There is something slightly distasteful about waking up still drunk. Especially if, on waking, you find yourself on the floor, leaning against the sofa at a back-breaking angle, with the lights of Laguna Beach at the bottom of the hill winking in the wee small hours. Even more so when you realise you must have fallen asleep (or passed out) when there were still guests at your party!
It had been a combination party for my fortieth birthday and to celebrate/commiserate the fact that, after five glorious years, I was leaving California for Virginia in just about another two weeks. Adieu Golden State, hello what my proud Virginian friends call the Occupied Territories. As my addled brain struggled with the fact it was now almost 5am and everybody had left me comatose, I realised I wasn't actually totally alone. There were domestic sounds coming from the kitchen.
Gradually transiting from a supine position to all fours, I grasped the arm of the sofa and levered myself erect. At which point I discovered that both I and my favourite appendage were standing up. What the hell had I been dreaming about? Slowly, I grinned. One of the highlights of the party – the last in a sequence of increasingly fun events over the four years I had lived in this fabulous bachelor pad 400 feet above the Pacific – was the fact that just about every girlfriend with whom I had had fun whilst in California (excluding one- and two-night stands which had been just as much fun in many cases) had come. I think one or two of them must have cum too – though not with me – judging by the amount of giggling that had come from my bedroom door at various stages during the afternoon and evening. Fond memories of multiple sexy experiences all over the western part of the States ran through my mind. Fuck, I loved America!
Somehow I managed to persuade my feet to place themselves one in front of the other in sequence and got to the kitchen. There was Patti, finishing doing the dishes. Patti? PATTI! Fuck, she looked good. One of my favourite expressions to describe the glorious view of a woman from behind – an expression very few of my American chums ever really got – is "now there's a bottom you could crack walnuts with." Nobody – nobody – illustrated the accuracy of that comment better than Patti.
She was a girl, she was a friend and we had shagged each other senseless on a number of occasions in the past. She wasn't, however, and never had been a girlfriend. A couple of years older than me, she had been married and gone through a very bad divorce from an Arab American before I met her and had a very dim view of manhood in general. We had met in the British pub I used in Newport Beach about the same time I moved from Santa Ana to Laguna and I put the moves on her almost immediately.
Skinny, with legs that reached all the way to the floor, surprisingly pert and all natural tits, long blonde hair and deep, almost forest green eyes – why wouldn't I. I was single, British, well connected in the local community, reasonably successful, with a wicked sense of humour and an obvious (and often stated) desire to spend as many hours a day as I could naked with any number of Californian chicks. Who could resist me?
Patti could, was what I discovered. She became a good friend and sustained the growing lust I entertained of investigating her underwear for a good two years without giving in. The fact I was still keen after so many gentle but positive rejections was testament to her allure. Then came the infamous day when, leaving a quite boring society party in Beverly Hills, which she had agreed to come to at the last minute since my logistical ineptitude had failed to secure a proper date in time, we started to flirt in the car and suddenly decided that, instead of driving the 53 miles back to Laguna, we would drive 150 out into the Mojave desert. For no other good reason than, when we got there, we looked at each other without saying anything at all, got out of the car and within 30 seconds were fucking like jackrabbits, surrounded by saguaro cacti and probably the odd very confused desert scorpion.
My grin broadened, while watching her at the sink, as I recalled that and subsequent occasions when we had enjoyed each other without needing any form of commitment. Fabulous memories, not the least of which, I reminded myself, was the consummate skill Patti had at sucking cock. Not only was she proficient at it, she absolutely loved it, was immensely enthusiastic while giving head, had a sensational capacity to deep throat a cock and was possessed of an almost literally insatiable appetite for hot cum. It didn't matter whether it was five months or five minutes since you had last cum, she had the ability to coax every last drop of juice left in the whole of your body. Up her, in her, on her or down her throat – it really didn't seem to matter. She could qualify as Ball Drainer in Chief for the entire North American continent, in my not so humble view.
Great memories. But it was over. An unspoken agreement about twelve months earlier meant that it was that long since I had seen her lower her gorgeous body on to me. Pity. Still – a nice person to know. And she had obviously spent the last hour or more, whilst I was snoring drunkenly in front of the fireplace, restoring order to the bomb site that my kitchen always turned into at parties.
I sidled quietly up behind her, put my arms around her warm and pliant waist and nuzzled into her neck through her golden tresses.
"Thanks, Chucklebunny. You really didn't need to do this – but I'm real glad you did."
"Yeah yeah Sparky. Eat my shorts."
"If you were wearing any, it would be my pleasure."
She turned her head and gave me The Look. Neither critical nor inviting, I had had frequent experience of The Look from Patti. It was an intoxicating mix of "You're an almost complete pillock," "I don't know why I tolerate you," and "Well don't hang about – get your cock inside me now." They do say, after all, that 70 per cent of communication is non-verbal.
