Spoof Issue: Getting tickled by Bubbles

Reader’s Note: This story is satirical and was published in a spoof issue.

Friday night
2:47 a.m.
The Mighty Mabel

It wasn’t really as dark as I would have expected it to be. The red filters covering the lights not only lit the room adequately, but also set a very exotic tone for the whole evening.

One by one, a line of 12 ladies of the evening assembled before me, each more scantily clad than the last. Finally, the mistress appeared.

“Take your pick,” she said. “Ten bucks for a shower, 20 bucks for a blow job, 30 bucks for sex.”

Apparently the dining hall isn’t the only thing a la carte in Thurston.

Its existence had long been rumored, but now I saw the proof. The Thruston Hall prostitution ring was spread eagle in front of me.

I originally wanted to see the dirty underbelly of D.C. by taking a trip to K Street. But then I decided that I’d rather see prostitutes over lobbyists. Besides, it was much easier to walk down two flights of stairs.

After a couple of minutes, I made up my mind. I would be spending my evening with a nice cum dumpster named Bubbles. Dressed from head to toe in tight black leather, she only had to show me the ball gag in her hand.

“I heard that you’ve been bad,” she whispered in my ear.

“Not J Street bad, but yeah,” I told her. “Oh. How does this work? Do I pay in advance?”

She looked me up and down and made a quick judgement call: “Yes.”

After signing the GWorld receipt, I looked at the balance – $43.37. I was going to need my parents to put more money in my C-Cash account.

Bubbles led me down a flight of stairs in her “house,” as she lovingly referred to the dorm.

“You got protection?” she looked back at me.

I searched my pockets. “Yep.” I produced what I thought to be a condom but, it turned out, was only a ketchup package. But at that point, I had already gone too far. “Oh well,” I thought.

Sex really brings people down to their rawest form. It didn’t matter that I sit behind Bubbles in psychology or that I went to her sorority date party. It didn’t matter that I was paying her with my parent’s money. It didn’t even matter that the ball gag in my mouth was just a little too loose. Bubbles and I became two souls, sharing a moment in time, drifting to oblivion in each other’s arms.

Overall, it was a great evening. I felt a little bad, though, for sexiling Bubbles’ roommates, but that was a sacrifice I was willing to make for journalism.

It’s too bad I got such a bad case of herpes from my rendezvous. But I also have something other than open sores to show for it. Before I left, I took with me one of Bubbles’ Gucci alligator boots. I hear it’s good luck to hang a whore’s shoe above your door.

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