Making sense of my adventures with women, one disaster at a time.

Honey Buns

Exactly three years removed from the trauma with the Grandma and her horny wiener dog Nicholas, I was back in Ventura County again for Ed’s birthday. Charles picked me up from my parents’ house, and we made the short drive to Ed’s. Since graduating high school together back in 1999, Charles has evolved from math geek to poker professional to big time sleazeball. A fast-talker who is fascinated with all the latest breakthroughs in stocks, poker, and womanizing tips, Charles is easily stimulated. An avid reader of my stories, he recently expressed his disappointment in my inability to come through in the clutch (blown threesomes). But on this night, I showed him what legends are made of.

Ed’s birthday party was a family ordeal, so he was obligated to his house for the night. Charles and I made an appearance for a couple hours and then fled to Bogey’s, a local bar/club that had developed into a cougar cesspool over the past year. We met up with Kelsey, Locke, and Louie. Big things were expected of me from the start. The problem with starting a blog about one-night-stands is that every time I go out, I am expected to get laid. What these guys don’t realize is that getting laid on any given night takes serious perseverance, aggression, and luck. It isn’t easy being sleazy.

“Come on, Mr. Glenn, show us what you got,” Charles dared me. 

“In time. The night is young. I’m trying to be mysterious right now,” I said.

“Psh. Supposedly you get laid all the time; let’s see your magic.” Charles recently won a $640,000 World Series of Poker championship playing No Limit Hold’em, which had led to success with more women along with a cockier persona.

“I’m going to take a leak. That chick is looking at you. Go talk to her,” I told him.

When I returned from the bathroom, Charles was in deep conversation with the woman I had pointed out to him, an attractive thirty-something brunette with fake breasts and probable fake lips. I leaned up against a post, alone with my beer. From the looks of her body language, she was interested in him. I left my post and made a round through the bar.

When I walked by the dance floor, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face at the bar. Her big blonde hair and athletic figure was impossible to miss. It was Emily, the wiener dog chick, partying on the same night, three years later. I approached her.

Me: “So how is Nicholas?”

Her: [Shocked] “How do you know my Nicholas?”

Me: “Believe me, we are old friends. How is he?”

Her: “He is doing great, but how do you know him? Who are you?”

Me: “I was at your place a few years ago. Nicholas was backing up and running head first into the door.”

Her: [She looked me up and down, trying to extract a memory from her fading brain] “You were at my house?”

I was disappointed she didn’t remember me. How could she not remember? When I first met her, we were making out within thirty seconds. Now she didn’t even recognize me. Had I lost my youthful look over the last three years and aged past her cougar limit? Was I just average at sex? She was only forty-eight now, so the Alzheimer’s hadn’t set in yet. To make myself feel good, I concluded that she was a massive slut who’d probably been with over fifty guys in the past three years. Ed had told me stories about how he had seen her getting cozy on a couch with a new guy at all the local bars. I said a few more mindless words to her and moved on.

Five girls later, I got yanked onto the dance floor by a disgusting forty-two-year-old, who proceeded to mouth-rape me. Drunk, I let it happen. It didn’t last long because when she tried to dish me off to her potato-shaped friend, I made a run for the toilet.  

Fourteen strikeouts later, things were beginning to look grim. The bar was closing in less than an hour, and I had hit on every decent-looking girl in the bar. 0 for 20. I went to the bar to order another drink. On my left I saw a tall, attractive forty-year-old brunette standing next to me. She looked in my direction. The moment we made eye contact, I was forced to come up with a line after only two seconds of observation time. Hesitating after eye contact is not an option. Within those two seconds, I noticed that she had a chain around her waist, and it hung down an extra six inches. Instinct took over.

Me: “What’s with the belt?”

Her: “What about it?”

Me: “Why does it hang down like that?”

Her: “I don’t know. It’s just how I wear it.”

Me: “Was it too big, or is that just your style?”

Her: “It’s my style. Do you like it?”

Me: “Yeah, I do. Where’d you get it? Florida?”

Her: “Florida? Do I look like I’m from Florida? No, I got it at…[somewhere].”

Me: “Oh, right on. So who are you?”

Before BeltGirl could answer, her fifty-something girlfriend, who looked like a zombie with her stringy hair and expressionless face, grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the dance floor. The last thing I heard was the zombie friend saying, “I love this song,” which probably meant she wasn’t trustworthy. I bought my beer and took a leak.

When I exited the bathroom, BeltGirl was standing alone near the bar. I walked up to her and asked, “What happened? I thought that was your song.”

“No, it was her song,” she answered.

We talked for the next thirty minutes. Her friend lingered behind us, awaiting her chance to cockblock. Keeping BeltGirl’s interest piqued, I fazed out the cockblocker to perfection. I found out that BeltGirl’s name was Jackie; she was a forty-year-old divorcee, had a seven-year-old son, and lived thirty minutes away. She refused to kiss me at the bar, so we went out to her car to make out. After ten minutes, it was time to sneakily go for the kill. Here is a breakdown of my attempt:

Me: “Do you have any beer at your place?”                 

Her: “I have a little wine. Is that okay?”                    

Me: “Hmm. We may have to make a stop for beer.”              

Her: “That’s fine. I need to find my friend.”                          

In other words…

Me: “Want to fuck?”

Her: “Sure.”

Me: “Let’s go. Now.”

Her: “OK.”

When we walked inside, Charles confronted me. He had been trying to get hold of me for the past half-hour. I told him not to worry about me; I had a ride. Apparently he and his chick had talked the entire night. He got her number, that’s it. Charles is more of a three-dates-then-fuck kind of guy. I don’t have that kind of patience. We found Jackie’s undead friend and dumped her off at her car one minute away. She’d tried to get Jackie to crash at her place, but Jackie told her she just wanted to go home. Baffled, the friend got out and walked to her car, the loser in the battle for Jackie. I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate myself on my victory…thanks.

The car ride began with the traditional “Don’t expect anything to happen.” I passed the test with, “I know. I just want to drink another beer with you.” Then came the concern over how I would get home. I assured her not to worry; I was a big boy. When she said, “I have two dogs; they’re going to go crazy when they see you,” I got a little scared. The last time a chick’s dog was “crazy to see me,” my salad got tossed without my consent. I thought for a moment and came up with a better alternative. “You know what? Let’s just go to my place.” We made a U-turn and headed to my place. Problem was, it was my parents’ place; and they were home, asleep. Fuck it. Off we went anyway.

I told her my parents were in Cancun and that she just had to make sure to be super quiet because my “baby brother” was asleep in the next room. She believed me. I had fucked once at my parents’ house, but it was years ago, with my girlfriend, and no one was home. This was different. Not only were my parents home, they were just two rooms down the hall. Not to mention the woman I was with was only a decade or so younger than my mom. They may have been friends. All walking, giggling, laughing, smacking, screaming, slurping, and gargling had to be muffled.

We never “stopped for beer,” so I went downstairs to find us some drinks. I was so cautious about my parents that I never turned on a single light anywhere in the house. I crept through the darkness like Darkwing Duck and brought up a daiquiri for her and a Heineken for myself. We took two sips before our lust took over. I leaned her onto my bed, and we began our adventure.

After all the waist-and-above crap, we got down to business. She took my pants off and began deep-throating me. After ten minutes of this, I got bored and greedy. “Lick my balls,” I whispered. She obeyed. After five minutes of this, I decided to test this girl’s limits. People always ask me how I am able to get rimjobs so frequently. I really just think I’m lucky. It’s not like I demand it. Most of them do it themselves. But on this night, I felt like making some demands, like a kid sitting in Santa Clause’s lap. What’s the worst she could do? Say no?

“I want you to lick my asshole,” I whispered.

“You like that?” she asked. 

“Yeah.”

Although the room was almost pitch black, what took place in the next fifteen minutes will forever be a gem of a memory. She slowly inched her tongue down to my asshole. After only ten seconds of licking the actual hole, she lifted her head and asked, “Do you have any honey?”

          “Honey?” I asked.

          “Yeah, or maple syrup.”

          “Uh. I think. I’ll go downstairs and check.”

          “Okay, I just want you to enjoy this.”

I leapt out of bed and literally sprinted butt-naked downstairs before she could change her mind. Three things went through my mind: 1) Damn, my butt must have tasted bad for her to require honey to neutralize the flavor; 2) Bees; 3) How in the hell do I keep finding these butthole-licking babes? And why are they licking my hairy ass? I think if Playboy collected data from fifty random sexually-active guys, me included, and were put into a graph depicting our luck with rimjobs over the past two years, the graph would look something like this:

 

The bear container full of honey stared at me eye-level from the upper-middle shelf. The bear seemed to be smiling mischievously at me. I grabbed it and sprinted back upstairs, penis flopping, slowing down ten steps before I reached the door so Jackie wouldn’t think I worked up some butt sweat. I lay down on the bed, put my legs in the air like a Thanksgiving turkey, and watched as Jackie gave the bear two big jerks to get the honey to the top. She proceeded to squeeze warm honey onto my ass as if I were a breakfast entrée at the local Denny’s. She rubbed the honey around my asshole, lowered her face, and ate me out for nearly fifteen minutes.

I teach high school.

After the salad tossing, we fucked. No condiments were involved. We finished up and collapsed, a duo of sticky oversized biscuits. Before she left, I got a chance to ask her if she had ever done this before:

“Nope. I’ve never licked a guy’s ass before. It just seemed like it was your fetish or something, and I’m all about fetishes. As for the honey…I was just feeling creative.”

I am convinced that there is an article in a Cosmo magazine or something that is brainwashing women to think that rimjobs are a common practice; and for some reason, I am finding all the women that read this article.

She took off around four. I cleaned up the bottles and condom wrappers, and returned the honey to the pantry. My room was disgusting. Everywhere I stepped seemed to be sticky. Lying in my bed was like lying in Velcro. Taking a shower at this time of night may have awakened my parents and caused suspicion, so I stuck it out. I found a soft spot at the edge of my mattress, curled up into the fetal position, and slept. My parents never found out. I think.

I texted her the next day, and she texted me back. There was a legitimate chance of this happening again within the next few weeks. I began looking for ideas of what condiment to use next time. After discussing this story with some friends, we came up with the following ideas:

-Hot fudge
-Tobasco
-Tapatio
-Jack-in-the-box Buttermilk Ranch dressing
-Nutella
-BBQ sauce
-Balsamic vinegar
-Salsa: Thick and Chunky
-Peanut butter and jelly
-Whipped cream
-Roasted marshmallows
-Ice cream or yogurt
-Chicken Tikka Masala
-Some type of chick shot that can be taken out of my asshole as though it were a belly button 

I am open to ideas

  • AK

    How did you miss ketchup?

  • Matt

    The graph made me laugh!!!!! Good work!

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