Cops Hate Pit Beef

“I’m really not going to drink much today.”

I spoke those famous last words around noon on St. Patrick’s Day in 2005.

I was working in sales for a fortune 100 company at the time.  Since our region was above plan at that point in the year we all left work before lunch and headed out in Baltimore to partake in the St Paddy’s day festivities.

CantonSquareScunnyTributeWe went to Canton Square, which is an area in Baltimore with bars up and down both sides of the street.  It was jammed packed with people and the lines for the bars were very long.  Even before noon.

A friend of mine was bartending at the bar we went to.  As soon as I saw him I ordered drinks and shots for everyone.  It was on the company tab so I ordered several rounds.

About an hour after getting there I was struggling to keep it together.  I don’t know how many shots and drinks I had in that hour.  But I’m pretty sure it was too many.

My memory of the next 2-3 hours is pretty foggy.  This was during a period of my life where I blacked out about 50% of the times I drank.

Apparently I left the bar around 3:30 in the afternoon (My memory about the day kicks back in around this time). I found myself sitting on a bench in the middle of Canton Square eating a pit beef sandwich.  There were cops out everywhere patrolling the area to make sure drunk people, like myself, weren’t causing too much trouble.

One police officer rode past me on his bike while I was sitting on the bench.  I decided it would be a good idea to throw the rest of my pit beef sandwich at him.  The sandwich bounced off his bike helmet and he stopped immediately.  He looked around for what hit him and who had thrown it.

Unfortunately for me, my St. Paddy’s day shenanigans captured the attention of another cop who watched the whole incident unfold.  He quickly rushed up to me and pulled me off the bench.  He informed the other officer what I had done.  They weren’t very pleased with me to say the least.

They put me in handcuffs and escorted me through the square in front of thousands of people.  Including several of my co-workers.  That was fun explaining on Monday morning.

I kept asking the officers why they were detaining me.  “What did I do wrong?”  They told me I was going to jail for assaulting an officer.  My only reply was, “With a pit beef sandwich.”  This reply was met with an even greater level of contempt for me.

They threw me in the back of the police car and were about to take me to lock up for the night.  Fortunately for me, a more serious situation arose that needed their attention.  They released me with a criminal citation and told me to go home.

The mile or so that I  stumbled back to my house was brutal.  I’m not sure why I didn’t take a cab.  I tripped over a curb, smashed my chin off the ground and bled for the rest of the walk.

I woke up the next morning to find the criminal citation on my nightstand.  It was all crumbled up and I couldn’t quite make out what it said.  However, I did recognize the words “Pit Beef Sandwich.”

I ended up having to hire a lawyer and go to court for the incident.  Luckily for me The criminal citation had the wrong statute number on it and the DA didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting it changed.  My lawyer squared things away and all the charges were dropped.

 

KRS…Unwanted Party Guest (Part 1)

In my early and mid-teens, I was a very awkward, scrawny and unattractive young man.  Like many at that age I was very obnoxious, disrespectful and sought attention in all the wrong ways.  I was a mediocre athlete for my diminutive size and lack of strength.  Getting bullied by older kids, while bullying those that I could actually scare, was the dichotomy of my daily life.

At 12 years old I started drinking with my friends on the weekends.  Unlike most of my friends I drank quite heavily.  Drinking until I blacked became a regular occurrence.

It started out with my friends and I drinking 40’s on the train tracks and in the woods.  Then It upgraded to party balls, bottles of shitty vodka and SoCo.  The alcohol intensified all of my worst qualities.  That’s when KRS showed up.

KRS was my sauced up, slurring, offensive, drunken alter ego.   My friends gave me this nickname in junior high.  My signature look became a blank stare with nothing going on behind my eyes.   At first they thought it was hysterical when I got that drunk.  They would encourage my behavior just so they would have something to break my balls about later that week.

Whenever we had left over alcohol from the weekend I would always volunteer to hold it for my friends.  When I said hold it, what I really meant was drink it.  Every week I had a different excuse about what happened to the booze.  It got to the point where they would just hid the alcohol outdoors rather than give it to me.

I used to love to drink before my intramural basketball games in high school.  I would show up reeking of liquor.  It would just ooze out of my pours when I would sweat.  All of my friends could smell it on me.  I would be out on the courts drunk as hell, running and gunning, refusing to pass to my teammates.  The first year our team, The Specials, didn’t win a game.

One night I recall (vaguely) drinking the majority of bottle of really shitty vodka.  It was a plastic bottle of Vladimir Vodka if I remember correctly.  The bottle was supposed to be shared among five of us.  I had other plans for it.

binge_npI bounced around that night from party to party drinking cup after cup of Vodka and lemonade.  At one point I found myself asleep in a bush.  By the end of the night I was laying in a friends bath tub projectile vomiting.  I had to be carried out by my arms and legs, down three flights of stair out of his house and into a car.  My head banged off numerous steps on my way out .

As time went on my antics became worse.  My behavior became less appealing to my friends.  Before long I was banned from most parties.  Which meant my friends were banned if they brought me.  It was high school and everyone lived for house parties.  Needless to say my unwelcome status led to me getting dropped by my core group of friends rather quickly.

 

Butta

Back when Myspace was popular I was really into trolling the site for girls.  Social Media was pretty new at that point.  I feel like people were more open to the idea of meeting a complete stranger off the internet.  It seemed socially acceptable to message random girls on Myspace like you would a dating site today.  The conversation rate from message to date was pretty high for me, probably like 20%.

One girl from Myspace stood out among the rest.  Let’s call her K.  When I first saw her profile picture I was so into her.  She was tiny; maybe 5’1, weighed about 105 lbs, with brown hair and rather tan.  She looked a bit trashy, but I didn’t let that deter me from going after her.

I talked to K for two weeks off and on trying to get her go on a date with me.  She always had some excuse for why she couldn’t hang out.  Finally, one Thursday night she agreed to get together with me.

She lived in the the ghetto in West Baltimore.  She didn’t have her car (or so she said) so I needed to pick her up.  She jumped in my car and we chatted about life and work.  She told me she worked for a company doing HR.  I knew it was a lie, but I let it go.  These should have been a clues about the night I was going to have.

We went to a bar to have a few drinks.  The alcohol apparently fueled her ghetto side.  She was loud and obnoxious.  She started dropping the N Bomb while talking to people. Then justified saying it because she said she was part Cuban!?  I was embarrassed for the both of us.  The more she drank the more she became like a chick from Flavor of Love.

Even after I saw her behavior at the bar, I stuck to my plan and took her home with me.  I figured I was already in pain so I might as well get something out of it.  When we got back to my house around midnight I carried her up to my bedroom.  Clothes came flying off, spread throughout the room.  All was going to plan.

As I took off her underwear I noticed a really shitty looking tattoo on her pubic area.  It looked like it was done in a jailhouse or someones living room.  The tattoo was of a money sign and above it had the word “BUTTA.”  I didn’t stop to ask questions at that point, I just preceded with what I brought her home for.

She started talking a lot during sex.  But not in a good way.  She kept calling me “white boy.”  Then she told me “Im used to guys telling me, oh I want you to be my baby momma.”  Now I don’t know who the fuck she was sleeping with prior to me, but I couldn’t help but laugh at what she had said.  That laugh quickly turned into horror when I thought about the fact that I wasn’t wearing a condom.  At this point I was just trying to finish as quickly as possible before I went soft.

The next morning I woke up around 7 AM with pretty bad hangover.  I rolled over and asked K if she needed to leave to get to her job.  She looked confused at first.  Then she must have remembered the lie she told me about working in HR and replied “No my boss is out this week.”

She grabbed her purse from floor to get her phone out of it.  In doing so a box cutter fell out of her purse onto my bed.  For some reason this triggered me to ask about her about the BUTTA tattoo.  She told me it was her ex boyfriends nickname and that he had a matching tattoo on his neck.  I smirked at her.  She countered that smirk by telling me that he was locked up for a double murder.

She continued to tell me interesting stories about her life.  Like the boob job she got in South America.  I asked why she would go to South America to get implants.  Her response was “They were cheap.”  She claimed her implants looked great, but she had to have them removed.  Apparently the cosmetic surgeon in Colombia didn’t practice in the most sterile environment and she got a massive infection.

I had heard enough of her stories.  It was time for me to get up, shower and get ready for work.  But I didn’t really like the thought of leaving this chick alone in my room with my rolex, my money and my credit cards.  I grabbed my things off my nightstand and brought them into the bathroom with me.  I was pretty certain if I left them in the room she may vanish and take them with her.

While I was showering all I thought about was, I hope I didn’t catch anything or knock this chick up.  My mind replayed the fact that I didn’t wear a condom or pull out.  I couldn’t scrub my body hard enough with the soap to get the dirty feeling off.  I pictured the tattoo, BUTTA.

I would like to say that I dropped K off on my way to work and never saw her again.  But that would be a lie.  We hung out one more time.  It was more of a nightmare then the first experience.  I couldn’t handle her so I left her at the bar.  And that was the last time I saw Butta.

 

 

1 Night in Amsterdam + 1 Cialis = 14 Prostitutes

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Walking into the Red Light District felt like Disney World for degenerates. I couldn’t have been more excited.   I handed my new found Australian friends; Mike and Joe, a liter of Amstel and a Cialis.  We had meet (they were brothers) a couple hours earlier, but a few joints and beers later we were like old pals.

We continued to drink and as I got more polluted I came up with, what I thought, was a great idea.  I made up a competition to see who could have sex with the most prostitutes in one night.  When I presented them with my idea they looked at me and laughed.  I took this as a yes.

Joe was the first to take part in my game. He saw an attractive women in the window.  I could tell he was a little nervous about what he was about to do.  He looked at me with a little smile and said ” I don’t really know if want to spend the money because I cum prematurely mate”.  His brother and I laughed at him until the peer pressure was enough that he agreed to partake in the game.

I cracked a fresh liter of beer as he went into the house.  Mike and I stood outside on the street drinking and talking.  I hadn’t even finished half of my beer when Joe walked out  with his head down.  He was in the house for less than 3 minutes total and had already finished.  His brother and I couldn’t stop laughing at him.

The majority of the events over the next 10-12 hours are a bit blurry for me.  But, there are some part I remember clearly, like my trip to Skinny Alley.  Skinny Alley is exactly what It sounds like.  It was an alley in the Red Light District with barely enough room for people to walk single file in either direction.  Every 12-15 feet there was a doorway with a prostitute standing in it.

As I passed a door I felt a hand grab me and pull me inside a dark room.  When the lights went on I saw one of the most beautiful women I have ever encountered standing in front of me.  She was Portuguese and perfect; other than being a prostitute of course.  She offered me some coke, which I thought was awful nice of her.  Then she said “for you we can do this for 25 Euros.”  That’s less than taking a date out to dinner at a low end restaurant.  I’m not one to pass up a great deal. Free drugs and inexpensive sex with this Portuguese Goddess.  I felt like I was taking advantage of her.

After we had our fun, we did a little more coke and had a couple drinks.  We made small talk.  She asked about my life in the US and said she always want to travel to America.  At one point she hinted at the possibility of coming to visit me.  I took that as my cue to leave.  I gave her my E-mail address and said goodbye.

On my way out, I took a pen from her room and made a mark on my hand.  This was how I kept score for the competition.  It was like tallying votes on a chalk board as a child.

As it turns out, I was the only one competing.  The brothers were long gone. I stumbled around the Red Light District, making mark after mark on my hand.  At one point one of the prostitutes tried to dose me with GHB.  I’m not sure what she had planned for me; but I’m pretty sure it looked something like the movie Hostel.

As the night progressed I became less and less selective with my purchases.  It was a sheer numbers game for me at this point.  There was a very angry and rather large black chick who stole $20 from me.  She gave me a lackluster handjob, which she didn’t even finish.  I had sex with a couple of chicks way past their prime.  Overall, the quantity game caused me to have buyers remorse often.

The sun was starting to come up.  When I looked at my watch I realized I had to be back at my hotel and ready to leave on the bus in less than two hours.  I had no idea where I was in correlation to the hotel.  As I flagged down a taxi a guy bumped into me and tried to grab my Rolex off my wrist.   Thankfully I still had the capacity to defend myself even in my stupor.  I shrugged it off and jumped into the taxi.

Upon arriving at the hotel I went to my room, packed up all my items and headed down to the lobby.  I knew if I went to bed I wouldn’t wake up in time to make the bus and would be left behind. The next thing I remember the tour guide was shaking me to wake me up and asking if I was OK.  I was covered in sweat, sleeping on my suitcase in front of the whole tour group.

I could feel the very judgmental eyes of my fellow travelers burning into my soul.  Joe and Mike were laughing at me and making jokes.  I reached into my pocket to find I had spent about 800 Euros that night.  Then, I looked down at my hand and counted the 14 marks.  I proudly showed the brothers what I had accomplished and claimed victory.

As a side note, I learned that a blue light at a house means they are a dude dressed up as a woman.  Be careful.  I almost found this out the hard way.  No pun intended

Scrub and Pray

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As I raced naked into the bathroom with my spray bottle full of alcohol, the regret started to set in. I just had unprotected sex with whatever her name happened to be on that current night.  The afterthoughts of who she was and what she might have started to set in.  But I had a plan in place to keep me safe.

Spraying my balls and shaft heavily with alcohol.  Scrubbing the area really well with a towel.  Then I would go in for the most painful, but most important part.  Opening up my peehole and spraying the alcohol directly inside.  That familiar burn that gave me a nice, false sense of safety and security.  Certainly any disease couldn’t live past my thorough spraying.  Alcohol kills everything.  Right?

The difficult times were when I went back to the girls house and didn’t have my set up ready to roll.  I would be ripping through their bathroom cabinets looking for rubbing alcohol.  Tearing the place apart until I found something I could clean my dick with.

Occasionally I had to improvise and use witch hazel or Dial soap.  I am not sure how well they worked, but I gave it the college try.  I’ve been caught looking for these products and tried to explain my process.  This always made for extremely fun and uncomfortable post sex conversation.

After the scrubbing came the foxhole prayers.  I would get down on my knees in the bathroom and make a pact with God to never have unprotected sex again if he let me get through this last episode unscathed.  I would offer to do some good act as penance for my actions.  I’d think “Just keep me from getting VD and I will make sure to be a good human being from this point on.”  There were several occasions I was pretty sure I was fucked with something incurable.

My friends and I would joke about this method.  Many of them subscribed to the same idea.  One time my foolproof plan failed me.  I got the clap.  I’m not really sure who gave it to me.  However, what I do know is I gave it to 2-3 other girls because I was a giant asshole.  Then I went and got Cipro to clear it up.

One drunken night I stumbled back to one of the girls houses I had shared my gift with and slept with her again.  Jokes on Me!  I stole the clap right the fuck back from her.  Back to the doctor for my second course of Cipro.

The Instant I Knew It Was Me, Not Them

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In my 20’s and early 30’s I ran around like a maniac.  Fueled by booze, drugs and pussy.  I basically lived off cocaine, steroids, pills and alcohol.  Sleeping with any woman that presented herself as available for me. I racked up a ton of notches on my belt.  I thought I was the fucking man!  However, there was a part of me that always wondered why I couldn’t find a “good girl” to settle down with.  I would bitch about the chicks I met.  Constantly classifying them all as “whores” and “bitches.”  Never once looking at my own behavior or realizing that we attract what we put out into the world.

That thinking literally all changed in one instant when I was 27.  For the next 6-7 years after I still attracted fucked up women with issues like my own.  I just had become cognizant of it.  It was like an alarm went off inside of me.  More like I was hit square in the head with a 2×4.

I was in Australia, visiting some friends.  I met these Aussies a few months prior on a trip to Europe.  After spending some time with them I ventured off on my own up to Queensland. I hung out in Surfers Paradise for a couple days.  While taking some surfing lessons one day I met a few Canadians.  They mentioned a bar crawl that was going on that night in the area.  So I put on my tightest shirt and went out looking to find some pussy down under. I was by myself on this guided bar crawl.  Everyone was drinking heavily.  We all made small talk and got to know each other.  I remember these two goofy, little Australian guys who kept talking to me about gangs because I was an American.  They repeatedly mentioned the “heaps of Crips” they had down under.  Although, not pertinent to the story but Crips in Australia????  Anyway, I ended up breaking away from the bar crawl and went straight to my bread and butter; the strip clubs.

Once inside the strip club I continued drinking.  I went about my usual ways chatting up the girls who were working.  One brunette in particular took a liking to me. She got a kick out of my accent and my “American ways.”  I was a loud, brash, cocky bastard and she was into that.  As the night was wrapping up I invited her back to my hotel room.  She told me she couldn’t leave with me becasuse That was considered solicitation.  If someone saw us we could get fined.  She told me to meet her at Macca’s (its what the Australians call McDonald’s) in 45 minutes.  Then we could go back to my hotel room.

I wasn’t sure she would actually show up, but I had nothing better to do at 4:30 in the morning, so fuck it, I went.  Sure enough she was there.  She grabbed a burger and we went back to my place.  When we got back to the hotel we headed right to the bedroom to have sex.  I don’t recall it being very good.  Looking back I knew jackshit about sex at the time.  Of course I thought differently.

After we finished we were laying in bed talking.  She told me she had to leave to get back to her “partner.”  I was a little confused by the term and why she chose that word over and over again.  I asked if she had a girlfriend.  She then proceeded to tell me “Not exactly; my partner is a tranny and we have 2 kids together.”  You may think that was the moment the alarm in my head went off.  WRONG!

I started to ask questions about her partner and her life.  She told me she was from New Zealand and she had been around transexuals all her life.  Her father apparently pimped them.  She also casually mentioned that her and her sister had done a porno together.  When I say together, I mean together; as in incest!

Out of some sick sense of curiosity I asked if she still had sex with her partner.  She told me her partner was beautiful and they still slept together occasionally.  The stories just continued to go down hill from there.  She said her partner was taking hormones and no longer had testicles.  I asked if he had surgery to remove them.  Without hesitation she blurted out, “Well he came home one night after a long meth bender and he finally got the courage to ask me to cut them off.”  My face dropped.  I thought she was kidding.  But, with a completely straight face she told me cut off his balls with a box-cutter.  Apparently he had to go to the hospital because he almost bled to death!

That’s when it happened. At that very moment I wasn’t even that shocked by the story to be honest.  I was more taken back by the realization I came to about myself.  It was literally the defining moment in my life when I realized I that I was the problem.  All of my crazy relationship issues had one common denominator.  ME!  it wasn’t the girls, its was me.  I brought all of this about because I was fucked up.  Its the law of the universe.  We attract what we put out there.

The next day I woke up a little hungover.  It was a beautiful day so I headed to the beach.  My phone went off as I was getting a bite to eat.  It was the her.  I suppose you can already guess the worst part about this story.  Even after what I had learned the night before I still invited her over and fucked her again.  Pussy is a powerful drug.  Yep; its me not them.

 

The Little Asian from Craigslist

I was living in San Diego.    My girlfriend at the time (lets call her RT) lived on the East Coast.  Once a month she would come out to visit. Her and I had a really fucked up dysfunctional relationship. However, In some respects it was a whole lot of fun.  At that point in our relationship sex with hookers, trolling Craigslist for threesomes and doing weird shit like blumpkins were the norm for RT and I.  Also, this may come as a shocker, but I was REALLY REALLY fucked up on drugs.

Every time RT came out to visit we would look for girls that we could bring home to party with.  If we didn’t find someone at the bar, or I couldn’t convince a stripper from my favorite club to come home with us we would hit the internet.  Most times this would devolve into the two of us calling escorts until we reached one that actually would show up at that time of night.  Sometimes what showed up was horrifying.  But that didn’t ever stop us.

On this specific visit My best Friend Erik came out with RT.  Literally 3 hours from the time the plane landed he and I ended up in handcuffs.  We had a little altercation with a couple guys at a bar in Pacific Beach.  That set the tone for their visit.

Before they came out RT and I posted an ad on Craigslist looking for a girl who was interested in a threesome.  A tiny Asian girl (lets call her LA) replied to the ad.  She sent pictures of herself and a description of what she was into.  We set up a time to meet at her place.  She told me to bring my best friend a long as well.

The three of us went over to LA’s apartment.  When we arrived she had laid out a fruit and cheese plate for us and paired it with some wine.  This blew my fucking mind for some reason.  We made small talk and decided to hit the hot tub in her complex.  LA quickly sat on Erik’s lap and started jerking him off and kissing him.  RT and I were a little disappointed because we wanted her for ourselves.

When we went back into her apartment, RT went and changed back into her clothes.  LA stopped RT and asked her why she was putting clothes on.  At this point LA went full on turbo.  She pulled my pants down and starting blowing me in front of RT and Erik.  Having been in the water my dick looked rather pitiful from the shrinkage.  I didn’t let that stop the show.  We took a couple of steps from the living room into her bedroom.  RT and LA started taking off each others clothes and feeling each other up.  Erik was standing in doorway watching.  That was a bit awkward and creepy because we never saw each other naked before.

I was fucking RT from behind while she was going down on LA.  At this point LA invited Erik into the room and she started blowing him.  It was rather uncomfortable seeing my best friends dick and his fuck faces.  Finally LA decided she wanted me to fuck her while she went down on RT.

When we switched position things came to a crashing halt.  Erik took a sideline view at this point.  When LA noticed this she pulled her face up from RT’s pussy, looked at Erik and said “put your dick in her mouth and suck on her tits!”  He had a look of horrified confusion on his face that I will never forget.  Erik looked at me as if asking what to do.  I threw my hands up and gave him a face of “hey whatever you want to do.”  He looked at RT, immediately got very flustered and muttered “uhhhhhh we have more of  high five type of relationship” then he ran out of the room.

After Erik left; LA, RT and I really stepped up our game.  It turned into a full on hardcore threesome that would make Bonnie Rotten blush.  Candidly, It was amazing.  LA was just as nasty as RT and I combined.  There was nothing she wasn’t down for.  The whole ordeal was full of sweat, spit and bodily fluids.   It was almost like Gilbert Gottfried’s version of the the aristocrats.

When we finally finished LA looked at us and said “I feel bad for Erik, should I go out and see if he wants to fuck me?”  I was pretty certain he would say no after knowing what went down.  She asked him anyway and he passed.

We were starting to get dressed and ready to leave.  Then LA had one last request.  She wanted to take pictures of our tattoos.  Apparently that is one of her other hobbies/fetishes.  Im not going to lie,  for some reason having her catalog our tattoos seemed like the strangest part of the night.  She took some photos and we went about our way back to my house.

The Saddest Man at Spring Break

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It was Spring Break 2003.  I was 23 years old and equal parts drunk, horny and stupid.  My friend invited me to go Cancun with him and his brother.  His parents had a timeshare at a high end resort that we rented for the week.

Staying at the resort wasn’t the best idea for college kids.  They were sticklers about noise and security guards were all over the place.   Bringing girls back to our room was like trying to sneak them into the White House.  Bribing the guards was nearly impossible.

For the most part, the trip was your typical spring break experience.  College kids everywhere drinking all day and night.  Hanging out at the pool and the beach.  Bikini contests and shots of shitty tequila everywhere we went.

The first night we went out to a club called Daddio’s.  I met this blond chick there who was a school teacher from Michigan.  We hit it off quickly in the VIP section.  I decided we needed to move to somewhere more private, like the corner of the packed club.

A couple minutes of kissing and groping quickly lead to her bent over with her skirt up.  A couple minutes later I came on her back.  She didn’t ask me to wipe it off or clean it up.  She simply pulled her skirt down and we left together.

The week proceeded along in this fashion until our second to last night in Mexico.  The night didn’t start off particularly different than the other nights.  Lots of drinking, loud music, dancing, and girls.  When things were winding down I wasn’t ready to go back to the hotel.  I was far too coked up to call it quits.  A friend and I decided to go out and hit up a local strip club.  Odd how many of my stories involve strip clubs.

We took a cab out of the main part of town to a very sketchy destination.  There in the middle of nowhere stood a strip club like a mirage in the desert.  As soon as we got inside the girls flocked to us.  They could see we were easy marks.

A young, attractive girl talked me into an private dance.  She kept saying “you so handsome” and kissed me while putting her boobs in my mouth.  She was trying to offer me sex and I was trying to accept, but The language barrier made things awkward.  She became nervous and frustrated speaking to me in English and ended up walking away.  Yes, I was turned down by a hooker.

As soon as she left another girl took her place instantly.  Her English was much better, but her looks were much worse.  At that point I was so fucked up and horny It didn’t matter to me.  She lead me up the stairs, past the guards holding guns (just in case someone acts up) to a bedroom.  Once we got into the room I did a line and we got started.

Now some of you reading this may know how coke can effect a mans ability to perform.  I remember the look of sadness and disappointment on her face as she pulled down my pants and went to blow me.  All she saw was a shriveled up, limp dick looking back at her.  She looked up at me and only said “ohhhhhhh.”   I could tell she was embarrassed for me.

That embarrassment triggered me to make one of the top five worst sexual decisions in my life.  I grabbed her, picked her up and put her on the bed.  I removed her panties and without hesitation went down on her.  I didn’t just lick it quickly and move in for sex.  No sir.  I ate her pussy and licked her ass while I furiously masturbated until I built up something resembling a hard on.

I quickly put a condom on and gave it her the best I could with 3/4 of an erection.  After about 5 minutes of her making fake sex sounds we both were bored.  I wasn’t going to be able to cum with a condom on.  I knew where this was heading.  I had to break out my signature move at the time.  I jerked off while I made her lick my balls.  After a couple of minutes of I came.

Afterwards we talked for a few minutes.  She asked why I came to a place like this and why I went down on her.  Then she took a piss into a bucket and we went upon our way back downstairs

I started to sober up and realized what I had done.  The realization I went down on a Mexican hooker’s pussy and ass came rushing in like a tidal wave.  All I wanted to do was get out of there as quickly as possible.

I was pretty certain at that moment I had most likely contracted AIDS.  I had read an article on CNN.com describing how lemon and lime juice could possibly be used to prevent AIDS in Third World Countries.  I quickly grabbed as many lime and lemon wedges from the bar as I could and rushed to the bathroom.  I was squeezing lemon juice into my mouth and swishing it around praying to kill the diseases I was sure I had.

I even went as far as to squirt the lemon juice into my dick hole.  It wasn’t an a pleasant experience I would recommend, but I was hoping this would somehow save me from diseases.

As we left in a taxi the sun was coming up on the horizon like a big fuck you from the universe to me.  I was half in tears thinking about what I had done a couple minutes beforehand.  When we arrived at our room I took a xanax and went to bed.  I woke up the next day and I was extremely remorseful.  I had to tell my friends the story of what happened.  They all look horrified by my actions.

The last day I moped around refusing to drink or party.  I went out to the bars, but I didn’t indulge in anything.  I made foxhole prayers.  I begged God “Please don’t let me get AIDS; I promise I wont drink or do drugs tonight as penance.”

Thankfully I didn’t get AIDS and I’ve been able to go about my life continuing to make poor sexual decisions.