Just a Perverted Stream of Consciousness…And a One Year Anniversary.

Before I let my grotesque jungle of a mind improvise some broken records, I just wanted to post a link to an internet magazine for collegiate WOMEN called hercampus.com. There are some really interesting articles pertaining to female sexuality along with college life, fashion, etc. A homosexual male writer wrote an article telling girls not to be promiscuous, which I ferociously disagreed with. But for the purpose of debate…OR agreement, there’s some good food for thought there. Check it out.

I really thought I had it down to a science— the workings of the jizzing-on-face rendition: tilt head up 45 degrees; open mouth up to an orgasm O with a slight smile; and bat eyelashes every few moments creating a soft blink to lessen the likelihood of taking a squirt in the eyeball (not that it ever happens). Why keep my eyes open at all? you ask. Well, he just looks so ecstatic while coming— how could I not want to watch and share the joy with him?

So on a recent night I’m taking it doggy style with my hair getting tugged hard, and I beg, “I want it all over my face.” Following my order, Jack Sparrow pulls out of me, rips off his condom, and let’s out what feels like a 10-inch liner all over my face. Just by looking up at him within a batting-eyelash interval, I know that this is his first time. What a lucky boy to have me be the one to welcome him to the world of facials. I suppose I overestimated his beginner’s aim, though, because just as I’m wiping my face afterwards, I’m feeling droplets of semen inescapably fall down into my left eyelid. “Wow, you really just took every last bit of testosterone out of me!” Yes, and now it is seeping into my cornea. (Boys, this is what happens when you get sloppy and drop a little on the forehead). Sparrow’s out of breath…I’m out of breath…we’re high. I shut my eyes and it feels nice to drift off to sleep.

9am. My left eye won’t open and there is a trail of half-dry/half-wet saltwater trickling down my cheek. I look to see Sparrow next to me, but he’s fucking gone. Then the door opens before I can detect any footsteps. I slap my hand onto my eye and pat my eyelid and graze my nose convincing myself, Yeah! That’s totally how waking up looks. “Good morning,” he says as he sits down on the bed, “It’s mad early, go back to sleep.” More ooze dribbles behind the palm of my hand. I have officially traded eyes with Popeye the Sailor Man.

I don’t think I have ever dressed myself so quickly. Poor Jack Sparrow is thinking that I am disgusted to have woken up to him. But really I am just a fellow pirate in search of a lost eyeball. I hail a cab like it is the last one left in Barcelona. The second I enter my apartment I see my best friend, Hal, who is visiting for the weekend, passed out in my bed. I am relieved that I was able to give her the room to herself and that my sexcapades benefit not only me. I overflow my sink with water and soak my open eye until Popeye and I have traded back our rightful identities.

Speaking of identities, I have already implied to you all that the jig is up among the majority of American students in Barcelona. Yes, EGC, I am Isabella Bardou. Well, technically Isabella Bardou is not all I am— she just covers one of my many dimensions, the sexual dimension. But everybody outside of my circle assumes Isabella Bardou is the only one, which is completely understandable. I wouldn’t exactly be publicizing my sex life on the internet if I couldn’t handle the false judgment and scrutiny. In my opinion, it’s worth it. But EGC boys, you really don’t need to whisper about my blog when I get up in the middle of class to go buy a disappointing brownie at the vending machine; it’s not exactly this big secret that you were special enough to be let in on. Because when I come back from the vending machine, my voluntary spies are going to repeat to me what they’ve heard. And then I’m going to draw deformed penises in my notebook for you to see
and fuck with your head. Oh and for those of you who haven’t studied abroad, these classes are jokes. Not even the future gas-pumpers here would benefit from paying attention.

I have yet to find a fun and hot enough group of American guys to partake in a gang bang with me. And anybody who says it is degrading to a woman has obviously never participated in one with me before. Girls, when you have 8 or so men there JUST FOR YOU, you tell me who’s not the woman of honor. Trust me, I don’t put myself in situations in which I have to swallow my pride…(just cum)…Ba Dum Chh.

Now, wait a second. Now that I’m thinking about it, I do believe Spring Break is nearing for the University of Michigan. Correct me if I’m wrong but it is this weekend, yes? Alright. It’s short story time in honor of the one-year anniversary of the infamous Acapulco gang bang. Drum roll please…

For Michigan students, Acapulco is the most popular Spring Break location for the sophomores and seniors. While some girls choose to stay in and tan at the Copa Cabana resort which always hosts the sophomores, my friends and I prefer to villa hop day-in and day-out with the graduating class. More luxurious, more drugs, and most importantly— more experienced cock.

The time is anywhere between 1 and 3pm when Veronica Vogue, Carmen-Miranda, and I decide that the villa we’re partying at is getting too crowded. Although I am happily intoxicated with alcohol, Valium, and Xanax and surprisingly up and running, there are about 4 different sororities here and that’s about 3 too many for me to be able to pull some real shadiness out of my metallic bikinied ass. When parties get that big, all the boys care about are appeasing the landlord and keeping everything under control. So I make arrangements for VV, Carmen-Miranda, and myself to head over to Villa Garbi, which to my liking is having a very relaxed day. The Garbi boys are always throwing down hard, so I’m shocked to hear that they are taking a day to be somewhat low key. I jump and oh so swiftly land on the beautiful opportunity.

We pull up in our car service to the overwhelmingly large Villa Garbi. We drunkenly have the driver take a photo of us on the street before we enter through the gates. The boys are sunbathing at the pool along with an unthreatening group of senior girls. They offer to give us a tour, but having been there several times before for some pregames… and threesomes, I clearly don’t need one. So I wander off with Hochbaum and Zenobi to do some lines. We walk into a large bedroom enclosed by glass walls. Zenobi begins to crush up the substances. Carmen-Miranda and Keppel walk in but do not stop in their tracks to say hello; they just walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind them. My attention immediately returns to the whiteness on the mirror board. But my eyes then dart to the air in front of me as I watch the words, “I’m going to do a line off of your dick,” swim out of my mouth. So what does Zenobi do? He sculpts a line onto his shaft for me and I inhale it in seconds. And as expected, I feel a lovely beam of energy fly through my body.