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Has anyone here seen her if so how was it?
Gone in 60 Seconds (of Regret) – Bestie the Couch Catfish
So after making progress with my bartender — a light-skin goddess crafted by all the right genes and none of the struggle — I was riding high. A body like hers makes you want to fall in love and ruin your credit. But alas, I was horny and stupid, so I logged onto the hobby sites to kill the mood.
Enter "Bestie. " Her pics screamed slim-thick snack. What showed up? A Costco-sized disappointment. About 45 pounds heavier, and somehow less lively than her photos. If her ad was a Netflix trailer, the real thing was the budget bootleg DVD from a gas station shelf.
We text, and right out the gate she hits me with a shopping list like I'm DoorDash: condoms, Gatorade, Newport Shorts, and a donut. A donut. As if I'm meeting a grown-ass toddler. She promises to deduct it from the $1. 0 price. She lied like it was a skill she puts on resumes.
I pull up to the extended stay. No surprise. Room's got stripper mood lights, a half-dressed dog, and the vibe of a Craigslist horror story. She instantly confuses me for another client, asks if I brought my wife. Off to a great start. She then informs me that we're using the couch, not the bed. Because comfort is only for men with self-respect.
She fumbles around looking for her toy and asks me to watch her warm up. The lighting made her look like a clearance bin lava lamp. I'm already questioning my life choices, but I stay in it. Then comes the "blowjob" — if you can call 15 seconds of lazy mouth-to-tip contact a service. It felt more like someone trying to read Braille with their tongue.
She says, "That's all you get with a quick visit. " Thanks. Glad I brought you a Gatorade for that Olympic-level effort.
We go into missionary. Big mistake. Between her toy, her belly, and my gut, it felt like trying to park an SUV in a janitor's closet. I tap out and call an audible: doggy. She then tries to sweep my damn legs out by pressing her feet between mine and spreading them like she's a sumo wrestler initiating combat.
I'm sliding, tripping, re-angling, and at this point, I'm not even horny. I'm just angry. Angry sex turned into an exorcism. I pounded away like I was trying to knock some sense into myself and her at the same dam time.
She tried to call time early until I reminded her I brought her groceries like a simp. "Oh yeah, I'll give you five more minutes," she says — like I'm on some prison yard conjugal visit. Cool.
We finish in a better position (read: one that allowed me to think about my bartender). I pictured her in those jeans, walking away, hips swinging like music. And just like that, I finally dropped the load. Into a sad, echoing condom inside a hollowed-out disappointment.
Final Report Card:
• Looks: 2. 5 – She's in the pictures. Buried under water weight and denial.
• Cleanliness: 3. 0 – Room looked like it survived a vape tornado.
• Attitude: 2. 5 – She was alive. That's the nicest thing I can say.
• Performance: -1. 5 – Honestly, I've had better action from couch cushions and shame.
• Repeat?: I rather lay my nuts on a fucking dresser and bang them with a spiked bat.
Bottom Line: For $1. 0, I could've had a thick Latina suck me senseless, feed me empanadas, and let me wreck her in four positions and my thumb up her ass while I hit a nutter in her gutter — all while smiling and calling me Papisito. Instead, I got a vibrating beluga on a couch asking for donuts. It's like *****. You don't need a doughnut. You need a fucking treadmill.
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Stay safe out there.
Banging Basil out.