Butt Barnacles

            “We have? Where?” she mused, smiling in belief.

            “Havasu this summer—at Kokomos.”

            “Hmmm. Are you sure?”

            “Yep.”

E.J., Punchline, Vick, and I had come to Cabo Cantina at the tail end of a limo-bus party for some chick’s birthday. Vick was busy making progress with his guaranteed hook-up; Punchline had already gone home with his guaranteed hook-up; and E.J. and I were still free men. Conveniently, Tori’s friend, a tall brunette, was trashed and all over E.J. He began making out with her with the clever line: “They’re making out, so I think we should too.” I later commended him on this; it’s a great way of talking about something that has nothing to do with anything to get what one wants. The four of us left the bar thirty minutes later.

It was either my place–with my dirty room, and guest bedroom for E.J–or Tori’s place in San Clemente another forty-five minutes south. I smartly convinced Tori to drive us the twenty minutes back to my place, so we could “have a drink.” E.J. and I ditched our cars in Newport, unsure of how we’d ever make it back. A mistake most guys make is they worry too much about their “ride” or “how they’ll get home in the morning,” which leads to hesitation, followed by a lonely walk/drive home, which results in them masturbating, fantasizing about the girl with whom they blew it. It’s quite simple: Stop worrying; take an adventure; things will work out.

The garage fridge had two options for alcohol: Coors (three years ago McBride inexplicably bought a thirty-pack of Coors for a pre-party; twenty-eight of them now remained), or Coors Light (much to my friends’ dismay, I am a fan of Coors Light). In an effort to help rid our fridge of Beer cancer, I drank a Coors; Tori had Coors Light. E.J. and his girl went straight to the guest bedroom.

Tori and I each drank two sips before retreating to my room. Our clothes came of immediately. A blowjob followed. Disgustingly, Tori failed the finger test with a scent similar to Burger King. So instead of doing anything selfless to her, I put the condom on and started plowing. Missionary at first, but the BK Whopper aroma made it’s way back to my nostrils. I’m still unsure why I expected doggystyle to be better, but I flipped her over anyway and went at it. Her ass was fatter than I remembered from the bar, so I kept my gaze on her bucking blonde hair. Then I looked down. 

My room’s only light was the glow of my computer, so I’ll do my best to describe what I saw. On Tori’s asshole resided two yellowish growths mysteriously similar to Corn Pops. I leaned my head in to get a better look, but it was too dark. I was mystified yet frightened. The festooning objects were too big to be warts but too unsmelly to be shit. I reached down and squeezed one of them. It was soft and squishy like a miniature Nerf football; and it actually shrunk after my squeeze! After I squeezed, she became startled. “What’s wrong?” she asked, craning her head around.

            “Nothing,” I said. Two half-ass thrusts followed, but I’d gone soft and she’d gone dry. I stopped. We lay there wordless for another five minutes until she left. She tried to get her friend to leave with her, but the bed rattling and moaning could be heard through the walls. Tori got in her car and waited for them to finish. I showered and then went to bed. The nightmares that followed:

-I am a character in the movie “Austin Powers.” I enter a red and orange room to find Fat Bastard eating two giant chicken drumsticks, chunks clinging to his face and chest.

-I am playing in our annual Thanksgiving early-morning football game. I am quarterback. I have a receiver wide open in the endzone! I throw him the ball, but it deflates in mid-air.

-I am eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

-I am sucking on a nice set of real tits. But suddenly they fizzle away.

-I need to pee. I run to a Porto-Potty marked “Vacant.” I swing the door open to find it already occupied by Tori. She smiles at me. Then she farts. Then a soft “plop” noise echoes off the plastic walls.

The next morning, E.J and I woke up sometime after eleven. We called Punchline, and he picked us up and dropped us off at our cars. But before doing so we ate at a Mexican joint. I ordered a chicken burrito. Thankfully, the chicken was shredded.