Good Vibrations

WARNING - THIS SHIT CONTAINS SOME TOTALLY NSFW IMAGES

I've done a lot of dating since my divorce. A lot. I know, you're thinking, "Oh my God, what a whore," but it's not like that, no sir/ma'am/gender neutral term of respect, not like that at all. Let me explain. I had recently moved to Philadelphia and even though I was born there and spent more than a few years living there, I was pretty much alone in this old and yet new city. I didn't know more than a handful of people, I was bored and I was so very lonely. I've spent entirely too much of my life feeling alone and lonely and I wanted to break the chains of my solitude. More than anything, I just wanted to meet people, maybe make a good friend or two and have a little bit of fun. I just wanted some company; a fellow reprobate. At the time, I was more interested in friendship than in sex, but I certainly wasn't going to turn down a good roll in the hay. Hell, I wasn't about to turn down a bad roll in the hay, either. After enough time, anything looks better than baling hay by yourself. Friends, sex, whatever. After all, if you can't fuck your friends, who can you fuck? Before I could fuck anyone, however, I'd need to actually meet a living, breathing person and the easiest way to meet people, and by people, I mean women, was via online dating. I've always had fast and easy friendships with women, they either want to mother me or marry me or even worse, both. Many women seem to get it into their heads that I'm so absent minded that I'm completely incapable of taking care of myself, which is complete and utter bullshit, even if I do forget to eat most days. Chicks do make for easy friendships though and I really wasn't looking to meet any dudes, it's just not my thing. You can suck all the dick you want to fellas and that's cool with me, it's just not my brand of crotch fruit. Yeah, I fucking said it. Crotch fruit. Get over it. Anyway, it's much easier for a single, straight guy to meet women than it is for said dude to meet another dude. It's socially acceptable for a man to approach a woman and strike up a conversation, but a dude generally doesn't walk up to another dude in a bar and ask him to hang out and do crazy shit. Well, they do, but not in the bars that I frequent, not without repercussions, getting your face rearranged, that sort of thing. I might not have the prettiest face in town, but I'm used to it and again, it's not my thing, but if it's yours, feel free to play Thanksgiving and gobble that shit down.

Okay, now that we've got that bullshit out of the way - RECAP: I got divorced, I moved, I dated, I wasn't a man whore - I prefer free spirit, por favor, and yadda, yadda, yadda, here the fuck we are.

Wherever the fuck that is.

I had met Mary Beth online and according to her pics, profile, messages and the tiny little brain in my dick, she was smart, sassy, sexy and very hot. Hot like in hawt hot. That worked for me. In turn, she thought I was smart, funny and cute and she agreed to meet me, which meant that she was pretty fucking dumb, so that worked for me too. I was in.

Mary Beth. That name. Jesus Christ. That fucking name. It's fucking everywhere. Seriously. If you are female, Catholic and from the Philadelphia/South Jersey area, there's better than average odds that your given name is Mary and your middle name is Beth (most likely), or Ellen, or Kate, or whatthefuckever, so the odds are that everybody calls you Mary Whatthefuckever, but more than likely, your name is Mary Beth, or some iteration thereof, you have big, huge Jersey hair and keep a fucking can of AquaNet in your purse with three backups at home and another in the car. Yeah, I've got you pegged, Mary Beth.

Shit, I have one cousin named Mary Ellen and another named, of course, Mary Beth (they're sisters, don't ask, but with fifteen kids in their family, I guess they ran out of names and had to use the same one twice; Catholics are fucking weird), who are not to be confused with my friend Mary Beth, or my other friend Meribeth, or even the legendary Maribeth. My fucking head is spinning. As a matter of fact, I personally know 39,847.5 Mary Beths. The .5 isn't actually a Mary Beth, but her name is Mary and she is a bitch, so I call her Mary Bitch, so she counts as a half and that's totally logical. Duh. 39,847.5 Mary Beths and they all lived on the same fucking street, attending the same goddamn Our Lady of Perpetual Fucking Sorrow High School. Just fucking trust me on this one, okay? I know I've dated a gaggle of Mary Beths over the years, but who the fuck knows? I can't remember most of the women I've dated and no, that most certainly does not make me a whore. I prefer the term free spirit, remember?

Mary Beth and I had been messaging back and forth, as well as talking on the phone and we decided to meet in person. We agreed to meet up on South Street, a hip yet not hipsterish little urban thoroughfare in the heart of the city that is home to great food, freaky people, cool shops, live music and lots and lots and lots of fucking bars to get hammered in, so get your drink on, bitches! Get your drink on, bitches. I really just fucking said that. No shit. Wow. Next thing you know, I'll be using fucking hashtags. #nah #icallbullshit #nevergonnahappen

***Just to be clear, I do not condone, nor do I recommend the use of drugs or alcohol, but fuck, they've always worked for me.***

Cheers!

Anyway, Mary Beth left it to me to come up with a plan for our date. A plan. Gee. Thanks. Because that's what I do best. We all know how that's going to work out. Fucking yippee. Still, how hard could it be? We'd meet up, walk, talk, get to know each other and see if we clicked. If things went well, maybe a little lunch and then we would take it from there. No pressure. Easy peasy.

Mary Beth and I met outside of the TLA, a local legend and one of my favorite music venues. Calling it a bit of a shit hole would be killing it with kindness. Mary Beth was about twenty minutes late, but she had messaged me to apologize and to let me know that she would be late. It's not like it was a big deal, I pretty much expected it; women are always late. It's inevitable; I accept it, just like death and taxes. She finally shows up, which was good, because standing around on a street corner looking like a fucking idiot gets old after the first few minutes. So, I'm standing on the corner like some overripe hooker, my head swiveling back and forth like a fucking lawn sprinkler, trying to spot this chick and she comes strolling up like fucking gangbusters and my jaw about hit the fucking ground. Mary Beth's photos did her no justice. Her pics portrayed her as beautiful, but this chick was dick throbbin' hard hot. Seriously. Mary Beth was tall, around 5'8", thin, very curvy and she had an ass that I could have bounced quarters off of. I could feel the evil little smile spread across my face as she walked up to me. I wanted to rub the palms of my hands together with pernicious glee and anticipation as she introduced herself and threw her arms around me, hugging me and pressing her breasts against my chest. Nice D cups. It must have been a little chilly and overcast that day, because someone sure had their high beams on and that had a noticeable effect on me, as those sharp pointy little fuckers cut into my chest, causing quite the involuntary reaction. It twitched. Fuck. I was a little embarrassed, but fuck it. Mary Beth just giggled and pulled herself closer. My kind of girl. A real fucking champ, that one.

We started walking along South Street arm in arm, chatting away and getting to know one another, growing more comfortable with each step. We talked about our jobs, lives and families. We window shopped, pointing out things that we liked and we made fun of the things and people that were a little offbeat and strange. We popped in and out of galleries, boutiques and oddball stores. Everything was going well, we had great chemistry, we were having fun, holding hands and there was a lot of laughter and shit like that.

We stopped and grabbed a few slices for lunch at the legendary Lorenzo & Sons and then we continued our little stroll, our steps eventually leading us to the front window of the Sexploratorium.

Ah, the moment of truth had arrived...

One of my favorite things to do on a date is to take a woman out of her comfort zone, not too far mind you, because I don't want her to freak the fuck out and ruin any possibility of getting laid, I just want to deconstruct her carefully constructed dating persona. i.e., that perfectly sculpted person that they are presenting to you can be shorn away a little bit, so as to give you a glimpse at their true personality. This way you can fuck with them a little bit and not have to wait six months to find out what they're really like. It helps keep out the crazy. Sound thinking, I think. It also saves on the emotional investment and you can take that shit to the bank. Remember, 25% of women are on mood altering medications. That means that the other 75% are running around untreated.

We both looked in the window and then I turned to look at Mary Beth and she turned to look at me. I noticed that she had the good grace to blush, but I also noticed a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. Good. That meant that she wouldn't be a total prude in the bedroom. Rock on. My kind of girl.

I casually asked Mary Beth if she'd like to explore the Sexploratorium. She blushed again, but she smiled and asked me if I were kidding.

"What do you think?" I asked her.

Mary Beth blushed a third time, but she turned and headed for the door. Rock the fuck on!

Here we go...

We walked inside the store...

Holy shit! It was like being stuffed into a pinata full of dildos. There were sex toys everywhere. There was just about everything you could possibly imagine and a ton of shit that you just couldn't even begin to guess what the fuck it could be for and I'm a pretty fucking imaginative guy who flies his freak flag proud and high.

Mary Beth's eyes lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July as we approached a table that was literally overflowing with different models of vibrators and they all had names. There was the Rabbit, the Butterfly, the Butterfly Kiss, the Temptation, the Slick Rick and the Oomph! It was like the Ballbreaker Suite and The March of the Plastic Dildos at Radio City Music Hall at fucking Christmas time, a chorus line of Cockettes. It wasn't until I reached the end of the table, however, that I found the Holy Grail, the Philosopher's Stone of sex toys, the Sith Lord.

It seemed to be standing aloof, tall and proud, massive in height and girth, gleaming in its black armor and topped with the prosthetic mask of Anakin Skywalker. I looked at the box and sure enough, it was billed as the world's greatest Master Vader.

I shook my head and grinned as I picked it up and turned it on. You could feel the fucking power of the Dark Side course through its plastic and copper veins as it came to life like some sort of misshapen alien monster. It thrashed, it swayed and it gyrated like an epileptic one-legged breakdancer in the midst of a seizure. It even jumped through fucking hoops. Hoops. Hoops! Motherfucking hoops! That fucking thing roared to life like something out of a Transformers movie, but scarier, maybe more like Maximum Overdrive on Red Bull. Fuck you and your killer toasters, Stephen King, I had nightmares for weeks after watching that fucking movie. There were murderous man-eating pocket pussies and demonically possessed RealDolls. I think I have PTSfuckingD. Anyway, that fucking thing was dancing with the stars; I'm telling you, that thing had moves like fucking Jagger.

I held it out to Mary Beth.

"Would you use something like this?" I asked her, all innocence and shit. You know, because I'm an innocent and sheltered motherfucker.

Mary Beth's face turned a deep shade of crimson. Well, that answered that question. Score!

"Can your penis do that?" she asked me.

Ouch. Touche. Score one for the perverted chick.

"Nope. Mine only knows how to sit up and beg," I answered.

I turned the device to a higher setting and I took a threatening step towards Mary Beth, the vibrating menace bouncing in my hands.

"Feel the power of the Dark Side," I threatened and advanced upon her, wielding that BBC like a Fleshlightsaber.

She squealed, giggled and took a step back. Next thing you know, I'm chasing her around the table with the vibrator and we're both giggling like idiots, but as we all know, any time that you're having some good. clean and harmless fun, somebody has to cum along and fuck up your wet dream. In this instance of buzz killing joy, it was one of the clerks, some sort of pseudo professional, vibrator wrangling, rodeo clown, who took it upon herself to interrupt our festive little soiree. What the fuck? Who does that kind of shit? I'm an adult, sort of. I don't need supervision. Fuckers. The world is full of fuckers.

At least it wasn't security, or the cops. It's kind of embarrassing when they yell for security. Even worse, I fucking hate it when they call the cops. The police never find shit as funny as you do. People need to calm the fuck down and get a sense of humor.

"Hi! Did you guys need some help?" the clerk asked us, entirely too perkily for me. I fucking hate perky people. I dream of feeding them to lions and throwing them off of cliffs and shit. You perky people need to settle the fuck down.

Next thing you know, Mary Beth and I are balls deep into a conversation about vibrators with the sales chick as she held up each one, turned it on and proceeded to extol its virtues. This chick knew entirely too much about vibrators. I wanted to ask her if her sales pitch was based upon personal experience, but I was on my best behavior and so I held my tongue. Not like that, you fucking pervert, I pride myself on being a gentleman, so I limited myself to grinding on her. Chivalry ain't completely dead. Anyway, after pitching four or five different vibrator models to us, the clerk picked up the smallest vibrator on the table. It was about two inches long and silver.

"That doesn't look like it would be much competition for me," I remember saying.

The clerk smiled a secret little smile.

"This is called the Magic Silver Bullet," the clerk stated with a flourish. Again with the secret little smile.

I'm not a big fan of fucking secrets, not when they're being kept from me.

The clerk turned on the Magic Silver Bullet and dropped it into the palm of Mary Beth's hand. It sounded like a fucking industrial chainsaw and it flopped around in her palm like a hummingbird with a broken wing, on crack. The look on Mary Beth's face said it all. She was transfixed. I eyed my replacement warily. Mary Beth's smile grew wider and she let out a little squeal; I swear her eyes rolled back in her head.

Rock on! This chick was a total freak. Can I pick them or what?

"How much is it?" Mary Beth asked the clerk.

Aha! I knew that I'd been spot on in my appraisal of Mary Beth's freak potential.

"It's $39.99, but this is the last one. I can give you 20% off, because it's the display model," the clerk said.

The last one? The display model? What she really meant was that it was the whore that no one wants to be seen with, the redheaded stepchild, the slut that's been fingered by many, yet wanted by none. The last one? Who the fuck wants the last one? Even when I'm at the grocery store, I never take the one in front, it has fucking cooties.

"No, thanks," said Mary Beth, "Maybe something else. I think we'll look around a bit more, but thanks again."

And with those parting words, we were able to escape from the clutches of the evil, pseudo professional, vibrator wrangling, rodeo clown.

We strolled along to the next display and what at first appeared to be necklaces turned out to be racks of nipple clamps, next up were various restraints including things that looked like they belonged in a medieval dungeon or maybe on the cover of a Judas Priest album, it's pretty much the same thing, isn't it? Throw them in the Iron Maiden!

There were whips and chains and Brony tail buttplugs. Anal beads, Ben Wa balls and cock rings. Chastity belts, cock cages and clit clamps. Penis pumps, pocket pussies and prostate pokers. Double dongs, dildos, donkey dicks (totally lifelike!) and even an 18.5" pony pud.

Strap-ons, sex machines and stimulators of every type.

You're going to need those fucking crutches by the time that thing's done with you.

Locks, collars, rings, harnesses, Fifis, extensions and sleeves. Fuck me, they even had a sex robot. I could go on for hours, but I think you're starting to get the picture.

Short Circuit 4: Johnny Five Does Anal

They also had a large selection of latex, lingerie and pleather. It was a regular fucking pleasure palace, I'm fucking telling you.

My lightsaber's a'poppin'.

As Mary Beth and I were coming to the end of our tour of the Sexploratorium, we came upon yet another display of vibrators, shelf upon shelf of them.

I reached out, picked one up and turned it on to the highest speed possible and put it back on the shelf. I proceeded to do this with the next seven or eight vibrators that were on the shelf until I had an entire fucking chorus line of dancing vibrators gyrating happily on the shelf. Mary Beth and I started laughing at our little can can line. This was all fine and dandy until disaster struck. My best guess at reconstructing what happened next is that the combined vibrations from the mass of dancing dildos caused the supports for the shelf to loosen and weaken, at which point the shelf collapsed with a loud crash, pancaking into the shelf below with another loud crash and then continuing downward through another three or four shelves of vibrators. It wasn't fucking pretty. Nope, not pretty at all.

It was the Dildo Deathmarch, the Anal Apocalypse, a Menagerie of Gadgetry... You get the picture.

The entire store was silent. You could have heard a ball gag drop.

Heads turned; everyone was staring at us. Shit. You know it's fucking bad when you're the one that the fucking freaks are staring at. Mind your fucking manners, people; staring is rude.

It was more than a little embarrassing. To be honest, it was way the fuck beyond embarrassing.

There was only one thing I could do. 

It was time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

I grabbed Mary Beth's hand and we hightailed it out the door and around the block just as quick as we could, escaping before the staff could react. We were laughing our asses off as I led us through a maze of streets and alleyways until we popped out who the fuck knows where, but we were in front of a bar, proof that God smiles kindly upon fools, deviants and miscreants. Hallefuckinglujah! We walked inside, went straight to the bar, sat down, ordered drinks and that's when things started to get a little weird.

To be continued...

If you enjoyed this story, try this one:

A Fish Story

Ghetto Copperfield

I've always had a weakness for redheads and it's been my undoing far too many times to count. Fuck, let's face it, simply getting out of bed in the morning has been my undoing far too many times to count, but that's not what I'm talking about here. What I'm talking about here are Gingers and my personal struggle with Ginger addiction. Let that sink in for a moment. Gingers.

Gingers are evil, soul eating monsters that have somehow managed to escape from the fiery pits in the lowest depths of Hell, clawing their way to the surface and eating the hearts of their victims; a noontime snack along the way.

As tools of the devil, these carrot topped demons are marked by the color red, the same satanic shade as their master, the Prince of Darkness. Cursed by God, Gingers cannot walk the Earth by day without bursting into flames and crumbling into a gritty, toxic, neon orange dust. In retribution for this curse, Gingers lurk in pools of shadow at night, waiting to steal unwary children from their beds, drinking their blood and eating their souls. Gingers scare the shit out of humanity and rightly so. One only needs to look at the history of civilization to see the havoc that the Ginger race has wreaked among our species. Even now, as I write this, my life and 'immoral' soul are in danger of being snuffed out. You see, I'm a race traitor and I'm currently dating one of them. A Ginger. A motherfucking Ginger. Think about that for a moment.  If you need a quick break to process that bombshell, I understand. Take all the time you need, I'll be right here waiting. Deep breaths. Baby steps. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.

I love the shit out of my Ginger, she's an amazing woman, but I also live in constant fear of her. She scares the living fuck out of me, because she is, after all, a Ginger and Gingers are some scary shit. Don't tell her that I'm afraid of her, though. Please, please, please do not tell her that. I've managed to keep her fooled for all of this time and I like to pretend that I'm all brave and manly and shit and Gingers can smell fear a mile away. I'm a fucking dead man if she catches one whiff of my terror. Maybe you could say like a little fucking prayer for me, or something. Everyone always says that I need prayer, so please pray for me. Oh please, please pray for me. It's all about the power of prayer. It's a long, long, really fucking long way to Heaven, when you spend every one of your nights trying to get to Hell.

Ain't no fucking way I'd ever get into Heaven.

How come there's a Highway to Hell and only a Stairway to Heaven?

There's probably car pool lanes and shit.

While this is a story about a Ginger, this isn't a story about the current Ginger; this one's safe. For now. Oh, but do I have stories, fuck do I ever (insert maniacal, evil laugh here). Please don't cut off my dick, honey. I love you. I really fucking do. I fucking love the shit out of you. Besides, it's not like I want to piss her off or anything while we're both on the same continent. Fear has a lot to do with that. Fear and my desire for a sex life that doesn't involve my right hand. Plus, I'd like to think that I'm smarter than that. I'd like to think it, but we all know that I'm not. Fuck. It's like that whole math thing. I really should have been a stripper, but I would have starved. All the other dudes would be walking off the stage with g-strings stuffed full of cash and I'd be jingling and jangling with a few rusty nickels. Plus, "Nickels" as a stage name, well, it's not very becoming, is it? So no, this isn't a story about the current Ginger, no, this story is about another Ginger from a lifetime ago. Centuries, eons, eras, whatever. I was young. Younger. The wheel had just been invented, it looked promising, but no one knew what the fuck to do with it. Unfortunately, I was heavily invested in triangles, at the time.

My ship always comes in while I'm at the fucking bus station.

Back when I was eighteen, there was this girl, Andrea and she was beautiful. Her hair was a deep red with long curls. Hot stuff. Andrea was petite, fawn eyed and had the biggest and nicest pair of tits that I'd ever wanted to play with. Seriously. I just wanted to hug them and squeeze them, but fuck calling them George. Andrea was eighteen and she and her parents had just moved to Florida from Quebec. Her parents had struck up a friendship with my parents and they had been encouraging us to meet and hang out together. We resisted, but both sets of parents seemed hell bent matching us up. It's like they wanted us to fuck, or be besties, or something. Whatever. Look, at that age, if you introduced me to your daughter, you were basically telling me that it was cool for me to fuck her, because if you didn't want me to fuck her, you wouldn't have introduced me to your daughter. Makes sense, right? It's called logic, baby. Parents, you should keep that shit in mind when it comes to your daughters.

Hope I didn't cock block anyone.

Anyway, one night when our parents were hanging out, or smoking up, or swinging (double shudders), or whatever they fuck they did, Andrea and I were introduced and then forced upon each other as companions for the evening. Apparently, it was my lucky fucking day, whether I wanted it to be, or not. It was one of those, "Hey, Steve. This is your new friend, Andrea. Why don't the two of you run along and play?" kind of moments, like I was five years old and shit. I wanted to shank a motherfucker, but at least she had hella nice titties. As the two of us ran off to play and being the friendly little motherfucker that I've always been, I asked Andrea if she wanted to smoke a little weed. She stuck her nose in the air and she sniffed. Literally. Fuck me. Well, that bitch was just too fucking cool for school to smoke my fucking pot, what with her being a super fucking cool Canadian and all, but if a troglodyte like myself could somehow hook her up with some high class hash, she'd be down with the clown and might even deign to smoke some of it with me. My treat.

Hash? Yeah, sure, no problem. Why not just ask for the fucking moon while you're at it? I could find weed all fucking day long, figuratively pull it out of my ass, but where the fuck was I going to find hash? No one that I knew bothered with it, because we weren't super fucking cool Canadian dickheads who sat around in our fucking igloos, munching on fucking homemade whale blubber jerky and smoking fucking hash mixed with tobacco, all while trying to not be eaten by a motherfucking polar bear, or getting ass raped by a moose. I'd smoked plenty of hash and I wasn't impressed, it really did nothing for me. Yet, Andrea liked hash and she liked her hash mixed with tobacco, no less. Seriously? That's fucking disgusting. Who does that shit? Obviously, super fucking cool Canadian dickheads do that shit, but I digress. I was pretty sure that there was no way in hell that I was going to find any hash.

So yeah, there just might be one teeny, tiny little fucking problem, one little speed bump along the way. Reality was intruding, but who was I to let reality stand in my way. I brushed that shit aside and eyed up those bodacious tatas.

"I can get it," I blurted out. "No problem."

Did I really just fucking say that? Seriously? What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck am I ever fucking thinking? That's a rhetorical question, you don't need to fucking answer it.

Tits on the brain.

I made a few calls to a sundry assortment of drug dealers and numerous friends, finding nothing other than bullshit promises and my usual disappointment. Everybody knew somebody, but nobody could deliver the goods. Fuck me, I wasn't going to get to squeeze the titties if I couldn't deliver the goods and I really wanted to squeeze those magnificent Canadian titties, even if the girl that owned them was an uptight bitch. I needed to think of something quick.

Fortunately, I've always been a quick thinker and fast on my feet. We're talking motherfucking light speed, when I have the proper motivation and I find a spectacular pair of breasts to be very motivating. Very motivating, indeed.

In hindsight, maybe it was a little too quick, but fuck me, that girl carried quite a bit of motivation.

Whatever. Fortune favors the bold, motherfucker and I was one bold motherfucker.

Inspiration struck. Inspiration, desperation, insanity, whatever. One man's insanity is another man's inspiration or some shit like that and I'm all about being inspirational. Anyway, the point is, I had this bright idea and hatched an amazing plan that was both simple and elegant, like all of my plans. That shit was foolproof. There should have been no way for me to fuck it up. None. I would drive us down to the projects on Ali Baba Avenue in Opa Locka (you can't make this shit up), score some hash, drive Andrea back to my apartment, smoke up and then I'd get to squeeze the titties like they were rolls of Charmin and fuck you, Mr. Whipple. Except... there was no way that I was going to find any hash and Miss High and Fucking Mighty Canadian was going to be forced to smoke my common man weed and I was still going to squeeze those titties. It was a fucked up plan, I acknowledge that, but it was a plan nonetheless. It was a simple and straightforward plan and those sun ripened titties were practically in my hands and begging to be squeezed. What could possibly go wrong?

Pretty much everything could go wrong, if you think about it, but that uppity fucking Canadian was too good to smoke my fucking 100% American weed (from Jamaica) and she just had to have her fucking hash and I just had to squeeze those titties, so I didn't think about it quite as much as I should have. Oops, my bad.

Not long after we got into my car, Andrea straight up tried to friend zone me. Oh no, motherfucker, I'm a titty squeezing kind of friend, let's get that shit straight right now. Andrea mentioned something about some dumbass boyfriend that she had who was back in Canada and how much she loved him and was staying faithful to him until some crackhead dream time that she would return to Canada and they would live happily ever after, blah, blah, fucking blah. Yeah, fuck that. I wasn't about to let some redneck Canadian fuck, named Derek, of all fucking things, stand in the way of my squeezing those magnificent tits. There was no way that I was going to be defeated by Derek the Douchebag, no fucking way. Sorry Derek, but fuck you. Find a new girl, dude; maybe buy her some hash.

We drove down to the hood, passed the Circle K, cruised around the block and pulled up in front of the projects. My car was instantly surrounded by a crowd of motherfuckers that were all pushing little manila envelopes filled with dime bags of weed at me.

"Anyone got any hash?" I asked. All of the hands that had been reaching through my slightly open window disappeared. No bueno.

Dude made three grams of hash appear in my hand like he was some kind of ghetto David Copperfield. Get. The. Fuck. Out. I couldn't believe it. There was no fucking way and yet, there it was, the Holy Fucking Grail was in my grasp. Holy shit. I was going to squeeze the motherfucking titties. Hallelujah and praise Jesus, but it was my lucky fucking day.

Some people want to win the lottery, I just wanted to get laid. Tits, ftw!

That space between heartbeats and everything changes. It only takes a fraction of a second to go from squeezing the titties to not squeezing the titties, because that was the moment that the night lit up like a fucking Christmas tree as a police car, that I had somehow missed seeing, rolled up on us, lights flashing. Totally not cool.

Fuck. Yeah, no. This was so far beyond fuck that a word to describe it still hasn't been invented.

Andrea screamed. Seriously? Who fucking screams? She screamed again. Really? Omg. Shut the fuck up.

I told Andrea to calm down, because when you tell a woman to calm down, she immediately realizes that she's being completely irrational and she instantly calms down. Trust me on this one, it works every time. Guys, you should try it.

Andrea became a bit more animated. Okay, she started flipping the fuck out.

The crowd of kids that had been surrounding my car scattered and slithered into the shadows, escaping into the night. That really wasn't an option for me. The cop was out of his car and waddling his doughnut heavy, fat ass up to my car just as fast as he could weeble and wobble.

Andrea screamed a third time. I looked at her.

"We're going to jail! This is all your fault! I fucking hate you!" Andrea wailed.

"Jesus Christ! Would you shut the fuck up?" I yelled at the terrified girl.

Andrea shut the fuck up. Thank fucking god. The power of motherfucking prayer in action, my friends. The power of motherfucking prayer.

I looked at the three cubes of hash in my hand and I did the only thing that I could possibly and sensibly do. I ate that shit. Popped it all right into my mouth and started chewing like a motherfucker. Three fucking grams of hash. Chew, chew, chew like a motherfucker. Three grams of hash is a fucking mouthful. It also tasted like shit. No, it tasted like dried up shit rolled in dirt and then topped with some more shit. Think about that for just a second, I was chewing a mouthful of dirt encrusted dried shit. Just wanted to throw that out there.

The police cruiser was nose to nose with my car, blue lights flashing and the spotlight was on and it was blinding me and I'd lost sight of the cop, but there he was, popping up at my window like some kind of Pillsbury Poppin' Fresh jack in the box motherfucker with his flashlight shining in my eyes and I couldn't see for shit. I was still frantically chewing the fucking hash which had dried my mouth to a fine crusty pucker. I tried to swallow and I couldn't. I kept chewing.

The cop starts shouting at me, "Where are the drugs?"

"Drugs? What drugs?" I answered. "We're lost. We only stopped to ask for directions."

As I'm speaking to the cop, I noticed that little chunks of hash were shooting out of my mouth like little brown cannonballs of shit and those little cannonballs were being fired at the cop, hitting his uniform shirt and tie and then bouncing back at me.

Oh, fuck.

My eyes were watering like crazy. I'm not sure if it was from the lights or if it was the taste of the hash that was making my eyes water. Probably both.

I glanced over at Andrea and she looked like she was one wet fart away from spewing shit all over the passenger seat of my car.

"Don't play games with me, son," the cop said.

What? Did he think we were playing fucking Chutes and Ladders? Dude, you need to take this shit seriously.

I finally managed to swallow the hash. Finally. The taste was glued to the inside of my mouth like a fecal fondue, but hey, I'm just guessing here, having never tasted a fecal fondue. Hey, we all need to swallow a little unpalatable shit sometimes.

I looked at the cop and I laughed. I couldn't fucking help myself. The cop became visibly agitated. More agitated, I should say. I thought that sonofabitch was going to have a fucking stroke or an apoplectic fit. Fuck that guy. The evidence was gone, I was clean, my car was clean (except for Andrea's shit stains and the usual mess of candy bar wrappers, empty cups and fast food detritus) and there wasn't a fucking thing that prick could do to me, so yeah, fuck that guy.

Meanwhile, Andrea is still squirming in her shit, but at least she kept her mouth shut. The power of prayer... It's real.

"What's so funny, boy?" the cop asked me.

"I don't have any drugs," I said just as smugly as I could.

As I spoke, I noticed that the cop's shirt took another broadside of hash cannonballs. Thought I had swallowed all of that shit. Surprise!

"Don't bullshit me, boy," said Officer Smooth. "Give me the drugs and you just might go home tonight. Don't make me go looking."

Did this motherfucker really think I would be stupid enough to hand him drugs and expect to go home that night? Fat fucking chance of that, but since I no longer had any drugs, fuck that and fuck him and I planned on being in my own bed that night, hopefully squeezing some titties, but that was starting to look like it might not happen and it was all this fucking guys fault and I was none too happy about it. Fucking cop blocker.

I grew cocky. Cockier.

"I don't have anything," I laughed.

The cop turned a very pretty shade of purple. Temper, temper...

"I don't have anything," I repeated. "Search all you want. Search me, search the car, you can search your own fucking asshole and anything else you want, but you won't find anything. You were too fast, you jumped the gun. I didn't have a chance to buy anything."

I had finally confessed my guilt, but I was clean and there wasn't a thing in the world that cop could do to me, other than to break my balls and waste my time, so if he was going to fuck with me, I was going to fuck right back. I was eighteen, cocky and stupid and because fuck that guy.

The cop glared at me and that fucking prick kept his fucking flashlight aimed straight into my eyes. Yeah, fuck that guy.

"Don't make me get a dog," the cop threatened.

"Go ahead and get a dog," I replied. "search all you want, I'm clean. Maybe you and the dog can play a little fetch?"

The cop scowled and looked like he was about to say something nasty and had thought better of it. He ordered me to hand over my drivers license, proof of insurance and vehicle registration and I complied. He told me to stay where I was and he walked back over to his car to run my license and registration. Where did he think I was going to go? Out for pizza?

My documentation checked out and came back clean. He looked crestfallen. The cop waddled over to my car again and he gave me back my shit.

"Please step out of the car. I'm going to search your vehicle," the cop said.

Oh goody, an illegal search. You go right the fuck ahead, fat boy.

Andrea and I got out of the car. She didn't look very happy. Actually, she looked terrified and entirely too pissed off. Plus, she was shooting me some serious fucking stink eye. Wtf? What the hell did I do? Fuck. Try to do something nice for someone and this is how they repay you? Wtf? Some people just have no appreciation. Bitches.

Anyway, the cop searches and searches, but he can't find shit, because I ate all of that shit and there isn't shit for him to find, but if he wanted to search through all of the trash and shit in my car, that was fine with me. Holy shit! That's a lot of shit.

"Do you ever clean this thing?" the cop asked rhetorically.

"Not really," I answered.

After what seemed like forever, the cop finally gave up the ghost and ended his search, allowing us to get back into my car. The cop was pissed off and frustrated by his inability to find any contraband. He had no option other than to let us go off on our merry way and he bid us a fond farewell with one final threat.

"Don't ever let me catch you around here again," he said.

Or what? Fat fucking chance of that, you fat, fucking asshole.

I started the car, put it in gear and I got us the fuck out of Dodge. My mouth was still as dry as a fucking desert and the noxious taste of the hash was clinging to my taste buds like a sweat soaked dollar bill stuck in a stripper's ass crack. The taste in my mouth was akin to licking the inside of an abandoned outhouse. Once again, I feel obliged that I need to mention that I have no personal experience of this. No pics, no proof.

Here it is, more than thirty years later and I'm fucking gagging, just thinking about the taste of that shit.

I looked over at Andrea. Yeah, that girl was definitely going to need a change of clothing. Fucking dropping deuces on my car seat and shit.

Once we got back onto the main road, I saw the shining lights of my salvation just ahead, a gleaming beacon in the darkness of the night, BK in da hood. A brightly colored mecca of frosty beverages that could be used to wash the taste of sin and nasty fucking dirt hash out of my mouth. I made a beeline for that oasis of light in the urban desert, that brightly burning beacon of hope with a motherfucking drive thru. Hallefuckinglujah!

As I was about to pull into the Burger King, Andrea finally found her voice and she unleashed a torrent of harshness and invective upon my gentle soul. It was pretty fucking mean, if you ask me. After all, I'm all sweetness and sensitivity and innocence and light and shit and here that bitch was, acting like her sister had just been crushed by a fucking house. Click your heels three times and fucking go back to Canada, bitch.

She was pretty fucking creative, let me tell you. I don't think she used the same curse word twice at any point during her tirade. That motherfucker called me all sorts of names, but I refuse to use language like that. I'm much too much of a gentle soul for that kind of bullshit.

I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to be squeezing any titties that night, but then she called me an idiot.

An idiot? Once she said that, I was pretty sure that she liked me. Things were looking up. Maybe a quick squeeze? Tune in Tokyo?

I ignored the shit out of Andrea and I ordered myself a chocolate shake. Maybe if Andrea had shut the fuck up, I'd have ordered her something too. Lord knows, she needed a dick, or something in her mouth in order for her to shut the fuck up. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Fer fuck's sake. I attacked my drink like a dying man looking for a last chance to jerk off before he dies. That chocolate shake was like manna from heaven and it cleansed the taste of the hash out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, the bitch kept bitching and babbling on.

The way that Andrea kept going on (Jesus, stop and take a fucking breath, would you?) I was starting to rethink my position. Maybe, just maybe I wasn't going to get to squeeze the titties. That's all kinds of fucked up, I know, but fuck it, you can't squeeze all of the titties all of the time.

But you can sure fucking try.

To be honest, at this point, I wasn't even sure if I wanted to squeeze her titties anymore. Okay, that last part is complete bullshit, I'm always down for squeezing some titties. Silence is golden. duct tape is silver. Just sayin'.

I drove us back to my parent's house and I had to listen to Andrea bitch the entire way. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch... like it was my fucking fault or something. Like I'm the one who wanted the hash. Was I the one who was too uppity to smoke good old American weed from Jamaica? Fuck no. So, how the fuck was any of this my fault? Fuck, you try to do something nice for someone and this is how they repay you?

Finally, I turned to Andrea and said, "Would you shut the fuck up, already?"

Andrea was so shocked, she shut the fuck up. Finally. Praise Jesus.

The car was now silent, which was a good thing. I cranked up the stereo. Andrea scowled, but she kept her fucking mouth shut and that was a good thing too. Like, the bestest thing ever.

The hash kicked in. I was one stoned motherfucker. At least something good would come out of all of this, a free buzz. I'd never paid David Copperfield for the hash. Plus, I made that shit disappear.

Who's the better magician now, motherfucker?

We made it back to my parent's house and I parked. Andrea couldn't get out of the car fast enough. I asked her if she wanted to go back to my apartment and catch a buzz, but she totally freaked the fuck out and started crying and then she took of running. Wtf? Was it something I said?

Needless to say, I didn't get to squeeze Andrea's titties. Not that night, anyway, but I did eventually.

Bitches can't resist my charms.

The Fugly Duckling

Before I start, I'd like to thank Lisa and Kristina, who proofread for me and catch most of my typos and grammatical errors. Ladies, I'm way too lazy to do it without you. If there ever is a book and I become rich and famous, I'll buy you each a doughnut. Fame and fortune won't change me. I promise not to forget the little people.

“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.” 

― Cormac McCarthy, No Country For Old Men

I've finally started writing my second book. I haven't actually written a first book yet, but I've been writing it and it will include quite a few of these stories. Anyway, I've actually put that first book on hold, in order to write the second book, which really isn't my second book, because there's already a second book that I haven't been writing either, so maybe this one would really count as my first book if I finished it first? Or my second? Or third? Whatever. Fuck math.

I've been writing these insane stories about my dating life, post-divorce. I'd been trying to decide which dating story to tell first and I was drinking the crazy Kool-Aid of memory, when this story popped into my mind. I haven't thought about this night in many years, in fact, I'd almost completely forgotten it, but it's a tale that's ready to be told. This story isn't really about dating, per se, it's more the tale of a hookup or a one night stand.

The 80's were young, but in full swing. It was a Halloween night in Greenville, North Carolina, a raucous college town and home of Eastern Carolina University. At the time, ECU was considered to be the number one party school in the nation, which I assure you had absolutely nothing to do with my choosing to go there. It was purely coincidental. I swear. Cross my evil little heart. My roommate and friend Mike (whom I knew from summers in Atlantic City) and I were getting ready to hit the bars along with our friend Dean and we were prepared to do some serious drinking. For us, drinking was more than just a recreational sport, it was a professional pursuit. However, we still had a bit of pre-party partying to do before we could go out. Once the three of us were well past wasted, we headed for town, walking (stumbling, staggering; whatever), because we knew that we were too impaired to drive. Once in town, we joined the line to get into Rafters, our favorite bar. I should mention that we were all wearing costumes, although I can't seem to remember what any of them were, although I do recall wearing an army cap or hat of some sort. Shit, it could have been a fucking yarmulke, for all I know.

As we were waiting in line to get into the bar, the three of us were bullshitting and passing a flask of Evan Williams back and forth. It slowly started to dawn on me that I was shitfaced drunk, so I double hit the flask and passed it on. Out of nowhere, this flash of hideous electric orange appeared between us and accosted Dean.

Dean was the pretty boy out of the three of us; blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skinned - a typical WASP dreamboat. I was the opposite; tall, dark and muscular, a typical Italian guy and I got by on bullshit and charm, ringing many a Southern Belle during my tenure at ECU. Mike was a Jewish boy from North Jersey and he looked the part. Short, stocky, pale and hairy. Mike got by on fast talk and by being a novelty item. Honestly, what spoiled, rebellious, Southern Baptist debutante doesn't want to impress her daddy with the news that his precious baby girl is fucking a Jew? Maybe her sister that's fucking the black guy? I dunno...

Anyway, let's get back to the Electric Orange. The Electric Orange was apparently a female. Surprise, surprise. I thought it might have been an invasion of the fucking pixies. The Orange was short, thin, and she had a shock of almost iridescent orange hair. My eyes traveled downward, scanning her body; decent tits, nice ass. I looked up at her face and I blanched. That face. Holy fucking shit, Batman! That fucking face. The Orange was horrifically ugly. No, she was beyond ugly, she was fugly; freckled, speckled and looking like some sort of demented, drunken pixie. She said something to Dean and he said something back to her. Dean laughed, put his hands on the Orange's shoulders and spun her around to face me.

She wasn't as ugly as I'd originally thought. No, it was much worse than that. She was so fucking ugly that she had to sneak up on a mirror. So fucking ugly that if she went to the beach, cats would try to bury her. Seriously, this girl was so fucking ugly, she could have made blind kids cry.

Dean looked at me, winked, smiled, and said, "Steve, this is Jamie Lynn."

Of course she is. There's nothing like a good ol' Southern trailer trash name to help perpetuate a stereotype.

Dean pushed Jamie Lynn towards me.

"Jamie Lynn likes you," Dean continued. "You should take her back to the dorm and fuck her,"

Gee, thanks for the intro, bro. Dean didn't really think that I was going to fuck this girl, did he? Seriously, if I was that fucking drunk and she was still that fucking ugly, how bad would she look in the harsh light of morning and the brutal truth of sobriety? My eyes scanned Jamie Lynn again. Well, she did have a decent body. Fuck it, I'm in. I quickly pushed all logic aside, as all of the blood in my brain drained into my dick, leaving my mind incapable of cohesive thought.

I laughed and said, "Hi," to Jamie Lynn.

Jamie Lynn responded by pulling down the brim of my hat.

Nothing promises hot sex like a drunken dipshit. Fuck it. I'm a guy; even bad sex is better than no sex and she met the majority of my requirements. She was female, breathing and willing. That pretty much dots all of the i's and crosses all of the t's, doesn't it?

I grabbed the flask from Dean's hand and took a deep pull. I was going to need some serious liquid courage for this shit. I hit it again. I felt the warm liquid burn down my throat. I have the power!

The four of us wandered into the bar. We had a few drinks and Jamie Lynn and I got a little friendlier, making out in a darkened corner of the bar and away from any witnesses. I'm not a whore, but my dick used to be and my dick didn't care how ugly Jamie Lynn was; he was all like, "Feed me! Feed me!" Poor Dick, he's in recovery now, it's a twelve stroke program.

Jamie Lynn and I were were starting to get a little frisky, when she whispered in my ear, "Let's go back to your room."

You didn't need to tell me twice. I made the "I'm getting laid, now fuck off and find somewhere else to sleep" secret sign to Mike, grabbed Jamie Lynn by the hand and headed out into the night with my new study buddy. It was a long walk back to campus and time, along with the cooler, late night air, was starting to have a sobering effect upon me and that was something that I didn't want to happen. Oh, hell to the no. I knew that I didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity of sobriety for this. Thankfully, there was more booze in my room. I hoped it would be enough. Jamie Lynn and I continued the walk of shame back to my room. Usually a walk of shame is what happens when you leave in the morning, wearing the same clothes from the night before, but in my bizarro world, everything happens in reverse.

We made it back to my room and things really started to heat up. I had a few more drinks to cure my anxious feelings of sobriety and Jamie Lynn and I did the dirty deed. I gave her the batter dipped corn dog, buttered the biscuit and then cleaned the cobwebs with the womb broom. At one point, she was complaining that her face was hitting the wall and I remember thinking that it couldn't possibly do any more damage than there already was and that if anything, it might actually be an improvement, so I made sure her face hit the wall a few more times, before I eased off. When we finished opening the gates of Mordor, I chased her off, telling her that I had an early class the next day and that I needed to get some rest, which was complete and utter bullshit. The truth was that she was so damn ugly, I was afraid that I might gnaw my own arm off in the morning, trying to escape from my own bed. I planned on sleeping in, going to class and then I was scheduled to work after school was done. I figured that I'd never see her again and no one need know my secret shame. Mike and Dean might know, but the threat of their bodies being found in the river would ensure their silence. Or not.

After Jamie Lynn left, I went back downtown and found Mike and Dean. We drank and tried to talk to girls until the bar closed and then we wandered back to the dorm, where we all passed out.

I woke up the next morning and it was a beautiful and warm Fall day. Unfortunately, I was horribly hungover and couldn't appreciate it. I kissed my bong good morning, hoping for a little relief, threw on some clothes, and I ran out the door, perpetually late for class.

After I was finished with classes for the day, I headed off to my job, as a delivery driver at a local pizzeria. I worked for a a couple of brothers, Greeks, who pretended to be Italian. I had one of the most popular jobs around and people were always happy to see me. Seriously, who doesn't love the pizza guy? I met a lot of girls, got a lot of phone numbers, made mega tips (although a lot of it was in coin). and I could always count on copping some free beer or some bong hits. At eighteen, I thought I owned the world and was living the life.

My shift started off slowly, with just a few random deliveries, I only made a few bucks, but I smoked a mind boggling amount of weed. Apparently, all of the stoners had spent their money on pot and only had enough change left to cover the pizza. No worries and thanks for the buzz, bro.

I was on my third delivery of the shift and I was headed over to one of the girls' dorms, which I loved delivering to, because it always provided an excellent opportunity for me to get shot down, or not. Even a blind man can find the right

I parked at the dorm, jumped out of my car and started to walk in the door when I heard a voice yelling my name. I looked around and didn't see anyone that I knew, but then the voice called to me again.

"Hey, Steve," the voice called. "Up here."

I looked up and to my absolute horror, she was much uglier than I remembered. I stood there speechless, my mouth hanging open, as I questioned the depths of my depravity the previous evening. I shrugged. It's not like this was my first rodeo. I ducked into the building.

I don't know how it is now, but back then, if you went into the women's dorms, you had to be signed in and escorted upstairs. This usually meant that the girl(s) that ordered the food would either meet you downstairs or come down once the RA called up. I approached the counter, put the pizza down and told the RA whom she needed to call downstairs.

Jamie Lynn beat the customer downstairs. She took one look at me, yelled my name, ran over, threw her arms around me and tried to shove her tongue down my throat. I felt like I was being kissed by an iguana. I was able to escape from her flying lip lock, but she came at me again. I took a step back and put up my hands. Jamie Lynn kept coming. I was trapped against the counter.

People were staring. That happens to me a lot. Entirely too fucking much, if I'm going to be honest about it.

Jamie Lynn smiled and announced to the room, "I want y'all to meet my boyfriend, Steve. We're in love."

Boyfriend? Love? What kind of bullshit was this? What the fuck was happening? Did I miss something here?

The room actually erupted in applause. White people are so fucked up sometimes.

Some of the girls came over and said hello to me and hugged Jamie Lynn, congratulating her as if she'd won a prize or something. Was I the prize? What was the prize for? Girl most likely to never have a boyfriend, or girl most likely to never get laid? Even worse, I had just been branded, pissed on,and  marked as fucking property in front of an entire room full of coeds. Word would spread and I was never going to get laid again. I would need to change my name, transfer schools, and go into hiding.

Karma. It's a motherfucking bitch.

After all of the excitement died down, the girl that ordered the food arrived and paid for her pizza. I tried to use that as a chance to escape, but Jamie Lynn blocked my way. She put her hands on her hips.

"Don't you have anything you want to say to me, Steve?" Jamie Lynn asked.

Throughout all of this, I hadn't had a chance to say a single word.

"I'm not who you think I am," I lied through my teeth.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

I quickly explained as sincerely as I could pretend to be, "I'm not Steve, I'm his brother Tony. We're twins. We both go to school here."

A look of pure embarrassment came over Jamie Lynn's face. Either she was so fucking stupid that my lie sounded plausible or she had never had someone drop such epic bullshit upon her before. Personally, I thought it was a combination of both.

"I'm... I'm so sorry...," Jamie Lynn spluttered. "I... I thought..."

"It's okay, it happens a lot. People get us mixed up all of the time."

Might as well lie some more. I couldn't believe that she was buying my bullshit.

"Would you do me a favor?" she asked me.

"Sure, Jamie Lynn, no problem."

"Would you ask your brother to call me?"

I told her that it wouldn't be a problem.

Jamie Lynn took a pen from the counter and wrote her name and phone number on the back of my hand. Fucking classic. There was even a little fucking heart over the 'i'.

I'd just been branded a second time and this time I wasn't even me.

Jamie Lynn thanked me and apologized again.

I told her not to worry about it and I turned to leave. Just as I reached my car, I heard Jamie Lynn call out, "Wait! How did you know my name was Jamie Lynn? I never told you my name."

Shit. I was busted. I pretended that I didn't hear her and I opened the door, jumped in and started the engine.

Jamie Lynn's voice called from behind me, "Steven! You stop right there you son of a bitch! You stop right there, right now, you lying bastard!"

Jamie Lynn started running.

I threw the car into gear, backed up and peeled out, narrowly missing a few stray students. Lucky motherfuckers.

I looked in my rear view mirror and that crazy bitch was chasing my car like a fucking cheetah running down a wounded wildebeest. I kept my eyes on her in the rear view mirror; Jamie Lynn seemed to be gaining on me. What the fuck? What was she, bionic? I gunned the accelerator. I was so focused on watching her chase after me that I didn't notice the curb, which I jumped, scraping metal all the way. Jamie Lynn kept coming. I turned the corner and floored it, laying down rubber and leaving Jamie Lynn in the dust.

I had escaped, but was I safe? I finished the night at work and when I got back to the dorm, I told Mike what happened. He laughed at my plight, but worried that we might be attacked by some crazy southern bitches. Southerners are not known for being reasonable people and you definitely don't want some crazy redneck bitch hunting your ass down; it's not going to end well for you. Mike thought it might be best if I left the state and possibly, the country. I feared for my life. If that girl found me, I was dead meat. Southern girls are a country mile past fucking crazy.

For the next few weeks, I lived the life of a paranoid lunatic. I refused to answer the door and whenever I had to leave my room, I checked to see if the coast was clear. I checked behind every bush and tree, inspected every nook and cranny, and pretty much grew eyes in the back of my fucking head.

It was all for naught. Thankfully, I lead a charmed life and I never saw Jamie Lynn again.

Fuck you, karma.

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:

They Call It Mellow Yellow

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