TMI Thursday: Payback's a Bitch

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

You might remember that story I told a couple of weeks ago prior to the TMI hiatus about how I dated a girl named Margaret once. Oh, what a wonderful night she and I had together which culminated in me nearly puking on her while swooping in for a kiss. Oh, what gay and glorious days were those!

The universe, it seems, has a grand sense of humor. It seems that things like nearly puking on your date the first time you're together kind of evens out over time. Yes, that's right. I have another story of puking and dating.

For this one, we go back to that magical year before I started grad school, but after I had graduated from St. Joe. The Ex- was still living near me, and one night I went over to her house after work so I could eat something, get drunk, and fuck her lights out.

She met me at the door, hair disheveled, glasses on, bathrobe wrapped around her body, and, to top it off, the tip of her nose was pink and she was holding a wadded up tissue. I could tell right then that my plans after "eat something, get drunk" were not going to go quite as swimmingly as I had expected.

"I'm sick," she groaned, her voice dropped an octave by the combination of a sore throat and sinuses packed full of mucus. As if I wouldn't believe her, she sniffed. Hard and loud. I could hear snot moving inside her pretty little skull while she inhaled. *snuck*

"You sounded alright over the phone when I called during my break," I offered weakly, hoping that this was some kind of ruse but knowing that it wasn't.

"I had a sduvvy node earlier," she offered, stepping back and letting me into her den of pestilence. Fuzzy slippers missing the backs completed her ensemble. Her microwave beeped as I entered, signaling that the hot water for her tea was ready (Brits, please overlook the breach of protocol here). "Afder I god off de phone wid you, id god worse."

We moved into the house and went to the kitchen. "I have dum eggs-dra soop, if you wand id," she said as I began to prepare to eat. "Id's really gud."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked her, ignoring her offer of sickness soup, pulling my dinner out of the bag. I lifted down a plate and set out my food while she made herself some tea.

"Feel sorry for me," she said, shuffling from the kitchen into the den, which also served as a dining room. I sat down on the couch and she sat next to me, sipping her tea and leaning against me. I turned on some basketball. She sipped her tea.

"You cood give me some fries," she offered pitifully. I let her pick at my food, figuring I was as good as infected. Though I wanted to run screaming from the hazy cloud of disease emanating from her body, I knew that that would be considered a dating faux pas in most circles. So, she sipped her tea and leaned against me and picked through my food with her disease-ridden fingers. Inside, I cried.

I finished up and sat back and let her lean into me fully. I slipped an arm around her. Now, I'm a man what appreciates his personal space, and sitting like this was a nuisance, to say the least, but she was sick and, well, I did want to have sex at some point in the future, so I figured if I sat there, cuddling her and her viruses, it would pay off. Eventually.

As we both sat there, watching whatever game was on (I think I remember it being North Carolina versus some sacrificial lamb...*sigh*), the future began to get rosier. Without prompting, she moved her hand over my jeans and unzipped them. She then apologized for being sick, and I told her not to worry about it. She then insisted that she needed to worry about it because we had plans and blah blah blah, I forget the rest because she pulled my dick out.

And, well, at that age, when dick is in sexy girl's hand, you get an insta-chub. I told her--half-heartedly, admittedly--that she didn't need to do that. It was okay. I'd survive. She insisted.

Well, one thing led to another and, after a brief handjob, she went down on me. Disease and all. But, you know what, I didn't fucking care at this point. I was in blissful, blow job heaven.

Things were progressing nicely when she decided to slip off of the couch and, despite the fact that she was sick, she dropped the bathrobe. She was naked underneath it. Oh dear me! This really was a ruse, wasn't it? Some kind of sexual game! I'm hip! I want to play, too! So, I take off my pants and now I'm naked from the waist down. She kneels on the floor in front of me and we resume.

Then she stops and turns her head. A funny look comes over her face for a second.

"Are you okay?" I asked her. She still grasped me with one hand.

"I'll be fine," she said and resumed. A few seconds later, she did it again, but as I was in the throes of pre-orgasm, I tried to ask if she was okay, but I only managed some garbled, gurgled, groaning noise. She made a coughing sound, but then turned back to finish me off. Which she did. It was grand and glorious. I glowed radiantly.

She glowed, sickly and greenly.

But then...apparently, when I fired off into the back of her throat...it triggered a chain reaction. One that could not be stopped.

There was no real warning. There was a gagging cough, and then there was a torrent of partially-digested chicken noodle soup, tea, french fries, and semen. It landed on the couch. Unfortunately, I was on the couch.

Being that I loved her, I didn't immediately jack her in the throat and ask what the fuck was wrong with her. In fact, I had this strange sort of mixture of pity, hysterical laughter, and "oh my God, she threw up on my dick." I tried to let the pity shine through, which was a difficult task, to say the least.

She started crying. "I'm doe dorry!" she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don't know wad happened!"

"I think...it was probably a bit much for you...is all," I offered, cleaning myself up as best I could with the napkins from my dinner. I grabbed her robe and put it back around her, and then I hurried off to the bathroom for some towels to clean up. I race, because, the whole time I'm away, I keep thinking her goddamned dogs are going to eat that if I don't get it cleaned up quick enough, because, you know, they're dogs. Fortunately, I returned before the dogs had their dibs, and I cleaned up. She's still crying and apologizing.

After getting her calmed down, I took her back to her room and tucked her in her bed. Then I put on some clothes to wash because, guess who's pants got puked on! Mine! Hooray!!!

While the pants and towels were washing, I brought her some medicine and some more tea. Because I'm a sinner like that, I had spent the night at her house a few times and I had some spare undergarments, so I was able to pull on some drawers. She fell asleep. I watched more basketball and tried to clean the stains up from the couch and carpet. Eventually, the smell chased me from the room, so I took a shower to wash off the last vestiges of disease and puke, then I curled up next to her in the bed and spent the night.

Three days later, I got sick.