“Peter, the sink drain is clogged again!” Sundance yelled from the bathroom.
She was taking a shit and left the door open. I hate it when she leaves the door open when she’s shitting. It’s so un-lady-like, and quite frankly, grosses me the fuck out. Have some goddamned couth, woman.
“The Drano is in the cabinet, Sunny,” I yell back in reply. I’m sitting on the lumpy cushions of the ratty, dirty, dog pee-stained, floral-printed old couch in the living room, my textbooks, notebooks, highlighters, and note cards strewn about me. Cardiopulmonary Pathophysiology isn’t rocket science, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel that way, especially now when I’m trying to study for my finals and my inept girlfriend is taking a dump with the fucking door open and bitching about the clogged drain. My concentration is ruined.
I work for the university I attend as parking enforcement and I was writing a ticket for the beat-t0-shit Buick Regal that was not only double parked, but didn’t bother to put money in either meter. I was huddled over my ticket pad, writing furiously away, getting smug satisfaction at being able to write such a hefty fine for the dumbass who was stupid enough to take up two parking spots on the busy campus lot, when the sound of someone clearing their throat behind me brought me out of my focus.
“Excuse me, but what in the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
My muscles tightened in anger and I clenched the pen in my hand until my knuckles drained of blood and turned white. I gritted my teeth and turned to face the voice.
I was struck dumb by her beauty. She was tall but had short, muscular legs that I fantasized wrapping around my waist; chubby but not overweight, a full, round face with plump, pink cheeks; big, grey eyes that stared straight into mine; full, shiny lips that she must have just applied gloss to and I wanted to reach forward and taste for myself; thick brown hair that was held off to the side in a fat braid.
She shifted her weight from one leg to another, hiking her backpack up as it slipped off her broad shoulder. I caught a glimpse of her hands and saw how long her surprisingly thin fingers were and thought about how tightly those hands would grip my hard cock as she gave me a hand job while sitting in a dark movie theatre.
“Well?” she asked with a tone of annoyance in her voice. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing, meter maid?”
“…just call me ‘Lovely Rita'”….” I muttered in response, hoping she’d catch my Beatles song reference and think I’m impossibly cool and funny and let me touch what I can only assume were the most perfect pair of breasts in the entire universe. They sure appeared that way, the way they were testing the tensile strength of the fabric of the black t-shirt she was wearing.
She smirked, the left corner of her mouth turning up slightly and she let out a small snort. I love it when women snort.
“Well, ma’am,” I stammered, “you’re committing some pretty heinous parking violations and I’m writing you a ticket for your sins.”
“Oh, that. Well, you see, Rita, I was late for class and couldn’t find my parking permit for the lot, so I had to park on the street here and as luck would have it, I spent my last bit of change on a pack of smokes because it’s mid-terms and my nerves are shot and I need the nicotine to stimulate the serotonin levels in my brain to keep me from killing myself before the quarter is over.”
As she rambled on, she reached into her front jeans pocket and produced the aforementioned cigarettes and a lighter and lit the stick hanging between her lips. I’ve never wanted to be a cigarette so much in my entire life.
“Wow. Good story. Still going to have to write you a ticket, though. I mean, honestly–TWO spaces?”
“I’ll give you a blow job if you don’t give me a ticket,” she dead-panned.
I chuckled nervously, feeling my cheeks flush and I nearly dropped the pen and pad.
“As tempting as that is, miss, I’m still going to write you a ticket.”
“Fuck!” She exhaled smoke around the word as it came out of her mouth.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I’m just doing my job…”
“I know. It’s my own fucking fault. Fine…go ahead and give me the ticket.”
She was silent as I finished writing and handed it over to her, the only reply was exhaling grey smoke into my face.
“Sorry,” she apologized and feebly fanned the air around my face as if it would help. “You hungry?” she asked.
“Food. Eat. Are you hungry?” she asked again.
“Uh…yeah, I guess…”
“Good. Since you wrote me a ticket, you’re buying. Meet me at Duggan’s Pub at 7p.m.”
And with that, she unlocked her car, got in, started it up, and drove off.
We met later that night and haven’t left each other’s side since.
“PETER!” she barked again.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Sunny!” I flung my books off my lap, stormed into the bathroom, swung the cabinet door open, grabbed the Drano, slammed the door shut, and poured the contents of the bottle into the sink.
“There! Are you happy?!”