The plan was simple and innocent enough. A bunch of us were supposed to get drunk, walk around the unofficial Halloween celebration in our beloved college town, and then crash in a hotel room so we wouldn’t have to worry about sobering up and driving home. Things are rarely simple, however, and nothing ever goes according to plan.
When I woke up, I found that Nick had texted me. Turns out everyone had decided against it; so he was the only one there at the hotel room. Had been for an hour or two, as a matter of fact, just boozing away in isolation. Unnerved by the thought of Nick sitting alone, drinking beer and watching television, I tried to get myself motivated and get on down to Kent. My fear was that he would become overwhelmed by despair and slit his wrists or something worse, like sell his soul and life savings to some smooth-talking televangelist on Channel 3.
It took several cups of coffee, half a pack of cigarettes and a shower, but I made it there. He offered me a beer and we went outside, drank and smoked cigarettes. I figured I’d finish my bottle, down another, maybe two, and we would head on downtown and walk amongst the wackos. Then Lilly called, asked where I was, and then she was on her way over.
Seeing her, as always, made my jaw drop. She wore some sexy, revealing get-up and had on a Mafia fedora. With her was her mother, who had a blond wig on and was dressed up as a French maid. She was also with Veronica, a friend of hers who I’ve met twice before. She was this petite-looking skinny girl who is mildly attractive and could probably tear anyone apart like a coked-up bobcat if you made the mistake of pressing the wrong button.
“She’s a girl that you can drink pretty,” is precisely how Lilly explained her, adding that she was so skinny that Lilly felt fat when standing beside her.
There was a problem I was worried about to some degree, but mostly because I’m a pervert. Evidently Moe and Lilly had spoken a few days before and Moe mentioned to her that despite the fact that this was my favorite holiday, I never really dressed up. He offered his parrot costume to me, which he had worn a few years ago. Lilly then became determined to do what she had to to get me into that costume. If I had know this beforehand, I would of held out to see how far she would go — because as much as I care for her, I’m an asshole — but as it was I was promised a few looks at her ass as she danced around town in her sexy, revealing outfit. But Moe was recording with his band at an undisclosed location tonight and I had been unable to get a hold of him, so there was no costume. No costume, no free glimpses of her wondrous behind. Nick offered his old wedding suit, however — there was a Mafia theme to the wedding (and the marriage itself was “waxed” less than a year ago) — which for some unknown reason he had in his car. Though the fedora didn’t fit my fat head, I put on the shirt and tie, and I sort of looked like a mafia guy. It was enough.
So we all went to gallivant around the college town. Nick was dressed as a beer bong, though to me he looked like a metallic, sentient dildo. Everyone else thought he was the tin man.
At some point Lilly complained how her boyfriend, Brian, wouldn’t touch her because she had on that glittery stuff. Up front I told her I happen to agree that the glittery stuff was annoying when it rubbed off on you when you were with a girl, but it wouldn’t stop me from touching her. I provided solid evidence for this assertion later in the evening, when we were shitfaced outside of Venice, lost in the crowd. It was then that I turned to see Lilly trying to pick up this girl that somehow looked quite familiar. As I paid attention, it became abundantly clear that this girl was bisexual and that the tall guy beside her, who was undoubtedly her boyfriend, was uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to have the threesome the two girls had proposed. Clearly he was either drunk to the point he wasn’t thinking clearly, homosexual, insane, or some unholy cocktail. My alcohol-induced ADD led to me look away from a moment; when I looked back there was Lilly, head tilted, lips mashed against Veronica’s mouth.
“Hey,” I said, tapping her shoulder in mock anger, “Hey, hey, hey. I want some of that.”
And then she mashed her lovely lips against mine, her tongue was in my mouth, my tongue in hers, and I was suddenly enveloped in a moment inconceivable degrees beyond surreality and high above the realm of fantasy, for here I was in the midst of an act with a girl who I had previously not even been able to make the vaguest sense of sexual contact with in my craziest, sex-fueled dreams. It was an act of hers that clearly said, “All right, you asked for it. Let’s see if you can take it.” When she she released me, biting and pulling at my bottom lip as she did so, it was too soon. Especially after that bottom-lip biting. That drives me insane in the good way.
“Wait a minute,” I said quickly, “hold up.”
And she turned back, and this time I kissed her, her back against the brick walls of the building, and I bit her bottom lip back.
“You’re a good kisser,” she told me. “Makes me wonder what you’d be like in — ” And she stopped.
Pinch me. No, don’t. Was I dreaming? No, no. I’d never get this far in a dream. I was clearly awake and irreversibly shitfaced, and so was she.
“There’s one way to find out,” I was quick to respond.
She started saying how I was her friend, how we were friends, how that sort of thing would get between us as friends, as us kissing alone might have ruined everything, but I did my damnest to reassure her that at best it would strengthen the bond. I was like a greedy, needy child fueled with just a little too much chemical courage. I didn’t regret any of it at all, and I still don’t.
Regret was to come a bit later in the evening, when most of us had parted ways. I was still pumped from the whole incident with Lilly. Charged and ready to go. I wished she were here. I wish she’d let me. If it happened, I hoped she was wrong that it would demolish our friendship. I talked with Nick, a little about kissing my divine friend, Lilly, and him and I went back to his hotel room. Outside the door him and I stood around, bullshitting and smoking our smokes when two girls walked by on the banister of the second floor.
“Hi,” I say. This was uncharacteristic of me, even when drunk. No harm in such a greeting, though, I told myself. Hi is universal, right?
They say hi back, whisper something to one another, look back at us briefly, and then go through the door of the room above Nick’s. They could be elephant women, they could be super-models. I’m too damn drunk to tell, or even care at this point. I had my chemical courage, and the night was my fucking playground, or so it felt like. They’ll be back out, I told myself, and indeed, they were.
What they look like was now clearer. One was a tall, big-boned girl in long brown hair and has a hairband across the top of her head with two ears, maybe cat’s ears, sticking out of it. The other was cute. Not drop-dead, but she had character. Her body language was sexy, her voice had some hint of a Southern accent that bled out now and then. I could maybe get with this girl tonight, I thought to myself. I started flirting in my own unusual way, which involved calling her “Zazen Girl” due to the meditative-like position she was taking on the balcony. I had to explain to her what Zazen was, which disappointed me.
Another girl came out, and this one reminded me of my friend Joyce, mostly in the face. She was overweight, but not morbidly obese or oddly-shaped or round like a three-dimensional Eric Cartman. She had a warm, giggly nature about her, and there was something about her I liked, or something I thought I saw in her that I thought I liked. I constantly worried about her feeling bad or excluded for some reason and tried to include her often enough to make her feel flattered by my coming back to her, but not often enough that it seemed obvious.
The last finally came out — a tall, mammoth of a woman with a bald head wrapped in a pirate bandanna embroidered with skulls and crossbones. Her name, I think, was TJ — an unfortunate name for such a manly woman but, I suppose, a fairly cool one for a pirate. She’s originally from Maryland, we would later discover, and has a big scar on her leg from an auto accident she had when she was young. She’s also a psychology major who later gave me her professional opinion that I was, and I quote, “fucked up in general” and “in a bad way.” I didn’t like her much. Something told me the feeling was mutual.
Southern Girl and I began threatening to beat each other up in a playful manner, and so to get her downstairs I kept asking if she wanted to fight. It worked. Downstairs she came, the rest of them trailing behind her, and she walked a bad-ass walk up to me confidently. I didn’t move. Stood calmly, taking drags off my cigarette. “Bring it,” I said. As anticipated, she got up real close to my face, doing her best to intimidate, and I did the same. Yeah, I thought to myself, I could do this. And by this, of course, I meant her.
As our play-fighting began, the rest of them sat on the base of the fence that surrounded the pool, and this is where her and I eventually made our way. During a play-argument, she sat in a space provided by the Pirate and I sat on the end, but I wanted to keep the interaction going, so I got up to approach her. We got engaged in another play fight and I ended up falling into Joyce-Face and whacking my pocket-rocket into her knee.
“I totally hit you with my boner,” I said to her, “Sorry.” I meant it, too.
I was sitting on her lap at that point and she said, “That’s okay,” and started touching it with her hand — quite purposely, is what I mean to say. And stroking it then, up and down as it bulged beneath the jeans. I knew what was going to happen next, but I told myself I was insane; sure enough, however, it happened. She stuck her hands down my pants and started massaging my monster.
“You do that well,” I tell her.
Then, she whispers into my ear, “Just wait until I give you head.”
Oh, hold the motherfucking presses.
Call me a jerk, but as unattracted as I was to her, the offer didn’t seem altogether unappealing. I asked if she wanted to go up to their room, and she said sure, she didn’t care were. “I think we’re going to go talk upstairs,” I announced to the group. “Uh-huh. Right. ‘Talk’,” everyone’s faces said. Nick then motioned towards his hotel door.
“Door’s unlocked,” he said.
No stairs? That seemed much safer. I turned to her. “Cool?” She nodded, and off we went.
Once inside, I suggested the bathroom. One reason was the greater degree of privacy the room offered; there were two doors between us and anyone who might walk into the hotel room. The other reason was that I judged, and it turned out quite accurately, that she was too eager to put her mouth around my bush-splitting beef bazooka to bother with reaching for the light switch which I, in my drunken state of mind, would not be able to find on my own if i tried. The darkness, I presumed — and quite inaccurately, as it turns out — might allow me to ignore the fact that I wasn’t actually in the least bit attracted to girl. Of course, she didn’t care where it was we went, so towards the bathroom we stumbled.
On the way there, it struck me that it had been awhile since I had trimmed the bologna bush, and I didn’t want her to think this was typical of me. “I’m a little hairy down there,” I warned her.
She laughed. “Its not a problem.”
Before I had closed the door she had dropped to her knees and flipped open by belt, and the door closed as the zipper dropped and she dug me out. It was so nice to feel a warm, wet mouth down there again. “You do that well, too,” I told her between the moaning. My mind couldn’t help but realize she wasn’t the best, however; not even close. Dorothy was still the undefeated Queen of Blow-Jobs. Joyce-face was, however, the noisiest one to ever engage in the process. I didn’t mind, understand; it was just noteworthy, that’s all. She was enjoying it immensely or very dedicated to conveying that impression; which was the case was lost to me, as I was, as I believe I mentioned, quite drunk, and quite lost in the sheer enjoyment of something other than my hands, a sock, or a pillow working around the beef-shaft after over four years.
Politely, I asked her if she minded at all if I moved to the floor. She expressed her permission, however rudely with a full mouth, and doing it slowly, I managed to accomplish it without her puckered lips ever straying from my knob-capped calm-slammer. The tile was cool against the base of my spine, which added an enticing contrast with the moist circa 98.2 degree temperature of her mouth. Bashing my head on the base of the toilet, however, was not a comforting experience; nonetheless, it was lost in the sheer joy of the gracious fellatio.
She seemed entirely comfortable with me holding her head in place as I thrusted in and out of her mouth, too, which was not something I had ever actually done before; though the impulse to thrust has made its way to the surface during a blowjob, I have never actively face-fucked a girl before. This girl was quite open to anything, it seemed. A little too open, even, as it soon became the case that she tried her very damnest to fucking swallow me.
For a moment that was a bit too enduring, I honestly had the fear that I might be raped by the girl. Not a laughing matter, this I know; sad as it is, I’m not kidding. Not in the least. “Stick it in my pussy,” she breathed to me. “Please. Just for a second.”
I shook my head, though she probably couldn’t see me, and told her no, I couldn’t. Crawling up atop me, I could see the features of her face in the dim light cast through the cracks in the door. It was haunting. In the bad way.
“Just for a minute. Stick it in my pussy. Please.”
I asked her if she had a condom. She didn’t. I told her I wouldn’t, not without a condom.
She went back to breathing, begging in my ear. Putting the weight of herself against me. Though I wasn’t trying to be forceful, I was trying to push her away, shove her off me. Her hands, I felt them go down around her pants, pushing them to her knees as she continued to crawl atop me, pinning me down.
Given the right girl, this would be a major turn on, but this wasn’t the right girl. The right girl was vomiting in her boyfriend’s toilet right now.
I tried to scoot myself upward, my back cold against the porcelain of the toilet bowl. I tried to stop the scenarios flashing through my drunken mind. Who’s going to listen to a man who claimed he was raped by a girl? Other men would laugh at me. Feminists would idolize her.
Then it came: the knock that might have saved my life. It came from the front door of the hotel room, I’m sure, and like an instant, Pavlovian response her and I are off each other and quickly putting on our cloths like a couple of teenagers caught by the cops. After ensuring she was decent, I wasted no time in opening the door. It was over.
She laughed. “I’m glad one of us has good sense,” she said, giggling, referring to my insistence on a weenie beanie. “But I’m going to go get a condom. I’m not kidding.”
And like none of that ever happened, I just sort of shrugged and said, “Okay.”
Evidently, it was then that I called Nick. I don’t remember. All I remember is She-Monster the Pirate coming out the door, walking to the banister and looking down. Joyce-Face held up her hands, giggling in response to her pirate friend’s disappointed look, trying to beg for the condom between fits of laughter. It was then that I pointed at the Pirate. “Here’s your chance to stop your friend from doing something she might regret in the morning,” I informed her. “The power is in your hands, because I’m not going to fuck without a condom.”
She didn’t blink. She turned and walked back in the door and shut it behind her. We laughed.
“Are you kidding?” Joyce-Face said, losing it in laughter again. I thought I was home free, but then then the door opened again and the pirate dropped the condom like some throwaway eye-patch. Cock-sock in hand, there would be no turning back.
In the hotel room I’m like, “Let’s not do the bathroom thing this time.”
“I don’t care where,” she said. “If you’re looking for romance, I’m not the girl.”
“No,” I said before she finished, “not at all.”
I sat on the bed (stumbled is probably a more appropriate term) closest to the bathroom and kitchen. The main light was off, but the light from the kitchen still illuminated the room.
“Again,” I said as she crawled on the bed, “Hairy. Sorry.”
“It’s no problem,” she said. Damn, she was a nice girl. I could tell. Maybe that was it. She was more like a teddy bear than she was almost anything else. I had fucked my own fisted hand, folded pillows, holy socks, bunched up blankets, a fake silicone vagina with beads on the bottom that I had inadvertently transformed into a pearl-cannon. I had even considered buying a watermelon once. Despite all that, I could never bring myself to fuck a teddy-bear. How on earth can one bring himself to bone Snuggles, for fuck’s sake?
But she wasn’t a teddy-bear. She was a girl. A sweet girl I had no desire to bone. For the lack of anything holy, what had happened to me? What had my world come to? I had french kissed a goddess and here, mere hours later, I was about to harpoon a motherfucking Care Bear with my vacuum-sealed cum cannon. I had rode a tidal wave this evening, with Lilly as the crest, and not just any crest. A crest as high as the skies and beyond. And now? Now I was down in the trough. And not just any trough. No, this had to designate a new low in my life.
If that wasn’t bad enough, there was the condom issue. In attempting to put my wankee in its nipple-tipped wetsuit, I discovered myself putting it on backwards. Even when I got it right, everything went wrong. I couldn’t get the disobedient soldier to grow a spine, to put it in a way. It was like taking the hand of a coma patient, putting on a sock puppet and trying to pull some Weekend at Bernie’s kind of shit. I am not hard at this point. It was like a glorified gummy-worm. It was not hard. I was not excited at all.
“Maybe you should do what you were doing before,” I said, the fucking asshole I am. “It seems to like your mouth.”
I was way too drunk. How had I gotten so fucking drunk? I was not at all attracted to her. The guys at work, they keeping saying how a vagina is a vagina, which seemed logical enough on the surface, but no, they’re wrong, a vagina is not a vagina. Its like one guy at work, one guy who is obsessed with breasts, even more so than the majority of men I know. Its like that’s all he ever really looks for or sees in a girl. A pair of disembodied, levitating knockers would be enough for him. I at least needed to like the whole package, even after almost three years of circumstantial abstinence.
She sucked me off, and then climbed atop me. She began kissing my neck in a violent, sucking pucker fashion I am not at all unfamiliar with, and I repeatedly tried to veer away from her to stop her or in the very least limit her ability to do it, and in the face of her ruthless persistence I eventually found myself wriggling myself upward by shoulder-crawls not at all unlike when I feared getting raped earlier in the bathroom. And I’m glad, despite my profound intoxication, that I was clear-headed enough to do this, despite the fact that I still had marks on my neck the following day. It was distracting for her to do that but, more importantly, it made me profoundly angry considering my sober analysis on the subject years and years prior.
It’s not too deep of an analysis, really. My philosophy on the hickie, particularly when delivered to the neck, isn’t complex at all; hell, countless members of the animal kingdom comprehend the logic instinctively. In short, it’s nothing more than the natural act of marking territory, not unlike a dog pissing on a tree. It is a big red beacon for the world to see, and for them to read like a neon sign that says: “This man is owned by someone as a romantic partner and/or sexual resource.” Now, if a girl and I are in a committed relationship, hickies are entirely permissible, though, I must confess, not always welcome. Still, when it comes down to it, I would rather she elect that means of marking territory as opposed to the far more serious demands for a wedding ring.
In any case, when asked suggestively by others what that mark is on my neck I will, without fail, default to the usual cover-stories, which most can all too easily see through, much as one can see through the water-saturated white T-shirt of a bra-less babe caught in a rainstorm. It is a heat rash, I tell them. It is the result of skin irritation from the collar of a new shirt. Or, it is razor burn. And so on, ad infinitim and predictability. When in a committed relationship, I utilize these cover stories automatically due to my embarrassment and drive for privacy.
If we are just fuck buddies, however, and especially if it is merely a one-night stand, its out of anger and a desire to counteract the ownership the mark or marks imply. For unless the girl and I are in a committed relationship, there is simply no justification for giving me the most modest Hoover-bruise. It is the act of crossing a line, a gesture that indicates the sucker as confusing their act of renting the suckee for owning. It implies ulterior motives that are bound to result in me promptly fashioning a turtle-neck and scarf, an attire I loathe, and a seemingly inappropriate attire to adorn considering my simultaneous act of running for the hills away from the girl in question in a fashion that clearly implies my ass is on fire.
“Maybe you should try the top.”
Oh yes. I like the top.
We repositioned. Then I looked. Below her shirt, it looked like scorched earth with a vagina at the equator. My dick, a big ol’ phallic Jello Jiggler danging before what for a moment seemed akin the the vertically-positioned lips of Bill Cosby. Quick as it came to my drunken mind I damned myself for that thought, realizing that it was technically a racist comment, but it then struck me that until this moment I had actually overlooked the fact that she was a black girl, so the initial association was perhaps not as blatantly racist as I had initially thought. Indeed, this would be a first for me. I don’t think I had so much as kissed a girl with a dark pigment before, and here I was, about to cram my half-hard pork link into one.
It wasn’t that I considered her a notch on my belt or anything, it was that I was trying to talk my dick into cooperating.
It wasn’t an ugly vagina, either. I’ve seen ugly vaginas, but never in person, only in porn, and this wasn’t one, for sure. It didn’t look like a close up of the bottom half of Mick Jagger’s mouth while he’s eating an Arby’s Beef and Cheese or anything. So what was wrong with me?
“We’re not attracted to her,” I told my dick, “that much is obvious. But its a ready and willing vagina with no strings attached, you know? Not, like, a pussy-puppet, got me? No strings. She’s not trying to reel you in. And we masturbate all the time, you and I, once or twice a day to keep a minimal standard level of sanity, isn’t that right? So just look at her as a ready and willing extension of our masturbatory practices. Like the silicone vagina.”
This was not working.
“Stick it in me,” she breathed.
I was whacking off like a caged monkey before her holiest of holes, but the pesky appendage was receding, recoiling, but had nowhere to hide and so ultimately just dangled its limp head in a state of playing-opossum for lack of a shell to wither itself within. I don’t know if I ever even got the damned thing inside of her, but I do know that I must have been drunk enough to think I did, because I was thrusting like a maniac. Still, perhaps only dry-humping her. Banging a loose goose-neck against pussy-lips that, for all I know, might have been tighter than the doors of NORAD.
“You could slap my ass,” I requested while atop her in the sexiest, raspy, alcohol-breath-bellowing mumble into her ears I could muster. And she tried to slap my ass on several occasions, but kept slapping the side of my thigh, which wasn’t doing anything for me. Its like she didn’t know where my bony white ass was. This amazed me. I had, after all, managed at least on one occasion to masturbate with one hand and slap my own ass with the other, and I’m no double-jointed circus-freak, either. She was in the perfect position to easily spank the ol’ back-cheeks and she was missing it entirely. I suddenly stopped to wonder: how drunk was she?
All I know is I stopped jack-hammering for a moment and she said, “Stick it in,” again, so at that point, at least, I wasn’t in. I still had fingers, though, so fell down, swayed to the side and plopped one in, worked them like mad, and she seemed to sort of enjoy it, but I eventually convinced myself that this was not really the case. The clit wasn’t engorged. No bulging bliss button. Damn it, I thought to myself, What a drunken lack of passion I have for this.
Pleasant girl sounds. Success on its way? No. “Stick it in,” she said.
So two fingers, three. More happy sounds. Are we on our way?
“Stick it in.”
I had determined by this point that I could stand up on the bed, lift up her bottom end, drop her and then kick a steel-toed foot dead between those lips in a deeply-penetrating cunt-punt and she’d still be begging me to ram my cock into her, but this was a problem, because it was like a fucking tube-sock filled with wet sand. So I sighed as silently as I could and just laid over on the mattress. Life sucks.
It wasn’t the booze. I knew that, faced it. Hell, I’ve jerked off with excellent results while totally fucking shitfaced in the privacy of my own apartment while watching porn. “No,” I thought to her,”the truth is I’m just not into you. I’m less into you than I am into my hand or a folded pillow, and that makes me a total asshole. I’d rather be passionately making out with Lilly right now than even successfully fucking you. For her, for Lilly, I have passion. I need passion; I need intensity. I can’t fuck a girl I don’t even want to kiss.”
As always, I am out of my mind, and my heart has my dick on a short leash.
I thought all this. Of course, I said none of it.
“Sorry,” is what I said. “Whiskey dick. Beer beef.”
“That’s okay,” she said, apparently humored, amazed and confused at my comment, as if I had just apologized to her after fucking her like a god. We left for upstairs, to join Nick and her friends, and she seemed to be glowing all the way.
I was so, so fucking confused.