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Best Friend’s Wedding: Best Man with Benefits

Best Man with benefits? Yup. Did that. Oh call me an asshole for fucking the best man at my best friend’s wedding, but he was an underwater welder, for fuck’s sake. Come on. 

Ex-junkie, done time, hard as fuck, street savant. And kind of a drunk.

Oy. Me and the alcoholics.

It all starts at my best friend’s wedding and comes crashing down at a Waffle House in the middle of the night when the Best Man is drunk on five too many tall boys and barely able to scoop syrup-drenched pancake into his now absolutely-disgusting-to-me piehole.

Dating alcoholics always starts with their charm and lack of inhibitions and ends with them begging for money for booze. 

In the meantime though – my best friend’s wedding, and he’s just the best man, not yet the Best Man with Benefits. 

A Southern redneck marries my best friend, a Northern hippie. The wedding is odd and unique. They have a vegan buffet AND a hog roast, like, pit roast style. I have never actually seen a pit roast before in person, only, like, via Anthony Bourdain or some shit. 

This one is sloppy. They aren’t focused on how it looks, and very drunk. It results in a whole hog sitting on top of the table across from the vegan buffet, just being dug into over the night until it is a mess of flayed carcass. 

We all drink. The Best Man and I flirt. I sense he will be the Best Man with Benefits soon. We don’t hook up at my best friend’s wedding though.

We are both staying with the bride and groom, and so we also share extra time together here. He sees me in my pajamas. We’re up earlier than the newlyweds and he makes breakfast for me and everyone. The best man and I shake our heads at the way that my best friend is already treating her newlywed husband. 

He gives it two years. I expect more, but it turns out he’s exactly right and their divorce comes in when he predicted. Perhaps a mess, but the Best Man with Benefits has people and street smarts that only come from doing heroin and surviving trauma.

My best friend tells me that his ex-girlfriend and love of his life shot herself while standing over the best man’s sleeping body, such that he awoke to the gunshot and her dead body falling onto him. That’s gotta leave a mark.

I have snuck copious hash and weed into the country from California in nature’s compartment, for the wedding. Both the bride and groom are anti-cannabis

The Best Man with Benefits (almost) and I find a place to hide it in a nearby field. We don’t bring it into the house or smoke it on the property, yet still somehow we are found out. 

Sat in small chairs and given a talking to about the laws in North Carolina. We try not to giggle.

It’s due to this that we decide to rent a car and take a road trip. To Appalachia. 

Yup. Me and the Best Man with Benefits did the deal for the first time in a cheap hooker motel at the foot of hillbilly central. 

He is emotionally needy, tender, and sweet in bed. Not at all the street smart, rough, underwater welder I hoped for.

Gently asking for kisses. Nuzzling my earlobes. Touching me with hands over a film of distance, ginger, careful. 

Burying his face in my chest, he comes up with a mouthful of nipple, sucking my peach areola delicately into his mouth so his short tongue can make soft dashes across. Rough hands skirt the flesh at my waist, encircling me with texture that makes me shiver. 

That short tongue makes short work as he pushes me back onto the bed, sliding off my panties while he pushes open my legs.

The best man with benefits dips his head in prayer to my pussy and then he latches onto my clit, sending waves of pleasure churning through me. He pulls my legs close to his ears, enveloping himself in my scent and cunt.

He’s efficient, and I come quickly, reaching for his cock right afterwards as I am wont to do. It is small, thin, and seems whiter than the rest of him, so white I see a halo around it. I make short order of a condom and then we are fucking.

Short, shallow strokes. He holds my face, kissing my forehead, looking into my eyes. I have thoughts like:

“I hope he’s not falling in love.” 

“He’s not actually that good in bed but I like that he doesn’t have a horse dick.”

“I hope his alcoholic dick doesn’t give me a yeast infection.”

And then, as after far too few strokes he comes, moaning, and rolls off of me into almost an immediate snooze.

“Well. That was quick.”

The next day he offers to take me up into the mountains, and I of course accept. No one who isn’t accompanied by someone from the region should venture into the Appalachian mountains. It don’t work the same way up there. I’ve been to over one hundred countries, but still wouldn’t visit this part of my own alone.

Take for example the snake-kissers. The Church of St. Marks. These are those that take the book of St. Mark literally where it says “thou shalt take up snakes”. They grab handfuls of poisonous snakes, wear white robes, speak in tongues, and shake the snakes to test their faith.

There’s two versions of these churches.

One is the neighborhood church, a real brick building where people come from all over that particular mountain and valley. At these they milk the snakes before the performance, so it’s really just a pleasant show. This is what I see this fateful day up in Appalachia.

But, there are also the backyard holler versions of these churches, held in a shack for just that holler (a holler is a collection of houses along a rural cul-de-sac, in Hawaii it’s called an “ohana”, which technically means family. Holler folk are often related to. They’re the same thing). 

At these primitive backyard shed or shack churches, the snakes are not milked before the show. You can go on YouTube and see plenty of videos of a hillbilly sitting in the back of a pickup truck, bouncing his way down the mountain to the nearest hospital (which is not close), holding up his hand that is like three times the size of a what a hand should be.

“I guess I just didn’t pray hard enough today.”

Anyway, other than seeing some weird religious shit – we also run into three teenage boys out in the mountains. They look to be about fifteen years old and are wearing torn denim shorts that have been fashioned by cutting the legs off a pair of jeans. They are frayed so high that they are more pocket than denim, and the back pockets peeling off the stitching show some amount of buttcheek on each of these.

The boys are stressed out. They are hunting snake. 

For dinner, not for religious ritual.

They only have part of one cigarette left, and are trying to smoke a snake out of the hole, and they are very hungry.

The Best Man with Benefits is also a smoker, and gives them half a pack of cigarettes. They act like it’s Christmas morning and we are Santa and all the angels at once. 

“We can hunt for weeks with these!” one of them says as they merrily trot away holding the snake by its head.

The Best Man with Benefits has been drinking all day on my dime, throwing fits whenever I try to slow or deny the pour, and by the time we hit the Waffle House at around midnight he is trashed and nodding off into his flapjacks. 

I take him back to the motel, grateful there are two beds, and remove his shoes and leave him on his side propped up just in case. 

At dawn the next morning, under massive protest, I scoop him back into the rental car and drive the three hours back to my best friend’s house and drop him off at her doorstep, before driving myself to the airport. 

He barely regains consciousness for it. 

That’s the last time I see the Best Man with Benefits.

Other drunks I have fucked:

Johnny the Cheesemonger


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