Grabbing Liverpool By the Dick
Perhaps I could have avoided kissing a very attractive transvestite by being more astute with my judgment. Maybe I could have shunned one of the worst hangovers of my life by not drinking alcohol that was so cheap that it is was aptly named ‘motor oil’. I definitely could have avoided waking up on the wrong side of Liverpool bearing the remnants of the night before, which were a small bag I presumed once had some sort of narcotics in it and a pant-full of what I could only assume was my own urine. But where would the fun in that be?
I had been working in London in exchange for a pittance, and as you can imagine, I was vaguely disheartened by my lifestyle. In the weeks before that, I had been partying at Oktoberfest and my body was in the finest condition on record: pale, fragile, weak and the rest. I hadn’t the money to go back to Europe just yet, so I did what any hobo would: searched for the closest, cheapest and most morally-fulfilling place that England had to offer – and I found Liverpool.
Liverpool is roughly five hours north of London by bus and costs fuck all to get there. I was feeling good about Liverpool from the get–go, so much so that I didn’t feel I needed to book any sort of accommodation because of my superior looks at the time. So with a sense of entitlement and 16 pounds in my pocket, I knew I was in for it that night. As I sipped on my first petrol-like drink, I gazed upon a beautiful, small-statured woman who everyone else knew had a cock except me. I set my eyes upon this sexy little bird and made my intentions quite clear from the beginning. Surprisingly, I found she was very forthcoming in her reactions, and I believed at the time that I was “in”. I necked a few more nauseating drinks and began to feel all the more ready for some action.
As the night went on, the flirtatious banter between the penised princess and I continued. He had been buying me drinks for a while, so I probably should have suspected his true gender then and there, but I just found it a nice gesture. Night befell us and the pub was getting ever-the-more twisted. People were indulging themselves in all kinds of different poisons, but I was sticking to my two-pound carbonated libation. The pub neared closing time and I was ready to make my move, so much so that I slithered my way over to the transvestite and laid down some of my most promising moves. The next thing I knew, I was in: kissing what I thought was a beautiful woman, with both sets of hands beginning to move. As my hand neared the desired and designated vaginal area, I felt what I originally suspected as an oversized female clitoris, but turned out to be that of a throbbing male member. I launched myself back into a rapture of laughter from the entire pub, including the bartender, and at the time there was only one thing I could do, and that was find the funny side of it as well – so I laughed.
With a sense of embarrassment but also a hazy feeling of accomplishment – as if this was something that everyone should do once or twice – I turned back to order one last drink for the road. I was thinking I’d call it a night when the bundling arm of a large Liverpudlian came around my shoulder, and its owner began to slur a plethora of obscenities that I could vaguely discern were making fun of me but at the same time kind of telling me I was a legend. He bought me a drink – anything I wanted, he said – but I just wanted my shitty, gas-like beer. The night continued, and I still had eight pounds in my pocket.
I was toey as shit and craving a pretty girl to take home, but as a heterosexual male, the thought of caressing chicks with dicks was weighing pretty heavily on my mind. That pub closed and all the patrons moved on to the next one along. This is where the tenor of the night changed – a new pub with hopefully an abundance of fine-looking birds – without dicks – to indulge myself. The more I drank, the less and less competent I became in my search for a conquest and the more and more likely it became that my Johnson wouldn’t be able to leave its flaccid state. However I prevailed: I got my girl and home we went.
The finer details of that night became distinctly blurry from then on, and to know If I performed or not is something only she can tell you – whoever the fuck the poor girl was. In an attempt to leave her house in the morning when I woke up, I left a sock, a full pack of cigarettes and half the contents of my wallet. So with a horrible headache, half of my worldly possessions and a sore dick, I made tracks back to London.