City of Angels

City of Angels

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My best friend decided to have her bachelorette party in Los Angeles.

The four girls in the bridal party, including me, had never been far outside of Dallas, Texas, so we were extremely excited to visit the City of Angels for some dirty fun.

The bride, Alabama (and yes, she knows her name is ridiculous), put together the whole itinerary. She’s never been good at delegating, so we let her decide everything. We would start with dinner and rooftop cocktails at a bar downtown, catch a Lyft to Hollywood to visit another bar with a mechanical bull, and end the night at a nearby hotel.

We dressed in cowboy boots and jean skirts and did our best Texas-pageant-girl hair for the occasion. Despite how cliché it was, I was feeling sexy as hell, but when we got to the bar downtown, I realized we did not fit in. It was the kind of place with a $20 cover charge, and the women were all stick-thin and red-carpet-ready.

Nevertheless, we persevered. After dining in the restaurant, we went to the roof. Most of the decor was kind of Space Age, but we were delighted to find a ping-pong table and a beer garden on one corner of the roof. The lights of LA glittered around us as we played, and as I kicked Alabama’s ass, I stopped feeling so self-conscious.

That lasted until the most gorgeous couple I’d ever seen stepped out of the elevator. She was brunette and stacked, wearing a tight red dress, and he was tall and wore a suit like he’d been born in it.

Now, Texas has a conservative reputation, but don’t let that fool you. I enjoy men and women equally and sometimes together, and I’ve never suffered for a lack of partners. But I had never seen two such gorgeous people in the same place at the same time.

The ping-pong ball whizzed past me. “Point!” Alabama screamed, thrusting vulgarly against her paddle.

The man in the suit made eye contact with me. I tucked my hair behind my ear and gave him my best smile. One corner of his lips lifted, and then the couple moved away in search of drinks.

Alabama followed my gaze and laughed. “Oh come on, slut,” she said, retrieving the ping-pong ball. “I’m the bachelorette. All eyes should be on me.”

She was right, of course, so we kept playing. But I saw the couple constantly over the next hour. They always seemed to be nearby, watching us with interest. Aware of their gazes on me, I played ping-pong as sexily as I could — a harder thing to accomplish than you might think — and when I noticed the woman ogling me, my pussy got wet.

Alabama announced that it was time for the next location, but I couldn’t leave without talking to those two gorgeous creatures. So I gathered all my courage and stepped up to them. “Hey,” I said with a saucy wink. “I’m only here for the night, and I’m about to leave for another bar, but I wanted you to know you’re both sexy as hell.”

To my surprise, the woman reached out and grabbed my wrist. “Where are you going?” she asked in a throaty voice that made me want to squirm.

“Some Hollywood bar with a mechanical bull,” I shrugged. “You know how it is. Bachelorette parties are meant to be ridiculous.”

The couple exchanged glances with each other, and then the woman turned back to me. “We know which one that is. It’s a tourist trap.”

“Well, good thing we’re tourists.”

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