Finding the right girl in Los Angeles is tough.

I make a point of not dating anyone at work, so that's out; I won't date anyone who lives at my apartment complex for obvious reasons; and I'm kind of over the whole online thing because most of the girls I meet are just looking for a free dinner. So I was over the moon when I found Paulina.

I met her at a Lakers game, and we hit it off immediately. It was one of Kobe's last home games, so the crowd was boisterous even though the team was falling apart. The beer was flowing, and apparently Paulina had a thing for my signature brand of heckling and shit-talking. Yep, I pay good money to be an obnoxious fuck at sporting events. We exchanged numbers and made a plan to meet up.

That Sunday, she met me at my place. It was hot in the Valley, and Paulina was dressed for the weather — her long black hair was braided in pigtails, and she wore a shortsundress that showed off her creamy mocha thighs and her high, round, jiggly ass, and flaunted just enough side-boob to make it difficult to focus on much of anything else.

I jumped in her car and we cruised down to the beach. It was jam-packed, so we had to walk a bit before we found our destination — a divey cantina with two-for-one drink specials all day. We cozied up at a shaded table on the patio and settled in for a late lunch, some good conversation, and people watching.

Two drinks turned into four. Four drinks turned into shots, and lunch turned into dinner as we both got lost in conversation. Hot and interesting? Day drinker? I felt like I'd hit the mother lode. What I failed to realize is that I'd hit my limit… and hurtled right past it. I also didn't realize that I was outpacing her. I was a slurry, bleary-eyed, jovial mess… and by 8 p.m. it was time for me to go.

I don't remember paying the tab (but I did), I don't remember leaving my phone and wallet on the table (but I did that, too), and I sure-as-shit don't remember walking back to her car… but there we were… sitting in the front seat… on the top level of the parking structure… engine idling… with all of that wonderful side-boob.

I kissed her. She kissed me back. I touched her. She touched me back. We clumsily climbed over the front seats and stretched out in the back. Somehow, I had her dress and panties off in a flash. I had a lot more trouble with my own gear. I was on my back and she was straddling me… I undid my pants and shimmied them down just past my knees. I tried to get my shirt off, but the angle I was lying at and the tight quarters of her car made that impossible. I abandoned the mission and focused on her wonderful thighs.

With a hand on each, I gently guided her onto my dick and watched it slowly disappear into her landing-stripped honey pocket. She eased herself down on top of me until my rod was completely engulfed. Her silky, pulsing walls were more than I could handle.

“Don't move!” I slurred as she rocked her hips in slow, deliberate circles.

“You like that, baby?” she whispered coyly.

“Please. Don't. Mo… aw fuck. I'm gonna come,” I whimpered.

She looked at me bewildered. We hadn't even started yet and I'm ready to blow. In one smooth, quick motion, she dismounted. My wet dick slapped onto my stomach, as warm spurts discharged onto my belly, shirt, and chin. And apparently, I shot out my last bit of consciousness as well, because try as she did, Paulina was unable to wake me.

The next thing I knew, Paulina is hovering over me and shaking me… the dome light of her car lasering holes into my eyes. She drove me home… passed out in the backseat… with the mess still on my shirt… and my pants still around my knees. I pulled myself together as best I could, tumbled out of her car, and lurched back to my apartment. No wallet. No phone. No dignity.

Illustration by Jason Johnson