This excerpt is from Dave Lundy’s new novel, “Zero F*cks Given” (still in development) — the prequel to the bestselling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.
On Winspear Avenue near Main Street, there’s a quaint bungalow-style home. Nicki O’Shea entered through the front door, her silky, black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her roommate, Tracy Cohenstein, was sitting Indian-style with her feet tucked under her thighs, mediating on the living room couch. Nicki dropped her book bag in the kitchen, grabbed a Seagram’s Golden Wine Cooler from the fridge, and skipped into the living room.
Tracy opened her eyes and said, “Hey, what’s going on?”
“It’s Friday, baby!” Nicki twisted off the cap of her fruity adult beverage. “Summer school classes are killing me, so we’re goin’ out tonight and gettin’ fuuuuucked up!” She took a big swig.
“I don’t know.” Tracy pulled on her knees. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for that.”
“Why not? Ya ain’t gonna get laid sitting around here, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t, necessarily, wanna ‘get laid.’ That’s kinda your modus operandi.”
“True, but come on…” Nicki put her drink down. “You can’t tell me that watching all that porn doesn’t get your juices flowin’.” She made a circle with her left thumb and index finger, and poked her right index finger in-and-out of the hole.
“I’m not watching it.” Tracy bit her nails. “It’s a job.”
“Well, it’s a great job. The only better job would be starring in it.” Nicki took another sip of her wine cooler. “Anyway, think about going out. We’ll hit Third Base — first round’s on me.”
“Alright, I’ll think about it,” Tracy said begrudgingly.
“Good.” Nicki left and went into her bedroom. A couple of posters decorated the walls. Over the headboard of her bed was the Guns N’ Roses Appetite for Destruction album cover — a hint of what she wanted to any man who might join her. Taped to the wall near her dresser was an Animal House poster of John Belushi in the block-letter “COLLEGE” sweatshirt with a stupid, confused look on his face.
Nicki wanted to decide on her outfit before making dinner, so she went into her closet, pulled out a few tops, and laid them on her bed for inspection. She then flipped on her radio and the live version of U2’s “Party Girl” was playing, which fit her mood perfectly. She danced as she removed her top and bra, and put her hands in the air. Her nineteen-year-old breasts bounced with such beauty and grace, they’d make a grown man weep.
She slipped on her favorite — a hot pink, low-cut option which made her jiggle and pop in all the right ways — and smiled at herself in the mirror. If this doesn’t get me some major dick tonight, I don’t know what will.