The Tale of Clifford, the Big Red Dog, Part I

Ok, she wasn’t this bad, but you’re starting to get the picture.

Way back when I had hair and could simply bend over to tie my shoes, Clifford made herself an omnipresent intrusion in my life.  She resembled an uglier version of mega skank Sarah Jessica Parker.  In fact, the Big Red Dog’s only redeeming feature was her willingness, even eagerness to drink and fuck on any
day and in every hole, watering or otherwise.  Indeed, she was quick to pay for me to get drunk, since being barely able to walk was a precondition to me banging her.

Aside from being a bit hard on the eyes, she was more than her fair share of annoying.  While entirely
discreet, she took clinginess to Fatal Attraction proportions.  She haunted my favorite bars (she was named Clifford by a bartender) and my office (yeah, a co-worker).  Now, while it was difficult to respect her, she was a decent person and I supressed most of my baser instincts.  Believe me, I want to be far worse than I describe.

At the time, I was basically using her as a recepticle and she was using me to mask the fact that she had no life, I was putting the moves on an oversexed, damn hot cokehead stripper.  The BRD was hot on my heels at all times, dutifully making sure I got hammered enough to swing by her place to hate fuck her whike trying not to laugh when she asked me if she were pretty.  That was a particular pet peeve.  If you are going to talk during sex, no self-esteem begging please.  During sex, she’d break into, “Do you think I’m pretty, am I?”  Damn, she would expect an answer too.  Mine was usually, I’d think you were prettier if you were blowing me.

Anyway, there is no real point to this right now other than to introduce the BRD.  And to salute any and all women who’ll blow you while you drive, in the coatcheck room, ladies bathroom, boss’ office, her place, bars, clubs, book stores, cabs, Christmas parties and parking lots.

 

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