I was still quite innocent in the art of walking the Vegas strip after 2 a.m., which was littered with screaming fat chicks, homeless men, stumbling couples, and hookers. As I walked across a bridge beneath one of those blaring fifty-foot TVs, two black chicks approached me. “Hey sexy! Where do you think you’re going?” I’d never been too much into black girls, but a handful of TV stars have wowed me into busting a semi. On the top of that list is Jada Pinkett from Menace II Society
before she chopped off her hair. One of these girls was a carbon copy of her (Halle Berry is overrated—sorry). Even though the other one looked like Play’s chick Sharane from House Party
who had dripping hair and was always wearing yellow, I was hooked on Jada and Sharane from the start. I hoped they weren’t hookers.
They were hookers. After they faked a few interested questions about my night, it came: “How much money you got on you?” Sharane asked.
“Nothing, actually. I crapped out,” I replied, continuing my stroll. I wasn’t lying; I’d just lost my bankroll and gone over my $300 ATM-allowance for the day. Until I was ATM-eligible again in about twenty-two hours, I was more useless than that one time in fifth grade when I went to the mall arcade and only had two dimes.
“Don’t you got an ATM, sweetie?” Jada asked, caressing the back of my neck.
“Yep, but I already tried to take money out. It won’t let me. Sorry, girls – I’m broke.”
Expecting to see them flee my hopelessness, they continued to walk alongside me as Jada persisted, “I’ll make you a deal: We find an ATM. If you get money, the three of us party all night. If your card denies you again, we give you a blowjob for free
I stopped. “What?”
“You heard her,” Sharane added. “If your ATM don’t work, we’ll suck yo' dick anyways.”
This was too good to be true. To suddenly be offered a free blowjob from two girls who depended on such acts for survival was something completely foreign to an unlucky, threesome-blowing guy like myself. Because I am a believer that free blowjobs exist, I accepted their proposition as we made our way down the escalator.
The girls had a suspicious bounce in their step. “Oooh, you gettin’ your dick sucked,” they kept saying musically, squeezing my ass, hooking their arms in mine, thrusting their hands up the back of my shirt.
Jada and Sharane stood attentively at my side watching the screen as my ATM card failed, which was what I was hoping for. If my transaction had gone through, I would have had to make up some story about “my friends waiting for me” and flee. No way was I paying for sex.
“Try one more time,” Jada insisted.
At this point, I knew I was in the clear: I had no money and there was nothing the girls could do about it. To satisfy their empty demand, I tried my card again. Declined. I put the card back in my pocket along with my ID, room card, and gum (I never carry my wallet in Vegas; it’s too bulgy and at risk of getting stolen.)
The three of us stepped away from the machine almost simultaneously. “Don’t worry, sweetie, we keepin’ our promise. You gettin’ yo dick sucked,” Jada affirmed.
We walked to Sharane’s white Expedition, which was parked just around the corner in a rundown parking structure. A pale obese man was pissing in front of the car next to them. Sharane interrupted, “What the fuck is this? Get yo’ fat ass out my eyes. Go pee in the alley next to the garbage can you Chunk mothafucka.”
The fat man—the timid kind with floppy hair and a lost gaze—zipped up and walked away.
Sharane drove while Jada slowly eased my pants off in the back seat. “Where we going?” I asked as I wriggled out of my jeans.
“We need to get condoms,” Jada said. “But don’t worry, you gettin’ yo dick sucked.”
My hard-on flopped out and boisterously smacked into my lower abdomen as Jada pulled down my boxers.
As a man living in America with an average sized penis, I’ve heard all sorts of commentary on my member. While most girls never like talking about wieners, several girls have spoken up: a couple girls called it “big”; some called it “the perfect size”; one called it "bigger than my boyfriend's"; one called it “medium sized” (which probably meant “below average”); and one girl called it “small.” (While titty-fucking her, she looked up at me and said, “Dude, you have a small dick.” This prompted me to immediately stuff it in her mouth. Fuck that bitch.)
So when Jada got a glimpse of my willy and the first words out of her mouth were “Daaaamn boy, nice dick,” I felt like calling up the titty-fuck chick and putting her on the phone with Jada. When a black woman compliments you on your Johnson, you take it.
Jada slipped a condom on me and began sucking. I was officially a member of the Bang Bus. Too bad condom blowjobs are about enjoyable as getting a neck massage while wearing a spacesuit.
After a few minutes of rubbery head, we pulled into a Walgreens parking lot. Sharane immediately got out of the passenger seat and switched spots with Jada, who got out of the car saying, “I’m-a go buy condoms. Sharane will take care of you.” Jada slammed the door and Sharane wordlessly went to town on my space dick. Sharane was way better than Jada at blowjobs, corkscrewing and making that slurping noise that sounds like a half fart half oink. But when I put my hand on her head, she went ballistic. “DON’T TOUCH MY HEAD!” She glared at me a moment and then continued sucking. I was trying my best to work up a load, but the condom was blocking the sensation too much. I’d have a better chance at attaining arousal from a dry pocket-pussy—which I haven’t tried yet, but my friend McBride would highly recommend. I tried closing my eyes and using mental stimulation, but the peeing fat man kept entering my thoughts, which was unacceptable.
I instinctively put my hand back on Sharane’s he—“I FUCKING TOLD YOU—DON’T TOUCH MY HEAD, YOU STUPID ASS!” She stopped sucking and began the peculiar act of jerking me off while turning her head sideways to look out the window. I felt bad because I honestly forgot about her no-touching policy. I was surprised Sharane even demoted me to a jerk-off rather than kicking me out. It was as if she had a job to finish even though I’d paid her nothing. These chicks were idiots.
Sharane finished me off with what had to be the fastest
handjob of all time. I didn’t know human hands could jerk something so furiously. As I was still finishing my last orgasmic contraction, Sharane yelled at me, “Now pull yo pants up!” I pulled up my pants like the time after I guiltily asked the babysitter to wipe my ass for me when I was four (I was a late bloomer with the butt-wiping). Then as if on cue, Jada returned from her fifteen-minute trip to Walgreens.
“We good,” Jada told Sharane as the two girls both sat in front, while I sat in the back, my cummed-in condom still on. They drove me back to the strip and left me on the side of the road. I felt used…like a chick. I stood alone beneath the glimmering lights of the strip, trying to figure out who’d gotten the best of that exchange. Something just didn’t make sense. After sneakily taking off my condom in public and tossing it in a trashcan, I walked home in utter bewilderment. I couldn’t decide whether to be satisfied or worried.
When I got back to my room, the door was propped open and the guys were still partying. I told them a brief summary of my free blowjob, which created a mass confusion. Too tired to think of any explanations for the girls’ motives/stupidity, I curled up in a ball on one of the beds and crashed.
I awoke to noises of zipping and rustling. The guys had an early-morning flight to catch, obliterating my hopes of sleeping in. After a curious early-morning dump, I began packing my things. When I reached into my jeans pocket to grab my two most important items, my ATM and ID, something was wrong. The gum was still there. So was my ID and keycard. But my ATM was missing. I searched the other pocket. Nothing. Checked the floor. Nothing. The bathroom. Nothing. The bed. Nothing. No fucking way
I got the Wells Fargo number from the back of one of Vince’s buddy’s cards, and called the operator. It went like this:
Me: “Yeah, can I check the recent activity on my card.”
Customer Service: “Sure, one second.”
Customer Service: “Okay, looks like we got some activity here. Walgreens at 2:35 a.m. for $241. Then Walgreens again at 3:20 a.m. for $350. Another Walgreens for $320. And two more Walgreens for $288 and $260.
Me: What the fuck!
“Uh, those aren’t my transactions. Can you cancel my card?
Customer Service: “No problem. I’m canceling your card right now. And you said those aren’t your transactions?”
Customer Service: “Okay, I’m going to transfer you to the Fraud Department. One second.”
[“…all the vampires walkin’ through the valley. Move west down Ventura Boulevard. And all the bad boys are standin’ in the shadows. And the good girls are home with broken hearts. Now I’m free! Free fallin’! Yeah I’m free! Free fallin’ Whoa-oo-Whoa…”
Fraud Department: “Fraud Department, this is Lucy.”
Me: “Hi, Lucy. I’d like to report a stolen card.”
After five minutes of going over questions about timelines and possible culprits, Lucy had one final question: “Would you be willing to testify in court?” Testify in court? That meant that when they found Jada and Sharane, all the sleazy details of that night would be revealed. Not only that, but then they’d find out I had gambled student loans, which was apparently illegal. I’d get unfairly labeled as a gambling dirtbag who buys prostitutes, eliminating any chances of me ever getting hired as a teacher.
Me: “Uh, do I have to?”
Lucy: “Yes, we’re going to investigate this and find out who stole your money. We’ll need you to testify.”
Me: “Yeah, I guess that’s fine. Can I call you back?”
Lucy: “Sure. I’m going to need to fax you some documents and have you sign and send it back to me. And we still need a full written report.”
I hung up, harshed. Jada and Sharane had gone on a shopping spree spending close to $1,500 of my money, and there was nothing I was going to do about it. In a gruesome epiphany, all the pieces fell into place. Their plan: Watch me punch in my ATM password (twice), then snag my card as they eased my pants down my legs while I sat there like a giddy Humbert Humbert getting swindled by two Lolitas.
Case closed. Putting my future at risk for an illegitimate $1,500 condom blowjob just wasn’t worth it. I cut my losses and drove home.
I didn’t do another Vegas trip for close to a year. One, I couldn’t afford it. Two, none of my friends got the Vegas bug, which helped curb my obsession. Three, I’d worn the city out worse than Lady Gaga's "Poker Face." I needed a break. I re-focused my life on healthy things like school, exercise, and normal partying.
Somewhere out there, Jada and Sharane are still laughing at me, telling stories to their hooker friends about that idiot who thought he’d get his dick sucked for free. And all their hooker friends are giving them props saying things like, “Daaaaamn! Good idea! I’m gonna start doin’ that from now on!” Sadly, I have made prostitution an even more corrupt business. Or maybe their card-snatching technique is widespread, and I’m just another sucker. Either way, somewhere in Vegas two thieving whores are probably still going through the $1,500 worth of condoms they purchased seven years ago. Sharane could have at least let me touch her hair.
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