If You’re a Prude, An Evangelist or My Mother, Please Don’t Read This
*The following is a work of fiction.
It was Fall semester. Senior year.
I was trying to get some real-world experience.
Maybe create an opportunity. Maybe make some money.
Maybe give my life something interesting for people to mention during my eulogy if I died young.
You know. Normal college stuff.
Shit, I would have just settled for free juice.
To be honest, the reason I started helping Maggie out at the local juice bar wasn’t because of Maggie herself.
The first time I went in I was just thirsty.
I didn’t even really notice her.
She was sexy. Panamanian. 32. Fake parts. Obnoxiously skimpy clothes. Drove an Infiniti G37 Coupe. Black.
It was sexy, too.
You know when you see those girls that are so fine—and all your friends say so often enough—that they actually become less fine?
No?
Maybe I’m just weird.
Anyway. She was one of those girls.
Too out of my league.
Too old. Too hot. Too (2) many kids.
Too everything.
Her ex-husband (whom she was in the process of divorcing) owned every Waffle House in Northeastern Maryland.
Pretty standard.
After some small talk, I started helping her out pro bono.
My marketing/advertising plan for her tiny juice bar was grandiose, impractical, naïve. It called for $10,000.
She had $100.
One day, after presenting a fresh round of ads I had written for her, she changed the subject in an unexpectedly coquettish way.
“Tell me, Jahhk. Do you… evherr… dayyyte?”
Beat.
“Uhhh, yeah. Sometimes. Why? You wanna go out sometime?”
I’m a rusher.
“We shullld do tzhat. Grab a drink or someszing.”
Booyah.
“Cool.”
Fast-forward 4 days and a combined 7 vodka sodas later: Her Infiniti G37 Coupe has officially been made out in.
At least once.
She told me to call her again.
Taking a cue from an old favorite, I figured waiting 3 days would be kinda money.
3 nights later, she told me to meet her outside a Waffle House 10 miles South of campus.
When I pulled up, she was in her hot car, window down, one arm leaning out, looking good.
She told me to follow her.
What happened next I can’t actually say.
Not because I blacked out.
Although it felt like that at times.
I can’t because a true gentleman wouldn’t.
I will say this, though.
It happened in a motel room.
*No it’s not
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