Bluegrass, Southern Belles, And Butt Sex

Email this to a friend

Nice Move

Screen Shot 2014-12-11 at 2.05.47 PM

When girls get dumped, what do they do? They binge eat, watch sad movies, and lie in bed crying because they found out that their prince charming is really just like every other college frat guy: a drug induced, horny, philandering bastard.

What do guys do when they get dumped? We go to Keeneland, stay in Daniel Boone’s cabin with a fully stocked bar, and bring back Kentucky’s finest. At least, that’s what my friend Noble and I did.

In Fall 2012, Noble and I were in serious, long-term relationships. But all good things must come to an end, and Noble and I were both dumped within three days of each other. The weekend was coming up, so I decided to give Noble a call to find a way to drown and snort our sorrows.

While on the phone, he mentions that Keeneland is underway, and that his uncle is the only horse farm realtor in the city of Lexington. He also mentions that this same uncle has a huge estate, box seats to Keeneland, and a cabin that housed Daniel Boone, which now serves as guest quarters and has a fully stocked bar. A weekend full of debauchery, pouring champagne on girls’ titties, and other things like that were about to commence.

Noble says, “Meet me in Nashville on Friday at three and we’ll ride up to Lexington together.”

On the day we met in Nashville, I drove from Knoxville and he made the trip from Tuscaloosa. Eager to get the fuck out of Knoxville instead of leaving at the perfect time to meet Noble, I left two hours early.

Our initial plan was to meet at the SAE house at Vanderbilt, but when I arrived, I found out Vanderbilt was on its fall break. There wasn’t a soul in the house–it was as empty as a Young Republicans meeting at Berkeley. This left me with two hours of nothing to do.

I decided to stroll around Nashville. About five minutes into my walk with no idea of my surroundings, I saw the fucking Holy Grail: Chili’s.

I walked inside to find a black guy, a Mexican guy in a Cowboys jersey, and a bartender wearing an Alabama hat. And no, this is not the start of a bad joke. I figured since I was going to be there by myself for two hours, I would sit down and have a drink.

Knowing that the bartender was an Alabama fan, as am I, I showed him my Alabama student ID, and we immediately hit it off.

Beers were two for one, so I ordered a Miller Lite, and he said that since he’s an Alabama fan and I’m an Alabama fan, the drinks were on the house. I though, “Fuck yeah, shit’s about to go down.”

After 10 or 12 beers, I thought to myself, “I’m alone, in Nashville, don’t know a soul, just got out of a five-year relationship, and I’m drunk at Chili’s at one in the afternoon. Winning.”

I texted Noble to tell him I was drunk at Chili’s and that I made a friend. He finally showed up and then showed the bartender his Alabama student ID, and in doing so, he also got free beer. In the meantime, we made another new friend named Justo. Before we go on with the story, allow me to elaborate on Justo.

Justo is the son of a major drug lord from Mexico, but has made something of himself in the U.S.–he is the proud district manager of TGI Fridays in the middle Tennessee region. Fuck yeah. After so many beers consumed, Justo liked Noble and me enough to give us free lifetime passes to any TGI Fridays location in the middle Tennessee area. After getting our lifetime passes from Justo and drinking a little more at Chili’s, we decided it was time to head out to Lexington.

We pulled up to this huge, magnificent house, which happens to be Noble’s uncle’s estate. Think plantation home: a long, tree-lined driveway like something out of “Gone With the Wind.” We pulled around to the back of the house, and there awaited a log cabin, soon to be the F shack. This cabin was Daniel Boone’s homestead. If this cabin was any indication of what was to come the rest of the weekend, I knew Noble hadn’t let me down.

The next morning, we woke up and I met Noble’s uncle and had small talk about where I’m from. I told him Johnson City, and he said he’s been there a few times and he loves it. Uncle Tom was a heavier set man with salt and pepper hair and dressed in a black suit. He looked like a husky George Clooney and for each pound he weighed, he had about $100,000 to back it up. I met his hot wife, Joanne. Being the badass that he is, he for sure has a hot young wife. Like, at least 20 years younger and she probably rides him like a drunk bachelorette on a mechanical bull.

We loaded up in the car to go to Keeneland. Noble’s uncle hooked us up: box seats, free booze, free food, and a bunch of hot women.

Uncle Tom became inquisitive about our lives, and our breakups made the way into the conversation. We started to share our sob stories about how we were both newly single, and Noble’s uncle proceeded to bring over one of the hottest women in the room. She was our age, so it wasn’t creepy, and he said, “Boys, meet Miss [state redacted].”

She was wearing a black and white polka dotted dress that made her look like a fucking Dalmatian with a huge black hat, but I didn’t care about the dress or the hat, because when it comes to tits, ass, and face, I’m not prejudiced about what you’re wearing.

She sat down, and we started talking about shit I wasn’t paying any attention to because my focus was on those sweater meats. When we asked her what she wanted to drink, she said Kentucky Gentleman without skipping a beat. At this point, I know the jockeys aren’t going to be the only ones riding a horse.

Noble’s uncle insisted that she come to dinner with us that evening in downtown Lexington. She obliged. After a day of drinking and betting on horses, we decided to head back to Noble’s uncle’s estate, change clothes, and go to pick up Miss [redacted].

On the way to pick her up, Noble and I both agreed she gave off a vibe. Just like a vampire hunting for blood, she was hunting for cum–hurtin’ for a squirtin’, if you will. We got to her apartment and she came out to the car. On her way to the car, I thought to myself, “She might as well be wearing a shirt that says ‘insert dick here,’ with arrows pointing to every hole in her body.” She got in the car and said hey, which to an inebriated me sounded more like, “Fuck dinner, let’s pull this puppy over and get to pole riding.”

Instead, we headed to the restaurant and Noble’s uncle had three bottles of wine waiting for us. Bottle after bottle, dish after dish, we’re lit. Uncle Tom and his wife decided to leave, so they paid the tab and left Noble, myself, and Miss [redacted] at the restaurant. After our tenth bottle of liquid courage, I decided in my infinite wisdom that it was time to bring her back to Daniel Boone’s cabin. I cordially invited her by saying, “Bitch, let’s go back to Daniel Boone’s cabin.” To my amazement, she agreed and we were off on our merry little way.

We got a cab back to the cabin, and while in the cab, I was shamelessly texting old flings and girls I hadn’t talked to in years. I had no shame–don’t have any dignity to begin with, let’s be real–and I was shitfaced. I texted anyone who appeared to be a girl in my contact list in the hopes of them teleporting magically to Lexington, butt naked, and thirsty for my baby gravy.

We got back to the cabin and poured bottles of nice Kentucky bourbon down our throats along with tequila, because that’s always a good mix. Noble went to drain the main vein, and I was now sideways drunk. Before I knew it, I was a gynecologist and Miss [redacted] had become my patient. Noble came out of the bathroom and told us to stop making out, and we sat down on the couch. She was in the middle and grabbed both our legs. Noble and I made eye contact, as we knew this girl wanted a round trip ticket on a train.

Unfortunately, Gerry Bertier (from “Remember the Titans,” post-paralysis) would have had a better chance of standing than my dick did. I was blackout, there was no chance of me performing, and I didn’t care what was about to happen anymore. I grabbed a bottle of Maker’s and took another long swig, then make eye contact with Miss [redacted]. After the incessant flow of bourbon down my throat, she stared at me with horror and disbelief that someone could consume that much alcohol. Hands down, I was the drunkest person in the county.

Hoping Noble had a bottle of Viagra or something else to keep him going, I looked at her and said, “Here’s the deal. You’re going to fuck one of us tonight. Take your pick.” So naturally, she picked fucking Noble. I said okay, gave Noble the Phi Alpha grip, grabbed the bottle of Maker’s, and stumbled all the way back to the estate.

The next thing I knew, it was 8:30 a.m., and I woke up not knowing where I was. I immediately texted Noble to ask where he was. He replied that he was dropping off Miss [redacted] and he would be back soon. He came home with Bojangles, we ate breakfast, and we were soon joined by Tom and his wife. They said hello, we talked about the day’s plans, and they left.

As soon as they walked out the door, I looked at Noble and asked what had happened the night before. Noble put his head down, looked at me, and started laughing. He then said, “I butt fucked Miss [redacted]. I didn’t wrap up or anything, I just slid it right in that dump cutter. There’s no damn way I got an STD, right?” At that moment, we convinced ourselves he definitely didn’t. You know the old saying: “You know anybody with an STD?” “Nope.” “Okay, well you know me, so I must be good.” Nothing could have been more morally wrong, but I patted him on the back and gave him a thumbs up, laughing at the fact that Miss [redacted] had Noble’s whipped cream in her fudge oven.

We go back to Keeneland, thoroughly pleased with ourselves, and after a great weekend, it was time to head back to Knoxville and Tuscaloosa.

We finally make it back to Nashville, hungover as balls. We got to the SAE house and we decided to make one final stop at Chili’s. While we were there, we looked at each other in amazement about what had just transpired over the weekend.

What started as an innocent afternoon at Chili’s with Justo and my Tide-loving bartender would soon become a phrase known as, “chips out for the boys,” a term that would soon embody every drunk adventure Noble and I would embark upon together.

Comments

You must be logged in to comment. Log in or create an account.

Click to Read Comments (66)