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But for all I did, no matter how hard I tried (and gawd knows I always tried too hard) it only rewarded me with unending embarrassment. I made a total fool out of myself with any girl I was around. I was awkward, ungainly, a little pudgy, very unsure of myself. Hell, unsure? I was totally paranoid. I couldn't do anything right. Anytime I tried to talk with a girl, all I could do was think about getting laid, and it doesn't take many rejections to realize that's not the approach to take at all. But I was thick-headed, wore thick glasses, and not having any social graces, didn't know how to go about it "the right way." The right way," of course, was one that would get your dick deep into the puss of your fantasy girl. Just about any girl was my "fantasy girl," but I sure wasn't in the same category to them. No matter who I tried to make friends with of the female persuasion, all I got was lots of put-downs, cold shoulders, and unending rejection, even ridicule. Just about anything. His cock spread Joan's cunt and pulled her labia out when he was withdrawing. There was cream on his shaft and on Joan's cunt lips. The door opened and his dance partner came in. She saw Joan and the gaucho and promptly took her clothes off. She was beautiful, small firm breasts, slim hips, shaved pubes and a firm high ass. She walked over to the bed and started sucking Joan's nipples while the gaucho kept fucking her. She gave Joan an open mouthed kiss, their tongues darting back and forth. Then she skimmed her hands down Joan's body and finger fucked her while she was still being fucked by the gaucho. The gaucho grunted and kept pushing deeply into Joan. Joan started her dirty talk. "Unhhh, all of it, do things to me, Ahhh, Ahhh!" The gaucho kept grunting and fucking. He cock was thrusting in and out of Joan. My eyes were focused on his throbbing cock and Joan's spreading cunt. The dance partner started fingering herself. I took my cock out and began masturbating. Joan was beside.
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An image of a stewardess forced into a suggestive skirt with open décolleté for $17 per hour, so that beer drunk, obese, and humanity-bankrupt sales people could ogle here, while she did the backbreaking work of feeding three hundred cranky passengers trashing the plane in the progress and shortchanged the few minutes of her break to instead soothe the bratty toddler throwing food and toys through the cabin while yelling how much he hates his mom. ‘Come with me,’ she said. Her name was Sadie. She walked me into a small room with a hospital bed, railing to keep the sick from falling out, remote control tethered by a cable, triangle handle to lift up, the whole shebang. A flat screen TV was on the wall. Plastic, but really well done, flowers in a vase on the bed side table. A red sharps container was screwed in near the door. The room was meticulously clean, so clean in fact that it had to be new. The wall paint was perhaps half year old. I took it all in carefully. So, this was it..

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