Chapter 38

Percy

7:35 PM WEDNESDAY

“Mffffmbpm,” moans the hot-ass male masseuse that, yeah, I’m totally getting head from right now.

“OMG, I knooooow,” I moan back. “I don’t think invading Russia in the winter has ever been a good idea either, dude, but what else was Napoleon supposed to do?”

God, I love a man who can talk geopolitical history while he eats cunt. Don’t you?

So like, here’s the 411: me, Becks, Mysti May, Sams, and this dude are all riding the big glass elevator back up to that bomb-ass motherfucking bridal suite Dan the Man booked for us.

People in the lobby are looking up and staring at us like, “Whuuuuut?” because I’m kind of like, half-dressed in a spa robe, draining a bottle of champagne, and grinding clit on this dude’s mouth right now.

And I’m just like, “Come on, whatever, like you’ve never seen a BBW get her pussy licked while she chugs Salon Blanc de Blancs before?!”

Fucking tourists, man.

“Do you have to do that here?” Becky says, because Becky is being a snore right now. I don’t think she’s even drunk. Laaaame. “Come on, Perce—Rule number three, remember?”

I bend over against the elevator’s control panel, pushing all the buttons, while the masseuse kneels behind me and spreads me open like a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Kinda,” I tell her while I booty clap the masseuse’ face. “Since we got kicked out of the spa and all.”

“And the bar,” Sammi slurs. “Can’t go back there again.”

She lets out a volcano crack of a burp as she pours out another shot of tequila, tosses it over her shoulder, and drinks straight from the bottle instead.

We high-five. Atta girl.

And I’m still riding this dude’s face. I mean, you know how it is. You say, Yeah, okay, we’ll have one drink and call it good. But then one drink turns into two.

Then two drinks turns into getting into a fistfight with a Thai pedicurist because she wanted to trim your cuticles like a fucking animal instead of just pushing them back.

And then all of a sudden, you’re getting kicked out of the day spa. Then out of the hotel bar. Then, you’ve got a Cuban masseuse making out with your muff while you ride the glass elevator all the way to Pleasure Town.

Typical fucking Wednesday.

“Y’all, I can totally see down those showgirls’ tops,” Mysti May says, pressing her face up against the elevator’s glass. When she pulls away, she leaves a makeup print of her face where her cheeks were.

“Yeah, I bet you can,” I say, because like, come on. I bet that Colombian husband of hers has to tuck his peen between his legs just to get her to lick his nips.

“No,” Becks says, wheeling around on Mysti and giving her the no-no finger. “No showgirls.”

She snatches Sammi’s bottle of tequila from her and scrunches her eyebrows together like they’re two sexy caterpillars about to touch tips.

“No more drinking,” Becks declares.

I make a point of emptying the rest of my champagne down my throat then and there, because like, I’m not about that life.

“And no more rim jobs from Cuban masseuses!” Becky says, because, yeah—this dude totally eats ass too.

“Becky,” Sammi pleads, “come on. What Dan the Man doesn’t know—”

“Is irrelevant,” Becky cuts her off. “I’m getting married on Saturday, guys. And you’re my best friends. Can’t we just like, dial shit back? Chill the fuck out and just respect my fucking boundaries for once? Pleeeease?”

The look on her face is so sweet and so sad that, like, if I didn’t have the tongue of a Cuban masseuse up my asshole right now, I would so agree to her terms.

But my plans for the night are pretty much to raid the fridge, pre-game for Celine Dion and, at this point, get as much peen as my slutty mouth can handle…at least, until Becks dialed up those pretty green puppy dog eyes of hers to eleven.

“Ughhhhhh,” I moan, and not just because this masseuse is giving me the anal orgasm of a lifetime. My thighs are clapping against this dude’s chin like they’re begging for an encore, but when I’m done, I relent.

“Okay, okay,” I tell Becky. “No more tongue up my ass. That’s…fine. I’m fine with that.”

I’m not fine with that, obviously. In my opinion, I ought to be getting as much hot man-tongue up my no-no hole as I can, right?

But this is Becky’s party, and I don’t want to make her cry—even if she wants to.

So I remove myself from the masseuse's face and, bemoaning the fact that I’m not going to get a taste of his big fat Cuban cigar, resign myself to having a chill couple of days of knitting, macramé, and trying to avoid the temptation to blow everyone in sight.

That’s how much Becky means to me, I guess.

“We’ll behave,” Mysti May says forlornly, pressing her hand against the glass and gazing wistfully down at the showgirls in the lobby.

“Right after I hurl,” Sammi agrees. She goes rushing out of the elevator doors as soon as they open on our floor, and luckily, the door to our bitchin’-ass suite is already open.

Wait—what the fuck?

We definitely locked this place up before we left, but as we go after Sammi through the door…

The first thing I hear is Motley Crue blaring from the suite’s speakers, which is fucking gross because everyone knows that Def Leppard is the superior band. Vince Neil is singing about girls, girls, girls while Tommy Lee wails on a drum set so loud I bet even Mysti May’s coveted showgirls in the lobby are rocking out right now.

The second thing I hear is the moaning: male, female, and gender not otherwise specified. Fuck noises, too: the wet squelching of an asshole that’s been filled to the brim with lube and the slap of silicone balls against human flesh.

And the third thing I hear is a sound I haven’t heard since I went on that bender in Tijuana during spring break of sophomore year.

Someone is in our bridal suite right now, listening to 80s rock music, using a strap-on, and snorting a whole fuckload of cocaine.

We tumble in after Sammi. The next thing I hear is the sick splatter of her hurling all over something that she shouldn’t have.

Inside the bridal suite, the scene laid out before us is so wicked―so depraved, so downright bad―that I barely even notice that Sammi just tossed the lunch monkey all over the Banksy painting in the foyer. Looks like red wine, smells like tequila—but yeah, that’s vomit all right.

It doesn’t even matter, though, because the next thing I hear is Becky screaming.

Like, I don’t even blame her.

Because―okay. Ignore the prostitutes currently having a half-naked pillow fight while Dan the Man’s groomsmen masturbate on the couch, smoking weed. Ignore the cigarette butts and beer bottles that they’ve discarded on the floor.

Ignore the cocaine that they’ve piled around the apartment, willy-nilly―if you can.

Right there, standing in front of my BFF Becky, is her very own fiancé. Dan the Motherfuckin’Man.

Unfortunately, he’s bare-ass naked and on all fours, taking it up the ass from a prostitute wielding a strap-on dildo the same size as her thigh.

I don’t even have time for this shit.

“Wedding’s off,” I announce, striding across the room and trying not to slip on lube.

“Damn right it is,” Becky shrieks.

“Oh god,” Dan the Man moans, oblivious. “That’s it―right there―fuck my prostate, baby―uhhhhhghghghhg!”

It’s at that point that I do what any reasonable, self-respecting maid of honor would do.

I grab a fire poker from the fireplace, walk back over to my blossoming bridezilla, and I put it right there in her pretty little hand.

“I think you know what to do with this,” I say, and Becky nods.

“You bet I do,” Becky growls.

At that, Dan the Man looks up from the pile of cocaine he’s had his face buried in and realizes for the first time that his bride-to-be is standing right there.

“Oh, shit,” he says.

Oh, shit, indeed.

As the prostitute withdraws the dildo from his ass, it releases the longest anal queef I’ve ever heard in my life—or hell, it might have been a fart.

“Becky-beans…honey…p-please don’t hurt me,” Dan the Man whimpers.

“Oh, I’ll do worse than that,” Becky threatens. “Way worse. Sammi? You have your phone handy?”

As I truck back out into the hall to give that masseuse my number, Sammi staggers past me, phone in hand.

“W-what are you going to do?” Dan stammers.

I can hear the fucking malice in Becky’s voice. “It’s fucking simple, Dan. I’m calling your asshole step-brother.”