Sinner, sinner, chicken dinner!
Not now, nor ever, have I thought about the Seven Deadly Sins in the context that the Catholic Church intended for me; that being a “moral compass” to guide me along an honorable path through life wherein the fear of burning in hell forever weighs heavily in my every thought and action. (Yeah, no; fear mongering doesn’t work on me.) In fact, I possibly have never thought about the sins outside of the plot of the movie Seven.
So our Seven Deadly Sins – Envy, Gluttony, Greed, Lust, Pride, Sloth and Wrath. While I find the overall idea of the sins to be archaic and a bit of a snooze fest, I think I can offer up a personal tale that touches on most, if not all, of them.
If the following story were a movie it would be a straight to DVD release, and you’d find it behind the curtain, in that tiny room that you must be 18 years or older to enter, at your local mom and pop video store. (Or possibly on Skinemax.) I love me some good ole’ LUST, don’t you? Enjoy.
A few years back, I was on vacation with a couple of friends in the Caribbean. We weren’t at some “MTV Spring Break” spot in Cancun, where you might expect someone like me to go and find a good time, but rather a more upscale, casino and golf resort in Puerto Rico.
Before heading to dinner on the first night, we hit the casino for a bit. While my buddies tried their luck at the roulette table, I sat down for a few hands of blackjack. And that’s where I met her. “Chica” was on vacation from California with her parents – and without any friends to keep her company, she was bored to death. (I knew who she was…I had been ogling her at the pool earlier that afternoon.) That would soon change.
By anyone’s standard, Chica was an attractive girl. She had wavy blonde hair, big green eyes (slightly crazy looking, like the Cookie Monster, I’ll admit), long beautiful legs hanging from a perfect ass, and quite simply, an absolutely fantastic set of tits. (Damn, remember 24-year-old breasts? ::sigh::)
Later that night, Chica hit a local club with my friends and I. We danced and drank, drank and laughed, drank and groped one another and made out like a couple of teenagers rollin’ on extasy. We had a blast, but it was clearly time to take this party back to the hotel. One of my buddies headed back to the room for the night, while the other, “Vito,” decided to hit the casino. After a brief run in with a hotel security guard, who explained to me that prostitutes weren’t welcome on the property, Chica and I made our way to the beachside jacuzzi. ( I’m still not sure if the security guard was insulting me, or my ladyfriend?) Off with our clothes and into the bubbling cesspool of bacteria we settled. It didn’t matter to either one of us that we were naked and going at it in plain sight of a couple of hundred balconies that overlooked the jacuzzi from above – including that of her parents.
Like a ravenous bear tossing a campsite, I was destroying this girl. Limbs stretched to the point of dislocation, heads submerged in the water without a thought of needing to come up for air, we had thrown caution to the wind long ago – we were out of control and there was no turning back. And then things got interesting. Having stopped for just a second to regain my balance, I looked up and there was Vito standing on the edge of the jacuzzi completely naked. (Folks, believe me when I say that a hairier man has never walked the Earth than Vito.) No words were spoken. Chica reached out and took his hand as he stepped down into the water. They started kissing, then she and I were kissing again, then he and I…no, sorry, there was no man-on-man lovin’ going on. As my hands wandered below the waters surface, I felt a hand – a hairy-knuckled hand. And it wasn’t where I was going with my hand, but it was very much in the same vicinity. While Vito’s prostate exam of Chica was unwarranted, it certainly wasn’t unwelcome. But with her writhing around like she was on fire, and things quickly escalating to Lord knows where, I wanted her in my room – immediately.
Off we went, stumbling along in our underwear, sopping wet and carrying our clothes, right past the same security guard from earlier (Suck it, pal!) and through a crowded casino to the elevators. I opened the door to our room and let Chica in before turning to Vito and explaining that this is where his night ended. (I can’t find the words to describe the anger and disappointment on Vito’s face at that moment.) With my other friend asleep in the bedroom, the pullout …no pun intended was ours. Unfortunately, it was too difficult to enjoy ourselves with Vito kicking the door and screaming from out in the hallway, so we took it to the shower. Oddly enough, even all that soapy water couldn’t wash the stench of sin off of us. (And to this day, every once in awhile, I swear that I burp up the taste of pennies. Weird.)
A few weeks after returning home from vacation, Chica came calling when she tagged along on her dad’s business trip to NYC. Picking up where we had left off in Puerto Rico, we got ourselves kicked out of a Times Square restaurant, pushed the public decency laws on a water taxi and in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium, and put on a show for some truckers at the Vince Lombardi Rest Area on the Jersey Turnpike. It was an unprecedentedly sinful time in my life. (And I miss it.)
About Mr. Poopoopachu
That’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.
The romance ended rather abruptly when I called her at home a few weeks after her NYC visit and her dad answered the phone. “[She] doesn’t live here anymore, so never call back.” Never heard from her again.
we miss our 24 year old…well you know….just as much as you guys miss em’
And let me just say that there’s NOTHING wrong with older…well you know. 30-something-year-old…well you know…are quite awesome too. Thanks for reading Katie!
There seems to be a large gap of time missing from the point you got in the shower with her, and when you finished at the Vince Lombardi rest stop. Please explain the exact details for the rest of the world! Well, maybe its best untold.
The post-vacation NYC romp was setup with maybe two phone calls, and then I cleared my schedule for about 72 hours, bought (and used) a gross of rubbers, and then needed a week of recovery and a gallon of Tiger Balm.
I want an annulment!
FINE! Be that way. There are plenty of ladies that would love some time with Poopoopachu.
You told me you were an ass man. Our relationship was based on a lie.
My relationships are based on a lot of things, but lies? Never. Being an “ass man” doesn’t preclude me from also being, say, a leg man, boob man, etc. Hell, I went thru a period where I was an arm man. Not kidding…chick had great arms. Made me hot.
Wow.
Wow…despicable? Wow…I wish I were Chica? Wow…what exactly?
Actually, a little bit of both. As much as I love a challenge (I will win you yet PooPoo!), that whole going so far as to get kicked out of places is completely unappealing. You have to make it quiet & as kind of classy as possible for that stuff. Don’t like to get caught with my skirt up at my waist. Not getting caught is part of what’s so hot about it.
Caught shmaught, Ms. Lusty Busty. I was operating with strict tunnel vision, and have been absolved of any wrongdoing by the Holy Order of Men Everywhere.
As for your skirt being hiked up around your waist …um, I have a somewhat related question: When women wear a skirt, what’s the more popular maneuver when going to the bathroom – pulling it up around their waist or pulling it down to their ankles?
Pulled up. “Easy access” doesn’t just pertain to hot quickies in a fancy restaurant’s bathroom…..not that I’ve ever done anything like that.
Emmy em,
Mrs. Poopoopachu respectively asks you to back off her man.
Wow…I wish I were Chica
In my dreams, you are.
What I love is that if “Vito” were a 30POV writer and had this assignment, he well may have written the exact same tale, just under the Envy umbrella.
Or possibly wrath. Ha! Poor poor Vito. But I’d be much more interested in hearing Chica’s side of the story. (Thanks for reading!!)
Go to hell, you bastard! You never called me back!! My dad would’ve told me if you did!!!
Your father was just protecting you. I’m the antichrist.
I wish I could embroider this love story on a lacy pillow. Alas.
I scored myself a nice “My blood work came back clean and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” shirt out of this. I can send it to you if you’d like.
Snotty: If you make it into a pillow, we can auction it off for $$$ on the site.
Mr P: Sign the shirt first, to increase profits.
2 Italian guys and a chick with 24 year old tits and a prostate in a hot tub…The last time I heard this story, I was in a small dark booth with a curtain.
A very sticky curtain.
It’s like that classic joke: A pervert, a whore, and a slut step into a hot tub…
wait, which one are you?
Depends on who you ask. But don’t ask, please.
Whoa. What a tale……
Danka!
Ok…I laugh harder and harder every month and I am wondering after this score, why are you not at Caroline’s delivering this because, as I read it and try to read with your voice, it is not nearly as compelling as possibly watching you perform this tale….I love it 🙂
hmmm…i’m going to file this away in the “when we’re all famous” file (no, it’s not “circular”). we *will,* one day, have a reading of our Brilliant Work, even if we’re the only ones there to enjoy it…
Tremendous idea! I think I just crapped my pants a little bit in fear of people seeing such words and stories coming out of my sweet, boy-next-door face. But I like it!
For a brief moment, I thought I was 12 years old, frantically reading my dad’s Penthouse.
*sigh* The memories…
I have similar memories, Darla! For me, Penthouse Forum served as a bit of a “How to…” manual.
Happy (American) Thanksgiving! Hope “America’s hat ” is treating you well.
My favorites were the “Crowd Scenes” and “Serendipty” sections. I think the fear of getting caught by my family was part of the excitement, though…
“And to this day, every once in awhile, I swear that I burp up the taste of pennies.”
With all the brilliant writing in this piece, I have to admit that it was this line that nearly made me spit coffee all over my effing keyboard.
I can hardly eat a piece of calamari today without tossing back a few shots of tequila first to get my nerve up.