Kitchen Counter

I’ve lived in gated communities my entire life. Whether it was the kind of gate that could be opened via remote control or the kind with a 24-hour security guard stationed there, it was always just enough of an inconvenience to both burglaring rapists and my friends alike. That being said, I understand how frustrating it is when your friend is idling outside the gate, unable to get through.

One night as I’m getting out of my car, this cute, jacked up stud muffin approaches me and asks if he can borrow my remote to open the gate for his friend. Even though I’ve never met him, I have seen him around my neighborhood and empathize with his predicament. I hand him my remote and he runs to open the gate before jogging back over to my car. Upon his return, the {BeefCake} introduces himself and tells me that he recently moved into an apartment a few buildings over from mine. We end up exchanging numbers because, after all, we ARE neighbors… and because he was really fucking hot.

A few days go by without hearing from or seeing him. Then one day, while pulling a total Mrs. Kravitz by creepin’ on the neighborhood, I spot the tan, well-defined muscles of {BeefCake} himself. I see him walking through the parking lot with his friend (who was equally built, but far less cute), and within seconds, I’m lost in an absent-minded gaze. Transfixed by their bulging biceps glistening in the afternoon sunlight, my blank stare is unexpectedly impeded by a sudden uproar from the muscle men themselves…

“HEY CUTIE!” the boys bellowed.

“Hey…” I respond sheepishly, completely caught off-guard.

They tell me they’re on their way to the gym. (Go figure.) After a few moments of niceties, they continue on their trek to the land of the free weights and I go back to my Neighborhood Watch. Over the next couple of weeks, conversation between us would remain minimal, but it would be a lot more frequent... and by “a lot more frequent” I mean “they would scream my name every freaking day as they passed my apartment on their way to the clubhouse.” I would usually go outside and jokingly plead for them to stop screeching my name from three stories below, but I secretly (or maybe not so much?) fancied the Shakespeare-esque attention.

Then, randomly, there was a few-day-long period where I didn’t hear my name reverberating off the adjoining buildings. I decided to text my favorite protein-shake addict to see where he had been. Waiting for a text back, I’m surprised when my phone rings and I look down to see that it’s {BeefCake} calling.  I answer and am deafened by the sound of some techno music blaring from some shitty speakers. I can’t really make out anything {BeefCake} is saying through the fist-pumping cacophony, but I do pick up that he will “CALL IN A FEW!” Shortly after, he calls me back and explains the commotion:

Apparently, he and his friend took cab to a club downtown; met a few girls there; convinced the girls to give them a ride home (hoping they would get lucky once they were at the apartment); piled into the girls’ tiny (techno music-blasting) car, wherein the girls had to sit on the boys’ laps; got hard-ons due to the ass-to-dick proximity; then got shafted (or the complete opposite of that, I suppose...) when the girls didn’t want to hook up with them after arriving at the boys’ apartment.

Dejectedly, {BeefCake} headed out to 7-Eleven for a late-night food run, when his roommate texted him and told him to stay out awhile because a different girl had come over for a booty call. Now {BeefCake} was banned from his own apartment with only the heat from his dried out taquito to keep him warm. Feeling bad for him and his unfortunate situation, I tell him he’s welcome to hang out at my place until he can go home. Not being as naïve as I’m sure you all presume, I also forewarn him that he would NOT be getting lucky with me either; I was trying to work things out with my ex and hooking up with someone would hardly be beneficial to that shithole of a situation. With that preliminary restriction in place, I hung up the phone and went to unlock the front door.

As I'm turning the lock, there’s a knock on the other side. I open the door to reveal a clearly intoxicated {BeefCake}; his eyes are completely glossed over, but his functioning motor skills deem him still conversational. He opens his arms for a hug and I step in expecting a friendly embrace; NOT expecting his hands to slide down to my ass and pull me closer.

Through his jeans, I can feel {BeefCake}’s chubby chub. Being the title-embraced cocktease that I am, I enticingly push my hips into his before pulling his hands off my butt and pushing him away. Teasing or not, the fact that I’ve been sexually deprived for a few months isn’t helping me keep my short-lived celibacy, and having this {BeefCake} with a hot Italian sausage in his pants was certainly making resisting that much more difficult.

Nevertheless, I do my best to remain faithful to my self-promise and decide that besides sex, the next best thing to a drunk boy is food. I usher {BeefCake} into the kitchen and I raid my fridge for something to feed him. I find ingredients to throw together a kick-ass spread (including rice and beans and a freaking delicious green chile burrito) and fix him a plate. Standing at the counter, {BeefCake} delves into his midnight feast as I walk around and take a seat at the bar on the other side. While the food does a great job serving as a distraction from the horribly prominent sexual tension between us, the relief is fleeting and only lasts about seven minutes; the second the last grain of rice had been inhaled off his plate, {BeefCake} wasted no time refocusing the conversation to sex.

"So why don't you think I'm hot?" he says jokingly, flexing his muscles.

"I DO think you're hot! I just can't mess around with you..." I clarify with a sad face, silently cursing the mess of a relationship I was in with my ex; it was prohibiting me from potential sexual greatness.

"Okay, fine. We don't have to do anything. Let's just talk."

"Okay." 

"So do you swallow?"

And before I can stop myself, I matter-of-factly blurt out, "Ladies don't spit."

Needless to say, I have inadvertently and unintentionally (or so I'm claiming) given {BeefCake} permission to continue the discussion. And besides, it was a relatively cunning tactic considering his inebriation, so you gotta give him credit for that, right?

As I seductively peer over the top of my blank-lensed glasses, he starts asking general questions about my, um, preferences... What's your favorite position? Do you like it rough? etc... He then goes on to ask me things that require a bit more of a descriptive response... So what things turn you on? What's your biggest fantasy? and so on... 

He tells me I have a sexy voice. I blush. After another few rounds of suggestively descriptive Q&A, {BeefCake} pauses to ask me an unanticipated question. 

"What would you do if I just whipped it out?"

"...What? Please don't..." I say half-heartedly through a chuckle.  

THWAP.

I throw my hands up to my face. I don’t know whether to cover my mouth in exclamation or my eyes to shield my vision, so they lie there in an awkward I’m-“it”-in-hide-and-go-seek-and-I’m-totally-peeking-while-I-count kind of way. I'm flabbergasted. There's his penis. On my kitchen counter. The same counter where I had just made myself a sammy a few hours earlier, and now, there is a penis on it. A thick... hard... beefy... cock. Just laying there. On my counter.

THERE IS A PENIS ON MY KITCHEN COUNTER. Again, flabbergasted.

Though still paralyzed from the shock, I avert my eyes; I dare not look directly at it, in fear that I may be forced to succumb to its powers. My eyes meet his face. I stare, merrily transfixed as I see {BeefCake} in my peripheral vision scoop up his shaft. Leaning against the dishwasher, he casually begins stroking it. I can hear his balls softly thudding against the counter ledge.

"Talk to me," he beckons.

Dumbfounded, I ask "What do you want me to talk about?"

"Anything. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

So I do. I tell him exactly what I want him to do to me. I tell him exactly what I want to do him. I tell him all the raunchy, dirty, completely inappropriate things I would do with him if I didn't feel a slight moral obligation to my currently non-existent relationship.

And I'd like to point out that, agreeably, this does seem like quite a peculiar situation... even for me. Here I am, casually sitting at my breakfast bar discussing hypothetical sexytime details with my somewhat intoxicated neighbor while he's jerking his giant mandycane less than six feet away from me. Who does that!? It's bizarre. I get it. 

But you know what's REALLY weird? The fact that I don't think it's weird. Like, at all. Yeah, I know... I should think it's weird. This IS fucking weird. I should be rather perturbed or at least slightly uncomfortable. But I'm not. After the initial bout of cock shock, our discussion continued as if we were folding laundry or talking about the weather.

That being said, I guess the last part of this story isn't too surprising... {BeefCake} continued his tallywhacking and I continued my phone-less phone sex talk. He told me when he was almost there, then he came (on my kitchen counter, of course) before he grabbed a paper towel and wiped up his sploogey mess. He stayed a few more minutes, chuckling about how random the whole situation was.

"Yunno, I've never jerked it in front of anyone before; definitely not in their kitchen..."

"Well I've never had anyone jerk it in my kitchen," I teased.

{BeefCake} checks his phone.

"My roommate texted me. I can go home now. Thanks for the burrito."

"You’re welcome. See ya later."

"See ya."

He left... I went to bed... It was as if I didn’t just watch some guy jerk it onto my kitchen counter. Actually, it was such an unphasing occurrence that I'm pretty sure I forgot to run a Clorox wipe over the countertop. Ew.

L-M-[N-O]-Pee

While in my second year of college, I had a job working the front desk at a hotel near SeaWorld. Most days, I went to my classes in the morning and then worked the PM shift at the hotel from three to eleven. One particularly rough day, after fighting with the housekeepers to get off their lazy Haitian asses and get the fucking rooms clean before check-in time, dealing with a pissy businessman who kept deactivating his key card, and arguing with an ignorant Hotwire guest who couldn’t comprehend that a request is NOT the same as thing as a guarantee, I was definitely looking for somewhere to unwind. I was underage at the time, but my friend who was working as a server in the hotel’s restaurant said she would take me her favorite nearby bar, one that had cheap drinks and that wouldn’t card me.

After work, we stopped by the bathrooms to touch up our hair and makeup. My friend was practically living in her car at the time so she had the majority of her closet shoved in the trunk of her car, where she rummaged through the pile and selected a change of clothes. Unfortunately for me, we were nowhere near the same size. So while she changed into a cute top and a comfy pair of jeans, my only option was to remove my pastel-colored striped uniform shirt to reveal a dingy white tank top, paired with my dressy New York & Company khakis and a pair of hand-me-down Louis Vuitton sneakers. (It may sound reasonably classy, but I assure you, the combination was anything but.)

Once we were done with our mediocre bathroom makeovers, we drove our cars down the street to a place situated in the corner of a strip mall. Upon entering this hole-in-the-wall pub, it was clear to see that this was a total dive bar, rank with thick clouds of cigarette smoke, a few tattered pool tables, and a sticky bar surrounded by dilapidated tables. It was awesome! We sauntered up to the bar and found a few vacant bar stools. Being a regular at this joint, my friend called over her usual bartender, a burly guy named Tony. She introduced us and, using a familiar feline to help myself remember his name, I endearingly renamed him Tony the Tiger. (Tip: This nickname bonding tactic also helps the bartender to remember YOU for the next time you happen to come in.)

After the introductions and some mild flirting with my new cuddly buddy, the first round of drinks came. Then the second. Then a round of shots, followed by third round of drinks. Between rounds, I’d walk (stumble) to the grungy bar bathroom to pee. Around last call, it was safe to assume that I had frequented the bathroom an estimated 5 times in the brief 3 hours that we had been there. Apparently, my bladder is the size of a jellybean.

Fifteen minutes after last call, we paid our ridiculously cheap tabs and were gingerly ushered outside. Standing on the crumbling sidewalk, I waited with my friend while she finished her cigarette before deciding it was time for me to start heading home. Because I was still taking classes at the main campus, I was living on the East side of town, near to the university. The distance between work and school was generally about a 45 minute commute, maybe 30 minutes at nighttime when there were hardly any cars on the road. I was confident that my last bathroom break would suffice until I drove the 30 minutes to my apartment. I was wrong.

About 10 minutes into my drive, I start feeling like I have to pee again, but not so badly that I need to pull over somewhere. I stubbornly think, “Yeah, I’m a tough bitch; I can hold it.” Another 5 minutes pass and the pressure in my pea-sized bladder grows even more intense. I try to distract myself by turning up the radio and singing along. Ineffective. Another 5 minutes pass and I simply can’t take it anymore! I realize I’m NOT a tough bitch and that I’m going to have to stop somewhere to use the bathroom... but where? I had never ventured out onto any exits, other than the one to work, and now it was 2:30 in the morning; I sure as hell wasn’t about to risk pulling off the highway into some unfamiliar, unpopulated, ghetto ass neighborhood that probably didn’t even have proper restroom facilities. I’d probably get raped, robbed, or shanked in the process anyway… Fuhhhk that!

Somehow, I manage to make it to a familiar exit without peeing my pants. Nearing the exit, I consider my options… I know I’ll unfortunately have to drive at least another three minutes to reach the closest gas station where, I remembered from a previous drunky encounter, I would need to get a key from the cashier to the unlock bathroom door; I didn’t have that kind of time now. I wasn’t sure I could even stand up without peeing, let alone wait for Punjab to grant me a key and then shuffle to the back of the Quick-E-Mart! Nope, I was going to have to do this the nitty gritty way. Up to this point in my life, however, I hadn’t had a successful peeing-in-the-absence-of-a-toilet incident since my diaper days. Any time I would try to pee while camping, hiking, or doing some other ridiculous outdoor activity white people like to do, I would inevitably come back with some amount of urine having made contact with my skin. I remind myself of this and of the inconvenient omnipresence of the PoPo as I ponder pulling over to the edge of the highway and poppin’ a squat on the passenger side of my car. I responsibly decide against that idea; the last thing I needed was for a cop to come by when this moderately intoxicated nineteen-year-old girl had her pants around her ankles and her bare ass sidled up against the car.

I needed a better idea; this had to be taken care of RIGHT NOW.  I desperately look around my car for a cup, some tupperware, anything I could use as a provisional potty. Being the neat-freak that I am, however, the only things I have in my car are my text books, my school clothes, and a Walmart bag I keep to contain any trash. I am busy cursing my tidy ways when I find an empty water bottle buried in my handy little trash bag.

After clutching the bottle like an Oscar, I toss it in the passenger seat as I unbuckle my seatbelt. Next, I unbutton my neatly-creased dress pants, unzipping them the rest of the way before turning on the cruise control and shimmying them off. I pull my thong down around my knees and throw a sweatshirt under my now-naked butt before I grab the skinny, Nestle Brand water bottle from the seat. Approaching a straight portion of the highway, I use my legs to lift myself a few inches off the seat before I crammed the opening of the bottle into my hooha. A huge relief comes over me as I relax my Kegels and pee explodes into the bottle. I wait, anticipating pee to seep out onto my hand/sweater/butt cheek/somewhere because that was my curse... my I-can’t-successfully-pee-anywhere-but-a-bathroom-without-getting-pee-on-me curse... but, strangely enough, I don’t notice anything.

After I’m done, I tighten the lid on the bottle and drop it into my cup holder. I slide my undies back up and sit down bare-assed on my sweater, then buckle my seatbelt (Click it or Ticket!). When I finally pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I (crookedly) park my car and wiggle back into my pants. I get out and, using the Mag-lite from my glove compartment, inspect my car and my recently ass-tainted sweater for any escaped liquids. Much to my disbelief, I find nothing. I drunkenly clamor up the stairs and persuade my roommate, {KriceKrispies}, to come outside and double check my car for me. Luckily for her, she didn’t find anything either.

Unfortunately for a friend riding in my car the next day, my pee was super clear after an innumerous amount of beverages, and the fact that it was in a water bottle made it rather well camouflaged. My friend drank some. Keep the secret, okay?

Beenie-Weenie

I was “on-again” with my on-again/off-again boyfriend of nearly a decade, {RedneckRomeo}. Because we lived about 3 hours apart in this round of our relationship, impromptu date nights were quite rare. Taking into consideration the fact that I was a full-time student and a part-time-with-full-time-hours workaholic, long weekends were definitely few and far in between. His 21^st birthday was coming up and, being the uber-cute girlfriend that I am, I wanted to make his birthday reasonably memorable (I say “reasonably” because it was his 21^st birthday, after all… How much of yours do YOU remember??). I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to get the weekend off from work, and I could hear the disappointment in his voice when I told him his Sugar Dumplin’ might not be there for the drunken debauchery.

A few days later, my work schedule was posted… I got the whole weekend off! But instead of telling {RedneckRomeo} the good news, I decided to be a sneaky snake and surprise him by showing up for the weekend. With that, a plan was devised:

Phase One: Recruit accomplice to ensure a clean execution

The first rule of planning a surprise is to find an accomplice; you need someone on the other end to make sure that everything is going according to plan and that the surprise-ee is in the right place at the right time. For this mission, I recruited {RedneckRomeo}’s mom, {MissK}. After she was on-board and willing to assist with the affectionate ambush, I fabricated my excuse…

Phase Two: Deflate expectations with plausible alibi(s)

After hearing all the details for his birthday party and (obviously) getting an invite, {RedneckRomeo} was somber when I broke the “bad news” to him and told him that “I was scheduled to work allllllll weekend.” Sometimes, {RedneckRomeo} would call me at work, so I had my coworker positioned to cover for me in the event that he decided to call me while I was en route to his house. I had all the bases covered but, just to throw {RedneckRomeo} off my trail even more, I had his present FedExed to him instead of waiting to deliver it in person. (I bought him these really nice and expensive-as-fuck camouflage seat covers that he wanted for his truck… So deliciously redneck, I know!)

Phase Three: Go Time.

Everything was set; he didn’t suspect a thing. Late Friday evening, I packed up and started out on the 3 hour trek. The plan was that I would get to his house while he was still at work, hide my car down the street, and sit in his room until he got home, at which point his mother would tell him that his present was on his bed… *ME*

That plan was all fine and dandy, except I didn’t account for any lost time. 30 miles from his place, I ran over something while I was driving (nothing furry, for the record) and pulled off the highway to check my car. Unfortunately, the nearest exit only had one gas station that happened to be super sketch. After being approached by a janky-ass hobo and begrudgingly giving him all the pennies from my car’s ashtray, I decided I had wasted enough time and temporarily concluded that all was well with my car.

Back on the highway and 20 minutes behind schedule, I called {MissK} to get an update on {RedneckRomeo}’s whereabouts. She told me he was just leaving work and if I hurried I could beat him home. So there I was, racing my could-be-severely-damaged car down a dilapidated back road when I get to the traffic light that leads down the two-lane road to his house. The light’s red. My stomach’s fluttering with excitement. A car approaches the light from the other direction. I’m irrationally pissed when they get a green light before I do. I watch the car turn in front of me. “That pickup sure looks familiar. Oh look, camo seat covers, just like the ones I bought for...” Shit. So much for beating him to his house.

I quickly called {MissK} and let her know the change in plans: I was going to wait it out for 15 minutes at the gas station down the street (one that was NOT infested with hobos) and then I would make my move. Ten minutes pass and I’m too anxious to wait any longer. I drive to his house and park behind his truck. I give {MissK} a final call to let her know I am outside and ask her to make up some reason to have {RedneckRomeo} go outside. I get out of my car and lean on the front bumper of his truck. A few seconds later, the screen door opens.

“Hi,” I chirp.

“Who is that?” he asks into the darkness.

“Who do you want it to be?” I say, trying to sound coy.

He stepped into the light just in time for me to see a smile creep across his face. The surprise went off without a hitch (minus the whole car damage/hobo incident, of course).

Fast forward: {RedneckRomeo} is happily surprised I’m there. We do it. We do it some more. We do it into the wee hours of the morning until we pass out from sheer endorphin overdose. It’s morning. I wake up and look around. I guess I hadn’t noticed it while we were boinking all over the place, but his room is a FUCKING MESS.

Now, I’m not a total clean freak; I can handle a few days of dirty dishes in the sink or some unfolded laundry, but when there is a heaping compost pile of your belongings mangled with YEARS of garbage and dirt, I get seriously perturbed. The image of his disheveled pig sty haunts me for the rest of the day. In the shower, I think… “HIS CLOSET MUST SUFFER FROM COMPULSIVE VOMITING.” Driving to the store… “THE FILM OF DUST ON HIS SHELVES IS THICKER THAN A BBW.” Helping {MissK} make food for the party… “HIS ROOM LOOKS LIKE NAWLINS AFTER KATRINA!” That’s it. I cannot spend another night sleeping in that clusterfuck of clothes, trash, and grime! Time for a deep clean, baby.

After playing sous chef to {MissK} and helping her create such country dinner fixin’s like fried chicken, baked beans, and some absofuckinglutely DELISH potato salad, I kicked {RedneckRomeo} out of his own room and armed myself with all sorts of cleaning supplies. I set to work repairing this no-longer-acceptable medley of junk. One hour later, I had rummaged through the debris and disposed of the agglomeration of dead batteries, old food wrappers, and crumpled work schedules. Two hours in, I had cleared out all of the dishes and successfully separated all the clean clothes from the contaminated. By hour three, I had managed to sort through years of receipts and paystubs and chronologically filed them away in an old shoebox. By the fourth (and, thankfully, final) hour, I had dusted every shelf and knickknack, swept behind every dresser and bookshelf, and even tipped his bed to displace the unyielding army of dust bunnies hiding in its shadows. Finally, the room was clean. Spotless, to be more precise. I went to the bathroom to wash away the layers of sweat and sediment plastered to my skin.

I heard the first of {RedneckRomeo}’s family and friends arrive as I was about to get nakey in the bathroom. I thought of all the hard work I put into cleaning his room and silently cursed anyone that dared to enter the now-pristine sanctuary in an anything-less-than-antiseptic state. Simultaneously, {RedneckRomeo}’s hand slid through the still-open door and I was handed a few SoCo-and-lime jello shots, which I gulped down while stepping into the shower. When I got out of the shower, I slipped into his room where there was a plate of food and a rum-and-Coke waiting for me. After I had inhaled my plate of home-cooked grub and finished painting on some eyeliner, it was time for a round of shots. By the time I had dried and straightened my hair, I had consumed as much alcohol as the loser of a beerpong tourney. Only problem was, I wasn’t feeling it. Any of it. Nothing. My mind was too consumed with the possibility of someone polluting {RedneckRomeo}’s (a.k.a. MY) sanitary oasis.

For the next few hours, went head-to-head with anyone that wanted a shot, chugged many a rum-and-Coke, and attempted to forget my obsession over guarding his room from intruders and, instead, focus my attention on drinking away my motor skills. But much to my shagrin, while {RedneckRomeo} and all of his guests were romping around in a state of drunken euphoria, I was stuck in Frown Town, desperately trying to get a buzz. Eventually, the party died down around the time my once-noble prince had transformed into the drunky court jester. I realized it was time for bed. Before we could head to the now-immaculate bedroom, however, we first had to get cleansed of the dirt, ash, and beer splatters our bodies had accumulated during the backyard hoedown around the bonfire. I helped my shloshed boyfee undress and we stepped into the shower, where we scrub-a-dub-dubbed until we were both sweet-and-pink-and-kissin’ clean. Now that the rest of the party guests had left and the two of us were all cleaned up, it was time to stop worrying about the room getting soiled and concentrate on having some birthday sex.

Back in his room, I FINALLY feel the rush of the alcohol as I pull one of his tees over my head and {RedneckRomeo} pulls me onto the bed. I drunkenly lay down next to him, reaching my hand down into his boxers. He was already hard, so I slid my body down his until I was face-to-face with Junior. I start to give him a birthday beejay, expertly performing all the tongue tricks I know that make his toes curl. Enough licks and flicks later, he stands up to go for the finish. Using one hand to hold myself up and the other to direct his dick into my mouth, I guide his St. Nick down my chimney, gagging on it for added sound effect. As he’s face-fucking away, I can still taste the liquor from earlier…the SoCo jello shots, the rum, the random beer…the thought of all those different alcohols is revolting! I feel nauseous. I think I’m going to throw up at the mere thought of it. No wait, it’s not the thought of the alcohol that’s gonna make me vomit; it’s…(!)

But it was too late. {RedneckRomeo}’s repetitive thrusting had finally triggered my gag reflex. I lurched backwards as I watched a flood of {MissK}’s yummy baked beans and some partially-digested jello pour out of my mouth. Due to my semi-mastered ninja-like reflexes, I caught the majority of the spill in the shirt I was wearing. Unfortunately for {RedneckRomeo}, however, not all of the baked bean cocktail escaped the path of his hot dog. And there it was, just as disgusting as the lunch lady would serve up: A lukewarm pile of beenie-weenie.

It Makes Them Good Girls Go Bad

Even though my actions over the past few years may depict otherwise, I was never quite the wild child one might assume. I've always been a respectful girl and a good student, never really getting into trouble or disobeying my elders. I must admit, however, that I have had the occasional bout of disregard for the rules and have sporadically succumbed to my impulses. 


Bearing that in mind, one night circa 9^th grade, my parents left my siblings and me alone for the night as they went out to some work-related dinner party. My best friend {A} was staying over for the night and the absence of adult supervision, combined with the recently-introduced tomfoolery of high school, had sparked a sense of mischief in us normally well-behaved girls.

After little deliberation, it was decided: tonight was the night we were going to drink. And we weren’t thinking like a “let’s steal a Mike’s Hard Lemonade out of the fridge and share it” kind of drinking; tonight wasn’t about getting a sugar rush off some frufru bullshit. No no, tonight, we were going to DRINK drink… And get DRUNK drunk! Since neither of us had acquired a fondness for beer and we were “sooo over” wine coolers, it was concluded that liquor would be the next step. When we realized that the two of us wannabe rebels were too puss to actually take any liquor from my parents, we sought outside reinforcements.

Seeing as we were a mere 14, we didn’t exactly have a lot of friends who were old enough to buy alcohol. We did, however, have this one “friend” that we specifically maintained contact with so we could use him as our little bitch boy. This pathetic noob was a boy our age with these incredibly bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows. Despite his furry face friends, he wasn’t completely atrocious. He was tall and pretty muscular for a barely pubescent teenager. And he was pretty much in love with us, so we obviously liked that aspect of him. But keep in mind that he was a total dweeb, and these slightly-enhancing qualities far from surpassed the fact that he was a loser that we could (and often did) walk all over (And yes, our sadistic, manipulative tactics were already fine-tuned long before we even had our Learner’s Permits.).

{BushyBrows} didn’t go to our school, so I’m not even sure how we met him in the first place, but he lived relatively close so I can only assume we met through a mutual friend during a golf cart ride through the ‘hood. My neighborhood was considerably large, and “relatively close” meant about 6 miles away. Not too great of a distance, but by bike, about a 30 minute ride. With our clever negotiating skills and a dash of teenage lust, {A} and I convinced {BushyBrows} to steal some liquor from his parents and make the 6 mile trek to deliver it to us. The cost? Each of us promised him a kiss on the lips. Scandalous, I know.

After the call was made, we reassessed the situation. Neither of us was willing to stoop as low as to actually kiss {BushyBrows}… We needed an escape route; one that would let us inherit the stolen goods and preserve our fragile high school reputations while simultaneously convincing the naive pants-splooger that we really did WANT to kiss him, but some unforeseen circumstance had intervened. 


Being the devious Machiavellians that we were, the plan came quicker than a 13-year-old boy with a Victoria’s Secret catalog. We waited for his arrival, beaming with anticipation. Soon enough, we got the call. We peeked through the blinds and saw {BushyBrows} peddling his Schwin down the street with a plastic bag dangling from the handlebars.

“Hey, I’m like 4 houses away. Come outside!”

Execute Operation: No Fucking Way Am I Kissing That

“Oh shit! I can’t! I just realized my brother’s here!”

“Damn. Can’t you just come outside!?”

“No, we can’t! Then he’ll want to know what we were doing and come out and see the liquor! You’ll have to leave it somewhere!”

“Where am I supposed to leave it??”

“Um… I don’t know… Oh crap! He’s getting ready to go outside! Quick! Hide it in the mailbox! And then get out of here so he doesn’t see you! Otherwise we’ll get in trouble for hanging out with boys when my parents aren’t home!!!”

Okay, let me interject momentarily. Everything I just said was technically true but, in context, just a shish kabob of skewered bullshit. I would definitely get in trouble for having boys in the house while my parents weren’t home, but not for talking to them as they casually rode by on their bicycle. And my brother was most certainly not a prick that was going to march outside to see what his boring sister was doing. And even if he did, he wouldn’t be giving the third degree and investigating the situation. Oh, and my brother was only seven. 


But {BushyBrows} didn’t know any of this. He just credulously assumed that my big, scary, incredibly nosey and overprotective brother was there, alert and prepared to decipher any shenanigans. So he shoved the goodie bag into the mailbox and took off on his rusty 12-speed.

Now feeling particularly imperious, {A} and I frolicked (somewhat stealthily, of course) to the mailbox to collect our prize. Once the treasure was secure behind the locked doors of my bedroom and private bath, we set the bag in the bathtub to prevent any evidence of our soiled youth spilling on the rug. Our eyes lit up as we opened the bag to find the liquid gold, awaiting consumption. All clearly labeled in three bottle-like Tupperware containers, there were 4 shots worth of Captain Morgan, another 4 of Svedka, and 2 shots of Jose Cuervo; more than enough to get us drinking newbies perfectly plastered!

Being totally hardcore (and ignorantly inexperienced), we each grabbed a container and took a big sip straight from the bottle. Vodka in {A}’s hand and Captain in mine, we recoiled as the liquor flooded our mouths, our tongues tingling as we choked it down. After responding with a wincing, scrunched up face and an acrid sigh, {A} and I looked at each other as our faces of painful shock quickly melted into roguish smiles. THIS SHIT WAS REALLY HAPPENING.

We decided that chasers would be a vast improvement on the entire experience, so I scampered downstairs to the kitchen and fetched a few Diet Cokes and a glass of Crystal Light. Back upstairs, we stood in my bathroom taking baby shots followed with huge gulps of our savior drinks. For the next hour, we each tried all the liquors/chaser combinations and, soon enough, we were left with three empty containers, horribly impaired motor skills, and a raging fit of the giggles. After a dance party in our PJ’s, a (failed) attempt at flying with my makeshift bed sheet-cape, and an online diary update, our bodies were still tingling with the rush of the alcohol. Suddenly, we felt a rumble under our feet. The garage door. My parents were home!

Leaping into cover-up mode, we fumbled to rinse out the bottles before stashing them in the back of my linen closet. We crammed a few squares of Dentyne Ice into our mouths and polluted the air and every tangible surface with some Love Spell body splash. I clamored to unlock my bedroom door as {A} hurriedly sat down at my computer and opened her AOL messenger. I rebounded off the door and dove onto my bed, flicking on the TV midair. We waited anxiously as we heard my mom’s footsteps climbing the stairs. Down the hall, we heard the door to my sister’s room open and, a moment later, close. We listened as my mom sauntered into my brother’s room across the hall, followed by the silencing of his blaring TV. The momentary stillness was interrupted by the squeal of the only creaky floorboard in the entire house: the one just outside my door. My mom knocked on the other side before turning the handle and gently pushing her way in…

“Hey, girls! Just wanted to let you know we were home!” she rang in a singsongy voice. “How was your night?”

{A} let out a giggle and I shot her the shut-the-fuck-up-or-you’re-gonna-blow-our-cover look. We would be DEAD if my parents found out.

I attempted to appear as sober as I should have been. “It’s was okay… pretty boring…” I lied. “How was YOUR night?”

Thinking my question would receive a generic answer, I mentally facepalmed myself as my mom took a seat at the foot of my bed and began divulging every mundane detail of their night. As she was talking to me, she seemed upset about something, but I was more spaced out than a stoner on 4/20 and absolutely could not comprehend what the hell she was talking about. I attempted to console her with a casual “Yeah, sometimes they’re like that…” and prayed to fucking God that it somehow made sense and fit into the conversation. I stood up in hopes that it would indicate the end of story time, but it was to no avail; she kept talking... And talking… And TALKING. She was talking for what seemed like a damn eternity! Even if it was only for three minutes. Nevertheless! Regardless of how much time (or lack thereof) my mom was sitting there in the lingering stench of corrupted youth and too much body spray, every second was excruciating.

As I stood there, I felt the waves of drunkenness lapping at my body, making it difficult to maintain my balance. My mind drifted off… “I wish I had a little more Captain in me...I bet that scurvy pirate had a strong set of sea legs...He probably props that one foot up to stay balanced!" I raised my foot to rest it on an open drawer…

Finally, my mom let out an exasperated sigh, signaling the end of her saga. She moved over to {A} and gave her a goodnight kiss on the cheek. {A} gave a sheepish smile as she said goodnight, thankfully keeping my mother’s attention long enough to for her to miss my elbow slide of the edge of the dresser I had been using to steady myself. (I guess that foot thing isn’t to help keep you balanced after all.) My mother said goodnight to me as we kissed on both cheeks (because we’re fancy like that) before she slipped out the door.

The second my mom left and the bedroom door was closed, {A} and I locked eyes and let out a huge sigh of relief, followed by another obnoxious bout of laughter. For the rest of the night, the two of us good-girls-gone-badass carried on in the same clumsy fashion, just at a lower volume. The last thing I remember is laying on the floor of my bathroom, having drunken phone sex with my then-boyfriend. I was interrupted by {A} sliding the door open as I pulled my hand out of my pants and quickly looked up, only to smash my head into the bottom of the toilet bowl. (Bee tee dubs, I have a permanent bruise on my forehead from that… That shit hurt like a bitch.)

That whole scene is unsanitary, I know. That whole NIGHT was a fucking sloppy mess. The lying, the trickery... the total disregard for the rules and safety!? Classic.

You and Me and the Bottle Makes Three

Being a Florida girl at heart, the chilly three months of a 65˚ winter had really restricted my tanning time. Consequently, my ass was whiter than a black person’s fresh kicks. Most people would go to a tanning bed to resolve such a predicament but, living in the Sunshine State, that seems like a crime when there’s a surplus of free UV rays just outside. So one morning I decided to go lay out by the pool in an attempt to tan my pale ass cheeks. I don’t actually own a thong bathing suit, so I just picked out a pair of undies that kind of looked like they matched my bathing suit top and headed out. 


I set up poolside in a lounge chair with a margarita in one hand and a bottle of bronzer in the other. (Side note: This probably wasn't as glamorous as I’d like to imagine. This rendering of my poolside oasis is actually taking place in my apartment complex and, while the pool is very nice, it’s littered with other residents and the occasional maintenance man walking through. Also, I still had last night’s makeup smeared across my eyes and my indulgent cocktail was really just tequila, mix, and ice in a plastic Publix cup. Nevertheless, you get the idea.)

About three flips, two coats of bronzer, and an hour later, my friend {J} decided to come over and lay out with me. Like any good friend should, she showed up with more tequila. Whenever I’m lying out at the pool or going to the beach, my drink of choice is tequila and SunnyD. Tequila is great for countless reasons already, but it’s perfect for when you’re being lazy in the sun because its Mexican dirtiness is equivalent to yours, once you’ve reached that sweaty, oily, I-feel-like-a-stick-of-butter-sliding-around-a-hot-frying-pan state. SunnyD is my fave mixer because it’s kind of like orange juice, but better. It doesn’t have the intense acidity that can make later vomiting burn your throat worse than eating chips and salsa with a case of Strep (discovery made circa 1998.), and it’s so chalked full of sugar that it still tastes okay when your ice melts and your liquid concoction becomes a watered-down cup of warm Kool-Aid.

Two more hours and a few SunnyD-and-tequilas later, I get a call from one of my guy friends (henceforth referred to as {GuyFriend1}). He tells me that he has the day off and I invite him and his friend (henceforth, {GuyFriend2}) over to hang out with {J} and me at the pool. Just after I get off the phone with them, {J} decides that she’s too hot and is done laying out. Normally, I’d show an expected level of hospitality and offer to go back to the house or go out to lunch or something, but at this point I was already too intoxicated and sun-drunk to even think about moving, let alone being a good hostess. I tried to convince her to stay by bribing her with the notion of the two cabana boys that were already en route to the pool. “You have to stay! There are two boys on the way! What am I supposed to do with two of them?” I managed to slur. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she joked as she packed up and headed home. If only she had known.

I had brought my actual bathing suit bottoms with me so I could put them on over my thong in the event that I was asked to cover up my then-pale, now-sunburned ass. When I originally spoke with {GuyFriend1}, I had intended to put them on before the boys came over because, contrary to popular belief, I’m not a total hoebag like that. However, my once-prudent intentions were completely overshadowed by the clouds of alcohol. Shocker. I decided my attire wasn’t provocative in the slightest and that it was perfectly acceptable to wear these skimpy-ass panties around my guy friends. So there I was, all alone in my inebriated paralysis, feeling my skin getting singed by the rays of the Florida sun, when {GuyFriend1} and {GuyFriend2} finally show up.

Much to my delight, they arrived with more alcohol (Cran and vodka, to be exact. Not too partial on the cranberry juice, and a little thrown off by the fact that this homo cocktail was what the boys chose to drink, but it was enjoyed nonetheless.). We figured that playing a drinking game would be a good idea. Ring of Fire is always a good go-to game if you need an excuse to chug your entire drink in less than 7 seconds, so I ran home (and by “ran” I mean “drove my car the quarter mile around the corner”) to get some playing cards. When I came back with the cards, they questioned why they were plastic. I proceeded to explain that these were my “pool cards” and that they wouldn’t be ruined in case they got wet. Seconds into my explanation, I dumped my entire cran-and-vodka on the neatly laid out ring (of fire!), revealing the real reason why my clumsy drunk ass only uses plastic playing cards.

For those of you who have ever played Ring of Fire, you know how much one can consume as a consequence of the game. After my morning of pre-drinking and my afternoon of “waterfalls” and forgetting my little green man, I was nonsensically drunk. At this point, I start blacking out. The rest of this tale is only what I can derive from the flashes that remain in my memory [Insert feelings of shame and embarrassment here].

I remember us finishing the remnants of a bag of Cheesy poofs and deciding that we were still hungry. Ale House was suggested.

We stopped back at my house because…? I have no idea why we’re at my house. I drunkenly stumble into my roommate’s room and ask her if she wants to go with us to Ale House. She says “No, not really.” and rolls her eyes. Whatever, her loss. Ale House is the SHIT!

I'm in the passenger seat of someone's car. I can only assume we're driving to Ale House.

I'm right! We come in through the patio and walk to the other end of the restaurant to the host stand. The hostess leads us all the way back across the restaurant to a high top.

It’s cold. I realize I’m wearing a dress. ONLY a dress. No bra, no undies, just a short, flimsy, really-really-REALLY-needs-to-be-worn-with-undergarments dress. I’m worried that my coo is touching the seat. I check. It’s not. But I’m still paranoid.

I’m trying really hard to make my eyes focus on the menu. What do I want? I order. Wait, what did I order? I can’t remember.

Still consumed with worry over my nearly-naked body and this sleazy gossamer of a dress. I wonder if other people can see my boobs. I hate my boobs.

The food comes. I ordered fajitas? I never order fajitas. I eat one. They’re delicious! Why don’t I ever order fajitas?! I burn my arm on the sizzling fajita plate. I remember why I never order fajitas.

We’re back at my house. Climbing up the stairs is a challenge. Did somebody just spank me? Ow, sunburn! We’re in my room. There’s a spot on my bed that’s soaking wet… Wtf? {GuyFriend1} informs me that it’s another one of my spilled cran-and-vodkas. However, this one’s spill wasn’t the result of clumsiness. It was just me being a fucking dumbass. Apparently, I put the nearly-full Solo cup in my purse (Whaaa…?) and threw the purse on my bed before we left for Ale House. It has soaked all the way through two comforters, my sheets, and the pillowtop. Fuhhhk.

We’re on my bed (the dry part). I don’t think the door’s closed. Oh well. I’m kissing someone. The other one slides a hand up my dress. I haven’t shaved my hooha in like 5 days… fuck. Whoever I’m kissing pulls my dress down. “Why don’t you like your boobs? You have cute little boobs.” Thanks for the compliment, but “cute” and “little” are some of the describing features I specifically don’t like about my boobs. I’m getting finger-banged and still making out with someone. The finger-banger puts his head between my legs. I tell the other one to put his dick in my mouth. There’s a dick in my mouth!

The one between my legs has a sex toy. Wait, where did you get that? I keep my vibrator in the nightstand and you’ve clearly been in the southern region. Hold on, that’s not a vibrator. That’s a full-on dildo. Oh my god… that’s Alejandro... my 12”, bottle-thick, it-was-a-present-relating-to-an-inside-joke, clearly-only-on-display-for-humorous-decorative-purposes, not-to-ever-be-used-as-a-sex-toy-because-it’s-filthy-and-it-would-NEVER-fit-in-my-vag-because-I'm-not-a-complete-whore(!) dildo.

I freak out. You just tried to cram a dust-covered stick of death into my chee-cha! I jump up and go into my bathroom. I need to take a shower. I realize I’m sunburned as the water hits my skin like holy water on a hooker. I decide I’ll have to sit in the tub instead. I pass out in about 6 inches of water.

I wake up what seems like 4 minutes later and hear the boys still talking in my bedroom. I’m surprised they’re still here. “I can’t believe you guys are still here.” Apparently, they interpreted that as “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU ASSHOLES STILL HERE?! GET THE FUCK OUT!” even though I meant it as “Wow, I’m surprised you stuck around while the girl you just violated has been locked in the bathroom for 10 minutes. That’s kinda nice. I guess I’ll hurry up and come out so we can continue.” I hear them leaving. I decide that’s okay too.

I come out of the bathroom and look at the clock. It’s only 5PM. I begin to contemplate my life decisions, but quickly decide a nap would be more pleasant.