My Vacation at Cabo San Lucas

Much Hotter Than This, Trust Me.

One of the most fun sexy-times I ever had was at this kid’s graduation party (college, not high school.) I happened to be back east for a little vacay and I ran into this guy from my old neighborhood with his girlfriend at a local watering hole. He introduced me as “his babysitter” to his g.f., which is technically true but not really that accurate. He was a ten-year old kid from next door, I was 16, and his mom would ask me to come over when she had to run errands, so that little Timmy wouldn’t blow up the house (or drink all the booze.) I sat on their couch, watched “Days of Our Lives”, raided their fridge and told Timmy and his friends to shut the hell up if their video game fights overshadowed my intricate soap-opera dialog. Fast forward 12-13 years later and Timmy’s all growed up and is having a graduation bash after getting his Bachelor’s at Boston College. “You gotta come,” he pleaded. “My mom would be so psyched to see you.”

Ah well, I thought. Why not? It’d be nice to see the old hood, and my plans with my friends that night had been put on hold due to Danielle’s severe allergic reaction to shellfish (can’t believe that girl grew up in Maine.) And I’d make some kid’s mom happy. So off I went for a quickie drive-by.

When I got there, I felt like Farmer Ted in Sixteen Candles when he and his nerdy posse pull up to Jake’s house and it’s fucking mayhem. Timmy was throwing quite the rager – tons of cars and people on the front lawn, blasting music, clothes and beer cans being tossed in quick succession. I somehow made my way to the back yard, ducking under the “CONGRATS TIMMY YA BASTARD” banner. The first person I saw was Timmy’s mom, standing guard at the keg. Still making sure he didn’t drink all the booze, I guess. She was pretty lit, and when she saw me she gave a drunken shriek and covered me with hugs and sloppy kisses. “OhmiGawd Ariel! What a nice surprise! Timmy said you might come by, so good to see ya!” It was nice to see her too, and highly entertaining to see her more sauced than half the guests. Then Timmy came over, red dixie cup out-stretched. “Ariel! Yeah! Hey, this is my buddy Lucas from BC. Lucas, this is my babysitter.” I rolled my eyes, prepared to give my speech about how I wasn’t technically the babysitter, when I was temporarily struck speechless. Lucas was…a god. Six-foot something, built like a tight end (yes, I’m using double entendre) piercing blue eyes, smelled like pine forests, the ocean and fucking rainbows, and with a smile that made my punani go into phantom labor contractions. “Hey, Ariel,” the god winked at me. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” And with that, my drive-by turned into a drive-in.

We spent the next few hours talking on the porch, knees touching, as guests veered and wobbled by, an occasional hug or beer baptism bestowed upon our heads. Then Lucas said four magical words: “Let’s get outta here.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and without hesitation I got up and followed him home. I felt like I was hypnotized; a little tiny voice in my brain was saying, “shouldn’t you go and spend some time with Timmy and his mom?” But it was quickly replaced with the delicious vision of Lucas removing his jeans.

He drove us to his apartment on Comm Ave. It was a typical pseudo-frat boy pad, kind of a mess–dishes, clothes and shit everywhere, but I didn’t have much time to investigate the interior design. Lucas grabbed my hand and pulled me into his bedroom. A big ol’ California King awaited, neatly made, as if it had been notified of my arrival. Lucas pulled down the shades and lit a candle, then calmly walked over to me. Nervous, I started stupidly babbling. “So, that was uh, a great party, huh? Kinda funny that Timmy’s mom was so–” He kissed me, which shut me up. Then he said, “I don’t know what those west coast boys are like, but I’m gonna show you how we east coast men make some noise.” And with that, bam! My clothes were off. My tiny voice was all, “hey dummy, you grew up here, you know what east coast boys are like,” but that was soon replaced with tiny mewling sounds that I discovered only later were coming from my own mouth as Lucas proceeded to give me a right good thrashing. I mean, solid gold. Rough and tumble in all the right places, confident and assured with each thrust but never feeling like you were being treated to “Lovemaking Style #164.” He was somewhat analytical, (yes, I’m using double entendre again) trying different positions, his ear cocked to my enthusiastic responses until he found the perfect rhythm. Meanwhile I was a fucking mess, sweaty, hair in knots, nails and teeth embedded in Lucas’s chest/shoulder/back, but he didn’t seem to mind. It felt like days had passed, and I was running an extreme marathon while getting high on oxygen. It was fucking intensely brilliant, and that’s all the words I can muster.

The next morning was Round 2 (or 17, depending on who’s counting) and then he brought me Gatorade, some band-aids (don’t ask) and breakfast in bed. I think I finally stumbled out of there around 2PM, blinking like a mole in the bright spring sunshine. I had to get back to my life, and Lucas had to go off to Med School or something, go save babies in Somalia. We haven’t met since, but hey, Lucas, if you’re reading this, you’re right…those west coast boys aint got nothing on you.

4 Comments

  1. Stephanie

    April 12, 2012 at 3:52 pm

    I love stories like this :)

  2. Ariel

    April 12, 2012 at 4:25 pm

    I know, right? Every so often the fuck fairy makes a visit and I get a magical sexytime! ;)

  3. twg

    April 12, 2012 at 8:47 pm

    The title … oh man. For the win.

    Also, the sexings. That sounds … awesome.

    • Ariel

      April 13, 2012 at 1:14 am

      haha – thanks! the sexings were pretty damn memorable, obv! Dying for a rematch…

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