I got a lot of head at the superbowl
HOUSTON, TX - I arrived in Houston this morning. I have no fucking idea what I am doing here, but I had a fond time here last time I wandered into the largest city in Redneck Nation. Superbowl XXXVIII. My Patriots were favored in the Superbowl. I still can't believe I can write that. As much as the Sox winning the series meant to me, Superbowl XXXVI truly changed my life, but the story isn't that good. What, I got drunk, watched the game, lost my shit, fucked one of my students, drove her home, had a fucking snack. Superbowl XXXVIII turned me into some kind of reincarnation of Nero, and is a much better story.
Q: That was months ago, why are you writing about it now?
A: Just fuckin read it. Its about blowjobs and whores and football. You got something against whores and football and blowjobs? Fuck off.
I boarded the plane at Fort Myers, FL. I had packed in 15 minutes, my tickets being procured only an hour prior. A co-worker was driving me to the airport. He came into my apartment and said, "Rico, this is not an apartment -- this is a cry for help."
What? So I had a 1400 square foot two-bedroom in a pretty expensive complex, and it was furnished a little bit Zen . There was a mattress on the floor, a 13-inch television next to it, no other furniture, three bikes in the living room, and the fridge had four Red Stripe beers in it, oh and a jar of pepperoncini. What the fuck else do you need?
I grabbed my suitcase, threw in my Purple velvet pimp outfit, a pair of blue suede shoes, three pairs of underwear, a box of condoms, a toothbrush, two pairs of sunglasses, two pairs of socks, and two Patriots T-Shirts. I put on a pair of jeans, a Steve Grogan jersey, and my leather jacket. Grabbed the suitcase, took a hit off a joint, stubbed it out (always fly clean) and said, "lessgo." My buddy, peckerwood, grabbed a red stripe for the road.
Got to RSW, and instantly met an old-timer Pats fan in the airport. Guy was 70 or so, drunk, on crutches, and wanted to buy me beer. New best friend made.
We drank Sam Adams, of course, and some guy from Melrose, who was WAY too prone to violence joined us. More beer.
Boarded the plane. Shitfaced. Half the plane was drunk Patriots fans (is there any other kind?), and the other half was cunts from Houston (is there any other kind of person from Houston?). The screaming of the non-cunt half horrified the rest of them. At about 20,000 feet, it started.
By "it" I mean that thing that happens to me when I get to a certain point of inebriatedness. I bought a pocket breathalyzer because I wanted to learn exactly what blood alcohol level was required for "it" to happen, but I always forgot and then the breathalyzer became a drinking game - as in "what is the highest number I can get on this thing." Blood alcohol content became a "high score."
Oh, but what is "it" you ask? "It" is when I turn into a Viking. I'm 1/8th Swede and 1/8th Icelandic. The rest is all guinea. The guinea runs the show most of the time, and the Viking just sleeps. Someplace around .25 BAC, the guinea passes out and the Viking takes over. He's a good-natured Viking. Doesn't usually hurt anyone, but he has been in over 100 bar fights. At least he doesn't use an axe. Today, the Viking didn't want to fight...
So, possessed by my ancestral Viking, I tore off my clothes. Kept my underwear on. Why? Not to be naked, I just wanted to change. Put on the Pimp outfit. Purple velvet with leopard-skin lapels and cuffs. Fucker, I'm the Patriots Pimp baby. The Viking made sure that everyone on the plane knew that. First he screamed it. Then he yelled it as he sprinted up and down the aisles. Then he informed every woman on the plane as he slurred, "y'all bitches lookin' fer work?"
The crew tried to convince the Viking to tone it down . As if a fucking Viking can tone it down. Fucktards. The Pats fans on the plane protested... they liked the Viking / Pimp. And they wanted more.
Arrived in Houston, got in a cab, and got fucked up with my uncle for about oh, 36 hours straight. Then, the Viking realized what was missing -- TITS!
Off to a titty bar near the hotel. I remember which one, but I'm not telling the name, because I am reasonably certain that what happened there was not entirely legal -- and I wanna go back for more.
First, the bouncer comes up to me at the bar and says that the owner would like to have a word with me.
FUCK. The Viking hasn't even done anything yet. They could probably tell that the Viking was minutes away from causing a scene. Into the back room - 600 lb gorilla of a bouncer behind me.
The owner, Cletus, or Clyde, or whatever, says "boy, you gotta be the biggest foot-ball fan I ever seen."
What the fuck is this all about? I wonder silently. I try and keep the Viking calm.
Cletus says, "why don't you go on upstairs to where the REEEL fun is at!" He walks me over to the velvet rope, where the guy at the rope says, with a straight face, "two thousand dollars."
TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS?????
He clarifies - it is two grand for a one year membership. You gotta buy a membership to go up there, but you can come back any time for a year.
TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS! Are you out of your fucking mind?
As I am trying to come up with a more eloquent way of saying, "fuck you," Cletus says, "nah, this here boy can go on up as a guest of the house."
Velvet rope is moved. Viking is happy.
The Viking walks upstairs, where it is a hell of a lot nicer than downstairs, but not two grand nicer. I sit down, grab a shot of tequila, and a stripper sits down next to me. She said something, but who the fuck listens, and what the fuck would you care? The operative part of the conversation is:
"You ever been here before?"
Nope.
"Then let me tell you the deal up here."
OK.
"It's $20 per song for a lap dance."
Fucking rip off.
"It's $100 for a blow job."
I'm instantly sober.
"Let me get this straight now.... $20 to be frustrated for 4 minutes. Or, for the price of being frustrated five times, I can get my dick sucked?"
"You got it honey."
Needless to say, I got my dick sucked. She wouldnt let me blow a load in her mouth, so I blew it on her tits. Fuck, for $100 in the United States, from a white chick who wasn't a crack whore, that's a bargain.
Back at the bar... no shit, there are food menus . Porterhouse steak - $50. Not a bad price. Bartender says it's a great steak. Yeah, at a titty bar.
Fucking steak comes, it was the sixth porterhouse that I ate in Houston - in fact all I ate in Houston was porterhouses. Motherfucker if it wasn't the best one I had all weekend. To make it even better, this honey of a little black chick sits in my lap and feeds me the whole thing. I don't even use utensils. Got that treatment in Thailand, but in the U.S.A.? This was getting better. Last bite, the little black chick wipes my mouth with a cloth napkin. I must have a pretty satisfied look on my face, because she says, "you look happy."
Happy.... heh...
Then she says, "you know what you need for dessert? A Blow Job."
This chick must know me.
Now this blow job was superior. Same $100, but an absolute stellar performance. Sound effects, slurping, all that shit. And, she let me bust in her mouth. No swallowing, but whatever.
Back at the bar. Shot of Don Julio. Another.... another.... a little asian chick walks by. I'm thinking "I gotta get the trifecta."
Another $100 down the drain. She says that she doesn't think I came. Fuck honey, of course I'm shooting blanks - thats my third blowjob in four hours. But damn if it wasn't Martin Luther King's and Jesus's dreams come true. All three races in one night in one titty bar on one cock. The Viking was happy and had done his part for racial justice and equality.
I stumbled to the door, and bumped into the owner.
"Leavin' so early?" It was 4 am - they were open until 7 am.
"yeah, and not because I am too drunk (I had more room in the tank), not cause I am hungry (I just ate a 32 ounce porterhouse , not cause I am getting thrown out, not cause I am tired, and not cause I am out of money ... I still have $400 in cash in my pocket... I'm leaving because I am SATISFIED!"
Think about it boys... leaving a titty bar because you are satisfied.
To top it all off... the owner says to a doorman - "give this boy a ride home."
Doorman runs off, and comes back with the club limo. I get out of the limo at my hotel in the pimp outfit, climb into my hotel room, and slept like a baby - on the floor.
Next day, Patriots win. How fucking cool is that.
And that's the time I went to the Superbowl. Can't wait to tell my kids.
Q: That was months ago, why are you writing about it now?
A: Just fuckin read it. Its about blowjobs and whores and football. You got something against whores and football and blowjobs? Fuck off.
I boarded the plane at Fort Myers, FL. I had packed in 15 minutes, my tickets being procured only an hour prior. A co-worker was driving me to the airport. He came into my apartment and said, "Rico, this is not an apartment -- this is a cry for help."
What? So I had a 1400 square foot two-bedroom in a pretty expensive complex, and it was furnished a little bit Zen . There was a mattress on the floor, a 13-inch television next to it, no other furniture, three bikes in the living room, and the fridge had four Red Stripe beers in it, oh and a jar of pepperoncini. What the fuck else do you need?
I grabbed my suitcase, threw in my Purple velvet pimp outfit, a pair of blue suede shoes, three pairs of underwear, a box of condoms, a toothbrush, two pairs of sunglasses, two pairs of socks, and two Patriots T-Shirts. I put on a pair of jeans, a Steve Grogan jersey, and my leather jacket. Grabbed the suitcase, took a hit off a joint, stubbed it out (always fly clean) and said, "lessgo." My buddy, peckerwood, grabbed a red stripe for the road.
Got to RSW, and instantly met an old-timer Pats fan in the airport. Guy was 70 or so, drunk, on crutches, and wanted to buy me beer. New best friend made.
We drank Sam Adams, of course, and some guy from Melrose, who was WAY too prone to violence joined us. More beer.
Boarded the plane. Shitfaced. Half the plane was drunk Patriots fans (is there any other kind?), and the other half was cunts from Houston (is there any other kind of person from Houston?). The screaming of the non-cunt half horrified the rest of them. At about 20,000 feet, it started.
By "it" I mean that thing that happens to me when I get to a certain point of inebriatedness. I bought a pocket breathalyzer because I wanted to learn exactly what blood alcohol level was required for "it" to happen, but I always forgot and then the breathalyzer became a drinking game - as in "what is the highest number I can get on this thing." Blood alcohol content became a "high score."
Oh, but what is "it" you ask? "It" is when I turn into a Viking. I'm 1/8th Swede and 1/8th Icelandic. The rest is all guinea. The guinea runs the show most of the time, and the Viking just sleeps. Someplace around .25 BAC, the guinea passes out and the Viking takes over. He's a good-natured Viking. Doesn't usually hurt anyone, but he has been in over 100 bar fights. At least he doesn't use an axe. Today, the Viking didn't want to fight...
So, possessed by my ancestral Viking, I tore off my clothes. Kept my underwear on. Why? Not to be naked, I just wanted to change. Put on the Pimp outfit. Purple velvet with leopard-skin lapels and cuffs. Fucker, I'm the Patriots Pimp baby. The Viking made sure that everyone on the plane knew that. First he screamed it. Then he yelled it as he sprinted up and down the aisles. Then he informed every woman on the plane as he slurred, "y'all bitches lookin' fer work?"
The crew tried to convince the Viking to tone it down . As if a fucking Viking can tone it down. Fucktards. The Pats fans on the plane protested... they liked the Viking / Pimp. And they wanted more.
Arrived in Houston, got in a cab, and got fucked up with my uncle for about oh, 36 hours straight. Then, the Viking realized what was missing -- TITS!
Off to a titty bar near the hotel. I remember which one, but I'm not telling the name, because I am reasonably certain that what happened there was not entirely legal -- and I wanna go back for more.
First, the bouncer comes up to me at the bar and says that the owner would like to have a word with me.
FUCK. The Viking hasn't even done anything yet. They could probably tell that the Viking was minutes away from causing a scene. Into the back room - 600 lb gorilla of a bouncer behind me.
The owner, Cletus, or Clyde, or whatever, says "boy, you gotta be the biggest foot-ball fan I ever seen."
What the fuck is this all about? I wonder silently. I try and keep the Viking calm.
Cletus says, "why don't you go on upstairs to where the REEEL fun is at!" He walks me over to the velvet rope, where the guy at the rope says, with a straight face, "two thousand dollars."
TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS?????
He clarifies - it is two grand for a one year membership. You gotta buy a membership to go up there, but you can come back any time for a year.
TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS! Are you out of your fucking mind?
As I am trying to come up with a more eloquent way of saying, "fuck you," Cletus says, "nah, this here boy can go on up as a guest of the house."
Velvet rope is moved. Viking is happy.
The Viking walks upstairs, where it is a hell of a lot nicer than downstairs, but not two grand nicer. I sit down, grab a shot of tequila, and a stripper sits down next to me. She said something, but who the fuck listens, and what the fuck would you care? The operative part of the conversation is:
"You ever been here before?"
Nope.
"Then let me tell you the deal up here."
OK.
"It's $20 per song for a lap dance."
Fucking rip off.
"It's $100 for a blow job."
I'm instantly sober.
"Let me get this straight now.... $20 to be frustrated for 4 minutes. Or, for the price of being frustrated five times, I can get my dick sucked?"
"You got it honey."
Needless to say, I got my dick sucked. She wouldnt let me blow a load in her mouth, so I blew it on her tits. Fuck, for $100 in the United States, from a white chick who wasn't a crack whore, that's a bargain.
Back at the bar... no shit, there are food menus . Porterhouse steak - $50. Not a bad price. Bartender says it's a great steak. Yeah, at a titty bar.
Fucking steak comes, it was the sixth porterhouse that I ate in Houston - in fact all I ate in Houston was porterhouses. Motherfucker if it wasn't the best one I had all weekend. To make it even better, this honey of a little black chick sits in my lap and feeds me the whole thing. I don't even use utensils. Got that treatment in Thailand, but in the U.S.A.? This was getting better. Last bite, the little black chick wipes my mouth with a cloth napkin. I must have a pretty satisfied look on my face, because she says, "you look happy."
Happy.... heh...
Then she says, "you know what you need for dessert? A Blow Job."
This chick must know me.
Now this blow job was superior. Same $100, but an absolute stellar performance. Sound effects, slurping, all that shit. And, she let me bust in her mouth. No swallowing, but whatever.
Back at the bar. Shot of Don Julio. Another.... another.... a little asian chick walks by. I'm thinking "I gotta get the trifecta."
Another $100 down the drain. She says that she doesn't think I came. Fuck honey, of course I'm shooting blanks - thats my third blowjob in four hours. But damn if it wasn't Martin Luther King's and Jesus's dreams come true. All three races in one night in one titty bar on one cock. The Viking was happy and had done his part for racial justice and equality.
I stumbled to the door, and bumped into the owner.
"Leavin' so early?" It was 4 am - they were open until 7 am.
"yeah, and not because I am too drunk (I had more room in the tank), not cause I am hungry (I just ate a 32 ounce porterhouse , not cause I am getting thrown out, not cause I am tired, and not cause I am out of money ... I still have $400 in cash in my pocket... I'm leaving because I am SATISFIED!"
Think about it boys... leaving a titty bar because you are satisfied.
To top it all off... the owner says to a doorman - "give this boy a ride home."
Doorman runs off, and comes back with the club limo. I get out of the limo at my hotel in the pimp outfit, climb into my hotel room, and slept like a baby - on the floor.
Next day, Patriots win. How fucking cool is that.
And that's the time I went to the Superbowl. Can't wait to tell my kids.
posted by Enrico Giamondi at 3:02 PM
1 Comments:
I am satisfied just reading this. Great story, the Italian must have written this cause only they can tell a good story like this!
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