Dear Gunter

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Jerry Estrange writes about his weekend to his jailbird penpal

Submitted: August 02, 2010

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Submitted: August 02, 2010

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Dear Günter,

I may have fallen into deep shit. I’m talking, dove into a swimming pool of feces deep shit, or filled a bath with human excrement coming out of the faucet kind of deep shit. I think I unknowingly date raped a chick. I mean, I knew that I was fucking her, but I didn’t know she was drugged. She’s asleep in my sheets as I write this; she hasn’t moved for about twelve hours.

When that little girl accused you of molesting her, did you ever deny it? Did you ever try the defense that she was asking for it? Maybe she teased you, or came on to you, or begged you to take her. I mean, my sister is in fifth grade, too, and she always finds a way to get what she wants out of everybody. I’d write to your lawyer, if I were you.

‘Cause this girl told me to fuck her. I mean, her words were slurred but it was a direct order. And there was nobody standing behind me when she said it, just me. She’d been taking shots all night. Twelve, thirteen, I lost track.

 

She’s sitting there in a minuscule skirt. It’s tight on her thighs, and she’s too drunk to sit properly on the bar stool, so I can see just enough to be sure she’s not wearing anything underneath it. Then she’s using her tongue to grab the straw in her fifteen-dollar sex-on-the-beach-fruity-whatever, making eyes at the bartender, asking me if it’s my place or hers, like I was the one trying to convince her or something.

But she was smokin’ hot. I wouldn’t lie to you; all cooped up, an innocent man living amongst the rapists and murderers of Orlando. You can think about her before you go to sleep, I imagine you don’t get a lot of sweet dames in there. She was ginger. Long, curly, with the bluest eyes I ever saw. But the outsides of her pupils were red. You can go ahead and guess why. Her lipstick left stains on my neck—they’re still there; so dark, and lucid, and striking. Her tits—well, not exactly Baywatch but definitely Girls Gone Wild worthy. With legs that never-fuckin-ended. And a hole in her already tiny jean skirt. She walked right out of Clueless and into my lap. And that’s where she drank the rest of the night. She was into public displays of affection, nibbling on my ear, trying to get a nice feel of my junk under the bar. Fuckin’ crazy!

She wants to go dancing, but she can’t move off the damn stool. So I end up playin’ babysitter, carrying her around while she embarrasses herself by the jukebox. She’s hollering and I can see a few other guys thinking the same thing; “roofie.”

Then out of nowhere, I’m apologizing to the barman, explaining that I’d never even met her before tonight, she stumbles over to me, calls me Roger, starts screaming about a girl named Tanya and how I fucked her mother while in Barbados on Christmas Holiday. She’s being so loud, the bouncer comes up and asks if she’s okay, then she points at me, and says I stole her purse. But it was right behind me, and why would I even bother stealing her purse when I could probably talk her into handing it over peacefully at this point? She’s almost drooling she’s so drunk, and still rambling. Security isn’t impressed, so he just swipes her off the floor, over his shoulder, and into a taxi before I can dig up the exact change to pay for my drink. Of course I go with her… I paid for half of her alcohol! Wouldn’t you make true on your investment? Any decent man would.

I let the cabbie know my address; maybe that was my first mistake. Cause the way he was staring through the rearview made it clear what he was thinking. Probably just jealous—this chick was gorgeous. She still hasn’t shut up at this point, though, and all she can mumble about is how her brother stepped on her hamster as a kid or something but she still loves him because he has aspergers or some form of neurotic autism. I’m like, gee that’s nice but I don’t care, bitch. She got my brand new button up shirt wet, the one I had to sell my Doctor Strange Marvel Collection to pay for when I got the new job at Apple Inc. She’s not even interested in sex, she says, but I’m not exactly concerned with what she’s interested in. As far as I know, she owes me. How else could you look at it? I was not at fault, still haven’t committed a crime, ya know?

So the fuckin’ terrorist driving this hot box of alcohol-induced-estrogen-blubbering finally pulls over on the curb in front of my apartment. While she’s using all of her small brain’s capacity to safely exit the vehicle, I’m just hoping that asshole won’t remember where I live and call the cops or something. Even though I still haven’t committed a crime and I did nothing wrong, but I was just nervous, ya know?

I end up having to practically carry this chick through the door. And when I set her down to get my keys, she fell over. I was fuming at this point. Once I got her inside I was just glad my place is on the first floor. She wouldn’t have made it up the stairs.

I’m pretending to put her to bed, but for real, I’m just getting myself ready. I was under the impression that she knew we were having sex, man I swear! Remember that she’s the one who asked for it! But she ends up just laying here for ten minutes while I try to find something slightly attractive enough about her for me to get stiff. Way more work than it was worth dude. And while I’m holding her on top of me, finally getting into the groove of shit, she just fuckin topples on her side and knocks over my lamp in the process. I mean, I was worried about the lamp but I was also worried about my dick. It’d been awhile. So I made an executive decision. And I finished having sex. Right when I’m peaking, her eyes open a little and she’s like “who’re you?! Where’s Roger?” I didn’t say anything. Just put my hand over her mouth and she fell right back asleep. I took care of her afterwards; gave her a blanket, set up the pillows real nice. I even cuddled up next to her when I was sleeping, don’t girls dig that?

But when I wake up this morning, she’s asleep still. Just like last night. Bitch falls asleep right when I’m ready to finish inside her. Just passes out. I finished, what would you have done? Any man would’ve just quickly finished his work, so I did. Honestly, it was better once she stopped making the really irritating squeaking I kept hearing; thought it was the bed. So I don’t know if she was drugged. When she wakes up, she probably won’t remember much. And I mean, I didn’t have sex without her consent, she gave that BEFORE she passed out on top of me. I swear. I see no harm, no foul.

 

So hey man, write me about when you’re gettin’ out.

 

Always,

Jerry

 


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