Flavor of the week: Show Me Your Nuts

I WAS IN the middle of drinking a liter of cheap vodka at the most boring, pretentious house party Los Angeles had ever witnessed. How such a cool house, just two blocks away from Venice Beach, could harbor a party where LA-trapped, New York–worshipping hipsters gazed at incomprehensible images on a flat-screen monitor and a tight jeans–wearing band with skinny ties and T-shirts played melodramatic lullabies is simply a crime that must be severely punished—but there was free booze in the kitchen and so I found swift justice.

I was already drunk when Cassandra walked in. Had I known that in less than 24 hours I would be driving in the passenger seat of a $75,000 Mercedes- Benz going 105 in a 60-mph speed zone as she was downing anti-psychotic pills, things might have ended differently. Or maybe not. After all, I never fucked a girl who had breast implants and schizophrenia.

Cassandra was beautiful. She was tall and curvy with big brown eyes, a sharp, defined nose, lusciously long brown hair and a fantastic white-girl tan. God, she looked good. And as everyone else sat in a dark living room watching meaninglessness projected onto a wall, we drank vodka and bonded. The evening air carried a cool ocean breeze, and we were happily alone together.

Back at her place, she rode me like a Republican presidential candidate rides Jesus into the White House. Her humps were full of force and energy, but her gigantic tits hardly moved.They were packed so tight with silicone that there was no room for them to either jiggle or bounce. I grabbed them, and they were harder than me: I felt a momentary sense of inferiority.

But it didn’t matter, everything about this woman oozed sex appeal. My dick could have turned to candle wax, and I would have been no less euphoric. Yes, her tits were fake, and I always thought I preferred the natural look to the artificially enhanced; but after I came like a pent-up waterfall, I thanked the Lord for giving me the gift of carnal sin. It hadn’t been more than three hours and Cassandra was changing my view of the world.

The next morning we woke up and started all over again. I got on top of her and wondered how much less war there would be if we all just had sex instead of coffee in the morning.

And as I came all over her fake tits, her father walked in. “Oh, uh, whoops,” he said, as if coffee had spilled on his shirt instead of my seed all over his daughter’s silicone rack. “I didn’t know you had company, Cassandra.”

“Now you know,” she screamed. “Get the fuck out!” “Sorry, hon,” he said, quickly shutting the door. A million things raced through my head. How old was this girl? Was her father on his way to get his .45 and calmly come back and shoot me in the head? And why were her tits so damn crooked? But Cassan-

dra adjusted the silicone back into place as she reassured me of her age and told me her dad doesn’t care if she brings guys over. After all, what could he do about it—she was a 24year-old woman, albeit one living at home with her parents.

“Let’s go to San Francisco,” she said, intoxicated by freedom. “My dad will let me take his new Mercedes. We can fuck in the back!” I said yes, hoping I’d never have any daughters.

Halfway there, we stopped at a gas station for snacks. Back in the car, she took out her purse and pulled out several pill containers. “What are those for?” I asked.

“I have schizophrenia,” she said. Not believing her, I laughed. “Seriously,” she said, and showed me the long names of her various anti-psychotic drugs. “But don’t worry. It’s been a while since I got violent.”

I thought about leaving right there, but that would have been rude. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. And besides: I couldn’t leave a mentally disturbed young woman in the middle of nowhere. Especially one who wanted to bone again.

For the next two hours, Cassandra talked about how great San Francisco was. She sensed I was nervous and wouldn’t shut up. She started asking me questions about how I felt, whether I was OK and why I was being so quiet. She was getting paranoid—and I was very afraid of the crazy bitch. She started to shake.

She pressed on the gas. She mumbled something about love and mountains and the city of Winnipeg. I didn’t understand anything.

We went faster—105 mph in a 60-mph zone, as I previously mentioned. I begged her to slow down, but instead she took out the biggest bottle and chewed, swallowed and gulped every anti-psychotic pill inside. I checked my seatbelt and prayed death wouldn’t hurt. When Cassandra pulled over, I reached for the handle to get the hell out. She grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye. “No,” she said. “Back seat now.” I obeyed.

She forced me into the back, yanked out my flaccid piece and enveloped it with her mouth. I was sure she was gonna bite it off. She could hear my heart pounding. “Relax,” she said, pulling my cock from her mouth and smiling. “I won’t bite.” C

Ray Downs is one of America’s most famous nobodies. Read all about his worries, fears and sexual fantasies at http://dishwasherphilosopher.blogspot.com.

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