Had a beer with my old buddy Hank last night. Whenever I begin drying up on the whole writing thing, Hank provides great material.
“So, how goes it, Hankie Hankerson?”
“Meh. All good. How’s the book coming along?”
“Stalled like my ’65 Mustang in high school.”
“Ah. Fear not. I had another noteworthy almost-exchange of body fluids last night.”
“Do tell … unless it involved spitting into each other’s mouths.”
“Not on the first date, silly.”
Hank went on to explain that he met a trio of women in a local pub. Hank and I share the strategy of not hitting on the hottest one immediately because she usually morphs into the hottest mess after a few margaritas. Hank said he slow-played it and progressed by suggesting another bar stop. That narrowed the field to two prospects. One of the prospects had a young boyfriend she kept musing over, so his target was apparent.
Naturally, at the second bar, the woman with the young boyfriend met an even younger boy and she came down with relationship amnesia. She toyed with the boy. Hank concentrated on the sole survivor.
They flirted and teased. They avoided religion and politics. Hank assured her that he was unmarried and stable. Hank didn’t care if she was married and unstable, “because … priorities.”
Hank walked her to her car and they made out a bit. There was the usual progression from shy closed-lip smooching to full-on road-side gropage.
She relented and suggested one more round.
“Let’s go back to my place, Hank. You’re not some crazy serial killer or herpes-laced rapist, are you?”
“I got a parking ticket last month.”
“Hm. On second thought. Just kidding. Let’s go.”
At her place, the first thing Hank noticed was dogs barking as they entered. Cock-Blocker number one was a howling mess known as a Basset Hound. Cock-Blocker number two was a one-year-old 140-pound beast of a Pyrenees.
Hank explained his frustration.
“Dude, the one just stood by the door and howled while the other kept bringing over this slobber-soaked plastic thing for me to throw, all while I was trying to undo Miss Thang’s thangs.”
“Did you say one hundred forty pounds?”
“Yep. The dog was bigger than her. I kept trying to toss the toy into a corner where the dog couldn’t reach, but eventually, that fucker would come back time and time again. Once, I tossed it into the right spot giving me enough time to undress her fully, lift her onto the counter, and go for home plate. You know?”
“Maybe I’m a germaphobe, Meatloaf, but I’m about to ask an odd question. You were constantly grabbing that slobbery plaything, right? So, your fingers were full of dog slop. Then, you were (sorry, if I’m assuming here) plucking her fiddle, so to speak, right?”
“Oh, fuck. I didn’t even think of that.”
“Well, she must have thought of it. No?”
“Didn’t say anything or pull away. Maybe that extra lube was helpful?”
“Gross, dude. Jesus Christ. Just fast forward. I need a beer. Did you fuck her?”
“No. I was sufficiently cockblocked. But, as a funny side note, her dog totally chewed up her bra.”
“Guess he did not approve of her latest pet adoption, Hankiepoo.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not giving up on that one. I’m bringing a pocket full of doggie CBD treats to the next encounter.”
What a fucked-up world we live in. It’s why I write and drink alone next to sleeping cats who have no interest in chewing undergarments.
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