Picking out my gator bait did not go very smoothly. It was getting late and the choices were running slim. I was too picky at first. I was looking for a certain body type to make sure I could pull this move off. I’m a relatively fit kind of guy, but I’m certainly no bodybuilder, so I can’t have a chick that’s too thick to flip. I also don’t have the same equipment as my tutor in the Ways of the Fuck, Mr. Peter Oh’Tool.
Long story short (literally), I was getting down to the witching hour and I still didn’t have my prey. Mongo was getting twitchy and kept walking by, mumbling in my ear, “Pick out bitch and let’s go.” And, “I don’t wish to be here all fucking night.” And, “Shit or get off pot, pidoras.” I’m not sure what that last word meant, but I had a feeling I was cussed out in Slovakian or Siberian or whatever the fuck country Mongo is from.
So that’s why I’m here at the motel room with Danielle, wondering if she can smell the faint, lingering odor of urine in the air. She’s nice looking, no major issues with her hair or her skin, no odd birthmarks or growths anywhere on her body, which is a plus. I look for those things first. Paranoia, I guess.
In fact, Danielle looks pretty damn good without her clothes on. She’s got a very nice body and seems to know how to use it. I can tell by the way she’s advancing on me as we make for the bed. In a normal situation, this would be fantastic.
But this is not a normal situation. The problem with Danielle in relation to this week’s challenge is that she’s about six or seven inches taller than me, and I’m guessing probably equal or close to me in weight. She’s not fat or anything, not by a long shot. She’s just big. Bigger than me. Probably stronger than me, too. Turns out she’s a college volleyball player.
On the other side of the bar, sitting down, throwing back shots with some of her teammates, Danielle looked pretty normal in the stature department. And I was working on a few beers and two shots of whiskey myself, so my perception inside the dimly lit bar was not where it should have been. Add the fact that she was hanging around with other volleyball players, all of whom were much taller than your average co-ed, and you can see why my perception was way out of whack.
Danielle looks down at me with a boozy, eyes-half-closed air of sexiness bordering on drunk. This is going to be a problem. There’s no way I’m going to pull this off, not with this girl, but what the hell have I got to lose at this point? According to Mongo, I’m already falling behind in the game. Seems the guy in Baton Rouge, Louisiana — Bob something I think — has lucked into a hive of LSU sorority whores who are convinced he’s Les Miles’s nephew. The dude has already completed five challenges. I’m still stuck on number two and my unwitting partner looks like she could very easily spike me into the floor.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, little man.” She grabs me under the arms. It tickles a little, and I’m nervous as hell, so I can’t stifle a giggle. Then I remember the cameras and mics strategically hidden around the room and I make a wish to the Dark Lords of Perversion that it gets edited out, that this whole part hits the cutting room floor, because Danielle next picks me up and tosses me back onto the bed.
She rips my pants off without undoing my button or belt, which snags a few loops of pubic hair along the way. The pain is sharp and real. I scream. The scream is more embarrassing than the giggle just a second ago. This is not going very well.
Danielle laughs, a much deeper, more masculine sound than I’ve emitted thus far, and jumps on me. It takes a minute for the pain to pass but, once I catch my breath again, it’s on. Danielle is into it and it doesn’t take me long to get there with her. She starts on top and rides me with gusto. She even makes little whoop sounds, like we’re at a rodeo. We get into a groove, find our rhythm, get used to each other’s body and pace. We fit well together on this plane and she takes notice.
“Yeah baby, work those hips,” she says.
We keep at it a few more minutes and she starts to moan. She sounds like she’s going to come soon, but if she starts, so will I and I’ll miss my chance for the alligator fuckhouse. I reach up and pull her close and roll her onto her back. She makes an excited “Oh!” noise and tries to keep going, but I take one of her legs and try to throw it around my front. I need to get in behind her to do this move right.
I miscalculate how long her really long leg is and she miscalculates how far it needs to go to clear my face before she brings it down. I catch a heel under my left eye and am momentarily stunned. Stars and whatnot. I shake my head and squint against the pain and by the time I get my bearings back, Danielle is up on her knees, backing into me hard, saying things like, “Oh yeah,” and “Come on.”
OK, here it is. Moment of truth.
I have to press on her ass cheeks to bring her down a bit before I start my run. The first step is gaining my balance. I throw my feet over her legs, positioned in front of her thighs, and I do so without too much difficulty. She continues to bang away against me with her ass, seemingly unaware of anything abnormal going on behind her. I’m barely even noticing what’s happening because I’m concentrating on being technically correct. We seem to be having some pretty great sex at the moment, but I can’t let that distract me.
Next, I lean forward and place my hands on her arms, careful not to be too firm yet. Don’t want to tip her off that something is about to go down. I drop my head down, reaching for her neck. I don’t quite make it. My lips are bouncing against the top of her spine, and that’s as far as I can get. I’m considering just biting her back and going for it anyway, but the last thing I want is to get this far and have it not count due to a technicality. According to Peter Oh’Tool’s specific instructions, I must bite her neck before I pin down her arms and go into the death roll.
“Are you OK back there?” She’s still bumping away against me, but her pace has slowed and she’s looking back over her shoulder. “You’re not, like, having a heart attack or something, are you?”
I perk back up and resume returning her thrusts. “No, I’m good. I was just trying to… kiss your neck.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head back and I nuzzle closer, about as far as I dare go lest I ‘lose contact with the mother ship’. I place my lips on the base of her neck. Technically, you could probably call it upper shoulder, but whatever. Close enough for rock and roll. I take a deep breath… and hesitate.
Goddammit, I hate it when I hesitate. I always hesitate. I don’t know why I do that. Some psychological hang up I have.
“You sure you’re OK?”
Shit, we’re slowing down. Losing momentum. The air coming out of the proverbial balloon. If I don’t do this now, I never will. Fuck it, just lean forward and bite this girl.
You’re not a man, you’re a fucking alligator!
COME ON, DO IT! BE THE ALLIGATOR!
I do it. In one swift motion, I wrap my arms over her, locking my hands just under her breasts, and sink my teeth into her lower neck (upper shoulder, what-the-fuck-ever). I plant my feet in the bed and try to stand, with every intention of lifting her up and rolling to the right, onto my back, maintaining my hold on her arms, and achieving continued insertion in the Promised Land so I might then press on and give Danielle the screw of her young (but definitely LEGAL) life. But I have one problem: I can’t roll her.
In fact, I can’t do anything. My feet are no longer making contact with the bed. And she’s screaming. She’s raised up high on her knees, high enough to get me airborne.
“OW HEY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING STOP BITING ME LET ME GO”
I don’t stop biting her. I probably should, but I don’t. Instead, I kick my legs, desperate to find purchase. That doesn’t happen either.