
Getting nailed is a lot more sexy than getting hammered!!!
t’s 7:30 pm on St. Patrick’s Day at the Pot O’ Gold in South Boston, and everyone in here has been drinking for hours already. They skipped the corned beef and cabbage and went right to the booze.
It’s Southie, so many of their faces actually look like rare corned beef. Not mine, though. I am three years sober, and my complexion is as sallow as ever.
My friends were supposed to meet me here an hour ago, arriving in cabs, presumably. I’m to be their designated driver for the evening. This is no longer my scene, so I plan on giving them another 20 minutes before taking off.
But then, at the end of the bar, past the meaty, tattooed shoulders of Southie’s brightest, I spot a lonely woman nursing what appears to be pineapple juice. I only know her poison because I happen to be sipping some myself, and hers is in the same lame little glass.
Five ounces of pineapple juice is actually a dollar more expensive than a 12-ounce bottle of Sam Adams Winter Lager, which shows you how much this place respects my sobriety.
“Is this seat taken?” a thick, pink man asks the pineapple drinker. He plops his fat ass down on the stool next to her without waiting for an answer.
“It’s all yours,” she says before moving to the stool next to mine.
She holds up her drink and nods to me. “Happy St. Patty’s Day.”
The pink man slips off his stool and hits the ground with a heavy thud. His fellow piglets point and laugh for a good 30 seconds before helping him up.
“You, too,” I say.
Through beer goggles, she would look like a supermodel, but even to my sober eyes, she’s the most beautiful woman in the room. I’m not usually into blonds, and she’s a bit lean for my taste, but her wry smile and huge saucer eyes are captivating.
And that ass…
“I see we have the same taste in beverages,” she says.
“This stuff sucks. I have a hard time believing there’s any real pineapple juice in it at all.”
“Well, as long as there’s no alcohol in it…”
As she’s taking a sip, a wobbly, big-breasted woman wearing stilt-like heels stumbles into her, causing her to spill pineapple juice down her mint-green scoop-neck t-shirt.
She sighs, and dabs at the mess with a napkin. “You wanna grab a table?”
I can see her nipples through her damp shirt.
“Sure,” I say.
We find a booth in the back corner where beer has been spilled but not cleaned up. At least the seat is dry. The old me would have lapped the beer right off the table.
“I’m Anne,” she says.
“Pete,” I say, shaking her hand.
It’s one of those booths where there’s no way for two people to sit without their knees touching. She’s wearing a short, tight skirt, and I can feel the warmth of her skin through my thin khakis. I didn’t have time to change after work, and now I’m glad.
“So, what brings a sober guy to a bar on St. Patrick’s Day?” she asks.
“Friends who seem to have blown me off. What about you?”
“I came for validation. Nothing makes me happier to be sober than seeing how these idiots act on a stupid holiday that they don’t even get off from work.”
One of the piglets starts screaming something about “Tawm” Brady being a traitor, which incites a heavy shove from the guy he’s talking to. The rest of the piglets pull them apart before the conflict escalates.
“I know what you mean. It’s almost like we’re watching a little microcosm of society falling apart right before our eyes.”
She takes a sip of her juice. “So, Peter, what do you do for fun now that you don’t drink?”
“How do you know I haven’t always been sober? Maybe I’m a Mormon.”
“Well, are you?”
“No. But I do invite them in for a chat when they show up at my door. I’ve been pretty bored since I quit drinking. How about you? What do you do for fun?”
“I fuck.”
I spit a mouthful of juice all over myself.
She laughs. “There. Now we’re both wet. But seriously.”
I feel her hand on my thigh and my leg tenses up.
“Huh,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says, retracting her hand. “Am I being too forward?”
“No, you just surprised me is all. You could, uh… put your hand back if you want.”
She does.
“I’m not a sex addict or anything,” she says. “It’s not like I’m getting laid three times a day or guzzling cum like it’s wine. It’s just once or twice a week, I like to get my freak on.”
“With random strangers at a bar?”
She smiles. “Only the ones drinking pineapple juice.”
“Well, the truth is I actually am a Mormon, so unfortunately, premarital sex is off the table.”
“Then let’s get married.”
“Hmm. I do currently have two wives, but I am in the market for a third. Let’s do it.”
“Great! There’s a chapel down the hall.”
“That’s convenient. But what if it’s occupied?”
“I’m sure they’ll leave once the wedding starts.”
She grabs me behind the head and pulls me in for a long, deep kiss. As we make out, glass shatters behind us. Before we know it, piglets are squealing, fists are flying, and bodies are being thrown through tables.
“To the chapel, then?” she says.
“Yes. Let’s go make this official.”
As luck would have it, both “chapels” are empty. We choose the Ladies’ Room because there’s less piss on the floor. Once we’re inside, we block the door with a trashcan, which should at least slow down even the most determined of the drunken potatoes out there.
If they really have to go, they can use the Men’s Room.
“Are you ready to make an honest woman of me?”
“Honesty is the best policy.”
She pins me against the stall and kisses me. The door is cold and sticky from the air freshener used to cover up the cigarette smell. Her dexterous hands have my belt undone and my trousers opened within seconds. I glide up her shirt and grab her perky little tits over her bra. She shudders.
After teasing my tip with her long fingernails, she drops to her knees and takes me into her mouth. She cradles my balls and sucks me to the rhythm of the Dropkick Murphys song playing over the muffled speakers. Her mascara streaks down her cheeks like dirty rainwater as she chokes on my hog.
Once I’m fully loaded, I grab a handful of her thick golden mane and give it a gentle tug. She wipes saliva from her lips and sits up on the wet sink. I pull aside her panties and lap at her clit until it’s wet and engorged. She tastes like hot corned beef.
Over the music, I hear a thumping at the door. That was fast.
I look up at Anne.
“Did I tell you to stop?” she asks. “Keep going; that feels amazing.”
For now, the trashcan seems to be holding, so I bury my face into the warmth between her legs and continue to eat her pussy. It’s the best meal I’ve ever had here at the Pot O’ Gold.
When she’s ready, she lets me know with a pull on the ear. As she’s hopping off the sink, I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I look like a glazed donut.
“What the hell’s goin’ on in there?” calls a slurring voice from outside the restroom.
I take Anne’s cue and ignore it. She’s done this before. I trust she knows what we can get away with.
She turns her back to me and hoists up her skirt. I slip my throbbing cock into her sopping-wet cunt.
“Fuck me, Pete,” she whispers over her shoulder.
Bathroom sex isn’t fine dining; it’s McDonald’s. I give her my Big Mac hard and fast, and her pussy greedily devours it. There’s no savoring, just big gulps.
The trashcan screeches back a few inches, and a pair of bloodshot eyes peer in.
“Daaaammnn,” the slurring woman says. “There’s people fucking in here.”
“Well, tell them to hurry the fuck up,” her unseen friend says. “I gotta pee.”
To speed things up, I lick my fingers and start rubbing Anne’s clit with one hand while slipping the other hand up into her bra and grabbing her hard nipple. She braces herself with sweaty hands against the mirror as her pussy starts quaking. This causes my all-beef patty to erupt inside her, filling her with special sauce.
I’m still dripping as I zip up my fly. Meanwhile, Anne’s skirt is soaked from bodily fluids and gross sink water. Even after the mess we made, we’re still more presentable than the people we pass in the hall. They regard us with disdain, which is probably a combination of envy, and anger that we shut them out of the bathroom.
By now, the brawl has been resolved. All of the piglets have either been thrown out on their asses or carted away in patty wagons. All of the broken glass has been swept up and the broken tables pushed against the far wall.
As Anne and I are leaving, we pass a new batch of townies filing in. The St. Patrick’s Day festivities continue.
“I honestly do not miss that at all,” Anne says.
“Me, either.”
“Wanna go back to my place?” she asks. “I’ve got the good stuff: Lakewood Organic Pineapple juice. And, obviously, we’ll fuck some more.”
“My favorite. How could I say ‘no’?”
I can’t think of a better way for two sober sex addicts to spend the drunkest day of the year.
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