Blow In, Blow Out

I met a girl who seemed pretty interesting online. Emails and phone calls ensued. Finally got a date organised after receiving some late night booty calls (she sounded drunk and it was too late, usually on a school night).

For some mysterious reason, she was staying at her Mum’s so, I went over with flowers and chocolates to finally meet. I was kickin’ it old school. Her Mum was out and we sat on the couch talking. Well, I was talking as she scoffed the chocolates.

She drank a few beers and asked me to take the empties out and come back with some more from the local Bottle-O. For me, getting some action was more important than making the point that I’m nobody’s bitch.

When I returned, she starts talking dirty and wants to pash a bit. Quite nice. One thing lead to another and before you know it, she’s ready to go for some horizontal action. However, I didn’t have any rubbers on me and her Mum certainly didn’t have any lying around.

I said, “Babe! No glove, no love.”

She said, “Okay, that’s fine, why don’t I just give you a blow job instead?”

“Well, if you insist.”

I’m not the argumentative kind.

One minute after the logical conclusion, I am zipping up when I hear the door open and it’s the mother. Fuck!

The old tart bursts in with her shopping bags, rambling on about how it’s the second time this week that someone’s parked in her car space. Actually, it was the Visitor’s Parking but that didn’t phase her. I wasn’t going to mention that it was indeed I who committed the crime.

So, I have to pretend I’m an old friend and turn on the charm (whilst thinking about what would have happened if she came home a few minutes earlier).

I made small-talk. This woman had seen more peroxide than a ’50s sex symbol (minus the sex appeal).

What a close shave!

Over the course of a few weeks we emailed each other but shit got weird. So, it was my only encounter with her.

Turns out she was a serious alcoholic and ended up in the Psychiatric Ward at Rozelle with all the crackheads.

Bizarre.


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