She accosts me outside the john and slips a hand up the back of my T-shirt and grinds up on my leg. Hey, she purrs at me, wanna get out of here? and since I'm getting nowhere with that little brunette at the bar I keep buying drinks for, not a finger has she let me lay on her, twitching away like I got the plague or something, well, I think, hey, what the hell?
And I let her drag me out the back way and over to the darker side of my pickup and she melts back against the passenger side door, no problem about how mud-spattered or banged up it is, she just leans back, her hands behind her denim butt, her cute little boobies rising and falling with her short panting breaths and I get right down in there as deep as I can and I think, she smells pretty good for a skank. I'm getting up a pretty good head of steam and my hands are down to her hips and she pops them forward, right at me. Let's take this party some place a little more private, she says.
Oh, yeah, I'm thinking, with her I could get my real freak on. So I open the truck and even in the cruel top light, she looks like an older, curvier Taylor Swift and I think, Shit yes. My luck just got ten times better. Out on the street, I'm getting a little worried, where to go? Not one girl I've had back to my place was a keeper, so I'm thinking how to ask her where she lives, and she says, I know a place, and starts directing me till we pull up at one of those "If you lived here, you'd be home by now" apartment complexes, and in no time, we're inside her efficiency and her top flies into the air and lands behind her and her hands go to open her bra (God, I love those front-clasp bras) and her not that little after all titties just jump out at me like two soft round jack-in-the-box toys. And I'm kicking off my boots and dragging off my T-shirt. Her skin is glorious when I get hold of it, like top of the line chamois, and my jeans are starting to seriously annoy me, but I know (from bitter experience, let me tell you, but that's a whole other story), that I've got to get her pants off first. But she's making no move to strip off her jeans. I was expecting a certain fast pace by now and my puzzlement was beginning to take its toll on my manhood, so to speak. I try to hint a little bit, kissing her around the belly button, pulling that top button with my teeth--nothing. So I try to unbutton her, once, twice, finally the third time she lets me. And I mean, the whole time she is moaning and holding her boobs up into my face and writhing on the bed like a big old snake. She can't get enough of me from the waist up. Now for the zipper, I think, and she lets me this time, no problem, but I can't, I just can't get it to budge. Let me in, I want to touch you, I say, and she quits her writhing to try to unzip those skintight jeans. And she can't. The zipper is jammed or something, the tiny little pull tab is only as big as a four-penny nail head and she can't keep hold of it. I can't get any purchase at all on it and so I start thinking which tools I have in my truck that could help out with this problem. She's getting a little panicky now, almost hyperventilating, so when I tell her I'll be right back, she shouts, No! No, don't leave me! I'm trapped and I have to pee so bad! So I tell her calm down, I'll think of something and ask her if she has a tool box. She does, and I'm pawing through it, looking for a needle nose pliers and there it is on the bottom, next to a set of those mini screwdrivers.
When she sees what I've got, her eyes go wide and just for a second, she looks like a startled rabbit. Not a hair on her moves. I turn the point toward me and offer her the handles. You do it, I say. And she tries. But she's worse than useless, panting again, and tugging and letting the pull tab slip out of the pliers, twice, three times. I say, here, let me, but she's not listening, just getting frantic, batting away my helping hands. She gets a good grip then and with a grunt, pulls as hard as she can and plink! the tab pops off and rattles down the wall behind the dresser.
How bad do you want to get out of those jeans? I say.
I'll never get them off now, now without help, she whispers.
What's your name, sweetie? She's crumpled forward in defeat, but her tits are still beckoning to me like on-coming headlights.
Well, Sarah, looks like we may have to cut them off. Where's the scissors?
She pulls some out of the night table drawer, followed by a flutter of grocery store coupons and starts in on her left pants leg bent over her right knee. But those jeans are tight, man, and at the knee she can't go any further.
She looks up at me then, not a rabbit any more, and with narrowed eyes, hands me the scissors, handle side toward me. She lays back on the bed and sucks in a big breath.
Go ahead, she says. Cut.