I would just like to say, on the record, that most men are pussies. Oh sure, they talk real big and fuck real hard (when they want to anyway) but all it takes to reduce one to putty is the slip of a nipple or, if you're feeling a little meaner, one quick comment about his inability to make you cum more than once. Low blow? Bull shit. What's the point in having the ability to be multi-orgasmic if you're wasting time with a loser who can barely get you to number one? Pass me some double a's packed inside a swirly gizmo and let me show you what a little energizer bunny can do. That puts them in their place right good.
Me? I'm just a girl from a small ass town no one gives a fuck about. Fresh out of college, wondering what I'm gonna do with my life now that I can't fuck my way into an A. I suppose there's a corporate ladder waiting to test my gag reflex but I'm feeling like it might be time to take my show on the road. I had a friend once who used to make a little money letting old men finger her in Sydney. Maybe the land down under would like my ass...
"Bitch, stop daydreaming on my fucking couch. If you cream it, you're cleaning it, goddamn it."
Meet my best friend Syrie – short for Syracuse. Rumor has it she was conceived there. Her parents are fucking morons, but then again, whose aren't? The dumb ass rednecks fucked in a bathroom stall in a gas station on their way to visit some family member and low and behold, a star was born. We've been friends since kindergarten but Syrie's mama ran off with some car salesman when we were 12 and then in 8th grade, her daddy got a job in Austin and we lost touch. Imagine my surprise when senior year I found her smoking in the bathroom next to my first hour class. Apparently her daddy got fired and they moved back home to live with her grandma. I'm not sure what her daddy thought he was doing, putting the two of us in the same town when we were both 18. Maybe he still thought we were the 5 year olds who opened up a lemonade stand by his trailer. Whatever his thinking, Syrie and I caused more trouble, did less homework and got better grades all thanks to her teaching me most of what I know about seducing boys. We're a little like Thelma and Louise, without the whole driving off a cliff bullshit. Well, that and we're hotter, though back in the day ol' Suzie did have a nice pair of tits.
"Crackwhore, there ain't nothing I can put on this couch that will outdo you blowing Jimmy Stills here on it in after homecoming. I bet that stain from when you tried to swallow but puked instead is still on here... if I could get beneath the one night stand juice," I respond, grabbing her ass as she walks by to sit down next to me. On second thought, the Aussies might really like
her
ass. Mine is tight but sort of flat, the typical ass you find on girls who only weigh 95 pounds but Syrie weighs about 15 pounds more than me and it's all sitting in nice round globes on either side of her crack.
"Wow, cuntbag, you're really reaching today. Sure, I threw up on Jimmy's cock but at least I didn't get crabs last year from the guy who makes my latte, Mayson."
Yeah, my name's Mayson. I told you everyone's parents are fucked up -Especially in small towns in Texas. I mean, where the fuck else would people think it was cute to name your kid after a jar and worse, misspell it while you were at it? Syrie and I got the fuck out as soon as we graduated high school – the couch came with us because Syrie claimed that it was bad luck to leave so much of herself back in Texas and of course by "herself" she means cum. The girl has a thing for being bent over the ugly ass couch – it's not my fault.
"If I hadn't gotten the crabs, I wouldn't have been able to fuck that doctor to get you your oxy's, my little fuck muffin, so please at least pretend to be grateful. What are we doing today, anyway? You said you had some fun planned. It doesn't involve stuffing ginger up my ass again, does it? That hurt like a motherfucker, even if I did cum harder than I have in my whole life."
"Like a motherfucker... Well, I guess you would know. How is your step daddy these days? Still eating out strippers on their nights off, down at Moe's?"
"You know he only turned to strippers once he couldn't fuck you up the ass. Can you blame the man, though? Jesus, your ass is hot. Stop changing the subject though. What or should I say who, are we doing today? I'm bored."
Syrie and I like to play games. It started with seducing nerds senior year. There's nothing quite like the O face on a guy with glasses, braces and no shot in hell of touching a cheerleader when you blow him in a corner of the library. From there we moved on to college freshman in the dorms at UT Austin. We'd waltz into parties wearing skirts with no panties and flash when their girlfriends weren't looking. If they were cute enough, we'd wait out by the car for them to ditch their dates and let them watch us make out. Sometimes we'd leave em hanging to whack off and sometimes we'd let them join in to cop a feel. It really just depended on our mood. We reserved actual fucking for teachers and coaches. You would be amazed how much fun detention can be and how good for one's gpa. You didn't think I got into college based on my scholastic aptitude, did you?
My biggest conquest in our tiny little high school wasn't the football team, although either of us certainly could have had them. Syrie set my sights way higher, on the principle, Mr. Roman. He was old, about 55, with a beer belly that hung over the khaki pants he wore every single day. He went to church every Sunday and sat next to his wife, Laudette, a fat pig of a woman who wore way too much makeup and still blow dried her crackly brown hair within an inch of its life. Word around town was that she was cheating on him, but we couldn't think of who it could possibly be with.
We figured with all that going on at home, the man deserved some 18 year old pussy but the problem was figuring out how to get him to say yes. I certainly couldn't just walk into his office, strip and fuck him then and there. He had far too many pictures of Jesus up on the wall. Hey, just 'cause I don't believe in the man don't mean I want to piss him off.
We decided the only thing I could do was start slow. It was school policy that if you got detention 3 times in one week, you got hauled into Mr. Roman's office to have a good stern talking to. It was simple enough racking up detentions. I just told Mrs. Marshall to get fucked when she asked where my English assignment was and then walked out of Ms. Wainwright's lame ass Spanish class. With only one more to go, I thought about slapping little Mr. Jackson but I was trying to save bigger things for last so I simply threw wadded up paper balls at his head.
"Mayson Preston, I'm disappointed in you. You know your mama works too damn hard for you to be throwing your education away," Mr. Roman lectured, working hard to keep his eyes on my face. I had worn a real tight wife beater tank top, without a bra and a short jean skirt. I did have panties on, but only because I was sure Mr. Roman was the type to get a little stiff over a glimpse of white cotton.
I pretended to fidget uncomfortably, crossing and uncrossing my legs. I saw his eyes slip and his jaw tighten as his gaze jerked back up. I decided to roll my head from side to side, as if I had a tension headache building, closing my eyes and exposing the length of my neck while pressing my cleavage out. The poor man coughed and adjusted himself in his chair.
"I'm serious, Mayson. Grades aren't the only thing that count in this school, young lady. All I have to do is say the word and you can spend the rest of the year doing extra assignments and cleaning up hallways. Clean your act up, missy, or I'll be talking to your mama."
Again, I faked a look of discomfort. I knew he meant it, but I wasn't afraid of my mama. She was too busy with a couple boyfriends who didn't know about each other to care what I was up to. With my best innocent puppy dog look, I begged Mr. Roman not to rat me out to my mom. I told him that I was just having a hard time paying attention because the classes just weren't hard enough. I asked him if maybe sometimes I could come to his office and he could give me something hard to do. I have to give him credit, he didn't look like he was buying it but he finally said he would think about it after I flashed him a look at my panties again.
Over the next couple of weeks, I was in his office two or three times, prancing around in tight shirts and short skirts. The poor man had to be going out of his mind, but instead of touching me he just brought in more pictures of his wife. I knew that I was going to have to make the first move, but I was nervous because if he didn't go for it, I'd get expelled for sure and more than anything, I wanted to go to college to get out of that shit town.
"Mr. Roman, do you think I'm pretty?" I asked one day. After two weeks with no action, I had decided to switch it up. I was wearing the most conservative clothing I owned, which was just a t-shirt and baggy jeans, but I was certainly more covered than I had been in years. Hell, I was even wearing a bra, albeit one that pushed together my perky B cups in one hell of a sexy way, if I could ever get the opportunity to take the damn shirt off.
Mr. Roman just blinked, unsure what to make of the question.
"No, really, I'm serious. I want to know if... well, if you think I'm pretty. I mean, I'm a senior and I've still never had a boyfriend. Do you think it's cause I'm too skinny?"
