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Thursday, March 15, 2007

A Better One That Got Away: Jessie

This story takes place around the same time that Striker and I were decimating the Neighborhood Girls. As luck would have it, I actually remember the day of the week. It was a Tuesday night, and the Grove was largely empty. Striker and I were strolling around, hopping from bar to bar in search of the best, or easiest, crop of babes. We weren't having much luck; for some reason it was a ghost town. As it would happen, this worked to our advantage. We turned the corner approaching Moe's when we saw 2 babes that we knew. They were from the hottest sorority, and we had hung out with them a bunch of times with our upstairs neighbors and other random times around town. One of the girls was the knockout that I referred to in yesterday's post. She was a gorgeous sophomore named Jessie. Striker and I actually had a fair bit of history with her.
Our neighbors*, the upstairs girls, were very important in their sorority organization. The hottest one was the President of the sorority if I'm not mistaken. As such, all kinds of sorority proceedings took place at our house. This gave Striker and I the unique opportunity to watch Jessie grow from a girlish and somewhat ungainly sapling into one of the dominant forces of hotness at the entire University, all in the span of less than two years.
Jessie was tall and leggy with dark brown hair and smoky eyes. She had an exotically beautiful face with subtle hints of Asian or Polynesian descent. Her body was womanly in the traditional sense, with a thin waist, smallish tits, big round hips and a sweet bulbous ass. Physical beauty aside, one of Jessie's best characteristics was that she was a party girl. From her earliest days as a freshman she could rip a bong like a pro and stay out all night without getting sick or bitching out. She displayed a preternatural skill for installing herself in the most important (read: richest and hottest) social circles in the city. But the best part was that she was never stuck-up or bitchy about it. She never turned up her nose at us or referred to me as "shoe guy" like some of the other puckered cunts in her circle. That's not to say she was easily approachable to any Charlie Nobody off the street, but she definitely displayed some semblance of human emotion, unlike the other reptilian whores which stalked the streets of South Beach. She was a veritable wild girl, possessing a rare mix of unpredictability, knowledge of her own beauty, and the adventurous spirit of a true partier. Perhaps her most enduring quality was her intangibility; her ethereal spirit which all men sought to possess, but which, by her very nature, allowed her to slip through your fingers like the passing of a dream. Imagine Jenny from Forrest Gump or Penny Lane from Almost Famous if they lived in modern day Miami.

On this night on the Grove, as the four of us approached each other, Jessie greeted both Striker and I with impetuous hugs and cheek kisses. Jessie was with a girl called Robin, a very pretty blonde freshman. Robin was a southern belle, and exhibited many of the same wild party-girl features as Jessie. Robin was a little better proportioned in the modern sense, with fat tits balancing out her healthy butt cheeks. We had met Robin a few times before, but were far less acquainted with her.
Almost immediately, the girls expressed their displeasure with the barren streets of the Grove, prodding Striker and I for suggestions on what to do. Before we realized what had happened, our two-man vagina search party had morphed into a perfectly balanced group of four. We were now 'with' the girls, as if we had pregamed and set out on the town with them from the start. It was already nearly 1 AM, and before encountering the babes, we had all but resigned to head back home. But these girls wanted to party, and we had no choice but to comply. Of course, we were worthless for ideas on where to bring our newly formed foursome. Striker and I were poor and possessed zero social status in the city of Miami. We had our pirate bartender fix us some blackout specials while we discussed the direction of the night, and out of nowhere the girls decided they wanted to go to the Playwright. The Playwright is a cool Irish bar, with its only downside being that it's on South Beach, a good 15-20 minute drive from the Grove.

Striker and I were typically smashed, but of course we weren't going to pass up a golden opportunity like this. We agreed to go with them, and it was an unspoken caveat that either Striker or I had to drive.
The girls wanted to do some cocaine before the long drive, so we went back to Jessie's dorm room with them. Just being in her bedroom confirmed everything I had ever thought about Jessie. There was sexy black lace lingerie casually hanging off the edge of the bed, cool band posters on the wall, a Pomeranian, and a ROOR bong. If you encounter a 19 year old girl who owns one of these, it's pretty fucking special. So Jessy brought out a little mirror and chopped up some tracks, and we had some drinks, and in 3o minutes time we were back on the road heading toward South Beach. I have no recollection of who drove us there.

It was after 2 AM by the time we had our first Playwright cocktails in our hands. The Playwright was not significantly more crowded than any of the bars in the Grove, but it was on South Beach, which was apparently enough to appease their capricious female minds. As the chips were falling, it seemed I was aligned with Jessie and Striker was with Robin. We spent a couple hours, and went through our usual bag of tricks, and the girls seemed to be really digging it. The only concrete memory I can conjure up from our time there is that of a morbidly obese gentleman in a velour track suit who was playing pool near us. I complimented him on his outfit, and he became very angry with me. I was able to assuage his anger, and at the end he gave me his business card which indicated that he was an independent contractor of whores.
It was very late in the night, and the Playwright crowd was dwindling down when we decided to head home. But before getting back on I-95, a porno emporium caught our eyes. For those of you familiar with the area, I'm referring to the gargantuan sex shop right next to the Burger King before you get onto the MacArthur Causeway. The girls wanted to go in, so we parked the car and the four of us flooded into the place like giddy schoolchildren. This absurd sex store was rife with possibilities for humor, and Striker and I were using our best comedic game. The girls were giggling up a storm and, though we didn't purchase anything, we definitely left the store on a high note.
We all wanted to get actually high to punctuate the night, so we headed back to our Ponce house. It was around 5 or 6 AM at this point. Our other roommates were asleep, so we went into my bedroom where we could listen to music or watch TV at a reasonable volume. Striker and Robin were sitting on the couch next to my bed, and Jessie and I were sitting up on my bed. There was an awkward lull in the conversation as we discussed what we should do next. Eventually, we decided on watching a movie, and the girls were clamoring for Zoolander. Jessie settled into my bed, pulling the covers over her lithe, nubile frame. Striker and Robin were getting close on the couch. I fetched the movie from the living room, inserted it into my XBOX and fired it up. And nothing happened. Despite my best efforts, I could not get the movie to play. The sun was starting to rise, and the fledgling daylight was beginning to filter through my blinds, bathing the room in a muted orange glow. The combination of the morning sun and my failure to accommodate the latest whim of these girls turned disastrous. After what seemed like an almost telepathic communication, the girls simultaneously decided they'd call it a night and asked us to drive them home. Striker retired to bed, and I walked out to my car with these beautiful young creatures as the first rays of a new morn guided my path. Both girls sat in the backseat together for the 1.5 mile drive to campus, and I took this as an insult. I postulated that Jessie didn't want to sit in the front seat next to me as a precaution against any awkward attempts at a goodnight kiss or something of that nature. I was insulted by this move, but I wasn't surprised, as it once again demonstrated Jessie's advanced skill as a wild party girl. We lived in two different worlds, and in the light of day, she had different allegiances to maintain.

EPILOGUE
Nothing notable ever happened after this landmark encounter with Jessie, although my sister once told me she heard that Jessie and I frenched. If it happened, I certainly don't remember it.
Striker was able to build upon this encounter and eventually established a somewhat regular schedule of hooking up with Robin, even getting himself into a few sessions of intercourse. Oddly enough, this young Robin would soon fail out of school and reemerge years later in New York City as the Black Crow. But all that will be discussed later in the NYC series.

As for Jessie, she got a boyfriend in the middle of Spring semester. He was the kind of guy who went tanning, wore hats with the Ferrari logo, and worked out in wifebeaters which cost more than I make in a week of work. Whether she is still dating him or some other beautiful man born into wealth, I do not know.
Jessie lives in a world with which I could never compete. Cartier jewelery, sushi dinners, champagne, and late afternoon boat trips; cigarette ash, eyeliner, expensive cocaine, miniature show dogs, and weekend jaunts to Europe. In the immortal words of Patrick Swayze, I'm "just a fool to believe I have anything she needs. She's like the wind.". Of course, the cruel irony is that Jessie, or any other wild party girl for that matter, can't keep up that pace forever. 10 or 15 years from now, when her natural looks have faded and her skin hangs a bit more loosely, those millionaires will not lavish her with the same attention. Only then will she look back and think about how she wasted her time, her energy, and her body on rich pricks to whom she's just another object that money can buy. By the time she realizes the true emptiness of status and rectangular strips of green paper, it will already be too late.
The wild party girl is a rare and fleetingly beautiful species, like a supernova, or Ginger from Casino, destined to burn so bright before inevitably burning out.

Before I moved away, Jessie told us that she had posed for Playboy and would be in the October college girls issue. I was working at the mortgage company in Jersey when I found confirmation on the internet that issue had hit newstands. I left work and drove to the first convenience store I saw, leaving the issue unopened until arrived at my house. Luckily no one was home, and I tore open the magazine before even untucking my shirt or loosening the firm grip of my fancy work pants. My eyes widened as I happened upon the sole image of Jessie, a full page photo of her in a bikini bottom with soft pert breasts fully exposed*. I ripped out my cock like a man possessed and furiously pumped at it while I stood over her picture, seconds later expelling the cumshot with the force of a shotgun blast. I felt a strange calm immediately after, having finally released that festering scum from the depths of my angry balls, a scum that should have rightly been released nearly 8 months prior.



*Just to clarify, Striker and I lived in a duplex where four sorority babes lived above us in a separate unit.
**I have to assume that many of you assholes will email or comment to me that you want to see pictures of Jessie, especially her topless shot. I do possess the picture, but I won't share it with you, simply because I don't want to get sued. I have provided enough clues throughout this post, and if you're halfway intelligent, you should be able to find the picture if you really want to.

10 comments:

your sister said...

she wasn't the president..she was recruitment chair

King said...

that was a brilliant post. some real good stuff.
im definitely going to try and find her.

Soul-Van said...

Thanks for cheering me up with that post, Eggman. I'm in a miserable city with miserable weather and my wingman just ditched out on our plans to meet up with two visiting frauleins because one of the arteries in his ball sac twisted around and is slowly suffocating the testicle it feeds. Your post inspires me to follow through with conquests as best as one can.

QZ said...

Can you please email me a picture of this Jessie girl

Xavier said...

Soul-van, what the fuck? Eggman I enjoy your rare insightful thoughts such as the one at the end of this post. Very well said.

Anonymous said...

google search "girls of the acc" and its about 5 links down. her picture is on the second page, 3rd one down in the middle column

Digger said...

I'm flat out floored by your poetic take on the party girl. Reminded me of the good doctor's recollection of the 60's.

Anonymous said...

http://greatphoto4u.com/Playboy/slides/Oct2004GirlsofTheACC-Miami-Jessica%20Burke.html

julia said...

so i totally don't have the patience to read this right now, but i did want to say thanks for your comment and i went to the lower ninth today and just sort of despaired about human existence for a while. check it out.

K-SWIN said...

for the record: young robin did not technically fail out of miami, but had the foresight to escape the black hole before it claimed her soul as it did so many of her contemporaries... she did manage to sleep through two final exams ...how...i don't know...