. I’d be damned if Gotty wasn’t going to find some gold. Whilst I was off playing New Zealand, Adam, for the first time in college, picked up girls. Though he picked them up and got them to the apartment, it was soon evident that he was about as sure handed as a dry heaving Helen Keller conducting open heart surgery.
Following a miscue on Adam’s attempt at an ill-informed discussion about art, Jmac’s claims about his member, and Greg, without speaking attempting to steal second, I had a clear shot. Though I honestly have no idea what was said, if anything, it was only moments from when I sat down next to Red to the time we were in the master bedroom sharing passionate kisses. Now what happens next is particularly blurry. Somehow, Greg managed to position himself in the bed with us, unbeknown to us. It is actually a credit to Red that she realized there was a third hand on her. While I was consumed on the northern hemisphere, Greg made a bee-line for the pot of gold. Outrage followed. Red felt violated, I was pissed at being cock blocked, and for some reason Greg was upset as well. Red and I moved our make out to the other room, locked the door, and continued. Relentless, Greg proceeded to enter the room from the porch and pulled the same maneuver. I was incensed. Red was incensed. Greg was livid. Immediately after my objection to the third hand, Greg flipped. In a tirade of accusations, profanities, and insane statements, the music was turned off, lights out, and girls sent home. The confusion was dizzying. The morning was more so.
As I learned in the AM, Red had requested a threesome at some point early in the night and Greg was simply trying to adhere to said request. I felt terrible. I always felt that despite any level of intoxication, there would be a few buzz words that could sober me sane: anal, chili, spicy Italian sausages, anal, chili cheese steak, and threesome. I cannot imagine the effect any combination of these words would have on my suds subdued self. However, this time it failed. This time, I failed.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with me, I am very rarely wrong, and when I am wrong, I rarely admit it. This was a time where I was wrong and admitted it. I began rectifying the situation immediately: texting. They started off cute, harmless and fun, “Bark like a doggg!” which of course went without a response back. Over the course of the day I upped the ante, each one more bizarre, more twisted, and more from the heart.
· “I’ma make you my dick puppet…put on a little show”
· “I’ma take yo pants off, grunting like a troll”
· “I’ma make mess in yo mouth.”
If you ever intend to reproduce these, please not that “I’ma” and “yo” instead of “your” are critical in creating the desired voice and effect the messages have.
Thanks to my poetic prowess, I was able to convince Red to make the drive down from Naples to Marco at around 1am. At 2am I received a call saying that she had been pulled over for drinking and driving. My first instinct to hearing this was fear. I had a clean shot at a threesome the night before and ruined it through my own drunken accord. My fears were instantly erased as Red then informed me that her father is the county district attorney and that the cop apologized to her afterwards, but made her park 2 miles down the beach from the condo. Game time.
Apparently, drunk girls walk on the beach at about the same pace retards read. After nearly 45minutes of waiting we began walking down the beach as well to meet them. Halfway down the walk, we realized that none of us knew what the hell we were doing. None of us had ever had a group sex experience and in the sobering reality of what was about to potentially happen, none of really wanted to. Sensing the need for motivation, I dialed a friend who ran the train and the football in his time at Boston College. I received a 30 second crash course on how to perform a “train”, “Just get her real comfortable, I mean like reallll comfortable…just start hooking up and shit then start getting weird, you know, do some weird shit, BUT MAKE SURE SHES COMFORTABLE…just keep up this pattern for like 10-15 minutes then have the next guy come in and your good…Choo Choo!!” Collectively we were still clueless.
As we walk down the beach, we are blanketed in a sea of stars, miles of them, scattered, shining, across the sky; their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. What I can tolerate even less is the two silhouettes that approach us. The bang out becomes a buzz kill as I am instantly flaccid and full of dread. Pre-performance anxiety has never been more prevalent. Both parties are quiet as the space between dissipates and only the sharpest facial features are still visible. For the first time since puberty, I am utterly nervous around a girl. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I just stand there with a confused grin, hands in pockets, and eye brows slightly crooked. She looks pissed.
Only capable of offering throaty, guttural grunts to express emotion, Jmac and Kyle somehow persuade them to come up to the condo. The elevator is torture. Sober, we are forced to embrace each others appearance. Though neither of us is unattractive, all I can picture is dicks going…everywhere. She smiles.
It’s now past 3:30am and the booze dried up hours ago. In the spirit of things, we’ve been playing Kings between intermittent tirades of insults that Greg pours on Red. She takes each in stride, but gets slightly bitchier with each. To counter the increased shitty attitude, she maintains a healthy does of grimaces and glares in my direction. I smile.
4:15am now. Kings has turned into a one-sided game of never-have-I-ever. Its one-sided in that Red’s dumpy best friend continues dropping outrageous scenarios, each of course culminating in Red taking another sip from her Sparks.
Never-have-I-ever joined the mile high club with my boyfriend’s brother
Never-have-I-ever slept with one of my father’s friends at a family cocktail party
Never-have-I-ever given a reach-around to a Saudi nationalist on a moped in route to my cousins Bat Mitzvah.
This is when the red flags are supposed to go up, not your dick.
As dawn approaches, my anxiety ebbs. The likelihood of this actually happening seems to be getting exponentially less as fatigue and frustration sets in. Greg is the first to get fed up. Unceremoniously, he storms off and goes to bed. Minutes later the girls run to the bathroom, only Dumpy returns. It takes all of my fortitude to keep the tears back. I clench my fists to hide this. They close with such force that my fingernails begin breaking the skin of my palm, though I don’t realize this till later as all my focus is in disarming the emotions that have flooded up from my loins. Then, as if becoming a less gay Mark Hamill, an awesome voice of wisdom floods my senses, “Gotty, just let her get reaaal comfortable…then start getting weird!” All structure returns to the universe.
Time passes and I slowly enter the bedroom from the porch. I expect to be met with steamy intercourse shrouded in red, but instead am met with what appears to be Chris Benoit’s final match vs. The Edge. A passionate, physical contest, paring technical perfection against public appeal, raw ability versus trained prowess, all predestined to defeat. Instead, standing on the bed, Greg, cross armed, is verbally demanding to see boobs. Red fires back with “show me your dick”. This argument of I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours continues just long enough for me to slink across the room, unnoticed, and under the covers of the king sized bed.
Aplomb and poised for perfection, slightly erect, my confidence and member are immediately rattled when Red pulls an about face and nearly yells, “What the fuck are you doing? You ignore me all night and still think I’m going to FUCK you??”
Disquieting, I simply reply, “Yes.” And smile.
The smile melts her and she embraces me. Her tongue is instantly overpowering mine, forcing me to gasp for nasal breaths as she begins to softly caress me. As her hands begin to migrate south of the border, Greg, who somehow went unnoticed again, begins his “hands-on” approach, which immediately reignites the wrestling match. Being more proactive, I join the altercation:
Greg: Show me your boobs!
Red: Show me your dick!
Me: Just show him!
Red: Shut up! Greg, leave!
Greg: I’ll leave when I see boobs!
Me: Just pretend you’re sleeping again and you’ll see boobs.
Red: What?
Me: Nothing.
Greg: …
A moment of confusion passes seamlessly into ambivalent attraction. Her shirt is of instantly and I am caressing her inner thighs vigorously. The warmth and moisture that radiates around my soft, yet firm finger strokes along with more forceful kissing is all the indication I need to know that I am the king of foreplay. To reciprocate, Red rips my belt off and attempts to tear off my zipper as we move towards mutual masturbation.
After successfully stimulating her clit, I make my moves inside. With my hand in the classic rock n’ roll form (middle and ring finger down, while index and pinky erect), I begin to stroke the urethral sponge, which as we all know, is the located at the roof of the vagina. [According to wikipedia, if one continues to stroke this area with upward force, it will eventually induce a female ejaculation, the thought of which makes me smitten.] Red, obviously about to reach external explosion, began to put her entire weight behind the dry hand job she was gifting me. Hand inverted, the motion shifted from the typical up-and-down piston like motion to that of churning batter: a deep twist, pull, and release. The hairs at the base of my penis being torn from their roots, tears began forming in the corner of my eyes as I attempted to keep my focus on my rock n’ roll formation.
Red, being observant, mistook my shortened breath and cringing as enjoyment. Increasing her hand speed, my legs began to squirm uncontrollably, which again was mistaken as joy. Finally, releasing my penis from her vice grip, begins to massage my scrotum before violently massaging counter clockwise. Unable to control muscle function and on the verge of dry heaving, it stopped. The tears that fall down my cheeks are of premature joy. Just as I think that I have survived this one sided tug-of-war, Red’s hand begins moving further south. I begin to sweat. Her hand finally rests on that small area of skin that rests between the bottom of the sac and anus, which I fondly refer to as the grundle. In one motion, she presses not one, not two, but three fingers firmly into me. I can no longer tolerate the pain and vault myself into the head board with a loud thud that leaves me slightly concussed and rips my hand out from inside her. Seductively, Red looks me in the eye, and asks, “You like that?”, while slowly pulling her tongue across her upper lip.
Scared, I respond, “Are you testing me for a hernia?”
Greg explodes in laughter upon hearing this and falls out of the bed. After a brief flip-out from Dr. Red, Greg leaves the room completely satisfied. Seconds later, we are both naked. Red throws herself on top of me and begins guiding my maimed member inside of her.
“Wait; let me get a condom real fast.”
“What?” she says with a look of contempt.
“A condom, prophylactic, rubber…”
“Whatever.”
Annoyed, she rolls off me and stairs off into space. Riffling through my shorts pock, I find my lucky condom, slightly creased and bearing striking resemblance to a Ritz cracker.
“You keep condoms in your pants pocket?” Even more disgusted.
“Yes?”
A minute passes before I can open the condom, put it on backwards, re-roll the condom, and put it on correctly. Nearly limp, yet proud of my ability to dress myself, I slap her flank with what’s left of my erection to let her know I’m ready. Showing slight interest, she takes a fleeting glance at my penis, looks at me, and back at the wall before uttering a half-hearted; “Hop on,” before spreading her legs.
Dick in hand, I kneed walk to the end of the bed and position myself between her legs. She still lacks interest. I penetrate her, she seems even less interest. Taking a look at the clock, I realize that this one is all about Gotty and decide to see how fast I can cum. Jowls tense, I pump harder and harder. She yawns. I try to kiss her midst pumps and she ignores me. I quickly realize that my regality is limited to foreplay. Just as I am about to set a new record and end this in under 2 minutes and roughly 37 pumps, Red shoves me off of her. The only thing I can think of at this point that is worse than fucking a red head is blue balls. I start to get up to go jerk off in the bathroom as Red pounced on me and begins, what I can only assume, is her attempt at breaking my dick off. Twenty seconds later and I’m spent. In disbelief, Red gets off, rips the condom off (removing further base pubes), looks more disgusted than ever, and flings the used rubber onto my chest.
Making some excuse of going to throw the condom away, I scurry off to the bathroom and begin washing my package in the bathroom sink. Hand soap, cologne, shaving cream, anything that might kill whatever microbes that were crawling on me. I continued exfoliating my undercarriage until I realized that a.) I had never met anyone with an STD, b.) never actually seen herpes, and c.) that STDs are simply a myth created by parents and gym teachers to stop kids from getting pregnant. I win.
As I re-enter the bedroom, Red is clothed, standing, and for some reason smiling.
“That was fantastic,” she lies, pushing me onto the bed and kissing my neck.
“Yeah?” I say, confused.
“Mmhmm,” she purrs, “Ready for round two?” Licks my earlobe.
“Ummm, well, its like 5:45am, I think I might just get some sleep…”
The door slams shut and I can hear the sound of Red’s flat soles slapping against the hardwood floor on the way to the patio. I lay in bed, covers over my head, just hoping she leaves. Though I am hidden in the soft light that filters through the window, I can hear the entire conversation from there porch.
Dumpy: There you are!!
Red: Let’s go. We’re leaving.
Dumpy: So, did you guys…have sex?
Red: If you could call it that. WE ARE LEAVING.
As the front door closed behind them, I smiled. Hernia and disease free, resurrected on Easter morning, I tipped my cap to the big guy as the sun rose that morning.
Oh, and if you weren’t able to put it together, I equate female flatulence to male infidelity. What up.
Gotty
Dry land may be a myth, but this tale is Dogma.
This story took place this past Easter. Following the culmination of the coming tale, I felt something that for years had been foreign to me: guilt. This guilt has since ebbed to the point where I feel not only okay to share this story, but a deep need to release this comic burden from within. My being absolved of guilt comes from no measure of my own sacrifice or enlightenment, but simply that I walked in on my lady friend pooping. I know, gross.
Though I feel comfortable sharing this story with the entire internet community (AKA Brian’s little brother who keeps this site as his home page), I must stress that this is being told in the utmost secrecy and understanding that all that is written here, stays here. The series of events takes place on Marco Island, which is located on the Gulf of Mexico side of Florida. Like most of the Sunshine State, it’s a series of condominium buildings erected on backfilled swamp so that our more financially savvy elder generation has a comfortable place to die. Though that sounds dreary, this place is like college for old people without the restraint of classes and parents. Though beer pong has made way for golf, the card game asshole for bridge, and the definition of early bird has gone from sex before class to a steak before sunset (accompanied with a free salad bar), I cannot think of a better place to go spend my final years. Again, I mean no disrespect to old people as I someday hope to be one.
We arrived a few days before Easter with the goal of a little rest, relaxation, and fun in the sun before gearing up for the final month of school. The Florida heat was a warm welcome from the dreary Boston cold and all of us seemed instantly relaxed by the time we cracked the first round of beers on the porch of Greg’s condo. The rest of the group reached for Corona’s and Corona Light, while I stayed local with a Michelob Ultra. Now I’m sure this sparks the attention of a few who believe Michelob Ultra to be a fruity gay beer, but I’ll take homeland homosexual hops before Mexican beer any day of the week. Not that I dislike the taste of Corona, but simply that I despise Mexico and have a self imposed trade embargo with that wretched nation. I encourage you to do the same.
Back to the condo: this place is sweet. I mean flat screens in every room, couches that engulf you, and views that would make the most curious seventeen year old coed moist between the legs. (If Vinny T’s pension plan was plush, I’d retire and move their on the spot.) By day three we had consumed cases of beer, realized that Adam is a miserable cook (proving that the hours he spends watching Paula Dean must be completely carnal and not the least bit culinary), and that sun screen does need to be applied to the upper foot as Greg wouldn’t stop lamenting about the burns on his, aptly put, “foot tops”. It was during this third day that Kyle took on the complex of a schizophrenic meat stick that jockeyed between the personality of a World War I British soldier determined to build the biggest trench in all of Western Europe and King Tutankhamen himself, driving his minions to create the perfect tomb in which to meet Ra the Sun God. For those of you who slept through middle school history, the kid spent the entire day digging a ridiculous moat and then spent the remaining hours of sunlight molding it into a huge fucking pyramid. The only thing better than the structure itself was his tyrannical stance on not letting Adam “decorate” the building at all. Nonetheless, we were all exhausted from watching him build the damn thing, but still rallied to find and old persons sports bar to watch the NCAA Ice Hockey National Championship that featured Boston College against Michigan State University.
It’s at this point where things begin to get vague. Adorned in head to toe with various Boston College gear (for the record, I don’t consider Roche/Norton t-shirts to be BC gear as they are more of an embarrassment to the university than I am) it became completely evident to the entire bar and restaurant why we were acting so belligerently at every move of the game. Instead of quieting our hubris they exacerbated it with continued complementary shots and pitchers the entire night.
Needless to say, the Eagles were downed in the championship game for the second straight year, but this time my sorrows grew exponentially. Beer muscles flexed, I tore my hoodless Boston College 2001 National Championship sweatshirt down the middle immediately after not tipping the bartender for my 3 hours of drinking. Wearing it wide open, I stormed out of the bar grabbing my schitzo friend for solace. Realizing that our identities as Boston College students was no longer a thing of pride, the two of us, without words, assumed the character of drunken New Zealand sailors. Stumbling down the beach, we communicated our inconsolable sorrows in an incomprehensible manner. When dialect failed, fisticuffs ensued. The combination of depression, disorientation, and being punch drunk soon took its toll as we found ourselves mooching cigarettes and beer off of unsuspecting vacationing teens embracing their vices in the secrecy of the abandoned beach. It was close to a forty-five minutes of chain smoking, story telling, and email address exchanging, without breaking character, before Greg came and found us, demanding the keys to the condo. Our cover blown and the sobering reality that we were still BC students, we returned defeated.
I’ve always thought it cliché, but never before has the saying “you can’t see the rainbow without first going through the rain” been more true. Inside of Greg’s penthouse was the most beautiful, most buxom, most red-rainbow I had never laid eyes on. I’d be damned if Gotty wasn’t going to find some gold. Whilst I was off playing New Zealand, Adam, for the first time in college, picked up girls. Though he picked them up and got them to the apartment, it was soon evident that he was about as sure handed as a dry heaving Helen Keller conducting open heart surgery.
Following a miscue on Adam’s attempt at an ill-informed discussion about art, Jmac’s claims about his member, and Greg, without speaking attempting to steal second, I had a clear shot. Though I honestly have no idea what was said, if anything, it was only moments from when I sat down next to Red to the time we were in the master bedroom sharing passionate kisses. Now what happens next is particularly blurry. Somehow, Greg managed to position himself in the bed with us, unbeknown to us. It is actually a credit to Red that she realized there was a third hand on her. While I was consumed on the northern hemisphere, Greg made a bee-line for the pot of gold. Outrage followed. Red felt violated, I was pissed at being cock blocked, and for some reason Greg was upset as well. Red and I moved our make out to the other room, locked the door, and continued. Relentless, Greg proceeded to enter the room from the porch and pulled the same maneuver. I was incensed. Red was incensed. Greg was livid. Immediately after my objection to the third hand, Greg flipped. In a tirade of accusations, profanities, and insane statements, the music was turned off, lights out, and girls sent home. The confusion was dizzying. The morning was more so.
As I learned in the AM, Red had requested a threesome at some point early in the night and Greg was simply trying to adhere to said request. I felt terrible. I always felt that despite any level of intoxication, there would be a few buzz words that could sober me sane: anal, chili, spicy Italian sausages, anal, chili cheese steak, and threesome. I cannot imagine the effect any combination of these words would have on my suds subdued self. However, this time it failed. This time, I failed.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with me, I am very rarely wrong, and when I am wrong, I rarely admit it. This was a time where I was wrong and admitted it. I began rectifying the situation immediately: texting. They started off cute, harmless and fun, “Bark like a doggg!” which of course went without a response back. Over the course of the day I upped the ante, each one more bizarre, more twisted, and more from the heart.
· “I’ma make you my dick puppet…put on a little show”
· “I’ma take yo pants off, grunting like a troll”
· “I’ma make mess in yo mouth.”
If you ever intend to reproduce these, please not that “I’ma” and “yo” instead of “your” are critical in creating the desired voice and effect the messages have.
Thanks to my poetic prowess, I was able to convince Red to make the drive down from Naples to Marco at around 1am. At 2am I received a call saying that she had been pulled over for drinking and driving. My first instinct to hearing this was fear. I had a clean shot at a threesome the night before and ruined it through my own drunken accord. My fears were instantly erased as Red then informed me that her father is the county district attorney and that the cop apologized to her afterwards, but made her park 2 miles down the beach from the condo. Game time.
Apparently, drunk girls walk on the beach at about the same pace retards read. After nearly 45minutes of waiting we began walking down the beach as well to meet them. Halfway down the walk, we realized that none of us knew what the hell we were doing. None of us had ever had a group sex experience and in the sobering reality of what was about to potentially happen, none of really wanted to. Sensing the need for motivation, I dialed a friend who ran the train and the football in his time at Boston College. I received a 30 second crash course on how to perform a “train”, “Just get her real comfortable, I mean like reallll comfortable…just start hooking up and shit then start getting weird, you know, do some weird shit, BUT MAKE SURE SHES COMFORTABLE…just keep up this pattern for like 10-15 minutes then have the next guy come in and your good…Choo Choo!!” Collectively we were still clueless.
As we walk down the beach, we are blanketed in a sea of stars, miles of them, scattered, shining, across the sky; their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. What I can tolerate even less is the two silhouettes that approach us. The bang out becomes a buzz kill as I am instantly flaccid and full of dread. Pre-performance anxiety has never been more prevalent. Both parties are quiet as the space between dissipates and only the sharpest facial features are still visible. For the first time since puberty, I am utterly nervous around a girl. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I just stand there with a confused grin, hands in pockets, and eye brows slightly crooked. She looks pissed.
Only capable of offering throaty, guttural grunts to express emotion, Jmac and Kyle somehow persuade them to come up to the condo. The elevator is torture. Sober, we are forced to embrace each others appearance. Though neither of us is unattractive, all I can picture is dicks going…everywhere. She smiles.
It’s now past 3:30am and the booze dried up hours ago. In the spirit of things, we’ve been playing Kings between intermittent tirades of insults that Greg pours on Red. She takes each in stride, but gets slightly bitchier with each. To counter the increased shitty attitude, she maintains a healthy does of grimaces and glares in my direction. I smile.
4:15am now. Kings has turned into a one-sided game of never-have-I-ever. Its one-sided in that Red’s dumpy best friend continues dropping outrageous scenarios, each of course culminating in Red taking another sip from her Sparks.
Never-have-I-ever joined the mile high club with my boyfriend’s brother
Never-have-I-ever slept with one of my father’s friends at a family cocktail party
Never-have-I-ever given a reach-around to a Saudi nationalist on a moped in route to my cousins Bat Mitzvah.
This is when the red flags are supposed to go up, not your dick.
As dawn approaches, my anxiety ebbs. The likelihood of this actually happening seems to be getting exponentially less as fatigue and frustration sets in. Greg is the first to get fed up. Unceremoniously, he storms off and goes to bed. Minutes later the girls run to the bathroom, only Dumpy returns. It takes all of my fortitude to keep the tears back. I clench my fists to hide this. They close with such force that my fingernails begin breaking the skin of my palm, though I don’t realize this till later as all my focus is in disarming the emotions that have flooded up from my loins. Then, as if becoming a less gay Mark Hamill, an awesome voice of wisdom floods my senses, “Gotty, just let her get reaaal comfortable…then start getting weird!” All structure returns to the universe.
Time passes and I slowly enter the bedroom from the porch. I expect to be met with steamy intercourse shrouded in red, but instead am met with what appears to be Chris Benoit’s final match vs. The Edge. A passionate, physical contest, paring technical perfection against public appeal, raw ability versus trained prowess, all predestined to defeat. Instead, standing on the bed, Greg, cross armed, is verbally demanding to see boobs. Red fires back with “show me your dick”. This argument of I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours continues just long enough for me to slink across the room, unnoticed, and under the covers of the king sized bed.
Aplomb and poised for perfection, slightly erect, my confidence and member are immediately rattled when Red pulls an about face and nearly yells, “What the fuck are you doing? You ignore me all night and still think I’m going to FUCK you??”
Disquieting, I simply reply, “Yes.” And smile.
The smile melts her and she embraces me. Her tongue is instantly overpowering mine, forcing me to gasp for nasal breaths as she begins to softly caress me. As her hands begin to migrate south of the border, Greg, who somehow went unnoticed again, begins his “hands-on” approach, which immediately reignites the wrestling match. Being more proactive, I join the altercation:
Greg: Show me your boobs!
Red: Show me your dick!
Me: Just show him!
Red: Shut up! Greg, leave!
Greg: I’ll leave when I see boobs!
Me: Just pretend you’re sleeping again and you’ll see boobs.
Red: What?
Me: Nothing.
Greg: …
A moment of confusion passes seamlessly into ambivalent attraction. Her shirt is of instantly and I am caressing her inner thighs vigorously. The warmth and moisture that radiates around my soft, yet firm finger strokes along with more forceful kissing is all the indication I need to know that I am the king of foreplay. To reciprocate, Red rips my belt off and attempts to tear off my zipper as we move towards mutual masturbation.
After successfully stimulating her clit, I make my moves inside. With my hand in the classic rock n’ roll form (middle and ring finger down, while index and pinky erect), I begin to stroke the urethral sponge, which as we all know, is the located at the roof of the vagina. [According to wikipedia, if one continues to stroke this area with upward force, it will eventually induce a female ejaculation, the thought of which makes me smitten.] Red, obviously about to reach external explosion, began to put her entire weight behind the dry hand job she was gifting me. Hand inverted, the motion shifted from the typical up-and-down piston like motion to that of churning batter: a deep twist, pull, and release. The hairs at the base of my penis being torn from their roots, tears began forming in the corner of my eyes as I attempted to keep my focus on my rock n’ roll formation.
Red, being observant, mistook my shortened breath and cringing as enjoyment. Increasing her hand speed, my legs began to squirm uncontrollably, which again was mistaken as joy. Finally, releasing my penis from her vice grip, begins to massage my scrotum before violently massaging counter clockwise. Unable to control muscle function and on the verge of dry heaving, it stopped. The tears that fall down my cheeks are of premature joy. Just as I think that I have survived this one sided tug-of-war, Red’s hand begins moving further south. I begin to sweat. Her hand finally rests on that small area of skin that rests between the bottom of the sac and anus, which I fondly refer to as the grundle. In one motion, she presses not one, not two, but three fingers firmly into me. I can no longer tolerate the pain and vault myself into the head board with a loud thud that leaves me slightly concussed and rips my hand out from inside her. Seductively, Red looks me in the eye, and asks, “You like that?”, while slowly pulling her tongue across her upper lip.
Scared, I respond, “Are you testing me for a hernia?”
Greg explodes in laughter upon hearing this and falls out of the bed. After a brief flip-out from Dr. Red, Greg leaves the room completely satisfied. Seconds later, we are both naked. Red throws herself on top of me and begins guiding my maimed member inside of her.
“Wait; let me get a condom real fast.”
“What?” she says with a look of contempt.
“A condom, prophylactic, rubber…”
“Whatever.”
Annoyed, she rolls off me and stairs off into space. Riffling through my shorts pock, I find my lucky condom, slightly creased and bearing striking resemblance to a Ritz cracker.
“You keep condoms in your pants pocket?” Even more disgusted.
“Yes?”
A minute passes before I can open the condom, put it on backwards, re-roll the condom, and put it on correctly. Nearly limp, yet proud of my ability to dress myself, I slap her flank with what’s left of my erection to let her know I’m ready. Showing slight interest, she takes a fleeting glance at my penis, looks at me, and back at the wall before uttering a half-hearted; “Hop on,” before spreading her legs.
Dick in hand, I kneed walk to the end of the bed and position myself between her legs. She still lacks interest. I penetrate her, she seems even less interest. Taking a look at the clock, I realize that this one is all about Gotty and decide to see how fast I can cum. Jowls tense, I pump harder and harder. She yawns. I try to kiss her midst pumps and she ignores me. I quickly realize that my regality is limited to foreplay. Just as I am about to set a new record and end this in under 2 minutes and roughly 37 pumps, Red shoves me off of her. The only thing I can think of at this point that is worse than fucking a red head is blue balls. I start to get up to go jerk off in the bathroom as Red pounced on me and begins, what I can only assume, is her attempt at breaking my dick off. Twenty seconds later and I’m spent. In disbelief, Red gets off, rips the condom off (removing further base pubes), looks more disgusted than ever, and flings the used rubber onto my chest.
Making some excuse of going to throw the condom away, I scurry off to the bathroom and begin washing my package in the bathroom sink. Hand soap, cologne, shaving cream, anything that might kill whatever microbes that were crawling on me. I continued exfoliating my undercarriage until I realized that a.) I had never met anyone with an STD, b.) never actually seen herpes, and c.) that STDs are simply a myth created by parents and gym teachers to stop kids from getting pregnant. I win.
As I re-enter the bedroom, Red is clothed, standing, and for some reason smiling.
“That was fantastic,” she lies, pushing me onto the bed and kissing my neck.
“Yeah?” I say, confused.
“Mmhmm,” she purrs, “Ready for round two?” Licks my earlobe.
“Ummm, well, its like 5:45am, I think I might just get some sleep…”
The door slams shut and I can hear the sound of Red’s flat soles slapping against the hardwood floor on the way to the patio. I lay in bed, covers over my head, just hoping she leaves. Though I am hidden in the soft light that filters through the window, I can hear the entire conversation from there porch.
Dumpy: There you are!!
Red: Let’s go. We’re leaving.
Dumpy: So, did you guys…have sex?
Red: If you could call it that. WE ARE LEAVING.
As the front door closed behind them, I smiled. Hernia and disease free, resurrected on Easter morning, I tipped my cap to the big guy as the sun rose that morning.
Oh, and if you weren’t able to put it together, I equate female flatulence to male infidelity. What up.
Gotty
posted by Gotty's Life at 8:48 PM
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