Weed Guy

Charlie my weed guy knocks on my apartment door with an ounce to sell. I pay the price of admission, and he rolls us a joint on my couch.

You know guys like Charlie, heavy but not fat, his red hair and beard long and messy but somehow appealing. He goes everywhere dressed in long sleeved tees and baggy camo shorts, like he's looking to join a latter-day nu metal group.

You see guys like him at all the college parties, even though we both dropped out years ago. If you let him, he's the guy who will climb the tables and throw his hands around, all life-sized cartoon, preaching to the masses about whatever song lyric or book blurb totally blew his mind and rocked his world this week.

While Charlies tucks the finished joint behind his ear and plays with Koko, my black cat, I find an excuse to check myself out in the bathroom mirror.

Trina, you're looking good today. Good enough for a guy like Charlie, at least. Black hair washed and plaited, no circles under the eyes. Short sleeves to accentuate the biceps, a misbehaving shirttail to show off the navel ring and pale little stomach. Or what will be a little stomach after a couple dozen sit-ups. Tight jeans that slice creases in the curves of the ass. And good on you, Trina girl, for remembering not to wear a bra.

I reenter the living room to find Charlie booting up Mario Kart on my dusty GameCube. Well, why not? Old school racing and high-grade weed often lead to naughtier things. And since Charlie is selecting a full Rainbow Road Tournament, it looks like he plans to be here awhile.

Controllers in hands, we toke back and forth on the couch. The stuff goes straight to my head. It feels like a warm cloud rising through the roof of my brain. It has a more energizing effect on Charlie. He keeps jumping up and mashing buttons any time the race gets too intense. I throw my legs across his lap to keep him seated.

All I want to do is feel his cock rise big and hard against my thigh. I want him to forget about toadstools and powerups and instead tear off my jeans and shove his mushroom head up my peach. Only, when Charlie pauses the game, the herb hasn't yet migrated to his down south brain.

"Check it, right, man?" He spins to face me, knocking my legs against the coffee table. "I've been reading this guy, Henry Miller, all week. I get to this one book, right? Black Summer - or Spring or Winter or some shit - and he's talking about bathrooms, right? Fucking, like, books you read in there and shit you see on the walls and, like, how good it feels, right, to empty your bladder?"

"Yeah, okay!" I nod and act interested. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and inch them farther down my hips. "I never really thought about that, but yeah, I could see it!"

"I never did, either, but he's so right, man! These tiny little moments you never recognize that, like, truly make life worth living!"

I ease my thigh against his big pot belly. "I can think of a couple other things that make it worth your time..."

"Right, man! But, fucking, like, he's talking about the beauty of just, like, taking a piss outdoors. Like, in the summer or spring or, like, just warm, sunny weather, and how just your piss hitting the ground and curling off all the leaves just makes you feel so alive! And I've come to a decision, man."

I smile wide, concentrating on not raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"I am never - and I mean this - NEVER taking a piss indoors again. For real, that chapter of my life is officially over."

I've got my navel ring and ass-crack on display, but suddenly, Charlie's all about the game again. Sweating over the controller, twisting his shoulders with every crank of the wheel, accusing Koko of distracting him whenever the cat jumps onto the coffee table. I burn another toke and ease myself against his bicep. He says, "Not now. Eyes on the road."

And then, once I'm finally starting to get into the game, he pauses halfway through the pre-race countdown. "Just a sec, I've got to take a piss. Mind if I use your balcony?"

I cringe at the fact that we're on the eleventh floor, but with the state we're in, neither of us would make it back up here if we walked downstairs first. "Just make sure you aim over the railing, please."

"No fears, man, I've been a pee sharpshooter since the third grade."

He stumbles onto the balcony to find life affirmation in pissing in strangers' hair from a great height. I collapse against the length of the couch as the sound of purring fills the room. My pussy pacing the floor grumbles in hunger. The pussy between my legs does the same. At the rate things are progressing, we'll both starve to death.

I glance at the TV, our race eternally paused, seconds from blastoff.

Fuck it. Time to whip out a cheat code.

Charlie saunters back inside, clapping his hands to a funky beat. "Alright! Let's first-place this bitch all the way to Rainbow Roa-"

He freezes - mid-word, mid-step - when he sees me sitting on the couch with my controller in hand. My jeans thrown to the floor and my bushy pussy catching a breeze between my spread legs.

Charlie's wide eyes glaze over. Saliva forms at the corners of his gaping mouth.

"Well, come on, Charlie." I clench my butt cheeks and boost my labia off the couch cushions. "Do you want to play or not?"

Charlie springs to life. He hurtles over the armrest and lands in my lap, his shorts already half-unbuckled. The force of his body mass knocks me onto my back. His lips find mine as his fingers go digging in other places. His tongue and knuckles gain entrance simultaneously.

Smothered beneath his face and all that hair, I search for the coffee table with the GameCube controller. When I only seem to find open air, he takes it from me and tosses it blindly at the TV.

Charlie's digits curl upwards within me, turning on the faucet down there. The other hand slips up my shirt and plays with my navel piercing.

Something screeches and lands upon Charlie's back. He yells, "Fuck off me, man! This isn't some multi-species threeway!"

My cat jumps to the floor. Charlie eases off and out of me. He tears his shorts from his hips, followed by his boxers. He reveals his cock to me, standing tall, full of blood. A solid six inches in length and three in girth.

I let the words curl off my tongue. "Well, hey there, handsome fella!" I bite my lip, teasingly, as my fingertips trickle up and down his shaft.

He takes that as an invitation. Before I can stop to think where his cock has just been and what it was only moments ago doing, he plants his knees on either side of my skull and jams himself into my mouth.

However life-affirming the act of pissing outdoors might be to guys, I don't recommend giving blowjobs immediately afterwards. I swallow my complaints, along with the traces of urine, and I go to work on his shaft. Lick, suck. Lick, suck. Bob my head. Lick, suck. I twist my hand in a corkscrew motion, up and down the base. I flick my tongue against the slit of his urethra.

Charlie writhes and groans atop me. His furry belly slaps my forehead, his balls dangling against my chin. He grabs me by the base of the skull and rams his cock down my throat. He doesn't wait for my jaw to loosen and my muscles to relax. He fucks my esophagus like it was just another cunt.

I'm choking, but I bear it, even as my eyes burn red. Slowly, my throat opens to his size. I begin to savor Charlie's moaning as he varies the speed and depth of his thrusts. I find myself enjoying the sensation of my mouth turning him harder and harder.

And okay, fine, yes. Once I get past the lingering tang of urine, his cock actually tastes pretty great.

"Oh, man, Trina! This feels so fucking good!"

With my mouth full, I try to say, "Mmm-hmm."

"You know, I love the way Bukowski described getting blowjobs."

Oh, great. We're back in literary-philosophical mode again.

Charlie says, "Just, like, the way he'd talk about how crazy and awkward they could get, right? And, fucking, like, all that weird shit that can go on during them."

I moan like I'm about to spontaneously orgasm. I deep throat the shit out of his cock, but still, he keeps talking.

"Like, getting a phone call you've got to take while you're still getting blown. Or, fucking, a girl just biting you out of nowhere and still charging you for it afterwards!"

Before he gives me any bad ideas, Charlie yanks himself free of my throat. He pulls me upright, scrubbing my lips with his sleeve before Frenching me.

I'm waiting for him to toss my legs over his shoulders and eat me out, but skipping any semblance of reciprocation, Charlie says, "Oh, man! I want to be inside you, like, right now! I want to fuck you, doggystyle, so hard!"

I nearly tell him to put his dick where his mouth is, only to catch myself and remember that's what he was just doing. Instead, I say, "I, baby, don't make me wait!" as I flip over onto my hands and knees.

He positions himself between my legs, teasing open my hole with his fingers. "Oh, fuck, man! My balls are so huge right now!"

I think: Um, okay, good for you. I say, "Oh, yeah, baby! I could feel them! So big and hairy and full of hot cum!"

"I want to, like, plow clean into your cervix!"

I say, "Yeah, baby! Make my pussy bleed!" I think: Charlie, get a condom, get a condom, get a Goddamn condom.

He enters me, bareback. My cunt is so wet that it swallows him whole. I tell myself: Trina, at least you've got birth control. At least you've got Plan B in the medicine cabinet. Then again, since when are afternoon hookups about staying safe?

Charlie splits me deliciously. His balls, almost as big as he claims, slap against my labia. Drool splashes against my clenched ass cheeks as he grabs me by the hips and drives his full length in and out of me.

I crash back against him, my forearms braced against the couch for leverage. His hands glide up my belly. They find my braless breasts and tug awkwardly at my hard nipples. Squeezing my tits, twisting and pumping them. What the fuck is he trying to do? Milk me?

"Play with my clit!" I beg.

Charlie says, "No, I want to play with these."

"Oh...but my clit needs you! My hot...juicy...hungry clit..."

He fondles my breasts, pinching too hard. "That's okay, man. I'm happy here for now."

Fuck. I balance on one arm and touch myself with the other. His cock strokes my insides as I flick my clit between my fingers. I circle around the firing piston of his shaft and tease my dripping labia. Then, on instinct, my digits dart back to my clit, and I masturbate myself in a tight, curling rhythm.

Oh, finally! Now, I'm getting somewhere! My asshole tightens, just above Charlie's cock. A delicious cold sweat sends thrills throughout my body.

That's when I hear Charlie say, "Oh, man! I think I'm about to blow!"

My face in the cushions, I thrash my head. "No, you're not."

"I totally am!"

My fingers beat a mad frenzy within me. "That's the weed talking. You've got plenty of time to go."

"Yeah! It's definitely happening!"

"Charlie, don't you dare!"

"In three! Two! One!"

"No, no, no, no, no, no!"

"Goooo!"

He wheezes and crushes my breasts in his hands. His cock throbs deep inside me. On its own count of three, it explodes, spraying gouts of hot sperm into my pussy.

"Oh, nice!" Between gasps, Charlie withdraws his cock. Already, I feel streams of seed drizzling onto my thighs and - oh, FUCK! - onto the couch cushions. "Man! That was so fucking NICE! You ever heard how each orgasm is like a tiny death?"

I sigh. "That's a new one for me, Charlie."

"It's like, right afterwards, all energy just, like, leaves your body, and you're just, like, good as dead for a while. But like, I guess you don't mind. Kind of cool, right, man?"

I cup a hand beneath me to catch some of the dripping semen. "That's cool, Charlie. Real cool..."

He leans over to kiss me. Sperm-filled and disappointed with my blue ovaries, I try to meet his lips, but already, he's passed out.

His entire weight, big belly and big cock, falls upon me. I'm pinned facedown upon the couch with Charlie snoring in my ear.

I look to Koko, grooming himself upon the coffee table with a hind leg in the air. Some help he'll be. But next to the masturbating cat, I spot a lighter, the final inch of the joint, and Charlie's GameCube controller.

No better time to improvise.

Crushed on the couch beneath my drooling weed dealer, I find my arm just long enough to reach the table and all the gear. I fire up the joint and smoke it down to the filter in a single, coughing haze. Then, I crank the controller's vibration level up to the maximum, and I un-pause the game with one of the handles wedged against my cum-drenched slit.

It's an ugly race. The controller rattles in protest with each bump I hit. My opponents nail me with Banana Peels and Bob-ombs. I crash at every turn. I come in dead last by a two-minute margin, no hope of seeing the tournament all the way to Rainbow Road.

But like my Mushroom Kingdom counterpart, at least I get to finish.