We drove down the backstreets of Las Vegas Blvd. The car bounced lightly, and in my drunken state, the city lights blurred together. A hand clenched my chin; he kissed me. Our tongues slapped together; I gently bit his lip while rubbing his crotch.
He pulled my hair then kissed me. I mounted him. His fingers grazed my thighs as his hands moved beneath my dress. We kissed again. I could feel him getting hard; then, as usual, words invaded my thoughts.
AIDS! I shook my head hoping the word would fall out.
I unbuttoned his jeans sticking my hand down his pants, syphilis, herpes, whore!
I wrapped my fingers around his thick cock, gonorrhea! Whore! Whore! Whore!
The car jerked forcing my eyes open. I wasn’t in a passionate sexual embrace. Instead, I was in an SUV surrounded by five women. This was my sister’s bachelorette party.
The liquor made me randy, but I was a sexually repressed adult, so I took a breath and searched for a distraction. Then, I caught a glimpse of the Cameroon flag dangling from the rearview mirror.
Who was our Lyft driver? What stories does he have to tell? Where has his journey taken him?
I would have sought the answers, but the last shot of vodka was hitting me. The car suddenly stopped, and all six of us spilled onto the driveway of our hotel.
I now had a new distraction, how to get six drunk and semi-drunk women back to the hotel room.