A story about a rich girl from Malibu. But this Malibu is in Spain. Only there is no Malibu in Spain.

This story starts out with a girl named Bren…. For the sake of anonymity, we’ll call her Trenda.  The lustful excursion started January 14th, at approximately 9:45 am, as I was going through the motions of my banal mornings.  After drinking 4 four loko’s in the corner booth of my dining hall, and then responsibly returning the empty cans onto the return dinner tray conveyor belt for dishes to be washed, i set out to re-up on more alcohol.

I mind my own business by casually mounting a bike that wasn’t mine and I’m about to head off before I was interrupted with shouts of one of my raspy voice sounding Nigerian friends, Madu.  In my drunken stupor he says something that somehow convinces me to come inside the school gym where he works for small chat. I’m a bit apprehensive at first, although i was dressed for the occasion wearing skinny jeans, plaid shirt and bowler hat.  Being the composed character that i am, I storm in histrionically and fall flat on my side holding my book bag up (protecting my TI84 and flask of vodka), causing a scene with my bowler hat bowling down the isle line towards the register/ID counter where the vapid model that i was about to doom was.

The crocodile pleasantries are exchanged on my part whilst dusting off my alcohol helmet, with sincere condescension and sarcasm she obviously doesn’t get for not having the privilege of being born to be me, or because English is her 3rd language.   I chink my eyes, crinkle its sides, and crescent moon shape my mouth into a semblance of what is conveyed when a man is interested, and smiles.  Meanwhile, i’m halfheartedly listening to Madu speak about the geopolitics of Nigeria, how they turn tribal enemies into Kilishi and use their castrated parts to beat on clay pots covered with a soft pad filled with said enemies blood, and this girl is babbling about her tanning salon meanwhile I’m drooling over the thought of a steel reserve.  As i’m nodding my head to both of them feigning interest, i give this girl the once over twice and notice her breast implants, salon tan, manicure, highlights, foundation and concealer and i shrug to myself, “why the fuck not?  This is something i can take home to the wife and kids to brag about.”  She slips me her number which my internal captioning for the hard of hearing reads “i’m a cock hungry hoe, for 5 cents a month (and dick) you can stop my vaginal hunger pangs… please pick up that phone, don’t be that guy, donate…”


3 Days later as meticulously calculated she was over in my dorm room trying to pose herself as an intellect with her donkey brains obliviously holding up my books and asking me if I read them as if she could read anything that wasn’t reading rainbow or the spanish version of hooked on phonics (hooked on Julio?).  I speed up the inevitable and just shove my tongue down her throat to prevent anymore absent minded squawking thinking 2 things can happen:  she can get mad, slap me, and leave, or she can like it, buy me a drink, and eventually leave when i pass out on her.  It was love at first sight (on her end), we were so happy together (on her end), and we were going to be together for a long time (til i got sober).

Okay fuck it, i hold out for about a week and we’re about to have sex for the first time.  After a party we go back to my room, we’re both pretty wasted using each other to balance ourselves to get to my bed.   We’re in my room kissing, both naked, and I’m eating her out, but the drunkard comes out of me and through my periphery i spot my bottle of kettle one standing on top of my dresser with the lamp shining upon it like Gandalf’s staff and i swear i could almost hear choir boys singing enchanted hymns calling to me like a knight rising to the occasion.  In the midst of tongue-clit sucking i abruptly get up and walk over to the night stand, open the bottle and start chugging.  She’s laying there, spread eagle, like a hapless turtle on its back with that unmistakable wtf? face. I brush off her measly carnal concerns and go back to my manly duties like nothing happened.   After a few seconds, again my liver gets an engorged erection, and i get up to chug more vodka.  She indignantly yells, “what the fuck, prox!?!?!”


“What do you mean ‘what’? You’re eating me out and you’re getting up to drink vodka????”

“And? i’m a grown man, i can drink when i want.”

“you’re a fucking drunk!”

“And you’re a whore… as a matter of fact, get out.”

At that point i literally pick her up, carefully place her over my shoulder, and throw her out of my room. I’m talking olympic hurdling steez while she was completely naked.  She lands on the ground, knees buckling under the weight of her implants and she rolls backwards on some ju juitsu shit. Before she has a chance to charge back in my room, i have her 14k prada purse ready and lance it on her face with her clothes which clotheslines her like that korean dude did to the american from best of the best.  I slam the door shut and hear her pounding away at my door talking about, “i love you, open the door,” to which i reply sympathetically, “go home and forget about me.”

The next morning she calls crying saying she could never see me again unless i quit drinking and i reluctantly agree as i swig my vodka bottle.  After my enthusiasm in the bottle life liquids settles in, i start pondering the epistemological [sic] implications of letting an airheaded-plebeian-with-no-knowledge-whatsoever dictate how i should live my life.  I must teach her a lesson.  If anything, i probably started drinking more at that point just to prove a point (to who? i don’t know because she didn’t know i was doing this).

For 4 days, like a Bdelloid Rotifer, i do my best to remain asexual. I didn’t do anything with her; no kissing, no affection, no hand holding, i barely even spoke to her unless you consider yanking and violently pulling up on your crotch in defiance as a means of communication.  Okay, 4th day, she’s hotter than a pair of nuts duct-tape-tucked into a gonorrhea infested gooch on a tranny during a Brazilian Carnival.   

In my room, I’m doing my homework, and she’s sitting on my bed. I can hear the impatience, the anger, the sexual frustration by the way she’s clicking her pen and grinding the enamel off her teeth.  I’m smiling coyly at my screen, passively doing teh mathz waiting for an abrupt altercation of acrimony then BAM like a nails on a chalk board:  PROX!

“yes, dear?”

“what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“what do you mean? (in a sarcastic tone)”
“4 days ago you were tearing my clothes off ready to fuck my brains out and now you won’t even hold my hand or kiss, whats with you? why don’t you want to do anything with me?”

“oh. Its because I’m sober.”

“wtf does that mean????”

“Well, i haven’t had sober sex since i was like 15, so i think i’m impotent when i’m sober, i don’t even think i can get an erection…”

Here i guess, she took it as a challenge, so i inadvertently make her initiate the rape to try to arouse my beige oozinator tube to do some pump action into her sperm purse.  Aka to make me get an erection.  I’m not a little boy anymore so i don’t let my hypothalamus regulate which neurochemicals will make thee cack hard.   15 minutes in, I easily sustain a  flaccidity that out matched an over cooked noodle in a jergens filled condom, while she desperately tried to be seductive pulling every move from the stripper-in-college book.

She was completely naked by now giving me lap dances, and i can’t hate, she was hot naked, had the body of Jada Stevens.   During her down syndrome twerking she whispers, “do you have a condom?” I ask, “for what?” she ripostes quickly, “you know for what, prox, stop playing dumb.”

I head to my drawer, pulling one out as if i miraculously found one even though underneath my socks there was 20 more and i say, “here it is, but i don’t know for what use because i’m not gonna get hard.”   With all the blood that i was holding in my head from trying to not be annoyed by this chick, i ease up and let all of it flow to my penis.  I throw her down to the bed, getting ready to pillage and penetrate 3 layers of concealer and foundation  cake.  She’s pushing my chest with her palms telling me to take it easy on her cuz she knows how i am.  I barely stick the tip in and she’s yelling more than boston marathon runners at the finish line. Let me tell you, i’ve seen some inflexible people before, and man, this was the worst. I’m talking, she wouldn’t open her legs more than 30 degrees and she wouldn’t pull her legs back, and when i tried to spread her legs open she would cry in pain like a newly hazed catholic choir boy.  Since she couldn’t lift her legs, i had to get the right attack of angle by arching my back and getting from down under to go inside.  It was painful for me.  She just lay there flat as a board, not an ounce of remorse for my geriatric back.  I felt like a retarded seal doing yoga, doing upward facing dog, it was not a pretty sight, i felt my age.  

I’d say that her vagina was like Hellen Keller without thumbs and thats what it felt like when it handled my dick.   My dick felt like it was trying to crowbar lift one of those old school windows with a splintery wooden frame that creaks. You’re just there jamming your cock in the crack, arching your back, and pulling left, right, forward, and back like a Russian Mig-25 fighter pilot would on the ailerons, rudder, and elevator to avoid a crash… more like avoiding a 360 spin out at 30 G’s.

I tried laying on my back because how can any women fuck that up, right?  No, she laid on me, with her waist about 6 inches above mine, so her vaginal tunnel was not perpendicular with my silo.  Basically, i had to bear hug her into position and jack hammer upwards so that i was basically jerking off with her labia.  It was as if i was bouncing on a trampoline, reverse belly flopping, trying to put a fire out on the ceiling with my dick. Once we were done, she rolls off me, out of breath saying, “oh my god… i bet you never had sex like that before….” and i say rolling up my eyes, “yeah… never….”

Fast forward to a day before valentines day and i catch wind of my friend flying me a kite (snitch for those who never went to jail).  Apparently this girl that i’ve been disloyally dating for the past 2 months has had a boyfriend for the last 3 years.  I become very contemplative… tomorrows valentines day and i should do something special for my walking dufflebag of silicone and maybelline.  I think that given her profound intellectual appearance she must have gotten every gift known to man for valentines day so i had to be creative with my gift for it to have the same idyllic ardor that every avid Twilight fan feels when reading/watching breaking dawn.

The morning of valentines day i go out to my local liquor store and pick up a handle of captain morgan to get my creative juices flowing.  I return back home, drink about a quarter of the bottle and an idea sparks.  The perfect gift.  I go to the most luxurious place i  can afford, bag the gift, hesitantly pay, then leave.   So as i’m leaving walmart, i decide that when i get there I’ll surprise her by going in through the back glass sliding door.

I open the sliding glass door, pull the vertical blinds to one side, and I was heart broken, shocked, destroyed…. the suspicions were true: she looked like utter shit without make up. Oh yeah, and her boyfriend was there, too, standing in his boxers, recently awoken, rubbing the booger crust out of his eyes.  She was behind her expensive Formica kitchen counter top fruitlessly trying to cook, looking aloof as always till she glanced up and caught my gaze.  Her face immediately grimaced into guilt, looking at me, then looking back at her boyfriend like the suspicious dog from the simpsons.

I don’t mind so i walk pass the boyfriend first as if he were a visitor, brushing shoulder to shoulder, and stand directly in front of her.  I open my bookbag, slowly pull the gift out, and hand it to her.  She grabbed it, looked down, and to her pleasurable surprise she finally got something she always needed before making those futile trips to planned parent hood.  It was a pregnancy test (the walmart brand), where written in crude spelling with a sharpie read:  wIll U b meh ValEnt1n3z lol.

I do an about face, click my heels, and tap each side of my charlie chaplin shoes with my cane, and walk away like bad asses do from explosions without looking back.  I’m still within ear shot before i get on my hotwheels and can clearly hear a domestic dispute.  I shrug my shoulders and head back to my dorm where the rest of the rum awaits me.

(there’s more to this story… to be continued)

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