Hippie Chick


“Hey, hippie chick,” he drunkenly slurred to me. I was used to it.As soon as I graduated from high school, I escaped the wretched treatment of my peers by enrolling in college and moving away from the suffocating small town with even smaller-minded inhabitants. I was no longer the “Jezebel Whore,” “Witch Slut,” or “Satan’s Whore.” My new nickname was based upon my wardrobe; having grown up “dirt poor,” which is southern for impoverished, most of my clothing was hand-made. Patchwork skirts, ruffled blouses, and lacy shawls were my standard fare. The new moniker, Hippie Chick, was a definitive upgrade.The college boy continued. “Hey, hippie chick, nice skirt. Too bad it doesn’t match your top.”I was in a typical, rowdy campus bar. Unlike most of the other students, I grew up around recreational intoxicants, so I didn’t exactly dive into the “let’s party ‘til we puke” mentality. However, my mode of dress, half Stevie Nicks, half witch, coupled with my pale skin and red hair that changed colors Çankaya Escort on a random whim, made me the target of every horny male in the entire college. At least it was better than the usual, them telling me how hot I was, or how they always wanted to date a redhead. By “date” they meant to get drunk and fuck.I turned to face the new would-be seducer, my sixth one since I sat down to enjoy my rum and cola. At least he was cute. He wasn’t really my type, but he had a certain boyish charm, looking nervous despite his liquid courage. His shaggy, unkempt hair was too brown, and his lack of muscles wasn’t my preference, but I was horny. That didn’t, however, stop me from throwing his bullshit line right back into his face.“So,” I began with more than a little sarcasm, “you must be one of those pickup artists I’ve been hearing so much about. That’s called a neg, right?”“I, ah, I was just…”“I know, it’s all the rage on campuses right Keçiören Escort now. All these memorized lines and approaches. That’s what you would-be Lotharios call an ‘Opener,’ right? Use a neg, a back-handed compliment crafted—by childish morons that know less than nothing about women, I might add—to raise my expectations of receiving a compliment. Then, put me on the defensive so I ‘qualify’ myself to you. Do you really think that shit will get you laid?”I managed that all in one breath. I sipped my drink, waiting.“I’m sorry,” he studied his feet. “I’ll leave you be.” He turned to go.“How about you try, again?” I was horny and he’d do. “Rather than some contrived bullshit, why don’t you try introducing yourself?”He stopped, stared at me for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. Hi, hippie chick, I’m Chad. Can I buy you a drink?”“I don’t know,” I retorted, smiling this time. “Can you?” He looked confused. “It’s fine, Chad. Sit down Etimesgut Escort and order me a drink.”“Beer?”“Fuck, no. Beer is like making love in a canoe.”“What?”“It’s fucking close to water.” The reference was lost on him. “Rum and cola, please.”“That stuff’s pretty hard.”“I love it hard, nice and hard.” I put my hand on his thigh for emphasis. The “Chadster” must not have had much experience with women; I thought he was going to pee himself.The bartender plopped down my new drink as I downed the remnants of mine. “There you go, hippie chickie,” he smiled.“So, Chad,” his eyes were a nice shade of blue. “Are you one of those silly pickup artists?”“Yeah, sorry,” he confessed.“So, what’s your game plan?”“Umm,” he paused. “I need to open you, show you that I’m alpha and lead the way, isolate you, then get you alone, and then get you into bed.”“So, like you’re going to use the push-pull, fractionation?”“How do you know all of this?”“Because every single one of you idiots that took last week’s pick-up girls seminar has been hovering around all the bars, doing the same things.”“Oh. Is it that obvious?”“Why isolate me? What if I was incredibly horny and just wanted to suck your cock right here, in front of everyone?”I moved my hand from his khaki-clad thigh and grabbed his meat through his pants. Poor Chad sputtered in his beer.

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