GIRL 78
BANANA GIRL
It's possible that after Ninja Girl my libido was suppressed. My frustration was getting worse. And the more frustrated I got, the less time I invested in finding "The Girl." I was beginning to believe that my life would be lived out in this loveless, Flying Dutchman limbo, where I dated women but had no real passion for any of them. Once again the ghost of Girl 6, Alayna, came to mind, and I wallowed in the memory of what her expression of lust had felt like.
So when the emails poured in from this cute blonde, I was cynical. Yeah, right, I wrote back, sure you like my profile. Whatever. Perhaps she felt a need to hook me. But at one point she typed this onto the dozenth email we exchanged within three minutes:
"I just want you to know, I'm having breakfast. Special K cereal. With a nice, long, firm banana. It is soooo yummy. I'm licking my lips."
Okay. I might have been cynical, but even I have a central nervous system. That was too much for me. My traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, took over, and soon I was arranging a date.
I met her at a tiki bar ten miles from my door. Finally, I thought, a woman who lives close. I could have walked there. And the woman was cute, I'll give her that. So cute that I didn't notice that she touched all of one calamari but took aboard five of the light beers on tap. After being hit on by the gay bartender for half an hour I was ready for the quieter side of the place, but she wouldn't hear of going to have dinner. Wow, that was strange, a female who turned down a free meal. I asked her why, even alleging that she must not like me. And I was genuinely upset about it. Like I said, the girl was cute.
So she says that rather than go to the other side of the place for dinner, we should hit a bar not far away where there would be a band. But she says, come with me to my house and we'll go in your car.
I smiled to myself - obviously, we might "stop" at her place to pick up something. We got to her place, a lovely townhouse complex, but instead of visiting, she plops right into my passenger seat and starts barking directions to the new bar. I wasn't thrilled, but what the hell.
So at the bar, the band is playing, a particularly toothless group of guys, and my date is a regular. She immediately orders three huge beers and a shot, and looks at me and asks me what I want.
Oh no, I gulp. So I steer her away from the crowded bar to a booth where we can see the band, and I start investigating. Here's what I found out:
* She used to weigh 300 pounds. She had one of those stomach stapling operations. It worked, because the chick I was with was 120 tops. She proved it with a picture. Oh my God, it was her, all 300 pounds of her.
* When I asked how she got to be so big, she told me that she lost her job and her refrigerator crapped out on her on the same day. Then she looked at me as if that were truly the reason.
* I asked her about her last relationship. It had been a good one, she said. He was a power lifter, a muscle head, and he was capable of making her cum a dozen times in a sex session. Her eyes grew misty with remembrance. "I used to make him sit on a hard chair and I'd sit on his lap, facing him, his iron dick in me, and I'd just bounce on him for an hour. Oh GOD could he make me cum! I really miss him."
* I asked why she left him. She didn't, she said.
* I asked why he left her. She held up one finger to interrupt me, yelled at the bartender, "another three beers and a shot, please!" then returned to take the question. "He thought I drank too much." She shrugged, as if the man had been a lunatic.
So she pulls me onto the dance floor and does some of the sluttiest dancing I've ever seen, grinding her ass into my cock, which didn't know whether to harden up in pleasure of go down in humiliation, since every male - and female - eye in the bar was on us.
At half past eleven Banana Girl was bombed. I tried to pull her out of there, to no avail. She stayed until 2, closing time, and as I pulled her out she was slamming down the last half of her beer. The bar tab alone was into three digits just on cheap drafts and shots.
As we left, the dozen guys remaining in the place as the lights were shutting off broke into applause, and two of them gave me grins with a thumbs-up signal. As if to say, dude, you're getting laid! No way, I thought, this girl would be unconscious very soon.
I regretted taking the new Saleen Mustang GT I'd bought on impulse. It was brand new, with four hundred horsepower, and cost what a new Corvette would have. Stupid buy, that was for sure. And to avoid door dents, I'd parked it 500 feet from the door of the crowded bar. Immediately I regretted the date, because ten feet from the bar, Banana Girl went limp in my arms. I carried her to the car, opened the door, and poured her in. I fastened her seat belt and wondered, would she barf in the new interior? Would it forever smell like Banana Girl puke?
Moreover, where the hell was I, and where was her house?
She faded in and out of consciousness as I drove to where I thought she lived. It took almost an hour of slapping her half awake to ask if I should turn, and it was perhaps only four miles to her complex.
Finally we arrived, and I remembered her car, so I parked there, then fished through her purse for her keys. I picked her up, walked her to where she had pointed when she had indicated which townhouse was hers, and quietly tried the key. It was the wrong one. Hoping the cops wouldn't come for me, as I was trying keys in people's doorknobs at half past three in the morning, I tried the door to the left. No luck. Then the one on the right. It opened. I put the keys back in her purse while hoping there was no burglar alarm I'd need to disarm.
I carried her to her bed and laid her down. It wasn't right leaving her in her street clothes, I thought, so I pulled off her shoes and her skirt. Her blouse would be uncomfortable, so I pulled it off too, and as I did, her eyes came open. It was like being confronted by a former corpse.
I just kissed her on the forehead and said, go to bed, honey.
Her only words were, "fuck…me."
Right, I thought. No way.
She was unconscious again in half a second. For all I knew, I had imagined it.
I turned off the light, and got back in the car.
I wondered, where the hell was I? My mapquest had brought me to the bar, not her house.
It took another hour of guessing to get the ten miles home, and I was furious.
Oddly enough, the next day she wrote me like it had been a great date. I was grumpy, but courteous. She actually wanted to see me again.
I was honest with her, saying that she drank too much. She claimed she was nervous, and wanted another chance.
Like an idiot, I said yes, but only if we would stay at her house and not go out. Better to keep her sober, and better to have a chance at fucking her. I still did want to fuck her, after all.
So after debating with myself, I brought her a bottle of wine.
At her place, she frowned. Only one bottle? She walked me to my SUV - not the Saleen this time - and directed me to the liquor store. I was memorizing the navigation waypoints. She bought two more bottles of wine and we went back to her place.
The pizza delivery guy came and she insisted on paying. We had a glass of wine and a slice of pizza, and I was ready for combat.
But she killed all three bottles of wine and was groggy again. I figured it was just part two, but she insisted on taking me to her bedroom and pulling off my clothes. She sucked me for all of twenty seconds - and for those twenty seconds, it was worth all the bullshit up to that point, as the woman should have been nicknamed Goldenmouth - and then she threw me down and straddled me, then reached for my cock and inserted it into her.
It was okay, I suppose, but I wanted to be on top. She wouldn't allow it. So at one point, I pulled out of her pussy and put my cock halfway up her ass, and she slapped me. I'm not kidding. Then she reached back around, put me back in her pussy and kept fucking.
The rhythm was all wrong, and then it happened.
She shut off like a light. Suddenly there was a hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight on top of me. I rolled her over, put the covers on her, and debated. I was still hard and really frustrated. I should stroke my cock and cum on her face, I thought. Six months before I would have, but the spirit had left me.
This was just sad, and I was witness to an addiction and how its tentacles invaded the human soul.
I left and drove home.
Over the next two months, Banana Girl stalker emailed me, offering to be my sex slave, offering to come to my house office and suck my cock at lunch with no reciprocation needed.
I turned her down.
The moral of the story is that substance abuse prevents any kind of meaningful relationship. Even that of fuckbuddy.
No comments:
Post a Comment