I Got Tugged Off In My Swim Trunks During A Concert On PCB

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I Got Tugged Off In My Swim Trunks During A Concert On PCB

For spring break last year, I went to the Bahamas with twenty brothers, got banned from the resort’s disco on the first night, and picked up a fire eight ball from a lady with dreadlocks on the beach in exchange for $30 and “two cheeseboogas, mon.” It was a solid time.

But the Bahamas doesn’t hold a torch to the weirdness I experienced at my spring break excursion three years ago on the beaches of Panama City, Florida. Beautiful women flashed their tits from the backs of water-filled pickup trucks. Flags bearing school mascots and Greek letters flew high along a shoreline packed with so many bodies, one couldn’t see a single patch of the puke-stained sand lying beneath them. It was college-aged debauchery at its finest.

Upon our arrival, my brothers and I dropped a hundred extra clams on passes that gave us access to an exclusive event being held each day. This fine afternoon’s special was a concert on the beach — a truly exciting prospect for someone who spent his teenage years watching MTV features of top artists performing for an audience of unruly college spring breakers holding up girls on their shoulders with jiblets that bounced like the beach balls being tossed back and forth. My mind keeps going back to boobs. I’ll try to keep that in check.

After an exhausting, drunken walk from our resort to the concert venue, we learned that the entertainment would be a band called Florida Georgia Line — you know, the two dudes in cowboy hats and jean jackets with the sleeves cut off who sing that God awful, “You make me wanna roll my windows down, and cruuuuuuise,” country radio pop horse shit? (Yeah Fla-Ga, that’s what I feel like doing when I see an attractive woman: hopping in my car and just drivin’ nowhere with the windows down, man. Fucking stupid).

We made our way to the middle of the crowd. Once the first generic, twangy strum of electric guitar erupted onstage, everyone immediately started dry-humping whatever was within proximity of their pelvic regions. That’s when I saw her. She was the perfect kind of girl: just chubby enough to feel insecure, but still had a gorgeous face. She approached me and dropped it low as if to say, “Would you like to rub your wiener against my gyrating lower fleshy extremities?” In a gesture of acceptance of the offer, I turned my American flag fanny pack to my rear.

She was an incredible dancer. At the start of “Get Your Shine On” (or maybe it was “This Is How We Roll,” hard to say, all their songs sound the fucking same) she placed both her hands in the sand shook her cheeks with such vigor, I remembered the exact moment I hit puberty. When she returned to an upright position, I gave her a kiss on the side of the neck to show my appreciation. She immediately reached back and rummaged through my pool trousers with her sandy hands until she located Li’l Booshy, firmly clasped her thumb and two fingers around his entirety, and started furiously tugging away. I winced in pain, which she mistook for pleasure because she sanded away even harder at The Mighty Boosh until he reached his full potential.

Despite the grinding of thousands of tiny pebbles against the sensitive red part under General B’s helmet, I didn’t stop her. I hadn’t gotten any all week, and I was determined to do so — even if it meant a bit of pain, ruining my trunks, and watching a stream of tattie water trickle down my leg and into the sand below.

A nearby guido with tribal tats noticed the game of pocket pool and looked at me with an expression of sheer admiration. He gave me a fist bump, which, by technicality, means that I had a three-way. I was fucking beach king. My Queen continued to stir up the troops for a full frontal assault.

Then, Florida Georgia Line commenced a daring cover of Waka Flocka Flame’s “Hard In Da Paint.”

I came right as a country accent shouted, “I GO HARD IN THE MOTHAFUCKIN’ PAINT NI—-!” which created a confusing sensation that tore me between both full blown arousal and serious concern for our society’s hazy boundaries when it comes to matters of race.

Florida Georgia Line handjob girl, if you’re reading this, I want you to know that you and your sandpaper vice grip hands will forever hold a place in my heart, and my swim trunks.

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