What a way to ruin a fucking fantasy! Knocked up stripper stumbling around my kitchen.. She was dressed in Jessiford's boxers and an off white, wife beater, tank top. This single stenciled eyebrowed hot mess was an abomination at 8:30am. Without all the glitz, glamor,and beer goggles..Whiskey Tango Foxtrot! This was not the confident vixen who'd seduced my dear friend into involuntary servitude. It couldn't be.. Could it? 3 months prior, this Smut Princess was fabuloso. Her stage name, Pandora. My entourage of fellow baller's and dirtbags were fascinated by her amazing pole skills and her uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe. My esteemed colleague Jessiford was instantly mesmerized. He literally got tripped up from his tongue over-lapping his shoe laces intertwined with his penis. Dude was a goner by Pandora's 3rd dance. "She feels like.. Like Electric Velvet." (yeah, that's verbatim.) The words dripped from his Luke Perry-ish jawline. After his second lapdance, I told him she was trouble. "Strippers run game like Carl Lewis!" I said. He didn't care. This fucker was stuck. Hook line and sinker!
Now, I can't lie. The first month or so, it was for lack of a better term, the TITS! We had strippers whore galore at our house every night of the week. Pandora and her stripper brood would hit up our house at 3:30am as an after party house. It was great in the beginning. What kind of guy doesn't want that? Pimptacular! The harem would count their sweaty g-string money, dance, pull tongue with each other, and drink till 7 or 8 and unwind.. We as guys were the envy of all our fuckbag crew. There was always an excuse to hang out and get shitfaced at our crib on a Tuesday night. My homie's never brought over beer just to chill like this before. All of a sudden our house was the place to be.
We planned on keeping this up as long as we could. (Insert music for impending doom here.) So Jessiford and Pandora are fucking like young drunk twenty somethings should. That good drunk monkey sex. The smelltastic kind. He comes to me one morning while I'm looking over the Wallstreet Journal and sipping that dark molasses coffee from Dunkin Donuts. He says that his Spermicidal Trojan Condom (yes, the light blue one's) broke. That he was sure everything would be ok.. (famous last words.) Things couldn't be further from the truth. Two weeks go by and nope, no blood. Another week goes by and.. (cut to the beginning of this story.) I'm getting ready for work and this knocked up stripper is in my kitchen asking if I'd stop at the store on my way home, and pick up some milk? What a way to fuck up a perfectly good fantasy.
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