Naughty Vignettes

“This is crazy.”  he thought as his left shoe flew at the door, rebounding and shattering his lamp.

This is not the kind of guy he is.   Who takes a strange girl home after a couple drinks?  She could have a disease.  She could be a whore.  She could be his cousin.  She could even be a Democrat.  That succession of bad thoughts sent a chill up his spine that made him break the kiss.  It took about 3 seconds to dislodge her tongue from his throat.
This is crazy.  He’s not this guy.  This is not his cheap cologne.  This is not his 20 dollar silver Faux-lex.  This isn’t his crusty hair gel creating the perfect sleazy quaf that shines under a neon moon.   … And that is definitely not his hands cupping a cheeleader’s ass.
Larry.  This is Larry’s doing.   “She’s a bitch.” he said. “Always said you could do better.” he said. “Let’s get a few drinks.” he said.   “Gonna get you LAID.” he said. Larry’s pitch sounded fine.  His theories had merit.  And like most bad situations, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  But oh, then there are hotties with boyfriends and drunken mis-understandings and sloppy bathroom revenge screws that lead to massive bar brawls and getting thrown out and starting all over again at the bar up the street– oh my.
Her bra is on the floor. Her –BRA– is on the floor.   Yes.  Those are her breasts.
His pants come off so quick he nearly falls.   This is not his life.  Things like this don’t happen to boys who write poetry and play World of Warcraft.    Romantics don’t do one handed monkey flips to blondes named Denise… or is it Marisa?  Good boys don’t rebound from their slutty ex-girlfriends with a one night stand.
Ohhh. Wonder how long it would take to get her tongue out of there?
“This should stop.” he thinks.  “This should… definitely… stop.  In a minute or two.”  As his head hangs upside down off the couch, he considers putting those brakes on before he makes a mistake … for the second time in an hour.  But then he remembers that crooked little smirk.  Of all the bars in all the world, Lisa had to walk into his.  By the way she carried on, you would think she’d followed him just to rub the other men in his face.  It wasn’t enough that she broke his heart, she wouldn’t stop until it lay beating in her hand.
He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.   And then came the whiskey. Just a shot. And then another.  And another.  And the next thing he knew he was on the bar with his shirt unbuttoned singing Paradise City while Denise here (or is it Cherise?) gave out swoons previously only reserved for Elvis Presley and Henry Kissinger.
And then suddenly there’s naughty language and forshadowing.  And sloppy makeouts.  Nudity.   The occasional violated stuffed animal.  And of course, one handed monkey flips.
Maybe he is this guy.  Just maybe.  At least for tonight.  And then twice more tomorrow morning.
…  JACKIE!  Her name is Jackie!  It’s tattooed on her butt.

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