The “Charity” Pussy Buffet

 

Three of us in various styles of tight black dresses click-clacked our high heels into Saturday evening’s charity event, an evening dedicated to raising money for African children who were in desperate need of plastic surgery. I mean real plastic surgery, not the breast augmentation kind. The “oh crap, half of your mouth is disfigured,” kind of reconstructive cosmetic surgery. During the evening’s auction, the dear office manager’s husband, who couldn’t even have a moment to check out his wife’s stunning attire, whispered to me with a forlorn look in his eyes saying, “Well, it’s all for a good cause. It’s all for the kids.”

“Oh yes, it’s for the kids. It’s an excuse for doctor friends to get together, throw money around, and hit up the open bar. Don’t kid yourself.”

He smiled and started to relax a bit. “I like your honesty,” he said. Which I appreciated, since usually, most people wanted to slap me for it.

In the midst of cupcakes, tarot card readings- which predicted I will meet a man traveling, yet I don’t have any plans to travel- I was approached by the charity event’s star, a plastic surgeon nonetheless. In all fairness, the charity event was to raise funds so he can take time away from performing breast augmentations, vaginal rejuvenations, and reshaping bumpy noses to work in the some of the poorest countries in the world where the people really need reconstructive surgery and definitely don’t care how their labias look post child birth.

He dressed like a total boss in a black suit and purple silk shirt attire. I had to force myself to turn away- he was a very close colleague of my real boss. And the more I turned away, the more I found myself wanting to run to him.

“I want you to dance with me,” he would say, passing by me to chat with his guests. I’d giggle and keep walking. The more we drank, the heavier the flirting got.

“Make sure you dance with me,” he said pulling me towards the live band. But my boss was standing right there, so not much more than a few side by side sways and clapping to the beat was going to happen. At that point, one of the other two clickity-clacked, black dressed friend stepped out. “I gotta meet a date,” she proclaimed at 10:30. The other clickity clacked girl, who happened to be my roommate, exchanged a side glance with me.

“Good luck with cultivating a relationship at this hour,” we telepathically thought to each other about our friend, whose life revolved around acquiring an engagement ring.

“Have fun,” I said as she walked passed us. If only I knew what fun was in store for me.

Eventually, the charitable portion of the evening concluded, and the ‘real’ party began. My boss and his botoxed bitch wife came over to say good-bye to me. “I love this fur vest, Val!” I exclaimed with as much LA enthusiasm I could muster, East-coast heartedly.

Her duck lips gave a slight smile. No verbal response necessary I suppose. After the raffle, where the free vaginal rejuvenations, Botox injections, and various goodies were given out, the band closed up shop and the doc began playing some hip hop jams. But the bar did not close up. My cup of vodka and cranberry juice never went empty. And when it did, the bartenders popped bottles of champagne for me. I was starting to realize these doctors really know how to get down.

“I know you want to dance with me,” Doctor Kid whispered in my ear as he grabbed my hand and began twirling with me. I think I surprised him as I was able to follow his lead of twists, dips, and twirls. Yeah, I danced for a solid 12 years growing up so I kind of have some moves when I’m somehow not tripping over my own two feet, luckily. Somehow we ended up in his manager’s office where I was straddling him on a chair, our mouths intertwined in a furious passion. He lifted me up on a make-shift desk and pulled down my underwear and parted my legs. Jesus Christ, how did I get myself in these situations?

I made no fuss as he yanked my body towards the end of the table and dove head first into my freshly shaven, very pretty vagina, if I may say so. I leaned back, feeling like such a bad girl. Gosh, what would my boss say? What the hell, he’d high five Doctor Kid. The door was shut, but not locked. At one point when he came up for air, my roommate, who had been doing yoga headstands on his freshly painted white walls in the room where everyone was dancing, traipsed into the room.

“Jayyyyy,” she drawled drunkenly. Oh my god, what is she doing in here?

“Come over here,” Doctor Kid ordered. Oh my god, what is going on?

Immediately she hopped on the table next to me and he slid over to her on the swivel chair and yanked her panties to the side and started licking her. I stared. I closed my eyes. Was I about to have a threesome? What had come over Jameth? I was turned on, nervous, excited because this had never happened, and of course, kind of jealous that he had just gone from one pussy to another. He must have sensed my flip-flopping emotions, because he popped up from her vagina and explained, “Now, I can’t leave Jay hanging here, and swiveled back over to my vagina, leaving Jameth to watch.” She was in a drunken haze, her legs spread open. Not wanting to miss out on any action, she jumped off the table purring, “Yes, yes, kisses for Jayyyy,” and began kissing my neck. And then my exposed chest.

I was turned on like hell yet extremely perplexed because this is also the roommate who tells me to be more mindful if I spill my coffee on the counter and leaves me a to-do list when she goes on three week traveling escapades to Asia.

I tried to let go and “be in the moment,” but my body tensed, even though I had Jameth licking my neck and Dr. Kid working his tongue and fingers between my legs as though I was being prepped for some extensive surgery.

Jameth, ever the energy-feeling, observant yogi,  must have sensed I was on the cusp of either climaxing or collapsing. “Ummm, I’m going to go home, guys,” she said, pulling up her underwear and her dress down.

Dr. Kid looked up from my spread labia. “What now, so soon?” he asked. Jesus, christ, I thought. Just let her go, I can’t do this sharing thing. I’m such an only child.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to let you two have some fun.” And with that, she tossed her hair and headed out the door. I loved her right then.

Soon after she left, we took the party from his office manager’s table back to his apartment where I really got thoroughly examined with one particular medical instrument. In the morning, we stopped at Starbucks. One guy kept staring me up and down like I was some hourly hooker to the point where Dr. Kid looked at him and said, “Something you say, man?” I was scared for a show down. I think the guy was scared too, because he went back to staring at his coffee instead of my really short dress / cellulite.

After his oatmeal and banana and my large iced coffee, he dropped me off.

“Tell Jameth I say hi,” he said after taking my phone number. We both knew this was going nowhere, but whatever. He was in his early 40s and still needed to play, as I learned. He had a bucket list to check off before settling down. Who was I to argue?

I hopped out of his Jeep and waved good bye. Whatever, it was a lay.

The Aftermath

“What happened last night?” I asked him as I awoke from a heavily vodka induced coma. My cemetery mouth yearned for water and my foggy mind yearned for answers. Him of course being Dr. Kid. He looked at me somewhat perplexed. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“Ummm, no,” I replied, noting that my black shirt and bra were still on, but underwear and pants were missing. This was the second time I woke up in Kid’s bed on a Sunday morning, so I doubted we got all born-again Christian and had a night of cuddling. After all, the first night I had an evening with Kid, which was just the week prior, my roommate somehow finagled her way into his office where his face was entrenched in between my legs. She conveniently swooped in and spread eagled herself next to me, resulting in what I now refer to as Dr. Kid’s pussy buffet.

“We had anal.” STFU. Literally, I’ve had it up the poop-shoot once in my life, and it was under the spell of a very coked-out, super hot guy I stupidly rendez-voued with on occasion. It was not something I planned on engaging in unless I was in a committed, monogamous relationship. I’ve had my fair share of men try to “slip” it in the back door, as if I can’t differentiate what hole it’s going into. Such stupidity on their end, and such stupidity on my end for repeatedly sleeping with these idiots.

“Excuse me?” I asked Dr. Kid, really confused at this point. I squeezed my butt cheeks as if that would clue me in. Fail, they felt fine.

“I bent you over that chair,” he said pointing to the chair in the corner of his room, “and I fucked you in the butt.” Ugh, his vulgarity was too much for my tender ears at this hour.

“But, I don’t remember,” I pleaded. I really didn’t remember anything past leaving the drive-through in his panty-dropping Porsche 911 stuffing my face with only the egg part of a McDonald’s McMuffin, because, carbs. And stumbling through his apartment building barefoot because, stilettos.

Dr. Kid shrugged. “Well, it happened.”

“But, why?” I asked, huffing and puffing.

“What, did you want to save it for someone special like your husband or something like that?” he asked, clearly confused.

“No, not exactly…” This was just a lot to take in. “Do you have a toothbrush?” I asked, my thoughts going back to the dry Voldemort-ish feeling in my mouth.  Graciously, he materialized from the bathroom with a new toothbrush still in the packaging.

“It’s your lucky day.” I stumbled out of the bed and put my arm up to my forehead to shield the bathroom light.

Ugh, Colgate, I thought disapprovingly as I pushed the toothpaste onto the brush. My dad told me years ago it can cause canker sores, so whenever I see it on someone’s vanity, my mouth twitches. But whatever. In this case, my disgustingly Sahara desert dry mouth wasn’t going to argue. After my teeth felt clean and my breath felt passable, I crawled back onto the bed.

Dr. Kid, while apparently very into charging through the back door, is also a very soft-spoken, thoughtful individual, whereas, I am highly-emotional, irritable, dramatic, and loud. Not much different than a kindergartener.

“So how did that happen?” I asked.

“You wanted it.”

“Oh puh-lease. I do not go around asking for butt sex.”

“You wanted it. In fact, you even grabbed me from behind and pushed me in deeper.” This was too much. I grabbed the blanket and submerged myself completely under the covers.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t a slut shaming  house.” Oh great, a playboy mini-mansion judge-free zone. Just great.

“This just can’t be. I don’t remember.”

“Well, don’t drink to the point where you don’t remember anything, it’s not healthy.”

“Oh well, thank you dad.”

We bullshitted for the next half hour about why he chose his profession, plastic surgery, which he refers to as a “highly technical art form,” and what my hobbies are besides running and binge-drinking. I have yet to come up with an answer. With only 24 hours in a day and that thing in the way called work, how many interests can hold one person’s attention anyway? So sneakers and vodka it is.

“Tell Jameth I say hi,” he said when we pulled up in front of my apartment building. This felt familiar…

“I will,” I said with a fat eye roll.

“So uh, I’ll see you when I see you,” Dr. Kid said stupidly.

“Don’t worry,  Kid, there’s always next Saturday,” I said hopping out of the Mercedes Jeep and stumbling towards my apartment building door. It was time for my butt hole and me to confront Sunday.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s