Chefs and alcohol
Friday. The end of the day. Four of us pile into my car, go and buy a lot of alcohol (Cuervo Gold, Storm, normal Smirnoff, Jagers and Redbull to wash it all down) and sit on the beach to watch the sunset.

Fuck. Cops are here. Forgot we can't drink on the beach. They made us pour the vodka out, but K (best gay Afrikaans chick ever) secreted the tequila in her voluminous bag along with one of the policemen's handcuffs. I still don't know how that one happened.

We fuck off to the pizza place down the road and order massively. A decision is reached to go to Roots (the trance club 20 minutes down the road). Off we went, the ladies swigging merrily away in the back and me driving carefully and ignoring the mysterious hand on my cock.

We go to Roots and it's shite, every dealer and whore in Cape Town is there and making a scene. So we walk down the road to another place, whereupon B (engaged friend) breaks down and admits she hates her fiance. She can't stay in the car or she'll die (bad area) so we force her out and go inside. She downs 4 Jagermeisters, grabs me, slams me against the wall and shoves half her tongue down my throat, all the while grinding our bits together.

What could I do? Turn around and leave?

...yes. That's exactly what I did. I got them all home, though.

Click "I like this" if you think I should'nt have left.
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 19:20, Reply)