I went to the Wicked Wahine Bowl Jam to get laid. I figured that this might be one of my only chances to easily secure the vagina of a ripper. I showed up late to the contest, by the time I’d found parking and made my to Bellmar’s pad the first heat was already underway. What a boner-fest! The chicks were ripping up Bellmar’s pool like it was business as usual. And I was ready for them when they were finished, dressed up in my best male pro ho rig.
The more I drink, the better I look. I figured that I needed about seven or eight beers to bring myself up to the level where I was completely irresistible. And, I was right. After proper lubrication my game spilled from my lips with a fluidity with which one must be born.
I made my way to behind where all the girls were taking their runs. Maybe it’s just me, but, something about a pair of low cut jeans just barely covering a well shaped ass is the stuff of dreams. And, for some reason, when you toss a big- ass raspberry, bruises and scabs on there, it is just so much hotter. So, there I sat, trying not to be too obvious about where I was looking, but also letting the ladies know that I was available for a post session romp, should the need strike.
I was ready to become the bitch of one of these rippers. I was there for the taking. I struck a pose, my back arched, my buttocks clearly extended.
Then, one of the ladies broke off from the herd for a smoke. Sensing she was detecting my pheromones I moved in for the kill. Like a drunken cheetah slowly stalking its prey, I waited for the precise moment, then struck.
“Hey, HEY!” I whispered silkily, “Ya gotta light?”
She did. I batted my eyes seductively and stood, legs akimbo, in a posture highly suggestive of sexual wantonness. But, despite my nonverbal cues, or, perhaps, because of them, she turned and made her way back to the bowl.
I didn’t get laid at the Wicked Wahine Bowl Jam. But, later that night, with the memories still fresh in my mind, I had sex with myself eyes closed, and pretended I did.