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This Is a Great Story About Threesomes, Poo, Cocaine, the Death of Johnny Cash and Brunch

By / 06.30.14

threesomes-poo

Hey guys, I saw this on Reddit and thought it’s worth sharing. But this is a reminder. I haven’t recieved any Hook Up Heroes stories in some time. Please, send them in. Use redditor one_long_year as your spirit animal. 

A friend (we’ll call him Rick) and I were trolling a trashy dive bar in Portland, looking for some casual tail. We’d been running as a double-team for a couple weeks, so our success rate wasn’t great–not terrible, you might be surprised to learn, but not great–and it was getting late.

Cue the short, petite Portland girl with the flat wide hips and labret piercing and a faded Ramones t-shirt. Rick chats her up first, then I saddle up on the other side and introduce myself. She’s clearly not that interested in me, but having a great time talking to him, and as last call approaches it’s obvious she wants him to take her home.

That isn’t how we’re playing it, though. We are a package deal. I kinda nonchalantly brush my nose while indicating to Rick–making sure she sees it–and Rick in turn asks if she wants to join us in the bathroom for some yayo. She does, of course, because that’s what we trashy people in trashy bars doing trashy things do.

Into the bathroom, we cram ourselves into a stall, and I take out the bindle. A few keys while talking and the conversation turns a little less than family-friendly; Rick eludes to the fact that he’s only one part of a two man operation, and cute labret pierced Portland girl takes it in stride. They make out for a while, then I make out with her for a while, then we all consummately agree we should take the proceedings to a nearby motel.

Cut to: INTERIOR; NEARBY MOTEL

We’re lit only by the television that is playing music videos–reference for those of you too young to know, this happened a long time ago–and cocaine is being consumed off of every body part from which you can consume it. She’s got nipple piercings and shitty tattoos and a swarthy patch of black fur crowning her goodies, and before long Rick is fucking her like fucking is going out of style. She’s all kinds of noisy so I bring up the front end to quiet her down. Rick gives me a satisfied smile, and for the next hour or so we double down on her until our world is nothing but panting and sweat and the bitter aftertaste of Columbian imports.

But, remember, this is late at night, after a lot of drinking, and a lot of cocaine. Orgasms are for the weak. Rick eventually gives up, rolls over, calls it a night. She’s on her stomach, pillow under her hips, and I’m up to the hilt in her ass. I want to come, badly. I probably wont. What’s worse is she wants to come, badly, as well, and she’s not being discreet about it.

BREAKING NEWS, the announcer on the television says, JOHNNY CASH IS DEAD.

Well that’s a boner killer if I ever heard one. Rick kinda murmurs but is too fucked up to do anything about it; Portland girl and I stop what we’re doing, huddle up on the edge of the bed, and watch the report. There is much sadness. She cries. They play the music video for his cover of Hurt, and there are more tears. She wants some more coke to help her feel better; I want some more coke too.

We finish what’s left in my bindle, then she starts kissing me with this somber, tear-streaked urgency. Kissing turns to groping turns to back at it on the bed, only now things are different: it’s not so frenetic, not so desperate. She rolls back onto her stomach, I thrust myself back into her ass, and before long we’re hitting full speed. One of her hands finds it’s way between her legs, hits her feminine cheat code, and she’s off like a rocket–it’s all I can do to keep up.

Harder, Faster, Better, Stronger, it’s like I’m fracking for fortune and she’s going berserk. Finally, when she comes, her entire body tenses like a coiled snake and she nearly rips my cock clean off; I come myself, and make all kinds of the unflattering sounds guys make.

Fun Fact: when you’re drunk, and have been taking it in the ass, hard, for nearly two hours, things can go wrongdown there. And just like drilling for oil, when you hit paydirt, things can get messy.

My withdrawl was chased immediately by an explosion of other unfortunate products. And lacking any sort of muscular control, she couldn’t stop it. It shot out like a blowoff at the Hersey’s plant, booze and come and whatever dinner she’d had the night before, onto me, the back of her legs, and everything in between.

I helped her to the bathroom and waited patiently–covered in her mess–while she showered, before getting one of my own. We rolled up the blankets and she made all kinds of apologies, but there was a bit of maniacal humor in her words and it was hard for me to keep a straight face too.

Anyways. The three of us had Bloody Marys and biscuits together in the morning, and I never saw her again.

J Camm looked up the date of Johnny Cash’s death, and turns out this shit-and-drug laden tango went down on September 12, 2003. The more you know.

[Threesome vis Shutterstock]


TAGSanal sexcocaineapoopportland
David Covucci
About David Covucci... David Covucci is writerer-bloggerer for BroBible dot com. He loves Twitter and whiskey. He can be reached at david.covucci@brobible.com.

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