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MY MAKE-OUT SESSION WITH WATERMELON TITS By Marty Beckerman "Is this the right house?" I ponder aloud, nervously steering the 1984 Dodge MiniVan into the girl's driveway. I've never actually been on a blind date before in all my sixteen years, and the anxiety brought on by this grim reality is crippling to say the least: After all, tonight will be nothing less than a test of my entire personality. Good Lord, how could I not be terrified? Questions and Doubts, Questions and Doubts: Am I her type of guy? Is she my type of girl? What if I am her type of guy? And what if she's my type of girl? What then? Or what if I'm not her type of guy and she's not my type of girl and tonight just turns out to be an incredibly awkward Torture Session for the both of us? Does she bite whilst giving head? The front door of the house suddenly opens and out walks the Girl: Brunette, five-foot-five, skintight blue T-shirt and Jesus of Nazareth are those Gazongas ever plump! Christ, how can she even walk with those things? Wow! I mean, Good Fucking God! You'll be mine soon enough, Little Pretties. Just you wait. Just you fucking wait. "Hi," Watermelon Tits opens the maroon door and enters the Love Mobile. "What's up?" I try and fail to sound the least bit cool. "Hey, you look great." Those Rotund Fucking Orbs of yours, that is. Fuck! "Oh," she closes the door and buckles her maroon seatbelt. "Thanks." "So," I back the MiniVan out of the driveway, "have you heard much about this movie we're seeing?" "Not really," she sounds nervous as well. Perfectly understandable, of course: Why, she's probably having the exact same doubts I am! Ha! Who would've thought? Well, Bitch best put out if Bitch knows what's best for Bitch. "This is a pretty cool ride you've got here," she heartlessly and needlessly insults the Love Mobile. "This van is so lame," I confess. "I mean, my parents gave it to me for free—so it's not like I'm not complaining or anything—but girls think it's creepy and guys think it's pathetic, and I'm not exactly arguing." "Why don't you buy your own car?" she asks. "Why don't you suck my cock?" I mutter. "What?" she barks. "I said it's six o'clock," I clarify. "We're going to miss the movie previews." "Oh," she says. "Well, hurry up." Obedient as always, I accelerate the MiniVan from twenty miles per hour to sixty-five: The perfect speed for any residential neighborhood. We soon arrive at the crowded theater and—after finding a parking space conveniently located eighty million miles from the actual entrance—buy tickets and find seats that, judging from the general lukewarm stickiness, have been freshly ejaculated upon. The movie, your standard romantic-comedy, has already started. "Um, [Ms. Tits]?" I whisper after a few moments, my voice inevitably cracking like it hasn't since I first entered puberty. "Can I put my arm around you?" Please, Lord Jesus? Please, please, please? "You're not supposed to ask," she blushes. Praise Heaven! Praise the LORD! The next ninety minutes pass all too quickly, Watermelon Tits's warm, voluptuous body pressed so close to mine I'm unable to focus on anything but keeping my Hungry Hard-On at bay. Goodness Gracious, I'm going to enjoy licking those Fatty Fun Bags till they fucking erode. "So how did you like the movie?" I ask on our trek back to the Love Mobile. "It was okay," Watermelon Tits says. "I liked when [blah, blah, blah, blah]." "So, um… Do you want to go anywhere else now?" "Actually my parents kind of want me home before curfew." "Well, um, I'm sure they'll already be asleep by then." "I know, I know. I'm sorry; I just have to get home." "Okay, okay, sure, fine, whatever," I fight back an ocean of tears. We take our seats in the MiniVan and drive in silence back to Watermelon Tits's affluent Anchorage neighborhood. "Which street do I turn on?" I ask, approaching a four-way intersection. "Right there," she points toward a narrow dirt road past the crossing. "Hey, what would you say if I asked whether or not you want me to pull into that dark spot on the side of the road there so we could make out or whatever?" Okay, what in the fucking Hell did you just say? I ask myself. You're an idiot; you know that? Not to mention fucking hopeless. Those Meaty Jugamajiggies will never be yours now, fool! Never! Never! "You're not supposed to ask," Watermelon Tits blushes. "Really?" I grin with succulent expectation and park the MiniVan. "Really," she smiles the most precious giant breasts. I mean, "smile." Ha! Ha! "You're gonna love this," I unbuckle my maroon seatbelt and lean over to kiss her wet, pleading teenage lips. "Wait," she places her hands on my shoulders and ruins the moment. "Wait?" I scream. "We don't have time to fucking wait! My scrotum is about to burst!" "This is my first kiss." Oh, no… No, no, no, no, No. Not now. Not when I'm so, so close. "Maybe we shouldn't then," I sigh. "I want to," she says. "It's just—" "It's your first kiss. You deserve better. Seriously, it's supposed to be special." "Oh, you're sweet," she inches closer and closer. Yeah, Motherfucker: Those Mondo Milk Producers are Mine! Mine! All Fucking Mine! "That was different than I thought it would be," she says after the kiss has come to its natural end. "You didn't like it?" I question both her and my masculinity. "I did like it," she confesses. "I just always thought it would feel… I don't know, different." "Don't worry about it," I lean in again and—like any real man—waste no time in slipping her the Tongue. She seems a bit taken aback by this turn of events, and unfortunately for my digestive system doesn't seem to understand her end of the bargain. "You're supposed to move it around," I explain. "What?" she asks. "Your tongue. You're supposed to move your tongue around. In circles." "Oh," she says. "You weren't moving it around. That was disgusting." "I… I'm sorry. I didn't know." "That's right: You didn't know. And maybe that's why you just let your tongue hang in my mouth like a wet shrimp or an octopus tentacle or… or something. Christ." "I didn't know," she whimpers. "It's okay," I console and lean in once more. Yes, the Meaty Jugamajiggies are right there—so firm and yet so soft—all but awaiting the Gratifying Grope of my sweaty Jewish palms. Now, how do I go about making the Move? I ponder whilst swirling my tongue within Watermelon Tits's sweet mouth. Perhaps I should say something romantic. Ah, that's it! I'm a genius! "So can I touch your boobies now?" I woo. (Long, awkward silence.) "Home," Watermelon Tits says. "What?" "Home. Take me home." "I was just joking," I lie. "Ha! Ha!" "Home. Now." "You know you don't mean that." "Didn't you hear me? Home." "Okay, okay, sure, fine, whatever." And thus tonight's whorish exploit ends. The Meaty Jugamajiggies may as well have been in the furthest regions of Deep Space all along, for neither shall ever know the Agonizing Pleasure of Marty Beckerman's Lecherous Squeeze. Oh well. Her loss. "Please?" I ask. "No," she says. "You shouldn't play with people's fucking emotions like that. Shit, I cared about you and all you did was use me. I have feelings too, you know. It's not like I'm a piece of fucking meat." "Home," she says. "Now." |
