True Story: P.N.P.

[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This column, True Story, may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]

By: Jack Grisham
“Hmmm, Maybe I'll have Asian tonight.” He smirked as he clicked his way through the ads on the 'casual encounters' site–wfm–women for men–although he had looked elsewhere–and more than once.

“Here's one: 'sweet hearted girl–cum over and unload.' Sounds interesting, but not quite what I'm looking for.” He was in his mid-thirties, had a decent job, and was, 'in a relationship.'

“Ahhh, here we go–just the thing for a Tuesday afternoon: 'Caramel BBW with favors looking to party and play with a well-hung generous gent.' Now, that's my kind of fun.”

He was hung, not exactly generous, but party and play was right up his alley. Richard enjoyed the snow. He sent an email detailing his specs–they might not have been spot on–he had gained a few pounds, but he had money, and he was ready to play. He typed 'bbw' in the header and included a face shot–face shots tell people that you mean business, amateurs attach blurry high angle cock pics to pump up their lack of junk–Richard, was no amateur.


The reply email was almost instantaneous and after a few 'back and forths' they agreed to meet at a cheap motel on Harbor Blvd.–the Ease-up-Inn. Richard knew the place, it was a bit sketchy, but sketchy was good, it added to the overall naughtiness of the date.
He sent a quick text to his girlfriend: “How about dinner? I've got a meeting with the boss and then I'm out. Wish me luck.”

Richard knew she'd buy it–if you're going to lie, lie first, don't wait until they're looking for you, make a preemptive strike and then 'get it on'.
He knocked lightly on the motel door–No. 6, close to the ice-maker and the pool. The door opened and Richard walked into the scent of jungle–human breeding stink coating the air thick with its musty odor.

The voice that greeted him was raspy–rough alcohol fueled slur, “Shut the door baby.” He was immediately erect. “Let mama get a taste of you.”


The room was as dark as cheep motels allowed–a misty twilight haze floating heavy. Richard undid his pants and stepped nearer the bed. She was big, bigger than promised, and she pulled him close. This was what he wanted. “That's it baby,” she said, “lean over.”


The first blow caught him on the side of his neck–a strike that slid over his shoulder, the second a kick to his back that sent him tumbling over the bed.

“Get that Muther-fucker!” Richard put his hands over his face–tried to cover. “Fucking cracker bitch.” Richard was unmercifully pummeled.

When he awoke the room was empty, his clothes scattered, his wallet, keys, and watch, gone. Richard got dressed and checked himself in the mirror, wiped his face on a rough bathroom towel and headed for the door. It was all part of the deal, sometimes you party, sometimes you pay.

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