I Am In Love With Miss May

Fame, or whatever the hell it is that I enjoy from this blog, has its privileges.The first that immediately comes to mind is the endless parade of blowjobs that receive on a weekly basis. Blowjobs, blowjobs, blowjobs - all over the place. I must confess, though, that while this may sound great on paper, it gets a little tiresome after awhile. I mean, I get it - you have a mouth, I have a bird, one goes in the other, time passes, I cry, I go to the ATM, we part, hours later I learn my laptop is missing. It actually gets pretty boring, pretty quickly.

Additionally, there is all the money that I’ve made from this site. Donations come in nearly every day, often hitting four figures per day. The money keeps me satisfied, not only because it means I will never have $24,000 in credit card debt and allows me to buy fine linens and jewelry for my women, but also because it is concrete proof that you appreciate good entertainment. Any psychologist will tell you that money equals love, so therefore I am very, very loved.*

[*This paragraph is entirely false. Thank you.]

And lastly, there is a great sense of power that comes with fame. I sleep well at night knowing that when I write, no less than three people will read my words and act on them. Of course, I mostly squander this power by writing about masturbating with slightly microwaved chicken breasts, but the point is, the power is there and I could use it, should I so desire.

But last weekend, a new development suddenly arrived. Though it was at that moment unforeseen and unexpected, I had known from a young age that it was my destiny. And my years of patience, persistence, and quietly being almost criminally sexually suggestive had finally paid off: I, Johnny Trashbag, hung out with Playboy Playmates last weekend.

I know, I know - it’s awesome. Please give me a minute to bask in my glory. Me, hanging out with Playmates.

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[Just another minute…]

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Ok. Thank you for indulging me.

This requires some explanation, but unfortunately, I can not say too much. Mostly because I don’t want to sound like a goober (in case, you know, I don’t already). I would like in the future to spend my time in the presence of Playmates - indeed, I don’t know of many better ways to spend time. So I apologize if certain details are spotty, but you must realize the importance of me treating this as nonchalantly as possible, when I really want to write, "I CAN’T WRITE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE MY PENIS IS GETTING IN THE WAY OF THE KEYBOARD BECAUSE OH MY GOD THESE GIRLS WERE BEAUTIFUL AND ONE OF THEM ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON MY FOOT BUT THEN MY FOOT GOT BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE IT WAS TOUCHED BY SUCH BEAUTY AND I THINK I JUST PEED MY PANTS BUT IT’S NOT QUITE PEE AND I FEEL LIKE AFTER A SNEEZE."

By the grace of God, I was able to attend, with two friends, a Playboy party in Boston. The invite came at the last minute and left me in a tizzy: I had no idea what to expect, but knew it couldn’t be all bad, since Playmates would certainly be there. I had never been to such an event and had to figure out what to wear and how to do my hair, but then I realized that these were pretty good problems to have. Remember, Playmates.

And my friends and I were not disappointed. There were no celebrities there or anything - it was a promotional event - but that’s a good thing. Because, I imagine, if celebrities had been there, the girls would not have looked at, let alone spoken to, my friends and I. (Actually, I shouldn’t say that, since Alison (Miss May), Monica (Miss March), and Breanna (September Cyber Girl of the Month) were lovely gals.) So on Friday night, my buddies and I spent several hours in the company of Playmates and other employees of Playboy, having a grand old time, having a laugh. Just like old friends. Three ugly old friends, and three extremely and insanely attractive old friends. No big deal.

The next day my buddies (Mike and Bill, for those keeping score at home) got to tell everyone at the party we went to that while they had spent the previous night at the local pub, we were drinking with some of the most beautiful women in the world. What’s more, there was a chance that we would hang out again that night. Playboy was in Boston not only for the promotional event on Friday night, but also for CollegeFest on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. After CollegeFest, the girls might want to go out. Joy. But later in the evening I got a text message and the friends I had recently made were all staying in for the night, tuckered out from a long day of work. So I just got drunker, moving from a softball field to a bar. Such is life. I also sent such lascivious text messages to a woman I know in Boston that I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to get a subpoena any day now, but that is neither here nor there.

The next day I was slated to return to Jersey. I had taken Monday off but wasn’t so sure I wanted to lose the vacation day. On Sunday morning, just before noon, my buddies and I headed to bar. My plan was to hang out for a bit, then go home. Of course, after a few plates of nachos, cheese fries, and mozzarella sticks, and ten or so draft Bud Lights, I made the executive decision and decided to spend the night in Boston. So my friends and I really started drinking.

At about 7pm, after drinking pretty hard since about 11am, I got a text message from one of my new friends who works at Playboy. Though I hadn’t expected to hear from her or anyone else at the Playboy camp, the text said that she and the girls felt like going out – was I still in Boston?

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I immediately put down my beer and screamed, "I need a Red Bull and a water asap!" My buddies Mike, Bill and I spent the next two hours rapidly trying to get sober, as we were to meet the girls for dinner at 9pm. Mike, in one of the all-time greatest pussy moves ever, couldn’t pull it together and so missed the dinner. Or rather, Mike said that he couldn’t afford to be hungover for work on Monday morning and so didn’t go to dinner WITH PLAYBOY PLAYMATES. Yes, he missed dinner with Playmates because he didn’t want to be hungover. I’m hungover at work at least two days a week, both hangovers usually resulting from me drinking too many cans of PBR at my computer alone while downloading porn. The point: dinner with Playmates is a pretty good excuse to be hungover. What a tremendous pussy.

[And you can bet that the above paragraph will appear verbatim in my best man speech at his wedding next April, although if he were my fiancée, I would probably drop him for such lame behavior.]

But Bill and I rallied, got (somewhat) sober, cleaned ourselves up, and spent almost four hours having dinner and drinks with two Playmates and three employees of Playboy (who, dare I say, were extremely lovely in their own right). Just a couple of fat guys, over 400 pounds between them, sitting around, drinking wine, laughing and talking with Playmates and other beautiful, successful women. For four hours. Four magical fucking hours.

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And now here I am, back in Jersey, hungover at my desk because I drank too many cans of PBR last night while downloading porn. So there’s that. Which is great.

You should see my smile, dear readers. Because it’s pretty much all downhill for me from this point forward. Wish me luck, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride down. But at least I can now die in relative peace.*

*"Relative" because I never realized my dream of having sex in a rocking chair. Oh well. Maybe next time.