Down the Shore (Freaky Friday)
It was a dark and stormy night, the sky black and barren of stars, or even a whisper slice of moonlight. Nothing to be a beacon of illumination in the darkness. The ocean waves crashing against the jetty from the angry and turbulent sea. All the telltale signs it would be a dismal and dreary night.
Then, out of the darkness, she walked in. Our eyes locked across the chaos. A warm feeling surrounded and overcame me. Nothing else mattered as we got lost in each other’s sight, lost souls connected in an ocean of chaos—like nobody else existed. It would be an enchanting evening swept away together, beginning as strangers, lovers by dawn’s early light.
No, stop the music. That is clearly her reimagined fairytale of the night. Here is how it really went down.
It was just another Friday down the Jersey Shore, beat the clock before the Bennies arrive. An age-old tradition amongst the locals to get as shit-face wasted as possible before our coveted little patch of nirvana was infested with the city folk coming down the shore for the weekend. A fucked-up weekend pilgrimage for the tri-borough city slickers gamified by the fuck-faces at MTV in the name of ratings and profit. It was always something that occurred, but now the bitches in heat came down every weekend to sow their wild oats with legit Jersey Boys, fuck you MTV.
My boys and I, the “local-98s”, decided it was time to turn the tables. You city bitches ready for a piece of the 732, and can’t get enough of fictionally reimagined “Situation” – we got your fuckin situation right here. So come on down the shore you bitches of the beach, we’re gonna make it a weekend you never forget.
The other “local-98s” crew is also scoping the menu for the evening. Traveling with the posse (entourage) is always good when you don’t know what the city slickers bring down across the bridges and tunnels. The crews are each other’s wingmen and muscle when the situation requires.
First man in the local-98s is Frankie from Freehold Borough — as in feel free to hold my balls while I borough my dick so deep into your Holland tunnel you won’t mind the windshield washing. Then I will jug-handle you around from behind while you ride me like the Upper Saddle River, cowgirl. His favorite drunk pickup line is, “How about we walk down to the jetty and discuss some bay head?”.
Second was Paulie from Point Pleasant Borough- as in this point is going to pleasantly borough so deep into your Battery tunnel, you might have to take the bridge home. I hope you have the exact change, but I suspect you’re an EZ-Pass. His sleezy one line was, “We could go fuck on Sandy Hook and you’ll feel like you’re almost home”.
Rounds of Red Deaths & Kamikazes, while the throbbing bad renditions of Livin’ on a Prayer, covered by Big Orange Cone blast through the crackling speakers. I spot the first spray-tanned duchess of the dance floor, she is gyrating those hips like some freakish blend of Shakira meets Zumba. With moves like that, she’s gotta be pliable and plowable. Time to finish my Bud Light lime and get rolling if I’m gonna get under her skin, if you know what I mean.
We locked eyes, after she caught me checking out the goods across the chaotic mayhem, like a deer in headlights I am stunned and can’t run away, but instead are drawn into the light like any memorized 12-point buck. Head to toe, she hits the Benny bingo card, rosary bead, ankle ink, pieced belly chain, and slightly visible butterfly tattoo, which I look forward to exposing when her short pencil skirt is in the best position, the floor. I complement her French tips manicure since that is the quickest way to break her icy shell, besides it’s a classy city nail job from a salon, not masking taped local strip mall shit, finished with a nice top coat.
We banter for a bit in the stifling-humid, loud meat market, able to communicate only after getting well into the personal space over the throbbing music. Once inside her close space-place, I realize this is where I want to be, getting past the sweat stench elbow-to-elbow locker room, inside the privy zone the odoriferous whispering scent of Jean Paul Gaultier is an olfactory delight. A trance-inducing trace scent, a bit naughty, seductive, and deliciously sensual. This city lass, with all her class, an excellent piece-of-ass. It’s going to be a Freaky Friday with a Fancy Fuck.