I'm like a cat. I always end up on all fours.

Stroke me, stroke me
Give me the business all night long
Stroke me, stroke me
Stroke me, stroke me
You're so together boy
Stroke me, stroke me
Say you're a winner but man you're just a sinner now



When I lived in the city, it was a time of debauchery. When I say debauchery, I mean extreme debauchery: hellbound actions kind of debachery. I mean mad fucky times. I worshipped at the pulsing cock of our Lord, circa 2003.

I had moved away from my ex of 3-ish years, and wanted no part of any kind of commitment. Even a two-year cell phone contract was too much.
I never wanted a relationship with any of my boys from the city, instead, I wanted to bang as many men as possible, leaving a wake of condoms and carnage behind.

Having said that, today I started thinking about John. Poor, nice, disposable John.

I met John through one of my friends who thought that 'John' would be the guy to make me stop my crazy dating ways. He thought John would cure what ailed me. Wrong, buddy. WRONG.

So, one night after work, my buddy calls me up, and asks me if I want to hang out with him and John. A night with my buddy usually equalled drinks, which was always held in high regard. I said yes.

I ended up meeting them in Bricktown, where beers were consumed, stories shared, and I actually sort of liked this John character. For one, he was a Marine. To me, Marine = the kind of guy who could not only kill, but fuck me red, white, and if I was very, very lucky, blue. Ah, the Marines.
Other than being extremely fuckable, John was smart, witty, and had that one thing I looked for in guys at that time: a cock.

After a few more drinks, my buddy left. A few drinks after that, I decided to go to John's Sin Shack, and Semper Fi the shit out of him.

When we got to his place, he ripped my shirt off, which was very hot. We were saying all kinds of terriblydirtyawfulwonderful things to each other, when John decides he will go in for the kill, and throw me some oral sex.
Now, oral sex is great, don't get me wrong, fellas. But at this stage of drunkenness, I just wanted to be (to use Roxy's words) "pounded into the bed".
I wanted him to (thanks Nish) beat it up like I stole something. I wanted him to throw me a fuck the likes of which would end up in the Guinness Book of World Records. Or the emergency room. Either way = win.

He would not be dissuaded, and really wanted to lube up my v-bone with some of his bar breath, so I let him. I started to think about other stuff, when it happened.

When I say it, I mean FUCKING IT. The pain from my no-no was so bad, I thought that maybe John's bed had come equipped with a bear trap. The guy was a Marine, after all.
No bear trap like I'd originally thought. Worse. It was John's teeth. He was chewing up my no-no like it was the gristle on a steak. Like it was a wayward blob of bubbleyum.

What happened next, I must credit to my vagina. Because she wasn't having NONE of that shit. At that moment, I was no longer in charge of things. My vagina stepped up, and took over.
I think I yelled really loud, because John's face came up out of my thrill zone for a moment, and as soon as I saw his eyes, one foot connected with John's cheek bone, the other with his shoulder. And that is how John was launched, catapulted, fucking vagina punched off the bed.

He went flying.

And by flying, I mean it was some fucking Matrix shit.

He hit the wall really hard. And was quiet.
I thought he was probably stunned, and pissed, so I slowly eased my nekkid body off the bed, and looked at him.
He was out cold.

I thought about making a run for it. Maybe wiping my vagina sauce off his face first (I'd watched shows like CSI and knew about DNA), but instead, I shook him. And he slowly came to.

My bubblegum vagina forgotten, I asked him if he was okay. He was. Stunned, maybe slightly concussed, but okay.
And of course, he wanted to know what happened.

Now would've been the time to tell him, right? Maybe something to the tune of "John, a vagina isn't Dentyne." Instead, when he asked me why I kicked him, I told him I saw a spider. Weak.

So, he asked me to stay the night with him (he had a headache--hahahahahahaha). We ended up laying in his bed, and us both being naked, we started kissing a little bit.
I thought I'd even throw him a fuck. I mean, I'd knocked him unconscious, the least I could do is dole out some v. (I know, I'm a fucking giver. If they gave out Nobel prizes for vag, I'd definitely be in the running. Just sayin').

The sex turned out to be fucking amazing. I mean, it was phenomenal. Afterwards, I laid beside him, spent, and then had a horrible thought. What if this amazing sex was the result of his concussion? What if after tonight the magic ended?

So, I did what any good Christian would. I fucked him all night.

I even fucked him under his picture of Ronald Reagan in the living room. I felt it was my duty as an American. Or maybe it was more of a "take that, Alzheimers!"

After all was said and done, John was asleep (sex coma, not real coma), I left.

----

A few days later my buddy called me, laughing hysterically. He ran into John, and they had a nice, long talk about yours truly. John was sporting a bruised cheekbone, and was well on his way to falling for me.

---

The End.