Have you ever seen a girl walk by, shaped to perfection, long, wavy hair, clothes that scream if you can take them off, i’ll never put them on again, a look on her face that even gets her dad to realize she likes it rough, a walk that makes her butt look like water balloons, in fact: an overall appearance that just makes you think:

Damn?

I have. Problem was: I was on a date. If I had known girls like this just walked around in bars in this town, I’d never have even gone on Tinder. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for awkward dates that lead to desperate, meaningless sex. I mean: who isn’t, right? But seeing that girl walking around on the terrace, handing out drinks, it made me regret taking the easy way out. I could easily have waited a day or two before going with the less interesting option. But to be honest: I got bored. The cleaning lady wasn’t a cute girl, like in the movies, but more like an old witch – the very, very last resort. The girl behind the check-in desk had already threatened to call her boss if I kept trying to get her to come up to my room, and the hookers that hung out by the hotel bar were so worn down I probably wouldn’t even feel a thing, unless I would have pulled off the – quote, unquote – accidental anal gig.

No, Tinder had been the best option. Places like these are perfect for that. Spend the time you usually use on a quick jerk-off swiping, and chances are you’ll end up with a handful of matches that look easily close enough to the kind of girl you had imagined to bend over your bed. What I love most about Tinder, is the fact that pretty much everybody on there pretends it’s a serious dating app, even though they all know they’re gonna end up as single as they’ve always been, with one more regretful experience in their bags. Ana wasn’t any different: yapping about her hopes & dreams, but as soon as the Big Question would pop up (I’m bored, wanna go for drinks?), she was all over it.

And so there I was. In the old center of a godforsaken, semi-large European city, with a hundred-percenter sitting across the small table, but now with a who knows walking towards me. Imagine I would have answered A cab for the girl, and your panties on the floor when she asked me what I wanted. Something I kinda wanted to do, but I also kinda wanted to get laid, so I had to keep all options open. But here’s a lesson learned for y’all: guys, if you’re on a date with a hot-ish girl, and a waitress walks away from the table, don’t stare at her ass, as wiggly as it may be. That stuff sets you back at least half an hour.

We had time, though. My meeting wasn’t until early in the afternoon on the next day, and I didn’t even have to leave the hotel for it. Plenty of time to get Ana drunk, ask questions that would show her true intentions (Color of your panties? — Who says I’m wearing any?) and get myself whisky-dicked enough to actually be able to keep going ’til she would cum – ’cause folks, let me tell you this: there’s no way I’m going down on a girl who’s still dripping with my juices if she’s not either my girlfriend or a solid nine.

Speaking of solid nines: I’m glad I noticed the little tap on the beer mat when waitress girl put our next round on the table. Clever way of communication, girl! No chance of the chickie across the table thinking anything of it when I take my glass, flip the mat around in a playful manner, and read what’s written on the back.

GF? fck. don’t move a muscle

cool date? i send nudes. take big sip

boring date? i swallow. go to bathroom

Well, excuse me, my sort of cute Tinder date, but I gotta take a leak.

Waitress girl was pouring glasses of beer for God knows who, but she definitely saw me. She did the total movie thing, where she looked up, looked back down, and smiled to no one in particular. I could have stopped and said something, but you know, my date was still sitting outside. So I just went to the bathroom (I actually did need to go to the bathroom).

As I got back, waitress girl was doing her thing outside, and Tinder girl – I mean Ana – was sending a text. But I’m a guy, I know how to drag a girl away from her phone. To pretend I’m still interested. To invoke a big mental yes to the question this guy, do I still want him between my legs?. So conversation went on, like nothing happened. Yes, work visit. Yes, I got time for sightseeing. No, I don’t have a girlfriend, and if I did, I wouldn’t have told you anyway. Oh, and guys: never forget that conversations go both ways. You gotta listen. So now I know Ana was trying to finish her studies, played tennis, and lived with a friend in the old center, not far away from the bar we were at. Information I couldn’t care less about, but you can never say that. Period.

I waved at waitress girl right after Ana had finished her drink. More of the same, please. And I may need a new beer mat. She came back with two full glasses and two mats, one empty (that one was for Ana), and one with yet another poem scribbled on the bottom.

still wanna do her anyway. your loss. do nothing

i’m gonna propose a 3way. i’m into that shit. ask her

gonna take her home and come back. shift ends at 1. light a cig

Even if I had quit smoking for ten years, I still would have taken one out of the pack. I smoked, and I drank, and I smoked, and I drank, and all of a sudden, the realization hit me: I can get away with two orgasms here: one like I’m sorry baby, but you’re just too hot to last, and the other like Please put it in the other hole, I’m getting sore down there. And the best thing was: neither one of them would even know about the other!

11:08. Almost two more hours before this place would close down. Plenty of time for one last round. Waitress girl brought them, and switched the beer mats once again. No multiple choice questions this time. No weird Do this so I know what you chose. Just a few words.

1:15 sharp. alley on your right

11:37, and we were halfway through the drink. Time to make my intentions clear once and for all. But careful: it’s still a girl, and girls tend to have something called feelings. Even though they know they’re gonna end up kneeling in front of you, they prefer it when you leave the door to a happy marriage open, even if it’s by the tiniest of margins. Oh, I know! Just bring up the living-close-to-this-bar thing. That’s right. Maybe we could hang there for a bit? I’m getting kind of chilly. I know you’re not, you’re hot. And bam. That’s how you comfort a girl.

Fun detail: there was a bit of eye contact when we left, made possible by the fact that I was quite literally pushing Ana out in front of me between the tables. I pointed at the ally, she nodded and tapped her imaginary watch. Who needs words when you have sign language?

Ana and I walked to her place. Slowly, arms around each other, just like real lovers do. Being a short girl, she was way more drunk than I was. I even had to help her getting the key into the lock (no euphemisms here just yet). I placed my hand on her butt as we walked up the stairs, and grabbed it firmly when she bent over to figure out another locked door. When she eventually managed, a slight problem appeared: there was a girl sitting in the living room. Thank God I had picked the pretty one. No, I don’t speak that weird language of yours. And I don’t care what your name is, but say it anyway. Just write your phone number on a piece of paper, and if I’m still horny after the meeting, I’ll give you a call. Sorry, what? Drink? Sure, but can we have it – yeah, definitely in your room. Was awfully nice to meet you, too.

Every guy will know: the most boring moment in one’s adult life is when a girl is getting ready in the bathroom, and you’re lying on her bed, waiting for her to walk through that door. I looked at the clock (what else was I supposed to do?). 0:17. Just remember, girl: every second you spend in that bathroom, I’m not going to be able to spend inside you. Seven full minutes it took her, minutes I spent looking at memes on my phone and smoking a cigarette – there was an ashtray next to the bed, I figured it was ok. When she returned, nothing had changed. Same jeans. Same crop top with her bra peeking over the edge. All she had taken off where her shoes. At least she smelled really nice!

Now. I could go and bore you with a lengthy deion of how I fucked Ana. I could, but I won’t, for that’s not what this story is about (remember the waitress, dammit!). Instead, I’ll just give you a list of facts that will more or less make you understand what happened in that bedroom:

– I kept looking at the clock, and I tried to cum from the moment her tongue touched me (but whisky dick)

– She was hotter naked than she was with clothes on, and that’s not always the case

– The girl in the living room clearly was ok with her roomie having sex every now and then

– This girl knew how to go down

– And how to arch

– Dirty talk is a turn-on to a certain type of girl

– Ana was that type of girl

– The female orgasm sometimes comes unannounced

– Blowing your load into a condom just isn’t the same as the real thing

– Not making her cum, and turning towards the clock before you’ve even properly finished yourself are both recipes for disaster.

0:42. I didn’t look at the time! Why would I look at the time. Speaking of time, though… Oh boy, is it past midnight already? You know I’m here for work, right. So I have to work tomorrow. Really, did I say “early afternoon”? I meant “early morning”, obviously. Who starts work in the afternoon. No, it’s a very important meeting, and I need to be fresh, you know? I’m so glad you understand. I have your number, I’ll text you as soon as I’m done there!

If the girl in the living room didn’t write her number on a piece of paper, that is. Spoiler alert: she didn’t. She fucking winked at me. Would you believe it? She just spent half an hour listening to a girl screaming like a pig and a guy umpfing like a moron, and she winked. She fucking winked. Well, girl, there goes your chance on having any of this. Wait, can I… do you mind if I use the bathroom?

Tinder girls, right? It almost always ends up messy. Not in a dirty way, unless she likes to do it without protection. No, in a mental way. I may be a dick, but I did feel kind of bad for leaving her hanging. Who knows, maybe I actually will give her a call (again, spoiler: I didn’t). So I felt bad for doing what I did, and she felt bad for having to let me go, and roomie might have felt bad for hearing us, and perhaps waitress girl even felt bad for getting in between the two of us. Everybody was feeling bad, yay! It was gone pretty quickly, though. A twenty-minute walk, twenty-two minutes to spare. One cigarette now, one while waiting. Seems legit.

At exactly, not a second later than 0:17, a door opened, and waitress girl stepped outside. Waitress girl. You know why it’s always a bad idea to fuck the waitress? ‘Cause next time you’re there, you either have to explain to your friends (or worse: next date) why you get free drinks, or she’ll spit, pee, cum or whatever in your beer. Either way: not perfect. But to hell, I wasn’t coming back here, and this girl seemed chill enough.

So. Do you want to do drinks first, or do you — what, you’re a waitress and you don’t drink? I’m afraid I didn’t bring any cocaine, for I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life behind bars in a country half of Europe couldn’t even point out on a map. It should be close, it’s right by the train station. That’s what I said, close. But yeah, work. Well, it’s my own company, actually, so naturally, yeah, I’m the boss. I could probably bring a date! But that would mean you’d have to stay over. No, that’s not… I NEVER said that was a bad thing.

Sorry about that rant, I’m still here. Really. Waitress girl and me arrived at the hotel. The bitch who had turned me down so many times was behind the desk. Oh, she saw us. She pretended she didn’t, but she did. I would have been jealous too, if I was her. I wonder if she ever touches herself during work. Never mind, not the point. The point is: the elevator. The perfect place for a first kiss. Didn’t expect a friggin’ hand on my friggin’ crotch, but hey, who ever looks at the camera footage, right?

I have this weird anxiety thing that when I open my door for a girl, there’s another girl on my bed, naked, playing with herself, looking up, and saying: what the, who’s that?!. Needless to say, there wasn’t a naked girl on my bed. For a minute or so, at least. Wait, before we do this, I need to know one thing: what name do I whisper in your ear when you’re about to blow? Yasha? That’s not half bad. Fine, you get one question too. What? No! Of course not. That girl was such a prude, she wouldn’t let me fuck her on our wedding night.

Yasha fingered herself as I was getting my clothes off. Here’s another piece of advice: if you ever have the chance to go down on a girl first, don’t let it slip away. There’s nothing worse than being brought in the zone by her tongue and lips, only to have to break it up to eat her out. Just dive in, bring your A-game, wait until she pushes your head away, and enjoy the rest of the session without having to do any hard work. Having said that: this one was so much fun, twirling around, whispering random curse words, that I wouldn’t even mind to do it again. But I had done my thing, and she was ready to return the favor.

Hot girls always give great head (sorry, Confucius, if I stole your line). It’s a fact of life. Fours generally suck, probably for the lack of practice. Sevens are 50-50, they can go either way. But have a nine or better go down on you, and you’ll find yourself thinking of Thai ladyboys bending over in front of you, only to keep you sane. The good thing was: I was tipsy, I had blown my load barely an hour earlier, and the painting on the wall had so many people on it, there was plenty of distraction. So I had her go on for a bit longer, until she gave up herself.

Yet another piece of advice! Never bring up the use of condoms yourself. Just have her sit in front of you, slowly get behind her, move the tip between the lips a few times, give her two inches, pause, and give her a chance to shout Wait! Aren’t you forgetting something?. If she doesn’t, she’s either clean and on birth control, or she’ll take the risk and get rid of whatever ends up growing inside her – or you’re gonna end up scratching your balls and paying alimony for the rest of your life, but one shouldn’t think of that in situations like these. Yasha didn’t shout anything but Oh my living hell it’s big, so I was sure I was safe.

Now, the fun thing about being a guy, is this: the second your abs hit her butt, you know it. It’s a feeling that can’t be mistaken. A definite either/or. Either you’re going to spend the next few minutes, make it ten if you’re lucky, trying to think of the grossest things your mind will let you, or you’re gonna grab her ass and relax, knowing she’s going to have two, three, maybe four orgasms before you even have to start thinking about having one yourself. I can safely say the latter was the case.

Now hear me out. This is a legit question. Have you ever been in a hotel, your dick deep inside a pretty girl, when her moaning (oh God, Yasha was a moaner) is disturbed by more moaning, coming from the wall her head is banging into? I will go as far as saying I have, and it was happening right there, right then. What are the odds of two couples, be it married or just random acquaintences, going at it, in the same hotel, on the same floor, feet away from the same shared balcony? Harder, Yasha whispered, I don’t want to hear her. Now harder, I can do. Matter of fact, I was gonna do that anyway, regardless of some slut next door getting it.

Now I don’t want to brag, but things took long enough for me to be able to walk to the fridge, take out the bottle of schnaps I had bought earlier that day, light two cigarettes – I share, people – and have Yasha sit down on top of me. Lasting is usually hardest when a girl is on top, for you’re not in charge of speed and depth, but the bottle, the smoke, the moaning next door and the mesmerizing bouncing of Yasha’s boobs proved plenty of distraction. It may only happen a few times in a man’s life when he can fuck, and fuck, and keep fucking a girl without having to worry about screwing it up, and when it does, he has to make the most of it. And boy, did I. I rubbed her clit. I slapped her boobs. I grabbed her by the neck and squeezed. I left handprints on her buttcheeks, I let her bury her nails into my chest, I knocked on the wall and shouted Change positions, she’s getting bored!. And all this time, Yasha was jumping up and down, rubbing, reminding herself how much she liked all of this.

If she asks for a break, you know you’re doing good. Great, even. We did go for a break, sort of. After Yasha had gone to the bathroom, we stepped out on the balcony, fully naked. We smoked, we drank, she kept me semi-hard, I kept her dripping wet. People down on the street barely noticed. Yasha, however, did notice something: a curtain, not even remotely closed, and behind it, an old, beer-bellied man, looking upwards, and in front of him a tiny girl, who did not at all look of legal age, but must have been, judging by the size of her breasts. We spotted them just in time, and I got a full-on boner just in time. As if it was perfectly planned, the moment my dick went straight back into Yasha, the old man took his out, and dripped his pathetic load over the girl’s ass. We heared him through the glass, and both Yasha and I looked straight into his face when he turned his head. Probably time to get back inside.

That proved to be a good idea. Nothing says Hey man, we’re still fucking more than Yasha’s body slamming into the wall. Nothing says Dude, already? more than the uncountable amount of Fuck!s she screamed. And nothing says Send that girl over here, I’ll finish what you started more than… well, more than me actually shouting that. Nothing happened though, so I was stuck with Yasha. Still, a pretty good result, I’d say.

All good things eventually come to an end, though. For Yasha, that end happened when she was lying on the desk, the back of her head on my laptop, her one hand hanging down and her other rubbing herself. When a girl has been fucked for a certain amount of time, her orgasm isn’t cute and adorable any more. No, Sir. It is violent, it is messy, and it wakes up everybody who happens to be in close proximity. In this very case, Yasha let out a scream so loud and so long her happy moment was rudely interrupted by the moving of chairs next door (the other next door), and a man-person knocking on the door, shouting things in a language I didn’t understand. Get lost, the lady is having a fucking orgasm!. A few angry sounds, and silence – relative silence, for Yasha was still breathing like a dog.

When a girl has finished, and you haven’t, there are two options left: either you let go and join her in Heaven as soon as possible, or you ease down, let her find her breath, and start all over. Take the fact that both neighbors now hated us, and add that with the opportunity one of us might actually die if we had to go through this all over again, and you will know what option I chose. Without sliding out more than halfway at any given moment, I put Yasha down on the bed, placed my knees under her legs and my hands next to her face, and fucked her. Actually the word “fucking” doesn’t do justice to what I did. I took her. I ravished her. I had come to terms with the possibility that my dick would break inside her. Good thing was: she couldn’t moan. She couldn’t scream. But it did the trick! Just when the door next to ours slammed shut (I think the girl left), I hit that point we all know so well. The point where anything could happen, aliens landing on planet Earth, nuclear war breaking out, your mom walking into the room, but it won’t keep you from shooting your load inside her. I cursed every girl I had ever fucked for not being able to make me feel like this. I bit Yasha’s cheek until it bled. I came so deep inside her, even if my seed wanted to impregnate her (which I highly doubt, they like this too much), it couldn’t have found the way back.

4:03. No wonder the neighbors were yelling. Are you even okay? You’re trembling. I know you came, but that was like four minutes ago. Are you still coming to the meeting tomorrow? You could be like my assistant. Yeah I got one, but she’s at home, and she’s not all filled up with cum, at least not with mine, at least not right now. I told you, the bitch was a prude, and she’ll probably die a virgin. When’s your next shift? Can I fuck you in the bathroom, or better: at the bar, when everybody’s watching? No, the meeting’s in English, and I’ll give you five bucks if you manage to flash your boobs without anyone but me noticing. Also: *bangs the wall* You dickhead, I wanted a threesome.

Have you ever seen a girl lie next to you, shaped to perfection, dripping with whatever you put inside her, clothes hanging off the bed, a look on her face that whispers I don’t know what just happened, but I want more of it, head resting on your chest, in fact: an overall appearance that just makes you think:

Damn?

I have.

---