Zachary's Perfect Date

by J.T. Benjamin © 2010

I should start at the beginning.

It had been a long time since I’d had a decent swim in the dating pool, if you know what I mean. I’d been trying the singles bars, the “puppy play-dates” in the parks, speed-dating, dating services, letting friends hook me up, I’d even let my mother set me up with a couple of “nice girls.” Talk about disasters.

So last week, late one night, I’m flipping channels through basic cable and I came across a commercial for a dating website I’d never heard of before, perfect_date.com. They’re bragging about the usual success rate and they’ve got “testimonials” from successful clients and all these hot-looking models having a good time on the computer and the telephone. The ad was just like all the other dating service ads on TV, but something told me to give this one a try, anyway.

I got online and paid the fee. It was a little pricier than normal for these dating websites, but like I said, I just had a feeling this one was the real deal. Then, I spent a good three hours or so filling out this really detailed questionnaire. It seemed like I was answering questions for a personality test to join the CIA or the FBI or something. Some of them were really bizarre questions, too, like “What color are your mother’s eyes,” and “Do you think a zebra is black with white stripes or white with black stripes,” stuff like that. I finished the test, sent in my profile, and a couple days later I got back an email with a list of women who could offer me the “perfect date.”

I sent an email to Gina, the girl at the top of the list, we had a phone conversation, and we just clicked. It took us two minutes to make a date for dinner, just last evening.

So I’m ringing her doorbell and I don’t know what to expect, because on the one hand I was really excited about meeting this girl, but on the other hand, the fact that we’d connected so quickly over the phone felt kinda…spooky, for want of a better word, right? I mean, there’s no way things could go so smoothly, especially setting up a first date. Something had to be wrong with this picture.

Gina opens the door, and she’s hot. Not hot, SMOKIN’ hot. Nice bod, nice rack, long wavy blonde hair, big lips, blue eyes, I mean SMOKIN’ hot. And she’s wearing this tight, little red cocktail dress that pushes up her boobs to show off her cleavage, and the skirt is really short, and she’s wearing these three inch spiked heels and she’s so beautiful and sexy I’ve got an instant hard-on, and I think, okay, this is what’s wrong with this picture. This lady’s way, way, way out of my league. She’s a starter in Yankee Stadium and I still need the umpire to put the ball on the tee and point me toward first base.

I introduce myself and she sizes me up. I expect her to say something like, “I’m Gina’s roommate, she’s been in the hospital with the swine flu for three days, she sends her apologies,” or “My mother’s just died, we need to take a raincheck” or just “Fuck you, asshole” and she’d slam the door in my face.

She doesn’t do any of that. She says, “Hi, Zachary. I’m Gina and I’m sure glad I took my birth control tonight! Let’s go!” And for the first time, I notice she’s got a can of beer in one hand and a martini glass in the other. She’s two-fisting it! She gulps down the martini and then she drains the can of beer in three swallows, belches, and says, “Let me get one more for the road.” She disappears back into the apartment, returns with half a sixpack and says, “What bad manners of me not to offer you one, as well. I should be punished. Maybe later,” and she offers me a brew.

It’d be rude of me to refuse, so I quickly drank it before we got to the car. We’re on our way to the restaurant where I made the reservation and out of the blue, (between drinks of beer) Gina says, “You know what? I’m not really hungry. There’s a strip club on west Franklin Boulevard, do you want to go and check out some naked women?”

Again, who am I to refuse, so we go to this place called Peepers, and holy shit, it’s a strip club. And I’m not talking about a high-class joint with bodyguards in tuxedos and eight-dollar beers, this is a dive. This is in-your-face full-on nudity; you just know the bartender’s got a shotgun under the bar and the bouncers have almost as many tattoos as do the strippers. It’s a dark, meaty, animalistic side of human sexuality. Through the thick cigarette smoke and the smell of stale beer and spilled whisky coming up from the carpet, you’re just afraid enough to want to stay and find out how much your arousal can overcome your fear.

Gina’s absolutely fearless. She’s whooping and egging the girls on, flashing tens and twenties to get them to do more than just flash a little tit and pussy, and at one point she actually got up on the stage, took off her blouse and started bumping and grinding her nipples against those of the girl actually being paid to dance. The club’s manager thought about chasing Gina off the stage, but everyone was so turned on they were buying more drinks and throwing money at the strippers and having such a good time he had second thoughts. Gina got about fifteen bucks, herself.

She’s drinking, and I’m drinking, and we’re laughing and making out in between dances and she staggers into the ladies’ room for a few minutes and when she staggers back out she says, “Come on. I was making out with one of the dancers in the bathroom and she needs a ride home. Let’s go.” This dancer was just as smokin’ hot as Gina was, and the way they were hugging and kissing each other you’d think they were long-lost high school sweethearts. That is, long-lost high school sweethearts as portrayed in a lesbian porn flick.

So I’m driving Gina and this stripper, Penny was her name, back to Penny’s place, and they’re making out in the back seat of my car, sucking on nipples and kissing and fingering each other, and I start wondering when I’m going to get some of this action. The next thing I know, I feel, first Penny’s hand rubbing my chest and then it’s Gina’s tongue in my ear and they’re giggling and cooing and Gina says, “Big guy, I don’t think we can wait to get back to Penny’s apartment. Let’s find a place to pull over right now, okay?”

I pull over in the public park on Pullman Boulevard and the three of us go scampering off into the bushes, all throwing our clothes off like we’re in some hippie-type commune. I remember standing in this little clearing behind the azaleas and looking down as Gina and Penny are sucking my cock, and then I’m lying on my back while Gina keeps sucking me and Penny sits on my face, and then I’m fingering Gina with one hand and Penny with the other, while they’re kissing and sucking each other’s titties and stroking my cock at the same time. Then, I remember fucking Gina from behind while she’s leaning against a tree, and she’s making out with Penny while I’m doing that, and Penny’s massaging Gina’s clit at the same time, and then they switched around so I could fuck Penny doggie-style while Penny was eating Gina’s pussy. Everybody’s screaming and grunting and cursing and begging to get fingered harder, fucked harder and sucked harder.

I honestly don’t remember much after both girls started sucking my cock again while Penny fingered my ass. I’m pretty sure I came in Penny’s pussy but I also remember seeing Gina with my cum on her face too, and then it all got to be a blur of flesh and sweat and laughter and bodily fluids.

When Gina and I woke up, Penny was gone, which was probably a smart move on her part. We’d had our arms wrapped around each other, still naked, and frankly, by the way Gina was caressing my penis in her sleep, in a few minutes we’d have been ready for more. That is, until the cop found us lying there in the bushes.

That’s the whole story. Crazy, huh?”

The attorney looked spent a moment looking through her files and the notes she’d made on her yellow pad. She said, “The bad news is there are a lot of charges, here. Public indecency, public lewd conduct, public intoxication, defacing that statue of General Sherman, damage to public property…”

“That park bench?”

“Yeah. That’ll have to be replaced.”

Zachary said, “Oh, boy.”

“But the good news is these are all minor charges. And Gina backs up your story. I’ve talked to her attorney and she says it’s all true. She went to the same website, she filled out the same questionnaire, she says it was the perfect date. Right down to the size of your penis and the fact that you like to cuddle after sex. We can probably make everything go away if you agree to pay for damages and…”

“And what,” asked Zachary.

“If you provide the web address for that dating site. The D.A. will want to, uh…investigate your claim.”

“Sure. Give me a piece of paper.”

The lawyer did so and said, “Go ahead and put it down twice. I’ll …uh…need
a copy for my files, too.”

_______
© 2010 J.T. Benjamin. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is J.T. Benjamin? Read his bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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