“The clock cannot be right. Oh, my God. What time…, wait it’s fucking Saturday. Saturday! I’m so messed up, what when wrong?” The fleshly and over-sexed 23 year old whispered in her head. A faint and feeble flavor of crotch and cum stuck in her throat like the seasoning of a Christmas goose. The taste vivid on her dry lips; the memory muted by the rounds of rum.
Tricia Saratopia, an attractive and confident deli clerk from Hampton, New Hampshire stirred about, shifting uneasily in her bed slowly; almost slow motion, touching her face and her closed eyelids with her finger tips, softly stroking her thick eyebrows and freckled nose to feel the sensation of life. It was real. This was an unusual morning; unexpected, and now becoming very troublesome.
“I wouldn’t have done what I did, oh wow! …Why?” Tricia repeated almost chanting “why, why” over and over several times, silently under her bitter breath, troubled indeed, to say the least.
Her old sagging mattress and thin, worn sheets usually evade comfort, forcing her to fight the springs and the lumps for slumber, and bundle for warmth. But at this very moment on the day that should have been, was supposed to be, was publicized by the Mayan calendar as being the last, the bumpy bed offered an unusual comfort.
This sort of trouble was unusual for Tricia. Usually the good girl in any crowd, Tricia never made waves, never went to the edge. This was all so very new.
Foggy and hung over from the unexpected adventures of the past night, and with a ratty strand of Christmas lights blinking a tedious, dreadful pattern of glare and gloom above her head, Tricia with eyes closed, carefully began putting last night’s pieces back into place; A worthy job in her condition.
The food, the bar, the drinks, the conversation; “What did I say to them?”
“Oh fucking NO! Oh NO! I sucked his cock.” Tricia scowled in a dreadful, hushed breath. Her eyes clamped shut in absolute grotesque shame.
“Ahh!” Tricia gasped with a quick, deep inhale, loudly and clearly. “I ate her out!” She exclaimed in a soft voice unnoticeable beyond her pillow.
The holiday was just three days away, but Tricia was unprepared. No gifts were ready, no plans confirmed. Tricia, like many others, was expecting the worst, as advertised: the end of the world. December 21 was to be the end of the road, therefore no need to prep for Christmas; but indeed an excuse to live like never before. To reclaim burning fantasies; live them to the fullest, leave nothing behind. Her flirtatious and playful conduct at the Woodshed Pub last evening should then be thought of as nothing more than one girl’s effort to raise a glass to eternity and sow some overdue seeds. It should have been the blast to end it all. But regrettably, the end of the world proved to be folklore and myth.
Most would find this comforting, but not Tricia, not today, not after last night.
You see, Tricia spent, what was supposed to be the last night on earth drinking heavily while attending the deli’s Christmas party; and was the only one willing to sit at the lonely corner table with her fifty three year old boss and his handsomely fetching wife.
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