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 warming 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 dawns early light.
No, stop the music, that is clearly her re-imagined 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-98-locals decide 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.
Rounds of Red Deaths & Kamikazes, while the throbbing bad renditions of Livin’ on a Player, covered by Big Orange Cone bellow through the crackling speakers. I spot the first spray tan duchess of the dance floor, she is gyrating those hips like some sort of 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, slightly visible butterfly tattoo, which I look forward to exposing when her short pencil skit is in the best position, the floor. I compliment 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 topcoat.
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, is an excellent piece-of-ass. It’s gonna be a Freaky Friday with a Fancy Fuck.