Monday, March 12, 2007

The Greatest 2.5714 Weeks of the Year!

It’s that time of year boys and girls. Yep, I’m talking NCAA tournament time (also known as The Greatest 2.5714 Weeks of the Year – I’ve already submitted the copy write papers on that). It’s the one and only true tournament where anything can happen. I have taken Thursday and Friday off from work to take in all the basketball that CBS has to offer. No matter who wins, there will certainly be some great games and some great finishes, and I will be there (in front of the TV) to witness it all.

I have been planning this for the past two weeks. First I had to ask off from work and my gracious boss approved the paper work. Once that was settled I did some deep planning. You see, the first two days of the tournament there are games on from 11:30 in the morning till 11:30 at night (Central time). Anyone who knows me knows what this means: twelve glorious hours of beer consumption. Twelve hours of beer consumption amounts to a substantial intake of alcohol. So last Thursday I wrote “start” on my calendar. Since then I have gone three out of four days without drinking in preparation for the tournament. To the average person this might not seem like a big deal. But you have to realize that this has not happened in my life in a great while. I think I might have had sex (with a real live woman) more recently than going 3 out of 4 days without beer. Thursday and Friday went by ok. I wasn’t able to sleep well either night but I made it through. Saturday I gave in. There were a lot of conference tournaments on TV so I made an exception. Sunday I was back to not drinking although it was really painful watching the Badgers get their asses handed to them by the Buckeyes. But all is going well, thank you.

(I don’t want to give too much away as most of you are filling out your brackets, but after watching Michigan State and Wisconsin battle it out three times in the last two weeks, Marquette doesn’t have a chance against the Spartans. Sorry Marquette fans, it just ain’t gonna happen.)

After not drinking most of the weekend, today I could tell a big difference in my performance in the weight room. Typically I’ll do chest on Monday, back on Tuesday, shoulders Wednesday, arms on Thursday and legs on Friday. Chest days are usually fun, but yet somewhat disappointing when compared to what I could do six years ago. But today I was in rare form, going all the way up to 250 lbs for four reps. This made me very happy and I almost ripped off my tank top Hulk Hogan style right there in the gym. Of course I didn’t; I’d have to go shopping for more tank tops if I did and I really hate shopping.

Funny thing though, it wasn’t all that hard to not drink. A couple of the days I couldn’t even stand the smell of beer. The bar did get a little boring and I got tired quickly without the beer calories providing me with energy. And then there were the drunk people. Surely I don’t get that irritating when I get loaded, right? At least I would like to think I don’t. I just turn into Super B, the hottest, sexiest man in the bar ready and willing to sexually please all the women with my porn star abilities.

Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about me and not drinking. I mean, this blog didn’t get worldwide acclaim with stories of sobriety and my relationship with my fiancé. No, you want fuzzy recollections of me stumbling home and crapping my pants or falling down the stairs while crapping my pants (kind of like tapping your head and rubbing your stomach). And while I don’t have any new stories for you right now, I will tell you about a trip I took to Madison with a female friend of the old roommate.

I don’t remember what the occasion was, but it was a typical college party weekend. Three of us had planned to drive to Madison on a Friday night. The old roommate got off of work late and bowed out leaving me stuck with his college friend. She was still pumped for the party so I agreed to go with her.

The trip to Madison went well with casual conversation occupying most of the time. We got to Madison, had a little trouble finding a parking lot, tracked down her friends and headed off to a party.

I have no idea where the party was, and I don’t think they did either. We ended up in an apartment full of people none of us knew. But they had a tub of whop. Since I was driving I stayed away from the whop and just had a couple beers off the keg. Julie (old roommate’s college friend who will never read this) went for the whop. And went for more whop. I was doing my best socializing with every hot chick (and not so hot) and was making friends quickly. That is, until Julie suction cupped her face to mine. Now, we had never kissed before that night, nothing even close. AFter three glasses of whop I had trouble keeping her off me. The women I was talking with backed off and gave me the “oh, looks like you’re taken” look (FUCK!). Every time I would try to continue a conversation with them Julie would grab my face and plant the sloppiest of kisses on me. Great, just peachy, I have hot women laughing at me because some drunk broad is trying to make out with me every two minutes. Oh but wait, it gets better.

We left the party and found my truck. On the way out of Madison we ended up behind a police car. After a while I said, “I bet cops get blow jobs all the time.” Her response was, “Well, do you want one?” Yeah, like I was going to turn that down. Moments later we’re driving down the freeway doing 65 mph with my pants around my knees and her head in my lap (that isn’t illegal, is it?). I don’t know about most men, but I tend to need to concentrate when doing such things, and the whole driving thing was getting in the way (along with the stick shift). So I pulled over at a rest stop. She continued with what she thought was “giving head” but it turned out to be a little more painful than what getting head should feel like. Something about the combination of the mouth and hand just wasn’t working quite right. Well, it worked well enough, I shot, she swallowed, and we were back on the road. She passed out shortly afterwards and it was a quiet trip back.




The next morning I had a scab on my penis.




You know how you used to scrape your knees when you were a kid or (more likely in my case) scraped your elbow walking home from a good night out on the town? Yeah, that’s what I had on my penis, a scab the size of a quarter on my penis. Not good people, not good. She had rubbed off a layer of skin with her feverish beating of my schlong. Needless to say I never let her down there again.

I think I’ve said this before, buy if you’re a gay guy living in a big city, please open up a consulting firm that teaches women how to give head. You could do house parties or evening classes, whatever it takes. I’ll even provide the start up capital for the company (as long as I can be a test subject in the classes).

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I don't know if it's because guys know what feels good or what ... or maybe it's just that most guys mouths are a little bigger and can accommodate such things better, but I've had my share of head from both women and men ... and the men, hands down, do a much better job.

Can you imagine the turnout for volunteers if there were BJ-giving classes? You'd have to beat them away with a stick.

(And I've gotten hickeys on mine but never a scab. WTF was she doing?)