Join Date: Aug 2003
The Funniest Thing I've read in a long while
Stole this off another forum, literally had me crying from laughing so hard:
The Chronicles of Mr. Black: The Anal Cherry Knockout Incident
I love Mexican girls. I’ve never met one who isn’t a complete freak in bed. Of course, this could have a lot to do with the fact that I’ve never met a Mexican girl outside of a bar or a Wal Mart. (No, I don’t shop at Wal Mart. I do, however, pick up chicks there. Why? Because they’re generally poor, stupid, and easy to ****. I’ll be sure to share some of my Wally World experiences at a later date.)
About four years ago, I met this girl named Maria while I was out on a bar crawl with a couple of friends. She was your stereotypical loud mouthed hispanic slut. She wore too much makeup, skin tight jeans, a low cut top, a nose ring, and her hair was an absolute mess of greasy black curls. She and her trampy friends were already drunker than Irish fishermen when I first ran into them at the pool tables. Eighties rock blared from the speakers mounted to the ceiling above us. It was somehow fitting.
I stood there for a moment sizing up my target, trying to decide whether to introduce myself as a wealthy investor or a convicted gang member. But Maria stole my thunder before I had the chance to drop the icebreaker.
“What’chu think you starin’ at, white boy? Move!” she yelled. Her breath was a mix of unfiltered cigarettes and cheap booze. Magical.
As she pushed past me toward the bar, I let her have it. “I’m sorry, I just don’t normally run into women as beautiful as you in ****ty places like this!”
Maria played right back at me with a sultry, “**** you, cocksucker.”
In that moment, I knew that I was in love. She was clearly beautiful and articulate. I followed her to the bar where our flirting continued.
“What the ****? Get lost!”
“I was being serious, baby! Here, let me buy you a drink.”
“What? You think I can’t pay for my own ****?”
“I’m sure you can! I’m just trying to be nice.”
“Right. White boys is never just being nice. They just want a piece of my ***.”
“No, I’m genuinely interested in you!”
Four shots of vodka, two whiskey sours, a rum and Coke, and two pitchers of beer later, I knew her life story. She’d grown up in Mexico City but moved to the states with her aunt and uncle when she was 13. Her mother had died when she was 9 and her father had been a physically abusive drunk throughout most of her life. She worked as a crew manager at a fast food restaurant on the other side of town and she lived with two female roommates in a really bad neighborhood near the bar.
In other words, she was a high class woman who certainly wouldn’t have any diseases or emotional baggage that I might have cause to worry about.
A few more drinks and we were out on the dance floor. I was already $100 deep into this girl by then but it was clear that the night would end with her panties on the floor and her legs in the air, so that was fine by me. It was cheaper than hiring someone. I just had to figure out where the nasty was going to happen. I damn sure wasn’t going back to her place for fear of being raped and shot in the head and I really didn’t want to bring a whore like her back to mine. (She’d inevitably want to stay, I’d let her, and five years later we’d have a broken marriage, four screaming kids, and a mortgage.)
It wasn’t until about an hour later that I had one of those “light bulb” moments. Maria was busy grinding her *** into my dick as we continued dancing to some horrid Van Halen song when I suddenly realized that I hadn’t told her a damn thing about me! I could probably get away with the old, “I’m from out of town but I’m staying at a hotel near here,” routine. I had to try, at least.
The song ended and we headed back to the bar for what would be our last drink. I dropped the hotel idea on her, she took the bait like a hungry fish, we hit the bathroom, and we were out the door. We hopped a taxi (twenty feet from my car) and we were gone into the night. Maria was too drunk to notice that I hadn’t given the driver any kind of destination. I just told him to head west and he obliged. I told her that I had to text a business associate of mine. I instead sent one to Mr. Blue, who called a hotel near us and booked a room in Maria’s name. Yes, that’s right - in her name. We were stumbling out of the car five minutes later.
I picked up the key from the front desk. Fourth floor. Jacuzzi tub. “Blue, I love you,” I thought. We’d been in the room for maybe thirty seconds before Maria was naked and throating my cock like Jenna Jameson. Believe me - it’s times like these that whiskey dick is your friend. Had I been sober, she’d have already been gagging on baby batter. This girl knew what she was doing.
Over the course of the next forty-five minutes, I plowed Maria in every position you can think of. We did the missionary, the doggy, the cowgirl, the reverse, the pinwheel, you name it. (Yeah, the pinwheel, mother ****ers. I’m a pimp like that.) I should mention at this point in my story that throughout the many years that I’ve been nailing sluts, I’ve always carried at least three condoms with me at all times. I do this because I often feel it necessary to double bag my groceries. I usually subject girls to the “smell test” to determine whether it’s a two rubber job or not. I’m sure you can figure out how that test works, so I’ll spare you the gory details.
Fortunately, Maria was a single suit job. I sure as hell wasn’t going to stick my tongue in her but I wasn’t exactly worried about cock rot, either. She didn’t mind either way. She just wanted to be ****ed out of her mind. We ended up in the tub, then the bed, then back in the tub. By the time we made it back to the bed for a second time, the sheets and carpet were absolutely soaked. I didn’t give a ****. I felt like a rock star.
I felt so much like a rock star, in fact, that I did something that most men wouldn’t dare to do while performing the horizontal pants dance.
I must pause here to explain what happened next. I’m not a big smoker but I do like a good cigar. In fact, I seldom go out on a crawl without one in my shirt pocket.
So, I pulled out my cigar, put it in my mouth, and started working on getting it lit. I was delivering crushing blows to this little latina sausage hound doggy style at the time. She had her face buried in the pillow, moaning things in Spanish that I couldn’t understand. I made a crack about not being her uncle and therefore not understanding what the **** she was saying but she was too far gone to hear me or care. She also had no idea that I was about to inadvertently cause something horrible to happen.
I got the cigar lit, dropped my lighter back in my pocket, grabbed her hips, and went to work. My dick was absolutely numb from the alcohol and the ridiculous amount of ****ing we’d already done. It didn’t even feel particularly good. She was pretty loose and I was more interested in giving myself pats on the back for being such a mack daddy than I was in focusing on busting a nut.
Too interested, actually.
Minutes passed. I forgot that I had the cigar in my mouth. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Maria let out the kind of scream that you’d expect to hear from someone being stabbed to death. She shot forward like one of those wind-up cars on a linoleum floor, plowing face-****ing-first into the headboard of the bead at what I can only ironically describe as breakneck speed. Then, silence.
She was out. The ****. Cold.
I stayed there motionless on my knees for several seconds, trying to figure out what the **** had happened.
Then, I saw it.
The cherry from the cigar had fallen off and landed directly on Maria’s anus.
I can’t describe the feeling that rushed over me when I realized what had happened. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh until my lungs blew apart. A few more seconds passed and another sobering realization washed over me.
The cherry still had a faint glow. It was still burning.
Using one hand to spread and the other to flick, I managed to get the flaming ash out of Maria’s ***. What was left was a black and red mark where her admittedly cute ******* used to be. In a panic, I rushed into the bathroom, filled a cup with water, and flew back to the bed to dump it in her crack. Maria didn’t budge.
I’m not proud of what I did next. I got up. I got dressed. I walked my *** right the **** out of that hotel.
I went home and called Blue. I recounted everything that had happened, hoping for his sage advice. I hung up on him after five solid minutes of laughter on his end of the line.
I’ll be honest in saying that I scanned the newspapers and local television news reports for days afterward, praying that I wouldn’t see anything about a dead Mexican girl with a torched rectum on the news. Just to be on the safe side, we’ve never been back out to that particular bar.
"I'm not driving too fast...just flying too low"
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