I’m in Miami B****! (part 2)

I’m in Miami B****! (part 1)

It didn’t take long before he realized he had been bamboozled. The club didn’t even exist. Although he was downtrodden, he wasn’t going to let this minor setback ruin his trip. He went to the front desk and asked the receptionist for a recommendation.

With a slip of paper in hand, he went to his room to pregame. He took out a bottle of vodka and a large can of Red Bull from his backpack. At that moment, he remembered the coke.

He figured he’d catch a buzz from the alcohol before his first ever foray into hard drugs. After three cups full of a barely consumable concoction, he felt he was ready. He laid out a line and said to himself, “Here goes!”

He awkwardly snorted the powder off of the bathroom counter top and sat down on the toilet. He felt no different. He tried another line, then another. Nothing. He came to terms that he must have been ripped off, yet again, by the cabby. “Damn that driver, if I ever get a hold of him…” he said to himself in the mirror knowing full well he’d cower from the confrontation.

About a half hour later his guts rumbled like the San Andreas Fault about to produce a 9.0 on the Richter scale. He ran to the bathroom and barely made it. He had never evacuated such an amount in his life. It went for hours. He suffered vicious cramping and the feeling of having to go could not be satiated no matter how much came out of his derrière. Due to the Red Bull, he couldn’t sleep, when his innards had finally calmed down. His night was ruined.

With the sun starting to peek in from behind the drawn shades, he was finally able to drift off to sleep. When he woke, it was dark again. “Damn, missed a whole day”

To get ready for his big Saturday night in Miami, he decided to forgo the Red Bull and drink the vodka straight. When he was sufficiently giddy, he decided to go out. “Here goes” he once again said to himself in the mirror.

He arrived at the club the receptionist had recommended. It was shabby. The patrons didn’t look like they were having a good time in the least. They looked like a rag tag of lost souls trying to forget something or be forgotten.

An older gentleman called him over.  Out of sheer discomfort and the respite from it the man currently offered, Alonzo went.

As soon as he arrived the old man bluntly asked, “You wanna fuck?”

Shocked Alonzo stammered, “Oh, I’m not like that”

“No, you rube” the man laughed. “I got some “Good night Cinderella” with me. You put it in a bitch’s drink. They can’t help but say “yes”; well…” he pondered, “at least they can’t say “no”” the scumbag said. He was already gross in the eyes of Alonzo, but after this exchange he was upgraded to absolutely disgusting. “Come on, I need a youngin’ like you to get them interested, they ain’t gonna mess with an old fart like me out of the blue”

“I’ll pass” Alonzo said.

“Suit yourself” the old man answered, rolling his eyes.

Miraculously, some girls came up to talk to the odd duo. The old man gave Alonzo a wink. He ordered a round of drinks.

“These are on me, ladies” the creep cheered upon arrival of the cocktails.

When the tray was set down, the old man diverted the group’s attention. After some time passed, Alonzo saw him stealthfully spike a drink. Alonzo was actually having a good time for the first time on what has been a disaster of a trip. He didn’t want to spoil it so he let it go.

********************************************************

I´m in Miami B**** (part 3) FINAL

 

I’m in Miami B****! (part 1)

Alonzo saved money for two years to have a blowout vacation in Miami. He, being from Wisconsin, held ideas about Miami that were quite romanticized to say the least. Miami represented a fantasy of tropical paradise and non-stop partying.

Besides the financial burden, he also prepared for the trip in other ways. For starters, he drank at least three beers a day, usually a few more. This was to build his tolerance to alcohol. He also scoured the internet for information on prolonging male orgasm. Even though he usually had little to no luck with the ladies back home, surely, he fathomed, things would be different in the M I A. He also took to masturbating three times a day to decrease his sensitivity. He was taking this trip very seriously.

His plane touched down in Miami and he could already feel the warm, humid air from inside the taxiing plane. His excitement increased tenfold. As he took off his Green bay Packers hoodie, that he clearly would not need, he felt for his wad of cash to make sure it was safe.

He was going to spare no expense this weekend. The wad was a loaded banana clip to be sprayed all over Miami in his quest for carnal pleasure.

He got his bag and stepped out to hail a taxi. He saw an unmarked car with the driver leaning on the hood. “You want ride? Where you go?” the driver asked with about as much purchase on the English language as Alonzo had on getting by in the streets of a big city.

“Uh, are you a taxi?” he asked.

“No. I good citizen. I like you. I take where you go” the driver smirked. Alonzo stood there dumbfounded until the driver said, “I joke! Of course I taxi”

They both had a laugh, the driver’s genuine, Alonzo’s more of the nervous sort. Being the people pleaser that he was, Alonzo obliged and stepped into the vehicle despite having reservations.

Through the typical taxi chatter, the driver learned that Alonzo was a fish out of water. “You want ticket for club, much beautiful girl. Good for sex. Go with everybody, even you” the driver offered. “I have good discount”

Slightly offended by the last part of the description, but curious about this oasis of feminine promiscuity, Alonzo asked, “How much?”

“At door $400. Me, $250” the driver answered.

Alonzo rationalized that the $150 he would save on admission, he could buy drinks. “How about 200 bucks?” he asked, feeling like a sly negotiator.

“$225. Last offer.” The driver snapped back.

“Deal!” Alonzo said, reaching for the wad with his chest puffed in pride. The cash caught the driver’s eye and his face lit up like a 50’s neon sign.

“….and kok?” the driver asked.

“Kok?” Alonzo asked, nervously wondering what the driver was going on about.

“Kok! You know, sneef, sneef” the driver answered.

“Oh! Coke” Alonzo corrected. This made him a little nervous. He liked to drink a bit but was not into drugs. He bowed to the tension the driver artificially concocted so well, “Uh, ok. How much?”

“I has good kok. One bag, $200”

Alonzo had no idea if that was a good price or a bad price. On instinct, he felt his hand reaching for his phone to Google it but scolded himself in silence. “I’ll take it” The driver took a sandwich bag full of white powder from the glove box and threw it into the back seat. Alonzo quickly stowed it away in the pocket of his jeans he had specifically bought for the trip. The driver let him off in front of his hotel, considerably lighter in cash. He put his things in his room and went to the hotel computer to look up the club for which he bought a ticket .

To be continued…

I’m in Miami B**** (part2)

*****************************************************

 

 

The Long Way Home

*note from author: I debated long and hard if I should post this or not. If you choose to read on, you´ll see it is pretty graphic. X rated, even. A part from a few details in setting, the story is fiction despite the opening line. I really want to make that clear. The exercise was to write a fist person, raunchy story. With that said, reader discretion is advised.

The following story is factually true. Take into consideration it is being told through the distorted lens of a drunken teenage boy. Seventeen years already has history distorting powers. Let´s take into consideration the alcoholic soup the story swims in. Reader discretion advised. Enjoy.

It started off as a typical Friday night. Warm ups included whatever was the cheapest thirty pack of beer the store had to offer and taking turns on the gravity bong. The gravity bong for the uninitiated is simply the most ridiculous homemade device for smoking marijuana. Google it. Ours was a one gallon milk jug in a bucket of water. The same bucket we used to clean the house. Who am I kidding, the house never got cleaned.

We were good and wrecked when somebody suggested we go to frat row in down town New Brunswick, New Jersey to “get fucked up”. We were all attending an educational establishment too embarrassing to mention here, so we piggy backed the party scene at Rutgers University. We decided I was not sober enough to drive so someone else, who was probably equally inebriated but could hide it better, did.

At this stage of my life, Friday and Saturday nights had two purposes. Get wasted on whatever I could get my hands and cumming. The former happened regularly, the latter, at least at the hands of others, not so much. We got to the party and I set my internal radar on drugs, alcohol and any girl with self esteem low enough to touch me. On this fortunate night, I scored on all three fronts.

As I said, full recollection of this story is impossible but some things are still clear. The girl I struck up a conversation with was blond, so skinny she could elicit pity and had awful teeth. I remember the teeth because this is a pet peeve of mine, but I was talking and she was listening so I looked away. I remember playing a few rounds of beer pong when she suggested we find somewhere a little more private to enjoy each other´s company.

The Rutgers frat houses are strange structures. They are the old mansions of Johnson and Johnson executives from a century gone by. They are full of little hidden hallways, staircases and rooms that are hard to imagine what purpose they once served. We found an unoccupied room that only fit a bunk bed. You had to contort you body just to get into the thing. Bingo! We found our love nest.

We started making out and I managed to get her clothes off. She was too drunk to get mine off so I was obliged to help. I don´t remember much from this passionate encounter but I remember a few things. First, we did not have sex. As you will see, it would have better if we had because I would have been able to break her evil spell, get away from her and the rest of the night would not have gone down the way it did. We were then interrupted by a chubby fellow and told to leave the ex slave´s quarters immediately.

I pretended to like her for a few more hours with the hopes that she would make that sneezey feeling in my crotch that seemed to be the focus of my life. The party was winding down and I noticed my ride had left. She offered her place to crash. What a coincidence. I wish I could give more details of what happened next but I really don´t remember.

I do doubt we had intercourse because no black out is stronger than an orgasm. No matter how drunk or high I was, I remember them all and file them to be later used in search of manual relief. When I refer to this night in my mind, a message comes up “file empty”. But the story does not end here.

I woke up in a strange place. I was cold. In fact I was shivering. I pulled the covers over my shoulders. Colder yet. What gives. I looked around. I was clearly in a girl´s room but there was no girl. I put my hand down on the mattress. I realized what had happened. Exactly what I feared most as a twelve year old when I slept over at friend´s houses had happened. I made water in her bed, Miss Daisy. It was a gusher too. Everything was wet. My mind raced despite the pounding headache. I thought about gathering my things and jumping out the window. We were on the third story.

I did what any honorable man in my position would do. I pulled my jeans over my pissed in underwear, put the rest of my clothes on and went down stairs. She didn´t even look up from the television. This I remember as if it were yesterday. I told it was fun and it was nice to have met her. I even remembered my manners and told her she had a lovely home despite the fact it looked like a future hoarders episode. It was a few years away from that but that´s ok because the show hadn´t been invented yet. Like the gentlemen I was, I offered my phone number. She told me to write it on the dry erase board on the fridge. It had the grocery list and I felt bad about erasing it so I left it alone.

This was an age before cell phones. I had no cash for a cab and not even the bus. I was a good five miles from where I lived. Talk about walk of shame? This was the Bataan Death March of shame. I put my head down low and took that walk. I threw up a few times along the way but I made it. I was greeted with a round of high fives. I regaled them with my tale and I was awarded the “green hit” from the gravity bong for my troubles.