Clementine* is a wild child. I swear Jim Morrison wrote the song about some incarnation of her. The girl knows how to party. Party as in, waking up on an inflatable raft, floating in a pool in Vegas surrounded by gay men wearing budgy smugglers and having no fucking clue how she got there. Really. That happened. Clementine’s a free spirit. The eccentric, bohemian chick who can discuss Plato but would also pause for a solid thirty seconds if you told her that deer actually climbed and lived in trees. Her flawless caramel skin and petite frame will blast into a room filling it up with sunshine and the blazing inferno she wears on her sleeve known as her sexuality. Her deep commitment to always live in the moment rivals her thorough appreciation of older men, both of which can lead to entertainment ranging from holy shitballs awesomeness to, if only I could lobotomize myself so that I can go back to a time where that story never existed.
Clementine had rebounded swiftly from her fifty-three year-old boyfriend with twenty-three year-old aspiring actor, John* from Iowa – a revenge fuck that literally ended with blood on the walls (see: Riding Blind: The Risks of Sex in the Dark). She was so over younger men, which was good news for every man under fifty because Iowa John* now needed therapy for the rest of his life.
It was a Saturday night and Clementine was celebrating her friend Leah’s* birthday like it was her own. Five celebratory martinis in and she was hawk eyeing the exceptionally handsome, ponytailed older gentleman in the cowboy hat and snakeskin boots across the bar. A lot of women would add ponytail, cowboy hat and reptilian footwear together and come up with the sum of, hell-to-the-fuck-no. But not Clementine. And certainly not Clementine under the influence of a heavy dose of Hendrick’s. In her (intoxicated state-of) mind, Mr. Ponytail was worldly. He probably wrestled alligators for a living (boots), rode horses (hat) and painted nature scenes (ponytail) in his spare time. After investing a solid five minutes into her visual advances – Mr. Ponytail made his move.
“Hi there, gorgeous. I’m John*, and you are?”
Crap. Another John.
Choosing to dismiss her first warning shot, Clementine cooed, “Well, hi there John, I’m Clementine.”
“Clementine. What a beautiful and unique name. Any interest in going somewhere a bit quieter so we can get to know each other a little better?”
Eye roll. But that ponytail was so sexy…
An hour later Clementine and Cowboy Crocodile Dundee moseyed out of the bar together. When the valet screeched John’s yellow convertible Porsche Boxter to a halt in front of them, Clementine almost took warning shot number two straight in the gut. She paused for a moment weighing the situation on the good decision/bad decision scale until it started to ruin her buzz and she came to her standard conclusion of, eh, fuck it.
When they pulled up to John’s gated home, Clementine sat in his mid-life crisis clown car gaping at the sight before her. Mr. Ponytail was rich. Like, balls out fucking loaded. The man lived in compound, not a mansion.
“Wow. Humble little abode you have here, John.”
“Wait until you see the inside.”
Cue creepy music.
Just when Clementine thought they had covered every cliché possible, Mr. Ponytail opened the door to Casa de I’m Rich As Fuck. Mirrors. Mirrors everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Mirrors and some sort of skinned animal or Buddha as far as the eye could see. Huh?
Clementine was no longer taking warning shots. She was ducking full-blown machine gunfire.
“Didn’t Buddha believe that all of God’s creatures are precious?”
Mr. Ponytail’s jolly laugh boomed and bounced off the cement tomb he called a home.
“Buddha must not have ever sat on a $500,000 crocodile couch.”
Ew. He better have wrestled that fucking crocodile himself.
“Soooo. I’m gonna need a drink.”
When Mr. Ponytail brought out a bottle of Krug Brut Vintage 1988, Clementine started to feel friendlier. She loved a man who knew his champagnes. By the time they had drained bottle number three, she was ready to service Buddha and Mr. Ponytail on that crocodile couch of death.
But Mr. Ponytail wasn’t through wooing her yet.
After finishing yet another bottle, he gave Clementine a passionate Samurai sword demonstration followed by an impromptu poetry reading which ended with Clementine smashing her champagne glass on the floor out of pure excitement over his genius of rhyming the words ‘cunt’ and ‘punt’. Mr. Ponytail finally wrapped up his dance of seduction by asking Clementine to migrate to the Jacuzzi with him. At this point it was 3am and Clementine was on planet Let’s Do This Shit.
“I have something I want to show you, Clementine. I’ll be right back.”
“Lay it on me, Mr. Ponytail!!!”
Yikes. Was that out loud?
Clementine was deep in her boozy, relaxed state, eyes gently closed – fifty Buddhas in one room really did make an environment more peaceful. When she felt John return to the reflective room of Om where wildlife goes to die, she slowly opened her eyes.
Sweet mother of God.
There stood Mr. Ponytail. Stark naked except for his snakeskin boots and cowboy hat – holding a giant purple strap-on. Leather-studded. With holsters.
Clementine didn’t make any sudden movements.
“Jesus. How big is that thing?!”
“Holy shit! That seems a little aggressive.”
Clementine did her second calculation of the night. She wasn’t blackout drunk enough to fuck Mr. Ponytail with his massive purple Weapon of Asshole Destruction but she was absolutely drunk enough to try it on.
She slowly climbed out of the Jacuzzi. Mr. Ponytail was grinning from ear to ear.
“Yeah. I’m gonna need your boots and hat in order to do this.”
“Done. But wait, I have to get one more thing.” He removed his boots, placed his hat on her sun-bleached blonde head and thrust his silicone phallus at her before moving quickly from the room.
At this point, Clementine was hog-tied and blindfolded in front of a firing squad but her drunken haze combined with her morbid curiosity kept her feet planted firmly in Mr. Ponytail’s snakeskin boots. As she fastened the gifted cock to her waist and tried to figure out exactly what the holsters were meant to holster, she kind of just had to know what he would come back with that could possibly upstage an eleven-inch dildo.
Mr. Ponytail tossed the matching purple triangle wedge mat at her feet.
“Here you go, baby.”
“What is this?” Clementine stared at the electric toothbrush looking tool he had pushed into her hand.
“It’s a warm-up tool.”
“A what now?”
“You know. You have to stretch the anus first.”
He dropped a bottle of Astroglide into her right holster. Well, that answers that question.
“Stretch. The. Anus.” Clementine parroted as if saying the words again would make them go away.
While she questioned who the hell would ever believe this was actually happening in real life, Mr. Ponytail was busy dropping to his knees, bending over the triangle mat and getting into proper warm-up position.
“Wow. Ok. This is really happening.”
“Now, I want you to dominate me, Clementine. Spank me. Call me your bitch.”
Clementine flicked on the anus-stretching switch. As the motor began to whir, her body leaning away from the scene before her, her right arm hesitantly outstretched towards Mr. Ponytail’s spread ass cheeks and left arm pouring what remained in her champagne glass down her throat, she caught a glimpse of herself in the inescapable hall of mirrors. There she was. Buck-naked, cowboy hat tipped forward, with a gigantic purple dick dangling between her legs. While she did make this get-up look good, was she really about to warm-up this stranger’s asshole with a Sonicare Xtreme while the Buddhas looked on and judged her?
“So, John. It’s really getting late and I have to get up early in the morning.” Clementine switched off the vibrating tool and holstered it to her left.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go.”
So many studs. Such much supple leather. Were those his initials in diamonds? Damn. This thing must have cost him a fortune. Clementine fumbled with the buckles. Ugh. Was this some sort of reverse chastity belt?
“Are you sure you want to go?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure. But thank you for the hospitality. And congratulations on this.” Unleashing herself, she gestured towards her borrowed penis. “One of the finest I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, ok. Can I call you a cab?”
“No, no. I already called one. Thank you!!”
When Clementine finally exited Mr. Ponytail’s House of Irony and Horrors, she couldn’t get to her phone fast enough to hail transportation.
One text message: Clementine, I had a wonderful night with you. You’re an incredibly adventurous woman. Can we do lunch tomorrow?
MORAL OF THE STORY: I know some of you ladies love a man in a cowboy hat. A few of you even enjoy a man with a long flowing mane. But always draw the line at an overcompensating yellow sports car. Think of it as a mobile Do Not Enter sign. Whether it’s too little or too much, you chance getting yourself strapped into something you may not be equipped to handle.
*Disclaimer, Yo: The content is real, provided by several different consenting sources and based on fictional characters inspired by actual people. Names have been changed for obvious reasons. Creative liberties are taken to character build but these hilarious and mortifying experiences are all true. Hot, weird, crazy, funny shit occurs when people get naked together. It’s awesome.
By Tracy Pope
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