How Vomit Can Kill a One-Night Stand
When I got out of grad school, I took a job at a small publishing company. One of the magazines we produced was a career guide for nurses. So, as fate would have it, I found myself attending lots of meetings and events with, er, nurses.
One night, after a "gala" event hosted by the publisher, a 50 year old and stunningly hot nurse started cozying up to me--fueled by booze, the fact that I was a good 29 years younger than her, booze and probably booze. A few hours later, she invited me back to her place. I was waffling at first, but the whiskey pumping through my veins and her constant tongue-in-my-ear action melted my resolve. "I'm going to bang this fifty year old nurse," I decided. And that was that.
Only, it wasn't. Because on the way to her place, she offered me a cigarette. And feeling a bit James Bond, I accepted, despite the fact that smoking makes me sicker than a hobo's balls. We got back to her place, and it was decision time. Do I take a moment to excuse myself to puke, or do I just keep things rolling. The latter won, and before I knew up from down, my head was spinning, my lungs were burning, my stomach was beginning its revolt, and this 50 year old nurse had me pinned to the wall of her kitchen, grinding her fully-clothed ass against my fully-clothed hard-on. Two minutes later, I was hoisting her up on the counter, my tongue down her throat, and I felt it. The slow churn of rising vomit.
A better man would have simply turned away, excused himself, and retreated to the bathroom. But I was green. With a woman older than my mother. Who was stroking my cock with one hand. And kneading my nuts with the other. How do I just say, "Er, can I take a breather?" Dude, I'll look amateur!
Just then, she hiked her skirt, pushed my face from her stomach to her crotch, and I went to work. About seven seconds later, I turned my head and covered her kitched floor with puke.
Worse timing? Hell no. She recoiled, closed her legs and pushed me away. I stumbled back, whammed into her fridge and knocked magnets six ways to Sunday. Then I slipped on my own puke and landed on my ass.
Needless to say, the mood was shot. The night was over. And, no, I never did get invited back.
The lesson here? Take care of shit like that before you get down to business.
One night, after a "gala" event hosted by the publisher, a 50 year old and stunningly hot nurse started cozying up to me--fueled by booze, the fact that I was a good 29 years younger than her, booze and probably booze. A few hours later, she invited me back to her place. I was waffling at first, but the whiskey pumping through my veins and her constant tongue-in-my-ear action melted my resolve. "I'm going to bang this fifty year old nurse," I decided. And that was that.
Only, it wasn't. Because on the way to her place, she offered me a cigarette. And feeling a bit James Bond, I accepted, despite the fact that smoking makes me sicker than a hobo's balls. We got back to her place, and it was decision time. Do I take a moment to excuse myself to puke, or do I just keep things rolling. The latter won, and before I knew up from down, my head was spinning, my lungs were burning, my stomach was beginning its revolt, and this 50 year old nurse had me pinned to the wall of her kitchen, grinding her fully-clothed ass against my fully-clothed hard-on. Two minutes later, I was hoisting her up on the counter, my tongue down her throat, and I felt it. The slow churn of rising vomit.
A better man would have simply turned away, excused himself, and retreated to the bathroom. But I was green. With a woman older than my mother. Who was stroking my cock with one hand. And kneading my nuts with the other. How do I just say, "Er, can I take a breather?" Dude, I'll look amateur!
Just then, she hiked her skirt, pushed my face from her stomach to her crotch, and I went to work. About seven seconds later, I turned my head and covered her kitched floor with puke.
Worse timing? Hell no. She recoiled, closed her legs and pushed me away. I stumbled back, whammed into her fridge and knocked magnets six ways to Sunday. Then I slipped on my own puke and landed on my ass.
Needless to say, the mood was shot. The night was over. And, no, I never did get invited back.
The lesson here? Take care of shit like that before you get down to business.
Labels: my dumb life
<< Home