I'm still trying to understand the precise moment our encounter went to shit. At the bar you were about the hottest guy I'd ever met and I wanted to ride you like a Pony Express rider fleeing from an indian attack. With or without my beer goggles on (OK, 3 cocktails and 2 beers), you are one hot man--that ass, those fine blue eyes, ripped abs, beautiful arms. And when you made me reach my hand down your pants to feel your thickness, I got so wet I nearly slid off the barstool.
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Warning sign #1: your car. Empty Big Gulp cups stacked so high I'm sure they spilled out the window when you turned a corner. SCREEEEEE #2: your fish tank. The smell hit me when you we were walking down the hall to your apartment. Scum so thick I expected Nemo to kamikaze his way towards the ocean and his father at any moment. EEEEEEEEEEEEEE #3: your toilet. Where apparently a bag of Hershey kisses met its demise at the hands of a suicide bomber. EEEEEEEEEEE #4: your technique. Just lick the damn thing, don't jab at it like it's fighting back. EEEEEEEEECH Hear that sound? It's my libido screeching to a halt.
And I thought it would have been trashy for you to fuck me outside the bar by that dumpster where that bum barfed all over himself and the dog was eating his own feces. At least I could have pulled my panties up and gone in for another drink.