Scum Week – Part 2

Quick Recap of Wednesday’s post: I planned to take a week to be a real piece of shit.  I still had some rules and got some chubby boobies for banging.  NOW, let’s continue.

Or rather, let’s start from somewhere near the beginning.  “Scum Week” was to be a seven to ten day affair of me basically slacking off and skanking on.  I was going to drink too much, play too many video games, watch some anime, pick up loose women, watch a lot of porn, eat poorly, and whatever else struck my fancy without destroying me.  So here’s what happened.

Day 1 – Friday:  After work, I think it may have been about 5:00 PM.  I flew out of work and headed to my favorite liquor store.  I have a favorite because I am a piece of shit and have had occasion to check out several locations.  I grabbed a “handle” – also known as the “family size” – of Wild Turkey along with a fifth of Kettle One.  Wild Turkey is my favorite.  An unfortunate drink of choice for an unfortunate amount of years.  Vodka, on the other hand, is no friend of mine.  However, it mixes well with any number of things and chicks dig it.  I then headed to one of my favorite grocery stores and picked up some sodas, some orange juice, some cranberry juice, and some snacks.  These snacks were mostly shit that I’d never really eat on my own.  In fact, I didn’t typically keep soda in the house.  I’ve started to keep some over the past few months because when I have company, I’d like to be able to offer a drink.  I got my bitchass home, started drinking, rubbed one out, and hit the internet.  I don’t remember exactly what I posted on the list of Craig.  I also deleted it, for reasons which should become apparent soon.  What I do remember is that I basically asked for lady with big and bouncy boobies to come over to my place to knock boots.  I also remember something like, “Why are big boobs important?  Normally it doesn’t matter to me… except when I want to titty fuck and that’s what I want to do.  So yeah, you gotta be cool with being titty fucked, too.  Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that you get yours, too.*”  There were several back-and-forth’s with ladies of varying attractiveness, most of which turned out to not be serious.  There seems to be an unsettling number of chicks that love to just flirt and not follow through.  But a few chicks were down to follow through, and I tactfully chose the lady with the biggest, roundest bust.  She just so happened to be a fat.

Fat’s maybe not fair.  I mean, I’ve fucked some pretty fat chicks back during my club going and bar crawling days in Texas and later in Germany.  Those pickups were just to help my friends nail the fat chick’s super-hot friends.  This chick wasn’t as fat as some of them, so that’s pretty cool.  She was somewhere in between chubby and chunky, but her boobs were clearly enhanced by her heft.  She came over to my place with one of those tiny backpacks that you see on cute chicks in nightclubs – you know, those cute chicks that already know they’re going home with some guy that night, but haven’t chosen which guy, ’cause that’s the skanky way they roll?  Yeah, that kind of backpack.  She looked pretty together from her pictures and better in person, so even though she wasn’t the type of chick I would normally go for, I was perfectly alright with this choice for “Scum Week”.  Celebrity she most resembled… like an Ugly Betty, but less ugly and more chunky.  Actually, somewhere in between the Ugly Betty character and the actress who plays her without the ugged-up look, but chunky.  Anyway, she dropped her bag on my way-too-big-for-my-place coffee table and eyeball fucked my home.  She was, maybe, all of 23 and clearly used to dorm rooms and shitty apartments shared by three or more people.  She was quite impressed with my place.  It was clean, neat, well furnished and considerably better appointed than her or her friends’ shitty places.  Somehow, impressing a chick is a pretty big aphrodisiac for me.  Maybe because inside, I’m a strange mix of really into myself while still managing to be completely down on myself.  We sat on my love seat, drank some of that liquor, and talked about bullshit for a while.  Then we started making out and…

Day 2 – Saturday:  a little after midnight, we a nipple made an appearance.  My relationship with boobs and nipples is complicated.  No, it’s less complicated and more “disjointed”.  I’m a big fan, but they aren’t the most important thing on a woman.  They aren’t even my favorite erotic part of a lady, and the size usually doesn’t matter to me at all.  Yeah, I do like big boobs.  But I also like little boobs.  In fact, I prefer a nice, firm, tight pair of little boobs over some big ol’ sloppy knockers.  Some disagree, but hey – to each his own.  I’m not going to get into the gory details (unless people ask for it…), but rest assured that we both got ours.  The titty fucking occurred and, as always, I got dat ass.  That’s something I have more thoughts about, but that’s for another day.

After banging in the living room, the kitchen, and the “studio” we went back to my bedroom.  We used my full(?) sized bed, which was awkward because I scummily had a queen sized mattress up against the wall – also a story for another time.  We fooled around a little more and then drunkenly fell asleep.  We woke up around 8ish – pretty early considering the amount of booze we’d had and the hour we probably fell asleep at – and had one more quickie.  I let her clean herself up a little while I put on some shorts and the cleanest polo I could find.  In what was mostly like my least scummy move of the situation, I made breakfast.  Nothing special, just English muffins, those bullshit brown n’ serve sausages, and scrambies (’cause I’m classy as fuck).  After that, I made up some dumb excuse about needed to get some things done before meeting family (none of which was true) to get her to leave.  I did not walk her to her car, but instead let her do the walk of shame on her lonesome.

I spent the rest of the day drinking, playing video games, and deciding which awful fat-bomb-makers to order food from later that night.  I really wanted either Pho or Pad Thai, but those were, obviously, far too healthy for “scum week”.  After going back and forth for a while, i settled on Indian food.  A LOT of Indian food.  I ordered two entrees – lamb vindaloo and crab malabar.  Both of which are pretty fuckin’ heavy.  I also ordered some greasy pakora and samosa’s along with some garlic naan and a mango lassi.  In case you’re wondering – no, I did not make it through all of this food in one sitting.  Yes, I did try.  I passed out in the living room on my favorite chair.

Day 3 – Sunday: And I woke up pretty early.  Around 3ish.  Normally, I would just go back to sleep, but I wanted to squeeze the very life out of this weekend.  It was all types of Carpe Diem up in here.  I looked around to see the aftermath.  I had miraculously managed to bundle up my Indian leftovers and neatly stack them in the fridge before passing out, but had also left a mess of dishes and the pan I had used to make eggs the previous morning was sitting in a sink half-full of dank water.  “Soaking” is a dish washing practice that I tend to avoid, usually only making an exception for baked-and-caked on food, but it occasionally seems like a good idea to do to any kind of dish when I’m drunk.  It never helps, but instead just makes it so I have to sink my hands into nasty, stale, yuckwater at some point to fish the stopper out.  I didn’t start drink on Sunday.  Instead I simply kept on drinking as fairly full glass of bourbon was on the accent table next to my chair when I woke up.  I guess I hadn’t finished it before drifting off to dream world.  Giving the situation, it seemed appropriate to knock it back right then.  I spent the rest of the morning wondering the Mojave wasteland and killing random strangers in Fallout: New Vegas while searching for public buttsex porn on my laptop – now propped up on the love seat next to my big, comfy chair.

At some point that day I broke into my “Fuck-it foods” reserve.  These are canned, boxed, or frozen foods that I keep on hand for those days that I just don’t feel like cooking.  Most of them are fairly healthy, but not all.  Some of them were chosen because I find them delicious and, in small doses, aren’t completely destructive.  In this case, I had found my reserve of Chef Boyardee’s Ravioli and Assorted Garbage.  I had two cans.  I said “At some point…” because I didn’t discover that I had done this until the next morning.  I had actually managed to black out on a Sunday, at home, by myself.  Doin’ pretty good.

Day 4 – Monday: I don’t know which is was.  Did I not get as fucked-up on Sunday as I had thought?  Did I manage to stop drinking booze at the right time?  Did I drink just enough water to be okay?  Was I still drunk?  Or had my body just so given up that it didn’t bother sending the normal response for “man, you really fucked up” by making my head and body ache like they should have?  I don’t know, but I woke up Monday morning feeling pretty alright.  I went to work and did my job pretty well.  I say “pretty well” because I spent a bit too much of the day texting various ladies to try to set up booty calls.  I had lined one up for that night, but that put some pressure on me.  As much of a scumbag as I was being then and am normally, I don’t like people coming over to my place and seeing it look like total garbage.  So when everything at work looked pretty together, and I was pretty on my P’s and Q’s after some events that had taken place a few weeks ago, I got the fuck out.  I probably left five to ten minutes early.  This might not be a big deal to a lot of people, but I like to take pride in my work, so I will often stay late just to make sure everything is good.  I hauled ass home and cleaned as quickly and thoroughly as I could.  During this was when I found the cans and Chef Boyarpoop.  I call it that because the clotted remains left behind in those aluminum carcasses actually smelled like poop.  Whatever that food is made of – and the can says it’s natural – comes out of the can smelled tasty.  Meaty, tomatoey, hearty.  However, in less than 24 hours, it decays to the point of actually smelling like human feces.  Nothing I can think of has actually put me off of eating unhealthy food as much as that stench.  I have not bothered to replace those cans with other canned pastas nastiness, but instead picked up some boxes of Nature’s Promise Macaroni and Cheese.  I know that stuff isn’t the organic, healthfood magic that they claim and some believe them to be, but it still has to be leagues better than Chef Nastardee’s Canned Horrors of Momentary Deliciousness.

I made two trash runs before I felt the place was clean enough, and by that time my own body had stopped being so.  The chick that I had convinced to come over backed out.  That’s upsetting, but I wasn’t terribly upset.  I’m always impressed when a girl has it in her to just tell me when shit has changed.  I hate it when there’s a no-show with no warning.  Even worse is when they no-show and then call me a week or so later to try to hook up again.  I know that move.  I’ve done it before in my scummier days.  That means that she found a better hookup for the night and didn’t bother telling me she couldn’t make it.  Now I’m the best hookup again, and she’s got the hornies.  I’m less offended by the idea that she would go for a better hookup – we’re all trying to get the best in some way or another.  I’m not at all offended by the idea that I am not the best, or by the notion that she got some other dick.  We’re both adults and I know what I am.  The most offensive part is that she couldn’t be bothered to just let me know.  In case you find yourself in such a situation, know that it’s always best to err on the side of letting them know.  Don’t give a reason unless they ask, and then only give the actual reason if you know it’s cool.  Chances are they already know or would rather remain ignorant – I know that’s how I feel and I know this rule has given me the best response from the women that I interact with.

Anyway, my Monday night hookup cowgirled up enough to tell me that she couldn’t make it.  Sucks, but that’s fine and thanks for telling me.  Even better, thanks for telling me at just the right time.  I was led on just long enough to clean my place up but still have enough night left to find a different hookup.  The replacement chick may have actually been better, too, though I suppose I’ll never know.  Anyway, she was pretty cute.  Imagine a thinner Anne Hathaway with a bigger forehead.  She was no stunner, but looked pretty good.  I never asked, but she seemed about my age (29), which is pretty rare for me.  Not for lack of trying, by the way, I’ve just never been desirable to women my own age.  I’m not sure what that says about me, but it can’t be good.  Anyway, we got our freak on, and it was pretty freaky if a bit abbreviated.  I really like to take my time.  I know that probably comes across as braggy, but it’s not.  What I’m not saying is that I like to “get’s mine” (a.k.a. jizz) more than once.  This works out because, like most guys, the first one doesn’t last very long.  The hours of the work that goes into getting a chick into my bed isn’t worth the four to ten minutes of intercourse that follows, even if those fleeting moments are pretty rad.  Rather, I’ll spread out the encounter with more than one my-gasm along with fore-and-aft-play (heh heh [I know I said I had a chart coming – I do… it’s just not ready yet]) and some making out.  For this encounter, we were both near-30’s people with jobs and shit, so we cut out a lot of the extras and I only jizzied twice.  No idea how many times she did, but she seemed to have a good time and has since called me back to set up other rendezvous, so that’s a thing.  After she left, I proceeded to get really good and drunk.  I passed out on the couch around midnight.

Day 5 – Tuesday: I awoke in a stooper.  I felt rough and looked it, too.  Thankfully, I had no meetings or otherwise reason to be seen by any bosses and it would be a mostly empty shop at work.  I coasted through the day and had to call off a booty-call that I had arranged the previous day, because “Scum Week” had caught up with me, and there was no way I could knock boots.  The text was simple, and the reply was understanding and cool.  Something like, “I’m sorry to do this, but I have to back out of tonight.  Another time?” responded to with something like, “Oh, that sucks.  Another time would be good!”.  I haven’t talked to her since.  And with that, “Scum Week” ended early.  I spent the rest of the night nursing my poor, ruined body and cleaning my poor, ruined home.

tl;dr – I’m a piece of shit, and that was proof.

Yeah, not so sure that I’m going to actually repeat this exercise next year.  But maybe.

*”Gettin’ yours” is pretty fuckin’ important.

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