[Summer Contest Entry 2012] A Night to Remember

Proper stories are supposed to condemn indecent behavior. This one doesn’t. But before any of you start questioning my paper-thin integrity, I want it to be made perfectly clear that I was under the influence of large volumes of alcohol when all of this took place. It is also a 'truth universally acknowledged' that I am a shameless and morally reprehensible bastard when it comes to underage girls, even when I'm sober. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that when my best friend’s obscenely big breasted sister invited me for a night of heavy drinking, I accepted without batting an eyelash. Actually, now that I think about it, she was almost seventeen at the time so I guess that what I did wasn’t THAT reproachable… if I lived in Sweden.

In any case, I don’t give a shit.

It was an absurdly hot summer night, auspicious for the consumption of recreational drugs and bad decision making. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the necessary financial resources to fund the first option, so I had to make do with the latter. My original plan was to purchase all the cheap booze that ten bucks could buy, get severely wasted with the lowlife scum that I call my dearest friends, return home while I still had some measure of control over my legs, tune in to Fakku.net and have a good time with the latest tentacle porn.

All it took was a single phone call to turn this regular Saturday night into a far more interesting affair. I remember being at the local supermarket, filling my cart with six-packs of imported Belgian beer, amongst other hazardous substances, when my cell phone started ringing. I didn’t even bother to check who was calling; Fat Castro had been busting my balls with instant messages for the last twenty minutes, so I assumed it was him when I picked it up.

“Listen, you impatient, burrito-eating, triple-chinned fuckball, I will get at that piss-ridden pigsty you call a home when I’m finished buying the fucking beer!”

But it wasn’t the voice of an impatient, burrito-eating, triple-chinned fuckball that I heard on the other end of the line.

“That’s one hell of a way to greet your best friend’s sister, Santi.”

“Oh shi- Nia? Fuck. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“Who did you think I was?”

“Someone fatter.” And uglier. “It doesn’t matter. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I just wanted to know if you had any plans for tonight… but if you’re busy…”

“Busy? Far from it. Why? Did you have something in mind?” Why was she calling me all of a sudden? How did she get my number? Should I buy peanuts to go with all these beers? Countless questions were racing through my mind.

“Well… I feel like dancing tonight and I wanted to know if you’d like to join me…” Damn right I would. “How does Jamaica sound?”

Now, this was a serious dilemma. You see, the Jamaica she was talking about was one of those unhygienic R&B joints where questionable people went to drink vodka shots and dance, in a very promiscuous fashion, to R. Kelly’s Bump n’ Grind from dusk till dawn. Inviting someone to go to Jamaica with you was pretty much the same thing as saying “Hey! I wanna fuck. But first, let’s drink vodka.” The problem was, I fucking hate R&B.

But I do like to bump n’ grind.

“Sounds good enough for me. Tell you what, I’m going to have a few beers first, but I’ll come over afterwards.” Drunk enough to forget that I fucking hate R&B, hopefully.

“Perfect! I’m going to wear something special just for you Santi. See you there.” This last part made me as excited as a six year old on Christmas morning.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you, the prospect of getting my dick wet that evening was tantalizing to say the least. I didn’t care that she was just sixteen. I didn’t care that she was my best friend’s baby sister. Truth be told, the only thing that was bothering me was that I had to go to a FUCKING R&B shithole if I wanted to get laid.

That, and the possibility that she might be a virgin, despite all of her femme fatale posturing. That would suck. Seriously, I really don’t get guys who dig virgin girls. What’s to fucking like? They’re terrible in bed, they bleed all over the place and some of them won’t even let you finish because it hurts too fucking much. Me? I like my women like I like my steaks. Well-seasoned.

Which is ironic, since the only thing where she ought to have a vast experience was in doing her homework. Then again, kids nowadays are all having premature sex with each other and a girl with Nia’s body could only keep herself from bumping and grinding for so long.

In all honesty though, if I had given it any more thought I would probably have reconsidered. I can’t say I was neck deep in pussy at the time, but I sure as hell wasn’t desperate either. The thing is though, like a very hairy comedian once said, “God gave Men a brain and a penis, but only enough blood to run one at a time.” I trust you can guess which one was running at that time.

I arrived at Fat Castro’s half an hour later and the fat fuck was pissed. Really pissed. The kind of pissed only a morbidly obese man can get after you eat all of his cheese. Or if you arrive late with his beer.

“What took you so fucking long?!” he roared with his massive arms stretched in front of him like an Italian mobster.

“Your fat ass was obstructing the goddamned highway. Now calm the fuck down and help me unload all this beer into your fridge.”

The whole gang of social misfits was there. Marco was chilling in the sofa with his creepy goth girlfriend, Maddie was beating the shit out of Vincent in Tekken, Henry was doing something weird to Castro’s cat and John was smoking his last cigarette by the window. He didn’t have a single clue.

Twelve beer cans later, I was happier than a vegetarian in a sea of lettuce. Fat Castro had retired to the bathroom, like he usually did when he drank too much, Marco was one step away from dry humping his weird girlfriend, Maddie and Vincent were in an alcohol induced catatonic state, Henry had disappeared with the cat and John was the only one half conscious. I took that as a sign.

“And where are you going?”

“Your sister called. She wants me to show her my moves on the dance floor. Antonio Banderas style.”

“Ha! Real funny asswipe. Wanna get together to watch the game tomorrow?”

“You can bet your ass.”

And just like that, I took the last six-pack, got into my red Opel Corsa and drove away. I don’t remember when I got to Jamaica exactly, or how I miraculously avoided completely wrecking my car, but I do remember that Nia was waiting for me outside the club. I remember because my dick kept getting harder and harder as she walked toward me.

Now, I’d like to tell you that the first thing that one would notice about Nia were her almond shaped emerald eyes, the beautiful cascade of brown hair that fell to her shoulders or the fact that she was as cute as a bed full of kittens.

But Nia was lust made flesh.

Her breasts were bigger than any sixteen year old girl had the right to have, her ass was firm and deliciously round, her legs were long and toned and the black dress that she chose to wear that night barely covered any of it. Her cleavage was especially generous. So generous, in fact, that as she pressed her chest against mine I thought her tits would slip out entirely.

“You made me wait. Naughty little Santi… hic...” And to top it all off, she was drunker than me.

“How can I make it up to you?”

“Here. Drink this.” She had a bottle of Bacardi rum on her right hand and a very unorthodox way of pouring it. First she made me go to my knees and close my eyes. Then, she drank a few sips, leaned her face dangerously close to mine and let the liquor flow from her moist red lips. It tasted as sweet as sin. And watermelons. Which seemed oddly appropriate at the time.

Needless to say, we didn’t bother getting inside. We didn’t bother to get anywhere, really. After we finished the rum, I threw her on the back seat of my car, pulled her dress up, ripped her pink lace panties and fucked her vigorously. I felt like the Fist of the Motherfucking North Star.

Turns out she wasn’t a virgin.

My life is awesome.