Monday, January 11, 2010

Drinks and Breakfast Sausage

I missed the last flight out to Atlanta and I had to return into the bitter Boston cold to get back home. So when the guy who I met earlier that day pulled his giant Toyota Tundra beside my suffering body, I was beyond relieved. I was already opening the passenger door when he offered me a ride.

He was a miniscule little man. He was thin as Giselle Bunchen, but probably wouldn't be able to see above her hip bone if they stood beside each other. He was unreasonably cocky, a tiny Jamaican pixie who owned a hair shop. He was a bite size heterosexual diva with no chin, so I knew that this tiny pixie was packing less heat than an unloaded pistol. (Note: testosterone levels are what make masculine features, like a manly jaw. His one apparent masculine feature was his facial hair.) As we rode on, he asked if I wanted to go out for drinks. The buzz from that nip of gin I drank on the way to the airport had worn off and I relished the idea of getting drunk on someone else's account. I said yes.

He took me to a bar and I to Pixie's disadvantage it was Latin night. In a sea of light-skin men willing to roll their Rs all over my chocha, I was clinging to the little man out of obligation. It was as shamefully embarrassing as wearing fake Coach to a Fendi fashion show. We eventually abandoned the joint for Kay's Oasis, a reggae club in Boston. This time I ordered a long island. The drink was so sweet, I guzzled it like a cold Gatorade. Big mistake, because in no time I was more open than a street walking whore. A tiny sober voice told me, no but I let him slide his hands inside my pants, made easy by the fact that they were a cotton rayon blend and I was, as usual, without panties. I danced against his tiny frame to the pulse of his fingertips.

"You ready to go?" he asked.

"Yeah," I answered. Though sober little voice inside me warned otherwise. I was beyond saving, so we left the club.

By the time we got to his house, I really wanted to just go to sleep. I was sobering up and aware of the fact that I wanted nothing to do with this Pixie man. I could barely keep my eyes open and I was fading fast. From a corner of the bedroom I could hear a ration of pills being poured from a bottle, but let's not jump to the conclusion that it was Viagra. I'm going to say that he was taking his multivitamins. Suddenly, a tiny little Pixie was on top of me, and so the battle royale began. He approached my vagina with a nub of a penis. It reminded me of a breakfast sausage. It had commendable width, but it was about as long as a Blackberry is wide. It made my tight vagina feel like a gaping hole. I told him I wasn't interested, but he tried as best he could to get me to do him. I denied his pleas and I managed to get some sleep.

Soon, I was awakened by the sensation of a vibrator and for a brief second, I thought I was back in Atlanta reunited with a certain toy in my top drawer. I opened my eyes and realized that it was the Pixie's. Clearly, this man is fully aware of his shortcomings, because he was armored with tricks. He tried to switch out his little toy for his even littler toy, but I grabbed the vibrator with all my girl strength. We struggled, but I wouldn't relent. Finally, he let go of the pulsating bullet, and I attached it to my lady. He slid his breakfast sausage inside me, and I was too focused on my own feelings to bother with what he was doing. Before I could even finish I had man-mucus splashing at me from what seemed to be all directions. Most guys pick a spot and aim, but he exploded on my shirt, my hands, my belly, and my hip. Who knew such a small wee-wee could be so messy.

I finished myself off and fell right to sleep, and it wasn’t till I woke up the next morning that I saw the mess he made on my body. I hopped up to shower, then decided that I may as well get ready to hit the airport.

"No, no don't do that. Take your clothes back off and play with me." He said play with me. I say play with me. Tester bottles at the Victoria's Secret Store say Play with Me. Men do not ask to be played with. "No," I said firmly, and then I pulled a line out of my bag of women tricks. "I don't feel good about myself right now," I answered, and finally he left my pussy alone. He lay back down, but he wanted pillow talk and what he said began to scare me. He wanted to come visit me in Atlanta, he was worried that I had a boyfriend, and he kept talking about me being with him and helping him around his house. He was whipped and I hadn’t even given him the good pussy. He was a desperate, jealous, 26 year old single man with three kids. He was fervently looking to lock down a relationship immediately.

I kept up the charade. I told him he could visit. He could stay for as long as he wanted. No there were no other men in Atlanta. Yes, I would like that. Really, I wanted to shut him up so I could get my ride to the airport. Since he jizzed all over my shirt, he offered to give me one of his. He handed me a tiny DKNY sweater that is probably DKNY Kids. Moreover, as he put on his jeans he said, “these are girl’s jeans and I didn’t even know. I had my daughter try them on but she’s too wide in the hips for them.” I didn’t comment, because I knew only mean thoughts would spill from my mouth.

When we got to the airport, he said “wait, I don’t have your number,” just as I was stepping out of the cab. “I’ll call you, I answered,” though I knew I never would.

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