Always Remember Where You Parked

**This is a Story I revised from an old blog**

“I can trust you right?” the voice said on my phone. It had such a calming tone as if the person on the other end already knew the answer. I could tell it was just a knee jerk reaction. Ol’ boy and I had never officially met in real life yet, but we had messaged back and forth on a forum we both write on. He was a vet and I was just a young grasshopper in training.

“Yea man, I got you.” I said in a chill voice.

“Okay, I’ll hit you up where we are heading in a bit,” He answered back.

I hung up. My mood was already high from hitting on group of girls at H&M earlier. The main chick had a blonde daddies little girl attitude, that screamed for me to playfully put her in her place. She was standing at the checkout line having a serious internal crisis about whether to buy a necklace.

“I’m really hoping you take one more step, because I am totally taking your spot in line.” I said with a coy smirk. My eyes locked with hers. She froze a bit, and had a confused look about her as if to register that this total stranger has read her body language. From there it was classic back and forth teasing. During pauses, I would stare at her ass determining if it was more onion or apple shaped. I never reached a definite verdict, but leaned towards apple.

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My boy hit me back and I hopped in my 2016 Navigator rental to meet him. Never mind the fact that I’m late returning it and have Jerry from Alamo leaving me stern voicemails. Ol’ boy called with an SOS flag needing a wing man to run interference, don’t be an ass Jerry. Plus, he dropped the line that she was from France. Never met a French chick before, but I’ve also never met a normal person from the internet before. Hopefully this will be a first.

The spot was popping off as I pulled in. The street was all blocked off due to the debauchery. I parked at a random garage and proceeded to get lost multiple times on my way to the bar, typical occurrence for a new Floridian. No worries though, I’ll just ask the nice citizens of South Florida for directions. “Excuse me miss do you know whe-”

“GO AWAY, I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!”

Got to love the hospitality around these parts.

Finally, I find the place and meet up with my internet friend. He’s right up my alley, chill guy, and has a vision for his future, which is one of the things that brought us together.

He introduces me to his friends and without hesitation drops a hint of information about how this French girl looks more like Crystal from the blueberry farm. No curve-ball my way, saw that one coming. But I’m here for the fun of the night.

And like a scene from a bad horror movie she walks in. 7 feet tall, short hair, and broad shoulders. My money is on her if she challenged Shaq to a 1-1 game. But being the polite guy I am, I introduce myself to her and shake hands.

“Jesus Fuck!” I say out loud. Her meaty calloused hands are twice the size of mine. One hand job and my dick will become dust! No bueno!

We plow through the rest of the night. I’m having a blast chilling with my new homie, flirting with some women, and he is all over his girl. Everyone parts ways and I’m left with Frenchy. We chit-chat about why she’s in the states. She won a scholarship and is living out a dream to study here. As a poor educated man myself, I can respect that.

Eventually, I say my goodbyes and roll outside. I get the street corner and realize I have no idea where I parked. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to this city. All the parking garages look the fucking same. While, I’m trying to retrace my steps in my buzzed head, there is a tap on my shoulder.

I turn.

”Could I get a ride from you?” said Frenchy with eyes that said she wanted more than a ride. You gots to be kidding me.

I immediately forgot about where my car was. I had a serious dilemma. I’m on a cold streak, should I fuck this monstrosity of a women or not? The pros and cons get weighed out very quickly.

Pro: I’m drunk, horny, and will break my cold streak

Con: There is a good possibility that she does kegels as a part of her workout and her washboard pussy will snap my dick off.

Pro: That could be a funny story to write about later.

Fuck it, pros win.

I grab her waist and pull her close. We begin walking. “The car is this way.” I said in an assuring tone. To kill some time I began teasing her about how french girls don’t shave their armpits. This goes on for a bit and she eats it up.

I’m like a magician doing misdirection. I’m flirting on the outside, but scanning around the street on the inside.

Remember Dammit! Where the fuck did you park!

After walking down different blocks in circles, 30 minutes later I start to get the sense she knows somethings up. Time to kick it up a notch.

“Oh there is the 7-11,” I say.

My old roommate taught me that trick. I throw in another for good measure.

“Here I thought we where on 4th street, ohhhhh. Sorry I’m an idiot sometimes.”

Nailed it! This works for another half hour.

Unfortunately I still can’t find the damn parking garage!

The jig is up and it’s painted all over my body language. She senses it. Nothing I can do at this point. I know what’s coming.

“You don’t know where you parked, do you?”

No hesitation, “Yea, I have no idea.”

She takes a step back and let’s go of my hand. She pulls out her phone.

“I’m going to Uber home. But it was nice to meet you.”

And just like that, the factory closes down for business.

Things I have a Better Chance at than Winning the F(r)iction Flash Fiction Contest

-Meet a sane woman off Tinder

-See MSU win the NCAA Tournament

-Have Greg Graffin pull me on stage at the Bad Religion concert next month and let me yell out the “Yah Yah Yah” part on 21st Century (Digital Boy)

-Meet DT and have him not be a dick

Run into Dirk at 7-11 again

-Meet my neighbor at 303

-Move back to Florida

-Actually meet a real person off kik.

-Win the Powerball on Saturday

-Tell everyone to fuck off at work on Monday when I win the Powerball

-Beg for my job back on Thursday when I realize they pay a Million Dollars in increments that make the amount to be less than what I make now

-Actually learn the grammar and spelling rules I should’ve learned in 3rd grade when instead I daydreamed about playing Jimi Fender Strat

-Write a bunch more stories because I actually enjoy it

-Submit those stories to other contests, thus starting a never ending cycle

The Neighbor and Shape

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Dear Neighbor at 303,

I believe your name is Hannah, or at least that is who the March issue of Shape is addressed to. Although we’ve never met in person, this magazine was sitting in my mailbox a couple weeks ago. I meant to give it back to you then, but I became enthralled with the issue. Majority of the shit I read is a mixture of bad online dating profiles, technical work shit, and lots of fiction. Needless to say, it was a breath of fresh air when I read the 62 ways to nurture my body and brain. Apparently I already do number 36, so I’m ahead of the game.

Unfortunately, not everything is gold in this zine. On page 28, they say Go Bold with your Tights Game! This is horseshit. Every bimbo at L.A. fitness in the DFW area is doing that right now. Fashion is an expression and they’re saying with that is “I got dressed in the dark and I’m replacing my fashion sense with squat reps.” Don’t be that girl. Nobody likes that girl. Also on page 2, they have a picture of Shay Mitchell from the cover standing in a tall grass field when it’s obvious she just had a Brazilian done before the shoot. Kind of a dick move on the photographer’s part, don’t you think? I would imagine her thighs would be itchy enough without the wind rubbing tiny blades of grass on them. But I’m a guy, so what do I know?

Anyways, I apologize for having this for so long, but technically you’re still getting the March issue in March, so I think your still making out okay.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor at 302.

PS. To answer your lingering question: Yes, I was loaded when I wrote this.

The Difference Between Men and Women

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Men’s Fantasy: I want you to wear a tight dress and heels, so everyone will be jealous of me at the club.

Women’s Fantasy: I want you to eye me from across the room on your first day at work and flash your pretty white teeth. I want you to go back to talking with your new co-workers and continue to get acclimated with the new computer system. Hours later, during the boring 2:30 period, I’ll be making copies in the tiny supply room. I want you to walk in and slam the always open wooden door behind you. I want your blue eyes to be locked on mine and your mouth to never move. I want to awkwardly introduce myself, to which you ignore, and come at me without hesitation like a tidal wave. I want you to start kissing my neck, lift me up, hike up my skirt, and slam my ass against the cold metallic folding table. I want you to undo your belt and slam your hard member into me. Half way through, I want you to bend me over the copy machine, so I can feel the bright light burn my eyes as copies of my face as shoot out during the climax. Then I want you to put your pants back on and walk out back to your desk, like nothing ever happened.

Men’s: I want to hit it doggy, and smack your ass while you yell “Ay Papi!”

Women’s: I want you to dress up in a ski mask and attack me from behind as I enter my apartment late from my workout one Tuesday. I want to drop my gym bag midway at the door and you to cover my mouth as I use my remaining breath to scream for help. I want my left hand to club you across the head with my Louis Vuitton and rush frantically into my bedroom searching for something to defend myself with. I want you to stick your foot between the door as I try to slam it and overpower me with your tight muscular arms that bulge out of the black UnderArmor shirt. I want you to slam me down over the dresser, tear the middle of my yoga pants, and ravage me as I scream for bloody murder. I want to continue to fight back at first but give in toward the end when I’m close. I want my body to shake with delight and have wet fluid monsoon down on your hard cock. After you cum, I want you to help me pick up the rest of ransacked apartment and ask me about my day at work.

Men’s: I want to fuck you hard and finish with a load in your face.

Women’s: I want to walk into your corner office that says CEO on the door. I want to live in the sexual tension between the two of us, while your sitting in the giant red chair with brass buttons. I want you to drool at the sight of my tight grey pencil skirt as I run my hands across the stained oak desk on my way over to you. I want to take a deep breath and ask for your signature, emphasizing the word “Boss”. I want to knock down the papers on the desk and gulp as I slowly bend down to get them. I want to see your Italian suit pants try its best to contain your hard dick. I want to slowly unzip your pants and force take the entire thing in my wet mouth. I want to you say softly “Not here” but not do anything to stop it. I want to not stop the forceful suction when I feel my hair brush up against the oak due to the incoming footsteps. I want to hear you struggle to contain your load when the most powerful man in the building tries to take care of an invoice issue with Jim from the Accounting department. I want to feel the warm spunk hit the back of my throat, just as I hear Jim’s shoes walk in the opposite direction. I want to wipe my mouth, pick up the rest of my papers, and walk back to my desk.

Men’s: I want to stick it in your butt.

Women’s: I want to wake up completely strapped down to a retractable chair with my feet in stirrups in an unfamiliar room. I want a single blinding light on my face. The only thing I want to wear is a medical gown and I want to barely make out the glimmer from the various shiny instruments on the table to my left. I want my tits to feel sore from struggling to free myself from the rope around them. I want you to enter with a white coat and your eyes studying my figure up and down. I want to yell out questions that go unanswered like “Who are you?” and “Why are you doing this?”. I want to hear the clink of grabbing an instrument of the tiny steel table. I want you to start the buzzing of the vibrating instrument and duck under my gown. I want to feel the rubber end of the instrument creep up around my thighs and eventually up to my clit. I want to squirm back and forth and try to fight the tingling feeling within my toes. I want to have sweat pour down my face as I quiver uncontrollably. I want to scream out as I lose the battle and release a steady stream of hot liquid. After, I want you to stand up and set the instrument back on the small tray. Then I want to see you write something on a clipboard and leave the room, while I pant fearlessly, trying to catch my breath.

 

-This post is dedicated to my home girl at but she was fierce. She’s a amazing writer, especially when it comes to erotica, and after reading some of her work I wanted to try it out myself. Turns out, women’s sexual fantasies are way more fun to write about than guys. Who knew?

Ps – For the record these would all be consensual acts #Don’tsueI’mpoor