Fucking Fridays: Two Brazilians, One Betch | Betches

Fucking Fridays: Two Brazilians, One Betch

By The Betches

So this obviously takes place on a fucking Friday night. After a long day of getting high and laying out, me and my roommates take our naps, get ready, and start to pregame. I had taken a football (xan) earlier in the day and was feeling a little groggy, so I took another one and continued to drink heavily.


We make it to the club around midnight to meet up with some of our besties and a few promoters we'd met the night before. The bouncer tells me to open my eyes wider, which reminds me that I'm sufficiently fucked up already, and I walk inside intending to take it slow for a little. Fast forward 3 minutes, and a small bald man is buying us a bottle of Don Julio. We take a few shots, and the bartender comes back with his card getting declined. Everyone panics, I smirk, and we bounce with his bottle to the back bar. Repeating this now makes it seem really fucking bitchy, but he was so drunk when we saw him later that he introduced himself again. Which was super bitchy of him. So it's whatever.

Fast forward an hour, and I'm standing at one of the 17 bars that this club apparently had talking to some foreign guy. We'll call him Fez. Fez's face is blurry, but he's cute and wants to do coke with me, so we go outside and hop in a cab.

Fast forward 20 minutes, and I'm banging Fez.

Fast forward however long that shit took, and I'm back at the club smoking a cig outside with my gay bestie telling him about how I just left and did blow with/blew Fez.

Fast forward 2 seconds and I drop my phone and crack the screen.

My last memories of the night were grinding with Fez inside, being back at his place having sex again, and possibly exchanging harsh words with a cab driver.

At first glance this seemed like a pretty avg night in NYC. Clubs, drugs, and hot foreigners. But when I checked my phone, I was confused as to why I had texts from 2 different numbers saying the exact same thing. "Heyyyy great fun last night jajaja!" ....

Since I know ill never see these guys again, I text both of then back saying "sry blacked out a little, what happened last night?" Hoping one would say we met outside smoking cigs or something, and the other would say I'm fucking Fez bitch don't you remember??

Turns out my night with Fez was actually my night with Fez and some other guy that looked like him in my drunk ass mind. I had fucked two different guys in the same night accidentally. Thank God this wasn't a frat party otherwise I'd be in deep shit. But then again, this would never happen at a frat party because a plethora of Brazilians that all look the same wouldn't be chillin in the basement of Sigma Chi.

So be wary when you black out and let foreigners buy you drinks, because this has situation has probly happened to you before and you just had no idea.


First off, wow betch, it's awesome that you have the remote from Click and were able to fast forward through the parts of your night that your holes weren’t stuffed.

Now onto the story: I have to assume condoms were not in this equation but tell me if this grosses you out: foreign dudes are uncut. They have foreskin torpedo dicks with loads of smegma built up underneath that and you had two heaping servings of dickjam in one night. You would’ve been better off banging Tripp & Skipp in Sigma Chi, at least their families probably didn’t cultivate the cocaine you snorted with them. Columbia, Brazil whatever, but if the dude(s) were ethnically ambiguous enough to be renamed after Wilmer Valderrama, we’re going to have to put them on the no fly list. Rule of thumb: if you wouldn’t bang a guy wearing a turtleneck, make sure his dick isn’t wearing one either.

Now, it must be confusing to end up with the same guy at the end of the night as the one you were fucking mid-night in a club with 17 bars. That alone should be a good enough reason not to go to a club with 17 bars. Clubs with 17 bars hold enough people to fill 17 bars and that means exclusivity is not a factor in their club. Try to consider your vagina an exclusive club with one bar with a line around the block. Would little bald men with declined credit cards get into Club Vagine? I’ll let you answer that.
 

 

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LET IT OUT, HONEY

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