Her Name Was Brittany

I came out of a profound blackout for a moment, just in time to realize the gravity of the situation. My hands were shaky from the Colombian grade cocaine coursing through my bloodstream and I had to make sure my aim was dead on. One wrong move and the make-shift blow dart filled with ketamine would miss her ass completely.

I met her at a coffee shop under false pretenses. Her name was Brittany or Brittanie or some forced recalculation of a future stripper’s name. I was nursing a hangover and she was looking for one. We connected over the mutual disdain for the indecisive debutant ahead of us. We were at her house before the coffee was drained from our cups. I had her naked, blowing rails off her perfectly sculpted fake tits when she asked for it.
I was staring into a black hole. Honestly and figuratively. With half-closed intoxicated eyes, a freshly waxed asshole looks like a salty kiss. I asked her to breathe in and exhale, exaggerating the exhale as if it were her last. Her beautiful anus came to life, like the mouth of a diva. In that moment, time stood still and I knew my purpose. I placed the edge of the glass clean against her rim, and blew.
The cigarette smoke halo that left her lips broke apart quicker than her self respect. We discussed her kids, her dreams of owning a yard, even if it was only big enough for her dog to take a shit. She was happy.  I had given her what she wanted. Not connection, not orgasm, just a quick flash pure debased inebriation. That pause between responsibility and reality. We had fucked the system. For in that shaky boof of a second, nothing mattered besides the hot breath of intoxication I was granting her beautiful asshole.
By:  Jester Pepperbottom

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