A Complete Lunatic Cock Blocked Me In Epic Fashion

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Nice Move

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My parent’s empty beach house has long been a go-to move to seal the deal with a new slam. It’s a perfect weekend, so Sunday, after a classic game of “you like my profile pic, I like yours” scored me a friend of a friend of a friend’s number last week, I’d text courted my way to a possible opening, hopefully in more ways than one. The house is only 80 miles or so from my summer apartment, so, with plenty of first year “I’m scared to use these” vacation days pent up like mid-prison sentence ejaculate, I decided to throw out the hook and see if I could reel in a long weekend and new conquest.

To my shock, having only met once for drinks and nothing physically coming of it (no pun intended), she accepts. With a hopeful heart (and penis), I’m on my way to the water, hoping her remedial education at one of our state schools doesn’t hamper her use of GPS, as, like a true gentleman, I have not offered to pick her up, for fear of the torment that could have been the wicked combination of extreme awkwardness and one vehicle.

Thankfully, we hit it off almost immediately, going out on the boat with enough substances to keep us sedated until school was back in session. In the midst of her elevated state, and post-double nipple reveal in the private confines of open water, she’s craving “fro yo,” and not the type of yogurt I was hoping to provide for her throat.

Anyway, like any good host, I tucked myself away in the waistband and made the trek back to the house. We’re dry humping in the kitchen when she whispers “not yet, ice cream, remember?” and my balls are officially rotund smurfs.

I stammer out to the yard like a newborn deer, unsure of my legs thanks to the increased realization of my inebriated state. Fortunately, the resort-like town I’m fortunate enough to parasite off of my parents (TFM) is walkable, so naturally we took the golf cart to be responsible, as that can’t possibly be a DUI considering the fact that drinking is an integral part of golfing itself. That has to be the law, right?

During our cruise she’s rubbing me OTP like she’s trying to spark a fire in my shorts, in reality just leaving me more chafed and frustrated, but who am I to complain? She’s babbling on about her love of animals and passion for a bunch of liberal shit I usually would find abhorrent, but her far left ideology has me praying to beings I’m guessing she doesn’t believe in that her liberalism extends to the bedroom.

Finally, we arrive. I park the cart in what I thought was a spot (but actually turned out to be a sidewalk… I really might have a drinking problem) and we approached the local yogurt shop. Outside the entrance, we notice a crowd forming, and see a slithering, slime-covered snake and its female handler entertaining the beachgoing crowd. No, I do not mean Hillary Clinton; this was an actual fucking snake. And, of course, this fucking hippy with whom I was about to perform sexual acrobat yoga with is intrigued.

“Oh my, I love him! Isn’t he cute?!”

Hopefully, she’ll have the same reaction when she sees mine.

So here I am just fucking standing here watching a crazed Asian pretend to charm her corn snake as if it were a cobra when, out of the blue…

“WHAT THE FUCK???”

A man literally jumps off his balcony.

“DON’T WORRY, KIDS”

He shoves me out of the way, and then…

*SMACK*

The crowd screams. This fucking lunatic has curb stomped the reptile into oblivion.

“OH MY GOD!!!” My new lady is borderline hysterical.

“It’s ok, guys. We’re safe. Nothing to worry about!” the deranged moron proclaimed, apparently believing there was some sort of danger associated with this poor Asian woman’s now deceased pet. My girl starts crying into my shoulder.

“So… do you still want some yogurt?”

The fucker might as well have smashed my snake, too.

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