“All right,” I conceded. “But only if you buy us another round.” So there were the two of us, the only ones left in the hotel bar. It’s getting on toward 2 a.m., though I’m uncertain if that’s closing time in Crescent City. Anyway, I have this beautiful blonde woman leaning forward in her chair, full of anticipation, waiting to hear all about the traumatic injury to my penis. “Well you probably know that I volunteer in an abused animal shelter,” I began. “The cases we see there are genuinely heartbreaking.
We get a lot of Pit Bull terriers, the ones the Sheriffs rescue from illegal dog fighting rings around the county. “Oh my,” she said, leaning a little closer as I continued with my story. I told her about a special brindle breed, “So badly mauled that we didn’t think he was going to make it. I literally helped to nurse that poor animal back from the brink of death.” I explained how that one particular Pit Bull had severed trust issues, and understandably so.
I recounted how he used to growl at me and bare his fangs every time I brought him food or approached to change his bandages. “It was kind of frightening, but what was I going to do? Leave him there like that? Oh no!” “Absolutely not,” she agreed. “You couldn’t possibly leave those sort of wounds to heal on their own.” I continued with my story, telling her how I went to visit that poor dog twice a day for the next month. I explained how we started to bond, and that just when I sensed I was about to make a major breakthrough and earn its trust, one day that brindle Pit Bull lunged at my crotch. “Its jaws clamped down with an awful force, those teeth cutting through my denim jeans and deep into my flesh.
I screamed out in agony with a blood curdling cry, and soon my colleagues rushed in to rescue me. They did everything they could do to extract my private parts from his vice-like jowls, but it was too late. Blood was everywhere. The damage had been done. My audience gasped in horror, then reached to grasp my hand in a sympathetic clench and asked, “Did they have to put the dog down?” “They insisted upon it,” said, “But just as adamantly, I insisted that they couldn’t. You see… that poor dog had sex dates in armagh been through hell. It didn’t deserve to die.”
At this point, I was benefitting from an overabundance of sympathy. The compassions of a caring veterinarian, magnified by liquor, were synergistically compounding in my favor. Then, quite suddenly, the compassionate heart was eclipsed by clinical curiosity. “So tell me about your wounds,” she demanded. “How serious were they?” “Ill tell you this,” I replied. “I’m dealing with a lot of complications. As well as the surgery went, I have to be concerned with scarring and infection. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be the same again, to be honest with you. I guess only time will tell.”
“Would it be too much to ask, if I wanted to see your wounds” she asked. “Well….” I hesitated. “Please! Please!” she repeated. “All right,” I agreed. “But not here at the bar. If you want to examine my wounds, we’ll have to go up to your room.” By the time we were riding the elevator to the upper floors, she thought I was doing her a huge favor, escorting her to her room. I was nervous as hell, wondering how I was going to play the lie, trying to guess where it would all lead.
When we arrived at her suite, she slowly opened the door then kicked her shoes off. “Make yourself comfortable,” she told me as she reclined back onto her hotel bed. I looked around her room and it was a chaotic mess. There were papers everywhere. A briefcase, a suitcase, all sorts of clothes and newspapers scattered about. I asked if I could use her bathroom, and she said “Of course.” I closed the door behind me, lowered the toilet seat and sat down to urinate. I didn’t want her to hear me taking a pee. I sat in there for several minutes, wondering how I would perpetuate my fictional tale.
I debated with myself over what course of action to take. Should I politely back down and bashfully exit, or should I wrap my cock in any handy gauze and play out the fib? I noticed a first aid kit amid the veterinarian’s toiletries and considered the liberal application of antibiotic creams and sterile bandages. In the end however, it all felt too silly, too deceptive, too dishonest. As I gathered some gumption, I decided to come clean and confess that the whole story had been a lie to get myself up to her room. Finally, with a surge of courage, I came out of the bathroom to confront my pretty vet. I have to say that I wasn’t too surprised to find her passed out on her bed.
I studied her slumbering form for several minutes, taking in the texture of her exposed skin, the roundness of her breasts, the shapely form of her dangling legs. I could peer up her dress and see a sexy pair of blue bikini briefs. She was quite delicious in her subconscious state, but I could never bring myself to violate a woman like that. Instead, I scrawled her a polite note thanking her for the drink and the conversation, then let myself out of the bedroom door and found my way back to my room. This story won’t be complete without me explaining what happened the next day.
Stay tuned.
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