Sketchy Club Sex [MF][drugs][awkward]

This is my first submission here. I typically post on /r/gonewildstories, though this story takes enough creative license that I’m not comfortable posting there. Turn back now if you’re weird about drug use.

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Every Thursday, my group of friends travelled across the river to a punk rock club known for hosting a fashionable 80’s night. The popularity of this space was baffling. It had originally been a Polish gentlemen’s club in a neighborhood that once housed blue collar steel workers. Today the neighborhood is an upscale gentrified playground catering to Google and Uber employees, but things were dramatically different in the early 2000’s, when it was the epicenter of the city’s heroin, prostitution, and mugging problems.

Somehow, the neighborhood’s reputation did nothing to detract hundreds of people from showing up each week, and the crowd couldn’t have been more diverse. Punks with liberty spikes would be mingling in one corner next to a group of frat bros. Local dealers would attempt to peddle their wares to finance majors. The odor of train-hopping crusties would blend with the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume from a bachelorette party. The music was fun, the drinks were cheap, and it wasn’t too hard to avoid going home alone.

I was in a pretty bad place at this point in my life. I had just dropped out of college for the second time and had been on a bit of a bender, shoving hundreds of dollars of cocaine up my nose every week and drinking myself stupid more nights than not.

This night in particular, I was supposed to be the designated driver…a role I took seriously for the first 45 minutes or so of pre-gaming before disappearing to my bedroom to blow a line or three. I’d purchased an 8-ball for a date I had later that weekend that had cancelled on me earlier in the day via MySpace. Not one to let a good time go to waste, I bartered access to my sweet, sweet nose clams with my friend Jay in exchange for his services behind the wheel.

Six of us piled into my 1990 Buick LeSabre with a coked out Jay behind the wheel and headed across town. Our goal was to make it to the club before 9pm, when the dreaded $3 cover charge kicked in (pitchers of PBR were $1.50, so that extra $3 was useful). As we sped across town, I played iPod DJ, pandering to the requests coming from the back seat.

Our group consisted of four ladies – Sarah, Barbara, Katie, and her sister Melissa, along with Jay and myself. Melissa was visiting from Virginia and had caught my eye immediately. Her hair dyed was black, blonde, and bright red. She stood about 5’8” with a curvy frame. She wore jeans and a tank top which showed off her numerous colorful tattoos, including a bright chest piece that was swallowed by her cleavage.

As we parked our car, Katie must have sensed that I was interested in her sister and pulled me aside, asking me not to make a move on her. I reluctantly agreed, though made a not-so-joking joke about technicalities that would come into play later.

We rolled into the club early enough to avoid the $3 cover charge with a $250 bag of coke in my pocket (you’ve got to have priorities) and began slamming back pitchers of cheap beer. By 11:30, we were all pretty sauced and moved from the front bar area to the dance floor, ready to dance the night away to anything from Prince to Poison, Black Flag to Boy George. Our group stuck together on the dance floor forming a circle in the middle of the floor dancing awkwardly – as rhythmically challenged white punk kids tend to do, but we were having a blast. Friends and strangers would rotate in and out of our group, ultimately pairing off to make out on the club’s couches.

As the night waned on, our circle had diminished two-by-two, leaving myself, Melissa, and my promise to her sister that I’d behave myself. Determined to keep my promise to Katie, Melissa and I danced together innocently until I had a brilliant idea.

In addition to a legendary 80’s night, this club also hosted live music from time to time. The owners decided to build a green room—a soundproofed place for artists to relax before performing. The door to the green room required a 4 digit code to unlock…a code I remembered from times I’d performed there with various shitty punk bands in the past.

I took a confused Melissa by the hand, and we fought through the crowd, past the bar, and toward the restrooms. Melissa tried to ask me a question, but the music was far too loud for me to hear. We made our way beyond both restroom doors, rounded a corner and approached a cold grey metal door that read in spraypaint, “BANDS ONLY.”

I quickly punched in the access code, opened the door, pulling Melissa behind me into the green room and locking the door behind us. It wasn’t the most luxurious place in the world, but it had a couch that wasn’t encrusted with semen (unlike the couches in the club), a stocked bar, and some much needed privacy.

If you’ll afford me the opportunity to break the fourth wall for a moment, please be reminded of my earlier promise to Katie. Also be reminded that at this particular period of my life, the needle of my moral compass may as well have been my dick. That said, while the facts of the rest of this tale are true as I remember them, my motivations were almost certainly not pure.

Okay, back to it.

So I think at this point, Melissa was misreading my intentions. As the door slammed behind us, she threw har arms around my neck and began aggressively kissing me, biting my lip as I both pulled away while also reaching for her ass, just hard enough that I caught a taste of my own blood.

I told Melissa about my promise to her sister, which elicited a string of colorful insults directed at her older sibling. As she ranted on about how her sister always did this sort of thing, I stepped behind the bar and prepared us each a Manhattan, because I’m classy. That’s a lie. I poured a two shots of Jagermeister and cut four small rails of cocaine on the bar with my prepaid Visa card – the only “bank account” I could get at the time.

I’d like to say that I was being a gentleman when I offered her first dibbs on the blow, but truth be told I couldn’t find a straw and I had spent my last dollar at the bar. She rolled up a $20 from her pocket and cooly leaned over and took all four lines up her pierced nose. Fucking rude.

Melissa giggled before hitting me with a devilish look and a stunning bolt of logic—I promised Katie I wouldn’t hit on her sister. Melissa had made no similar promise to her older sister. In my inebriated state (though to be fair to alcohol, I’d have probably rationalized my next move without its assistance) this made all of the sense in the world to me.

Melissa kissed me again, this time even more aggressively, pushing me backwards onto the as-of-yet-uncrusted-in-semen couch before climbing on top of me. We made out for what seemed like forever but in reality was only a few minutes, all the while I fumbled unsuccessfully to remove her shirt.

That wouldn’t be a problem for long, as Melissa’s aggression, which my ego maintains was fueled by her animalistic passion towards me when in reality she was high on cocaine, found her removing her shirt and bra while I worked my way out of my entirely-too-tight jeans, which were still soaked with sweat from the dance floor.

We finally shed the remainder of our clothing and she was on her knees taking me deep into her mouth, while the music from the club pumped into the green room through a separate, not as deafening sound system.

This would be the only time Melissa and I would hook up so I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt and attributing it to the drugs, but, to that point, it was the worst blowjob I’d ever received in my life. It was so bad that I was beginning to worry if she was breaking skin.

If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a particularly bad blowjob, you know the awkwardness of trying to quickly move on while also not insulting the person kind enough to suck your dick.

I maneuvered her to her feet and pushed her backwards onto the couch, masking the disappointment in the poor but enthusiastic attempt at a blowjob with my own eagerness to go down on her. I was much younger and inexperienced and frankly had no idea what I was doing, so our disappointment with oral was likely mutual.

Thankfully our desires outweighed our self-consciousness about the less-than-great trips Downtown. Melissa asked me if I had a condom, which I knew I didn’t, but I still picked up my pants pretending to look for imaginary birth control, half hoping she’d say, “fuck it.”

The little good left inside of me chose that point to arrive to the party, preventing me from gambling my sexual health on someone who had snorted all of the coke with such a cavalier attitude. I told Melissa to stay put, fumbled back into my still sweat-soaked clothing and ran out of the green room directly to the men’s room condom machine.

Fate was on my side that night…as while my lack of a lonely dollar bill had earlier cost me my fair share of my own drugs, my pockets jingled with change—two glorious dollars worth of quarters. I dropped half of them into the condom machine and rotated the knob until a package dropped out of the machine. To my surprise, the contraption had dispensed a normal name brand condom and not some wacky, glow-in-the-dark off brand that you’d typically find at truck stop restroom.

I optimistically repeated the process before running back into the green room, making a quick stop in the men’s room to finally get a bump of my own blow. I walked in to find Melissa lazily working her pierced clit with her fingers, moaning softly. I undressed, this time more gracefully than earlier.

As I stumbled through getting the condom on, my brain went to a very strange place. I’d wondered aloud if it were the same brand that likely transported the drugs we’d done, perhaps buried deep in the confines of an undocumented immigrant’s sphincter. Melissa rightfully asked what the fuck my problem was. I answered with a shrug. She told me to fuck her.

Up until this point, this encounter had largely been awkward and disappointing considering the obvious mutual attraction. That all melted as I slid inside of her. Her soft moans of earlier increasingly grew louder as we found a rhythm. She wrapped her thick legs around my back, pulling me deeper inside of her.

I’d like to think it’s because I have a mammoth cock and can keep a beat like Geddy Lee*, but more likely due to the fact that Melissa had given herself a head start, she started to cum within minutes, thrashing around on the couch, holding me still inside of her with her strong legs.

*-These are both absolutely untrue. I have an average sized penis that my wife says is somewhat thick, and I usually do poorly when playing drums in Rock Band.

As she came down from her orgasm it was my turn, and as a recent convert to the religion of Dat Ass, I had to fuck my new friend from behind. I positioned her over the arm of the couch, taking a second to admire not only a truly spectacular ass but one that featured a tattoo featuring the Notorious BIG riding a giraffe with wings.* I promptly lost my shit, literally falling over laughing.

*-In the EXTREMELY unlikely event that the person with this very unique tattoo comes across this story, hi! I’ll delete this if you want.

Apparently this was a common reaction in Melissa’s life, one that she said in part was the reason for the absurd artwork on her ass. I regained my composure and returned to my original mission of hitting that, sinking into her from behind.

I wasn’t going to last very long like this, watching her ass jiggle as I slammed into her from behind, all the while thinking that Biggie Smalls would be proud of me. She started to cum again, pushing back against me while I struggled to hang on. That pushed me over the edge.

I pulled out of her, quickly removing the condom, aiming for her ample ass. I missed wildly, owing to a days-long bender where I neglected my dick, shooting a rope of cum over her shoulder ruining the no-longer-ejaculate-free couch. My second and third were more lucky, landing on their original target, thankfully missing Christopher Wallace on his giraffey adventure through the sky.

As we scrambled to get dressed we heard the familiar opening bass line of the Queen/Bowie hit, “Under Pressure,” which signified the night would be coming to a close—the DJ was consistent, if not predictable. We were on the dance floor before the second verse, and thanks to the long-since-broken air conditioner, looked just as sweaty and disgusting as everyone else.

Unlike many of my stories, there is no part 2 with Melissa. She denied my friend request on MySpace and told all of my friends that I was talking about immigrants mid-bone.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/6furuv/sketchy_club_sex_mfdrugsawkward