And yet, another tale...
Hey boys, think back. Do you remember the best blowjob of your life? You know, those certain little ladies who decide to convert their mouth into a vacuum attachment with the only goal of siphoning your hose until the very essence of yourself flows out in a volcano of gushing excitement. Except, over the years there’s only one little lady you single out over the others because she bobs on your knob like it’s the reason for her very existence. That certain one that makes you feel like your piece is life-support for this particular girl. That you are absolutely convinced that if this woman stops munching on your unit she will honestly die.
She makes you feel like sucking your cock will be the new replacement for CPR.
And ladies, I can only ponder at what your intentions are for slobbering your warm, thick saliva over the flesh tube that looks like you could twist it into some type of balloon animal. Sometimes falling to your knees, sometimes bending at the waist, but always with the same results of taking a publicly forbidden body part into your mouth for lubrication. Hell, for all I know you’re just tenderizing the meat before you slap it on the grill.
And what you define as grill… well… I guess that’s up to you.
Anyway, back to me. I’m with the ultimate cocksucker of all cocksucking girls I’ve ever met, however, I don’t know how talented she is at mouth handling my cock until later that night. At the very moment, before she gripped my salami and took it into the wet opening of her face, we were sitting in a diner.
Let me be more specific, we were in her rich white and respected trash college town at three o’clock in the morning. Drunk as a hobo after chugging a tin of gasoline, we were stumbling like a couple of physically disabled apes, hand in primate hand, down Main Street for all to see when we decided to fill our alcohol soaked sacks of a stomach with some nourishment. Actually, the nourishment we were seeking that night was a big plate of grease soaked eggs and English muffins, along with the company of every other alcoholic student and the cream of the crop of booze hounds that were kicked out of the twilight parties. That’s why we picked the diner that was cheap, run-down and crowded with very willing participants of inebriated mayhem.
A haven for the young and drunk so to speak.
So, I’m sitting in a corner booth with this girl and looking into her squinting eyes that are blurry with unconscious tears of drunken emotions. And as I’m watching her across from me I remember that I have no idea who this girl is. In fact, I don’t even remember her name…. Katie, Kat, Katlyn, Katrina, Missy...? But I don’t feel bad at all about it because she has been calling me Robert all night and, honestly, I really don’t care what she calls me if I’m a shoe-in for a little sexual exploitation. However, some little event almost put a kibosh on the whole thing, and by “kibosh” I mean that it made my erection deflate into a pathetic wrinkled nub.
Let me rewind.... Little Miss I Don’t Know Her Name and myself stumble into the diner, rudely ask for a corner booth and tell some fat guy gorging on a deep fried skillet that he’ll die soon if he keeps eating that shit in the process of being led to our table. I gracefully dive head first into my side of the booth as she awkwardly slides her shapely ass onto the plastic bench on hers. I readjust myself, become posed, and stare at her straight in the eyes. I have to admit, I did good on this one, she was gorgeous. None of that second rate “yeah, I guess I’ll fuck ya” type of average girl who always knows her place and expects no more than a sloppy romp and no words. No, no, Lady Anonymous had dirty blond hair, bright green eyes, tender lips and a body that not only craved attention, but demanded it.
We both knew we were attracted to each other and that fact was only highlighted when we realized that we could have good conversations and be completely comfortable with each other (although, if you think about it, doesn’t alcohol make you do that?). Anyway, she knows how attracted I am to her by the way I am gazing at her with my slanted, alcohol induced eyes and stupid smirk; which could (I must admit) look similar to the what some may call a “puppy love look.” Which leads me to the displeasing remark that made my steel rod melt like butter. Mistress Fill In The Blank looks back at me with the same look and slurs three little words in my direction and all three smash right into my face like a speeding cement truck.
“I love you.”
Now I realize we’re drunk, but there are just some things that should not and cannot be said on the very first night of fun socialization and no consequences interaction. Obviously, she didn’t get that memo. And now my fantastic beer buzz has been swatted, while my penis is so scared that it looks like a raisin that is trying to hide behind a skin baggie of the last two gumballs (I know what you’re all thinking right now, and I’m a very modest motherfucking guy. What some call gumballs, others call bowling balls; and you know 99.9% of every guy that brags about their deluxe sized package is a cover for their abnormally large lack of cock).
So, after that very displeasing turn of events, and as I slump in my seat with a frown on my face, I decide that I should at least entertain myself if I have buy the Nameless Girl dinner and not do a little penile scuba diving as a thanks.
“Love eh?” I growl at her, pondering for another plan of action that would make time fly faster, “before we can discuss that I have to know your favorite color.”
“It’s white,” she quickly returns in a flash of a smile.
“White? That’s not a color at all, in fact, it’s the absolute definition of no color. Which means that if you can’t even chose a favorite color then you must have commitment issues,” I seriously state. “How can I possibly become emotionally involved with someone with commitment issues and not run the risk of getting hurt in the end.”
Talking like this appears quite clear-headed and somewhat witty, but it’s merely an act. Because after hearing those three sobering words I realized that one could use a brain that was struggling to breath in the alcohol filled fish bowl of a skull could just let it respond without musing over the words. Quite honestly, I’m not sure why we’re all not drunk 24/7. Alcohol seems to be one of the only substances that won’t make us second guess our initial responses and pump us full of the bravery to actually express a sincere statement. We don’t even give ourselves an honest opinion; we’re so fake we’re even strangers to ourselves.
“Liquid courage” is what the counselor in my alcohol offenses class called it.
“White is so too a color,” she defended, “how many natural things in nature can you find that are white?”
“I…,” and I actually had to think about it. Not just because of the slow grinding of my thinking gears, but because I honestly had a difficult time coming up with something. Then I did, “clouds.”
“What else?” she quickly replies.
“What is this, a fucking test?” I spew out.
She laughs at me, “no, but it’s true. White is actually one of colors in nature that you cannot find much of at all. Also, it’s not a primary color, which means that it has to be a color because you have to use other colors to create it.”
She must have realized her liquid courage.
“But that’s not why I like it,” she confesses, “I like it because it symbolizes a beginning. White is always a blank slate, a start from scratch.”
“If you think that way you’ll never get anything done. You’ll start to get dressed and never decide on an outfit.”
“That’s happened way too many times,” she giggles, “but I mean more as a view for life. Just so you’ll never hit a dead end, just pick up the pieces and rebuild.”
I run an exasperated hand through my hair, “this is way too philosophical for my beer saturated brain. I’m not sure if I can continue with this line of thinking.” I pause for a distracted moment, “how about we talk about something more meaningless or absurd or pointless. Perhaps even something dirty, maybe even bouncing off the thinly drawn lines of naughty.”
Girlie I Don’t Name Her Name doesn’t laugh this time. In fact, the moment I made my request she glares at me with a stone-cold expressionless stare that felt like a fist knuckles first to the side of my face. Then she abruptly laughs loudly.
“Are you afraid of love?” she says as she smiles her too gorgeous beaming smile at me.
“Of course not,” I reply dismissively, “I just think that you can have a connection with someone on the first night you meet them, but love, well, that’s something a little far-fetched.”
“Is it?” she slowly utters as she cocks an eyebrow. “What about love at first sight?”
“Bullshit,” I dismiss with a slight wave of my hand, “complete fairytale propaganda.”
“Love is a fairytale.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Being in love is the most amazing, soul consuming, heart fluttering in absolute ecstasy at every moment you spend with that other person that you can’t help but feel your life has become the happy ending in a fairytale.”
I felt like she had become one of those guys with the greasy mustache and over enthusiastic attitude trying to sell me something arbitrary on the consumer channel.
“I’m curious,” I smirk, “do you even know where fairytales come from?”
She shrugs her cute little shoulders, “I dunno. Someone probably made them up a long time ago.”
“Right on the button. The Grimm Brothers collected them from European cultures a long time ago.”
“Even children back in the day needed a bedtime story or two.”
“Just the opposite. The stories were actually violent, gruesome and absolutely horrifying tales that probably literally scared the adolescent shit out of children.”
Her face cracks shock and sparks confusion, “then how did they become the stories they are now?”
“The amazing process of evolution and politics,” I flatly reply.
“Wait,” her dilated eyeballs unconsciously drifted towards the left side of her brain, “so all those stories I heard growing up of the princess in imminent danger and the dashing prince swooping in to save her for the very definition of love and happiness are merely a rehash of some horror tale?”
“Yep. Sucks huh.” I thought I had drowned her drunken confession of misplaced emotions and allow my frame to comfortably slide further into my cushioned seat. “So you see, you can’t possibly love me.”
The Lady Anonymous casts her eyes downward towards the off-white diner tabletop littered with fingerprints labeling the identities of thousands of drunk college students contemplating which bad decision to make that night. Her expression clearly shouts the shuffling of her diluted thoughts swirling like oil through the booze in her brain. She preciously bites her pink luscious lower lip, an appendage so tender that if you were to suck on it you would taste honey. I silently watched her with adoring eyes thinking that it was such a shame that my bee wasn’t going to invade her beehive.
That’s when it happened. Her mesmerizing eyes abruptly snapped to meet mine and the look knocked me from cruise to neutral; ready for her to put me into gear.
“I’ll show you,” she slyly smirks.
“Show me what?” I manage to mutter, absolutely smitten by the intoxicated kitten.
“How I feel. I’ll show you right now,” and she began to disappear under the table. She slowly sank to the depths of legs and crotches with her bulging mounds of chest heaved with breaths of desire and those angelic lips pouting with scandalous intentions.
My phallic handgun was cocked and loaded.
The clatter of coffee cups and slaps of grease soaked lips grinding plastic eggs and rubber bacon slips into silence as the audio holes in my head eagerly strain to hear the sweet and innocent Madame Mysterious clumber on her hands and knees to trudge through the muck of a diner floor towards the metal teeth that makes up the front door of my best friend.
Her tissue soft enthusiastic fingertips fumble up my thighs and gracefully bound through the foothills of bulges at my crotch until each scandalously sweet digit met and frolic at the gateway. The moment was so passionately intense I imagined music and the harmonious sound of it.
My little man was alive and ready to sing his gushing solo.
“What can I get for ya?”
I vacuum the throbbing amorous drool back into my trembling mouth as I aim my eyes upward to discover the inconsiderate source of the question is a grossly overweight individual with a pound of unwashed wiry salt and pepper mound of hair disorderedly stacked on his hollow melon and decorated with wide black rimmed glasses. The twenty-something going on fifty had quite the noticeable protruding belly that was only more revealing in his t-shirt that was four sized too small and allowed the pile of unwarranted tissue some freedom as the flabby end piece with its bellybutton eye peeked out the bottom of his grimy shirt and slouched over his belt and slimy apron. In one chubby little hand he held a small notepad, his other gripped the pencil ready to record my tummy’s current desire and his expression stupidly gaped with his mouth hanging open as he waited for a reply.
Big dumb animal came to mind.
“Do you wanna eat something?” the talking bear slowly blurted out at my lack of response.
I felt the sweet anti-sober sweetie absolutely on a mission to release my python to the humidity of her oral jungle as she used a handy thumb and pointer finger to unzip the cage, no hesitation whatsoever with the unexpected appearance of our uninvited guest.
“I think we’re okay,” I say, surprised I’m able to verbalize an organized thought.
“We?” B.D.A. blinks at me, trying to kick-start the rusted gears in his brain.
My patience has already worn thin and is fizzling into nonexistence. “Yes we,” I say chock-full of disgusted rudeness as I refer to the empty booth across the table, “Kermit and Fozzie over there are not hungry and for the moment I am doing okay without any type of edibles. So would you please just leave us alone and I will signal you if anything changes.”
Dumbfounded, as I’m sure is the case the bulk of his life, the sweaty server stares for more then an extended moment at the invisible fictional characters and then gradually back at me. This is one of those great moments when I appreciate my own talents of weaving my innate ability to lie with my nonstop overactive imagination.
“Um…okay. I’ll be around just let me know,” he cautiously said with a stinky air of reflection over the fragility of my sanity, and then lumbered off to eat another deliciously tasteless pad of cooking grease.
Now I can focus on this gratuitously graphic scene.
Random Girl had already snatched my better half, swollen with scalding hot blood to inches I have never expected, and gripping my member with fierce tenderness as it throbbed between her fingers I began to feel the oily wetness of her saliva coat my pink mushroom cap. Then I felt the warmness of her mouth surround and release as she compassionately bobbed with a metronome rhythm that would put the best of symphony composers to shame. I was absolutely impressed when there was no gag when my cock slowly slid down her throat and her damp lips reached the hilt. It was at this deep-throated moment, I unabashedly admit only a brief minute and a mere few seconds into our oral session, that I felt the testosterone boiler gurgling for release. My fingers tore into the orange fake rubbery cushion of the bench seat, my hiding toes curled into fists as my legs flexed with pleasure and my eyes snapped shut to accompany the gnawing of my lower lip.
I politely let it surge without warning and not a drop was spared.
The Unidentifiable Lass arose from the dirt caked makeshift champagne room, adjusted herself on the parallel cushion and with a dirty smirk she seductively wiped the corner of her mouth. Her gorgeous eyes pierced me as my chest heaved with heavy breaths and my slouch the result of exhaustion. What I felt I could not exactly define or explain so when Naughty Miscellaneous Young Woman stared at me, waiting for some type of verbal response to her gracious efforts, I said the first thing that came to mind.
“I love you.”