Warning:
This story includes heterosexual behavior. Reader discretion is advised.
Oh man, my head hurts. My
mouth is dry. My balls are uncomfortably wedged between my thighs. I reach down
to free them. Hm, it feels like I’m wearing a pair of my pro wrestling trunks. That’s unusual, but it explains why
my package feels crushed. I work my junk into a better position. Ah, that’s better. I need a shower. I
move my feet to get up. Wait, I’m wearing my pro wrestling boots.
When I open my eyes, I see
nothing. Oh shit, I’m blind. Too much booze and I’ve gone blind. No wait.
Everything’s
coming into focus. There. I can see, thanks to the sudden glow from headlights
through a crack in the curtains and a red digital clock. I hear a woman
breathing beside me and it all starts to come back to me.
Damn, I had way too much
tequila last night, especially for a Monday night. Still, it’s not every Monday where you
just hand $5,000 of your hard-earned money to a couple of amateur loan sharks
to save a friend. Okay, I remember being at the club, drowning my sorrows, but
then it gets blurry. Where am I? I’m definitely in a bed, but the smooth, satin sheets and the
perfume smell tell me I’m not at home.
I remember. Her name is Angie.
She’s a
ring bunny, the kind of girl who chases pro wrestlers. I know this because
they're the only ones who recognize me as Daring Danny Chase from the AWL or
one of the local indie feds where I work. I remember she started flirting, even
knowing my current ranking as one of 1983’s top pro wrestling’s top stars (number 323).
I remember thinking that was a
little scary, but I did get a picture this year and a longer write up. She kept
coming on to me and I appreciated the attention. Did she get me drunk? Fuck, I
think she did. She got me drunk and brought me back here. Where’s here? I don’t even remember getting here,
but I know I didn’t
drive.
