Me, a Methed-Up Lesbian & The Biker Gang (M/F, terrifying moments)

Hey, my usual disclaimer here: I'm a writer using the pen name Johnny Dongle, to protect myself & the identities of the people in my story. All of these stories are 100% true and really happened; I only change names. This particular story is one of the craziest I have.

OK, so it's sometime in the fall of 2012, and I'm cruising Craig's List for sexual shenanigans. I'm a single father of 3 kids and I have them 5 days a week. Working full-time and being a full-time dad consumes most of my time, so at the time I was cutting right to the chase and using CL when I wanted to get laid. When I post Craig's List ads, I always use my secret weapon, and that's the offer of a "sensual massage." I trained as a massage therapist long ago, right out of high school, so giving an awesome massage is my ace in the hole when it comes to getting laid, and I play it every time I can. If you can give a phenomenal massage, your chances of getting laid go up tenfold.

Here's why it works so well. A lot of women are iffy about using CL for sex. It's a line to cross, and like all line-crossing, a lot of people hesitate about crossing the line. Many women think using CL for sex makes them slutty or trashy or whatever, so many tiptoe up to that line, but never cross it. However, the offer of a massage alters their thinking in this regard. It's much easier for a women to say, "Oh, a massage? That sounds outstanding…I could totally use a massage. And, you know, if it turns into sex, then that's a WHOLE other thing that I may or may not be into, but hey, I can at least commit to a massage!"

This is bullshit, of course; if the ad is in Casual Encounters, it's there because it's going to turn into sex. Nonetheless, all of us tell ourselves many things to soften the blow of our choices, and this is why the massage angle works well. Essentially, it gets a lot more women into the ballgame who would otherwise be too nervous to step up to the plate.

ANYWAY…back to the fall of 2012. I have a massage ad up, and I get a response with a picture of a slender, sexy woman named Sarah, lying in bed in lingerie. It's shot from the side, and not super up-close, but I can tell she's got a nice body. She says that "a massage would be soooo amazing right now." All righty, I'm game. We set up a time for me to come over — the next afternoon, I think. She gives me her address, I Google it — it's a working-class part of town, not bad, not great. Certainly no cause for alarm.

So I'm on my way over the next day, and she emails me: "If you're crazy you should know I have a loaded gun."

I roll my eyes and laugh it off — hey, at least she's cautious, right? I get that. I respond that I am not crazy and I am unarmed, and I ask her to please not shoot me with her gun. Also, to calm her nerves, I ask if there's anything (food or drink) I can stop and pick up for her on my way over. (I assume this is not something a crazy person would do). She says sure, bring her a can of Peace Tea. I have no idea what this is, and the convenience store I stop at does not carry this. I grab what I believe to be a suitable alternative.

I pull up to the curb and walk up to the door. From the outside, the house looks like a MAJOR shithole. Paint peeling, shit strewn out in front of the house…and not for nothing, the entire door handle mechanism thingy on the front door is not even fucking there. It's gone, you could just toss tennis balls into her living room from the porch all day if you wanted. This is all weird, so I'm a little uneasy. Not uneasy enough to leave, though.

I knock on the door, and wait. And wait. And wait. I hear someone shuffling around in there, but not coming to the door. I knock again. Finally, I see someone peeking out the giant kitchen window. "WHO IS IT?" a woman's voice yells out. This confused me. Duh, it's the guy you just told to come over and bring massage oil and Peace Tea. "Uh…Johnny?" I said. I said it kind of downward through the door hole.

The door opens. "Hey, sorry, I was in the shower," says this girl, who is very cute… is certainly not the girl in the photo. The girl in the photo had really long, sleek, muscular legs. But the girl in front of me was wearing a T-shirt and cutoff sweat shorts, and the legs were completely different. Her legs were nice, for sure — but she also had a bunch of tattoos on her legs. Not like these beautiful, artistic, sexy pieces you see on a Suicide Girl — more like just random tattoos that didn't really go together.

OK, so it's clearly not the advertised girl. But that's not necessarily a dealbreaker, though. The question is: Is she sexy enough for me to stick around anyway?

I decided that she was.

And really, she was. She was really cute — she had shoulder length brown hair, blue eyes, freckles, and really pale skin. She was probably a size 6, and although she was wearing a baggy T-shirt and sweats, you could tell she had great tits, a great ass and very nice (if weirdly tattooed) legs.

And she was immediately very friendly. Like — she's bouncing off the walls, man, talking to me as if she and I were longtime friends. She immediately launches into a story about how she's moving and needs to get all of her shit out of this house, and she's leaving this shitty town behind in about a week — sooner if she can swing it. Can't wait to get out of this town, she says, over and over again. I'm thinking, OK — well, she's weird, but she's cute, and I guess no matter what happens, she won't be clingy because she's moving.

I sit down on the couch in the living room, and she sits down in an adjacent chair. "Do you care if I smoke weed?" she says. Nope, I say — it's your house, man, smoke anything you like.

She chats and chats and chats and chats. Unnaturally chatty. The only people I've seen in my life who were this chatty were also on meth, and that's when I realize — oh, fuck. She's tweeked out. She's high as fuck.

Eh. Ok. Not at all my favorite situation, and certainly not in a crumbling house with no locking door. But…I'd really like to fuck her. I really would.

We keep chatting and discover that we're the same age and we actually have some friends in common from our high school days. I'm a decent conversationalist with strangers, and this piece of info propels us into a comfort zone. She smokes weed and intermittently gets up and rifles through boxes, goes out to the kitchen and does something, goes back to her room, and is doing all kinds of random shit.

After about an hour, she says, "Do you mind if I take a shower?"

Um, weird, because I thought she'd just taken one before I got there — her hair was wet and everything when she came to the door — but I said sure. She led me back to her bedroom, and I waited while she showered. Or at least, I thought she was. I heard her banging around in just about every room of the house for about 15 minutes before I heard the shower come on. OK, I think — finally. We can get this show on the road.

She showers (again), comes in with a towel on, and locks the door behind her. I pull out my massage oil to prod her in the right direction, because up to this point, she has talked about 50 different subjects, but not a word about the fact that I'm there to at least massage her and probably fuck her.

But she drops her towel and lies facedown naked on the bed, facedown. She has even more weird, random tats all over her body. She's cute, and naked, and I'm getting hornier. The fact that she is clearly high is not bothering me, I guess because she's pretty and has a healthy-looking body. She's not gaunt and toothless and nasty. I begin massaging her neck, back and butt, and before long she's cooing, moaning, raising her hips off the bed and spreading her legs more and more — the universal sign that she wants the massage to turn sexual ANYTIME NOW.

I begin fingering her and it progresses to really working every inch of her pussy (This is my other ace in the hole, the ability to get a girl off over and over with my fingers/hands. Your dick will eventually give out, but the bones in your hands and fingers always, always stay hard, so I recommend practicing that). She's still on her stomach, but I'm using two fingers inside her to slowly rub all the way around the inside of her walls, making sure to press outward against every inch of her, to wake up every bit of her. After lots of circling, she's shoving her ass back into my fingers and really beginning to grunt, deeply. She's rounding the corner to orgasm, so I slid my fingers down to her front wall and put all the pressure I could on her G-spot and went crazy on it, as hard and fast as my arm would go. It was really tiring in that position, but it only took seconds for her to lose it. She grunted and groaned like an old man when she was cumming…it made me laugh almost out loud.

After that, she rests for about 15 seconds, and then turns over and opens her legs. She reaches up and puts her arms around me and pulls me in to fuck her, and then says — I shit you not — "Go easy…I'm a lesbian, and I haven't been with a man in 12 years."

I instinctively say "OK" in a gentle voice, but inside I'm like, "What the FUCK? Are you fucking serious?" It didn't bother me or anything…it just confused the shit out of me. If that was true, apparently she wasn't 100%, no-turning-back lesbian. And if it wasn't true, why the hell would she say it?

She pulled me and kissed me, and she was an AMAZING kisser, which turns me on like few other things can. Her pussy was still very wet, and she handled me just fine. (Previous readers have heard the story of my dick — it isn't porn-star huge, but it's big. That's that.) It was extremely passionate sex, and I was bonus turned on separately by the whole lesbian bomb dropped on me as well. I didn't last forever — 20 minutes, 30 tops. After her second orgasm, I pulled out and jerked a huge load all over her stomach, and she rubbed it into her stomach and tits. For a girl who had apparently disavowed cock, she was passionate and enjoyed the sex a lot — she came very hard two times, and those two orgasms were even more masculine and grunty than the earlier one. If your eyes were closed and you had to guess what she was doing, you might've guessed "delivering a child" or "taking a giant shit" before you'd have guessed having an orgasm.

THEN shit gets real.

So we're both just lying there in the haze for a second. I notice that it's about 4:30 pm, and I really need to get out of there — my kids were supposed to be back at my house at 5. (I arrived for our rendezvous at 2pm, but the double shower and meth-chatter took FOREVER and threw me off my schedule). So I make a move toward my clothes, but she reaches over and stops me. "Wait," she says. "I think Nate is home." She grabs her phone and starts texting.

WHAT THE FUCK, I'm thinking. Who the fuck is Nate? Fuck no. Please, please, tell me that's not a boyfriend.

"Who's Nate?" I said.

"My roommate."

"Like…a boyfriend? Or just a roommate?"

"Oh God no…he's just my roommate. A couple others are here, too."

Whew, right? Just a roommate. No significant other drama — no desire to be involved in any of that. But wait…if he's not the boyrfriend, then why the hell can't I put my clothes on and leave?

I look over and see that she's texting people — people in the next room. I'm confused. We're all adults here. Why's she trying to keep me in the room then?

"Is it OK to leave then?" I say.

"No…wait," she says. I cock my head like a confused dog, and she reads me. "The thing is…they're Bandidos."

(if you don't know the Bandidos…they're one of the biggest motorcycle gangs in the world. Just pretend I said Hell's Angels. Basically the same thing.)

MOTHER. OF. FUCK. What in the FUCK have I gotten myself into. I am locked in a room with a chick, very likely high on meth, five feet and a very thin wall away from a biker gang. A biker gang who, apparently, would be extremely unhappy to know that I'm here.

But why? I still don't get it. So what if they're Bandidos, I think to myself. I'm not in a rival fucking biker gang. I'm just a civilian who had some sex with their adult female friend. Can't I just walk straight out and leave and get in my car and go home?

Because I really, really, REALLY want to be at home right now. More than anything.

"Well, the thing is, they really don't like strangers being around what they're doing," she says.

FUCKING GREAT. So the Bandidos are doing something out there in the living room that can only be known to close friends of the Bandidos. That, of course, means crime, and in all likelihood that means selling meth. So if I walk out into the living room, I'll be walking straight into a biker gang selling meth.

That's fucking fantastic.

So, to recap the last five minutes of my life here: One moment I'm fire-hosing semen all over a sexy lesbian whom I've apparently managed to bring out of retirement for one last go-round with a dick and balls — and literally five fucking minutes later, I'm cowering in a room and sizing up the dimensions of her bedroom windows to see if I could squeeze my ass through there and run.

All I could think of was the Thomas Haden Church character in the movie "Sideways." If you haven't seen it, well, there's scene where a misguided dipshit like myself has to flee naked from an angry biker who discovers the misguided dipshit plowing his wife.

So fuck it, I just came out and asked her — "Um…should I go out one of those windows?"

She says, "Oh no, it's fine." And keeps texting. "I think they're leaving."

I ask again, because none of this shit seems "fine" at all to me. It seems the opposite of fine. "And none of these guys are your boyfriend?" I really, really want to be sure of this.

"God no," she says. "Just friends. I told you I'm a lesbian!"

Of course you are. How could I have thought otherwise after just having very heterosexual intercourse with you like 10 minutes ago.

She keeps texting. I keep sweating and staring at the bedroom door. I'm imagining it getting kicked open by the Sons of fucking Anarchy, or perhaps someone actually driving a motorcycle right through the goddamn thing.

But that doesn't happen. A few minutes pass while Sarah furiously texts. Then she says, "OK. They're gone."

I don't move a fucking muscle. "Are you sure?" I say. "Go check." (YES, I sent a 120-pound tweeked-out girl into the living room to check for monsters. Sue me.)

They were, in fact, gone. I looked out the window and saw my car, and I felt like a North Korean looking out across the DMZ to the South Korean fence line.

Sarah instantly, seamlessly, reverts to pillow talk. "Oh my GAWD," she said. "If you'd have fucked me like that 12 years ago, I'd probably have never become a lesbian!" I'm flattered, but there's still too much residual panic to let the compliment soak in.

And then, like nothing ever happened, my dick starts doing all the talking. "Why don't you come over to my house tonight?" I say. "I'm free after 9, and we can fuck all you want."

That's right. Less than TWO MINUTES after being terrified for my life, my penis decided that the best course of action was not to flee this woman and her crew of meth-running bikers altogether — but to meet up again in a few hours with a simple change of fucking venue.

And my dick won out, thankfully with no fallout. She did come over that night, and I'll write about that if you guys want to hear it. There are two more Sarah stories that are worth writing down, so let me know in the comments. One of them involves her skipping a court date to fuck me in my office and squirting all over my yoga mat. (It's a long story).

Footnote: Sarah and I actually stayed in touch. We had sex a few more times, but ended up becoming friends. She went straight back to girls, and a few months later, she left town and got married to another woman. I think she cleaned up and is off drugs altogether. Hope so anyway.

Thanks for reading. If you want to hear more about Sarah, I'll write 'em up. I'm glad you guys are enjoying them — I always kinda figured someone out there would enjoy hearing my crazy stories and I enjoy telling them…looks like I may have finally found my audience. Thank you!

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/386q2p/me_a_methedup_lesbian_the_biker_gang_mf