Monday, May 24, 2010

What Hole Was I Really Trying To Fill?

Right after my personal 9/11, I knew the only way to cure my broken heart was to get as wasted and sleep with as many people as possible. The first weekend of singledom, I failed. I got super wasted but only made out. The second weekend my former roommate and bestie Slaw came to visit, guaranteeing ridiculousness.

We went back to 3rd Base with some people in my outer circle of friends. To compensate for the supreme amount of extra fat I was carrying around, I wore a dress that was all tits. My ex-neighbor took notice and, sensing my low self-esteem, began to compliment me to no end. It was strange since we had never really spoken before, but my breasts and I welcomed the attention. I began slamming well drinks to allow myself to make the imminent poor decision of going home with him. Way, way, way before the bars closed, I followed him back to his place where making out ensued. Because the tonguing was reasonable enough, I allowed him access to my precious temple. We encountered slight first-fuck awkwardness until we were fully connected in the biblical sense. That's when the true horror began.

He jack hammered me like I was a piece of tarmac with oil hidden beneath. He slammed me like he was Holyfield getting revenge on Tyson. Ultimately, he beat the pussy like she owed him money. Over and over. The only reason I didn't die from internal damage was because he was just a little guy plus I'm pretty sure there was some whiskey dick involved.

After my initial shock, I attempted to devise an escape plan. Luckily, he gave me an out when he indicated through a series of grunts and hand gestures that we would be switching positions to doggy style. I flipped over and dive rolled off his bed, grabbing my dress on the way down. I looked up and saw what I like to think was sheer respect for my badass maneuvers register on his face but what was more likely just confusion.

I threw on my dress, leaving my undies behind since my vagina was screaming, "THERE'S NO TIME!" and attempted to bolt. My attempts were thwarted with further make outs and pathetic pleading but I eventually managed to evade him. I returned to the bar and binge drank to forget the scene I had just endured... until I was reminded by a late night Facebook message:

Hey that was really fun. I would really like to hang out tomorrow. Call me (number) when you get back.

How that is anyone's definition of fun is beyond me. I'll never understand guys and sex.

Ps: Slaw went home with an old flame that night as well. Everyone was surprised since he once spit on her little lady before coital commencement (off-putting, to say the least) and she had called him out that night. No one was more surprised than Slaw, though, as evidenced by this text (from T9Word days): "Wolf up next to miles!! Why?? Foot even remember ordering another drink!" (Translation: woke up next to mike. Why? Don't even remember ordering another drink!) Ah Slaw, that's what happens when you start ordering post-blackout sleep with vagina spitters and send nonsensical texts about it.

No comments:

Post a Comment