Last weekend, I helped a friend move. Normally, I don’t do that kind of shit for family, let alone friends, but this friend really needed the help and, as a bonus, she’s pretty fucking hot. Make that super fucking hot. So I figured I could squeeze in the occasional “accidental” cheap feel to make up for my time (not as easy as it sounds, mind you, as it entails waiting for her to back into a room carrying a box and dropping myself to the floor so that my face is eye-level with her ass. From there, I–aw, you can probably figure it out).
Anyway, the move went far, far longer than we expected, to the point I was convinced the boxes in her tiny apartment were reproducing every time we walked out to the U-Haul. After what seemed like ten hours of up-and-down-the-stairs bullshit, we collapsed on the floor and downed a couple stale beers. When it became painfully apparent that she had no intention of sitting on my face to pay me back for my time, I crashed on her YMCA-worthy couch for the night, froze my balls off, and woke up the next morning feeling absolute rubbish.
On the way home, I stopped off at a highway convenience store to grab some aspirin and cough drops. As I gazed down the aisles, my nose started running something fierce. So I started sniffling–quite loudly, in fact–as I rummaged around in my pockets for Kleenex.
That’s when the woman standing next to me spoke up.
“Man, that sounds waaaay too good to be a cold.”
I looked at her curiously. She was probably about 35. Straddling the fine line between hot and skanky. And as I gave her the once over, she put a finger to her nose and sniffled sharply, imitating me.
“That’s waaaay too good to be a cold,” she repeated. “That’s something bettah!”
It took a while to sink through my hangover-strained cranium, but it eventually hit me. “Holy shit,” I thought. “She thinks I’m on coke.”
And I gotta admit. I kinda dug it. Here I was, the dorkiest of dorks, shuffling around in my Old Navy cargos, hands stuffed with aspirin and Kleenex and Hostess fruit pies. But she has me pegged for a user. No, make that a dealer, the way she’s eying me like a kid finding Santa in her foyer Christmas morning.
Part of me wanted to roll with it. A big part, I’m ashamed to admit. I felt the sudden urge to move in closer. Tell her, yeah, it is better than a cold. And I’ve got plenty for her, too. And a few of her friends. And I’ve got connections to some pretty good pay per head games. I saw us blazing down the Mass Pike, the FBI a close but manageable distance behind us, Pitbull’s “Hotel Room Service” rattling the windows, the telltale white powder traces just above her lipsticked mouth, her knees on the seat, her hands all over me, her tightly-jeaned ass swinging back and forth, and a brain full of scenes from my favorite porno flicks about to be re-enacted.
Alas, the fantasy was no match for my inner nerd.
“Naw, I really am sick,” I muttered, sniffling again. “Got the shits, too.”
And she bit her lip. And she grinned. And she slinked down the aisle and away from me. Quickly.
So I paid for my stuff, got back in the car, blew my nose, popped a few Tylenol, and cranked the Maroon 5. Because that’s how I roll, apparently.