Sexy_bottle_and_pea_shoots

I Never

 

Have you ever played the game called “I Never?”  It’s a drinking game where you begin by making a statement of denial and end up revealing your true self in one sentence. Much like life.  Each person takes a turn mentioning some unfathomable act of debauchery they participated in, and then anyone who’s had the same experience downs a shot of liquor, subtly signifying they too, say… had sex with siblings.  Not their “own siblings,” some other families siblings!  It might be obvious why it’s imperative to be concise during this game.

 

So, in the game, you’d say, “I never screwed someone while my lover lay sleeping in the other room.”  Meaning, you absolutely have done that and are secretively proud of it, though never get to admit it.  A few people drink along with you.  And then you add an addendum, “Although, in my defense, it began as a threesome, when the girlfriend fell asleep, we decided to carry on in the other room.”  Everyone then moans at having drunk unnecessarily.  Three-ways aren’t as popular as you would like to think.

 

There’s always a good story behind the simple declarative statement, “I never…” Like, I usually “never” take a date to a gay club.  There is a good reason for this.  Why dangle colored string in front of a kitty before it knows how to find its way home.  But I was on a date once and a strange thing happened.  I was bored out of my fucking can.  It was like we were having two separate conversations.  I was on the random track to see where the subject would lead organically, and she was attempting to have an interview session that required a number two pencil.  So I thought, “I’ll take her to a club.”  Loud throbbing music, other women, string for both kitties.  Off we go to the club.  And now, perhaps she senses something is wrong because she’s on me like syrup drenched waffles.  I try to shake her but she just sucks in closer.  I have to speak to her, because it’s starting to look dangerous from the aerial cameras.  “Look,” I say.  “Let’s pretend we have known each other a long time and each need a little breathing room.  I’ll go this way, you go that way, and when we meet up in a bit, it’ll be super hot, like when we first met.  Cool?”

She nodded reluctantly.

 

So I took off in the other direction and everything would have been fine, except I ran headlong into this ridiculously attractive girl I had dated years prior, and things had not ended well,  . . . for her.

 

She had spotted us entering the venue, which in turn cued her to crave me like I was “the unattainable one that got away.”

 

Note: Telling a girl who is wicked hot and coincidentally twelve times better looking than you, that you can no longer date her, will only insure that she tracks you forever trying to solve the bizarre riddle, “How could She have possibly left Me?”

 

So the tall, blond, slender, gorgeous, ex model, slithers up beside me, whispering in my ear, “Meet me in the bathroom immediately.”  I’m sort of naive, so I’m thinking she needs to borrow gloss.  I take a glance across the room at the delicious brunette I brought with me.  She is getting on nicely with friends by the bar, so I decide she won’t notice if I duck in the woman’s room for a moment.

 

That’s when things got clear, then quickly blurred.  The former part came when the blond threw me up against the bathroom wall jogging my memory as to why I stopped dating her.  Don’t get me wrong, I like aggressive girls, but long nails can make an impression, besides just your admiration of a good French tip.  I opted quickly to sacrifice only my back to her gouges, as I repelled down her body like a Spelunker descending an ice cave.  Luckily the floor was large and surprisingly clean, because before I knew it we were blocking out scenes from Quest for Fire like early man before Cable.  Flesh was broken, blood was spilled, and every orifice filled, until we lay beaten and quivering on the floor, like two single cell organisms recognizing we’d never amount to more.

 

That’s when it got blurry.  I knew I had to forget everything or I would recap the event for my real date.  Alcohol affects me like sodium pentothal forcing me to over-volunteer.  I once told a cop during my only sobriety test, “I’ve had only two drinks, vodka cocktails, actually.  Okay, they were Martini’s, and I know the bartender, so we’re talking triples!”

 

We managed to exit the bathroom through the mob that had been waiting in line, but upon passing, all their angry sneers turned to smiles at the recognition that we had just completed number four on their top ten fantasies list.

 

Of course, I did tell my date how I’d behaved like a scoundrel while apologizing profusely.  Later that evening she rewarded me with rougher sex than I ever had.  Seriously, I had to see a doctor.

“I Never had to see a doctor after rough sex…” Everyone drink.