Congratulations on Picking Some Cotton!

You be at da club witchoo shoe string showin’ and a dub fat beat and da drinks be flowin’ when a fly ass shawtie in a top walk by and yo jaw drop down and yo dick hit the sky so you go up to her and talk to her like a person because you’re a fucking adult who sometimes talks like a retard in public places.

“Hey,” you’ll say.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

She’ll know what that means.

Fifteen minutes later you’ll both be out of the cab and into your apartment.  Her hand will be resting on your crotch.  Her lips will be pursed by your ear.

She’ll murmur.

“I’m on my period.”

You’ll move back from her slightly for a moment.  Only for a moment, however, because once you move back slightly you’ll take in just how incredibly hot she is and you’ll speak without thinking.

“Cool.”

You’ll reach down and, her hand guiding yours, graze her panties under her skirt.  They’ll be thick white cotton, so heavily folded upon itself over her skin that it will feel like she’s some sort of alien creature.  She’ll lean into your hand slightly.  It won’t quite be a hump.

She’ll lead you to your own bedroom with only the most furtive guidance, leaning your body around corners, pulling and pushing you into your own spaces.

When she gets you to your bedroom she’ll say two things to you:

“Do you have condoms?” she’ll murmur.

You’ll breathlessly exhale.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a dark colored towel?”

This question will give you pause.

Thirty minutes later your mind will be reeling.  You’ll be laying next to her, jizm filled condom thrown on your bedstand, atop a paper towel.  She’ll still be laying on the towel, smiling, satisfied.  Your eyes will be locked open.  Your nose will be filled with the steely odor of blood.  You’ll look at the back of her head, trying to will it into focus.  The shape will remain unaltered: an insubstantial dark mass.

Congratulations on Picking Some Cotton!