Tuesday, September 20, 2005



Back in November 1998, I was in an awful way; in May, my girlfriend of 5 years fucked me over as cruelly as can be; I walked in and caught her with another guy; it’s a story that’s been repeated more times than I can count in country songs from Chattanooga to California.
It’s November in one of those tiny New England towns where everyone knows each other, a town so small that I can’t round a corner without seeing my ex flouncing around with her new man, making me feel like the sort of sad sack you hear about in a George Jones or Merle Haggard song. I’d gone to a local dive called the Bay State Hotel to see the band my housemate Jennie’s then-boyfriend played in. The minute we entered, this really animated gal walked up to Jennie and started talking a mile-a-minute. From across the room, I could see that she was kinda cute, but maybe a little chunky. Besides, I was more interested in bellying up to the bar and getting some beer and a bourbon. It's wintertime in northwestern New England and the snow gets pretty bad there, so you bundle up in layer after layer. Chunky means nothing. The hottest girl in town is chunky. Everyone looks chunky, even me.
At some point, the girl notices me and comes over. Beginning with a “Hi, I’m Rachel,” she starts laying the same rapid-fire conversation on me, and a couple of things come to mind: #1, Wow this chick's really funny and completely out of her mind; #2, This chick wants to get laid; and most ominously #3, I’m missing something here; something's not right. I don’t have too much time to ponder these considerations because the show is starting, and I go into the back room to hear some music and shoot the shit with my friends.
An hour or so later, the show’s over, and as I’m leaving the bar to go home, Rachel’s waiting there for me.
"Hey man,” she says, “me and Dave (pointing at a mutual friend, who incidentally is covered with a thick mat of black hair) are going to my house for an after hours party! Wanna come drink some beers?"
"I dunno," I say, "Do you have cats? Because I'm really allergic to cats."
"Yeah I do, 3 of ‘em" she says, shrugging.
"Oh yeah, then that’s kind of out of the question. Besides,” I yawned, “I have work tomorrow.”
"Well," she says with a sly grin, and nudges me really hard in the ribs, “here’s an idea. Why don't YOU and ME got to YOUR house and have a party of our own. Get my drift?" Nudge nudge, wink wink. She was actually nudging AND winking. What the fuck was this, Candid Camera?
Immediately, a few conflicting messages jumped into my brain. The left side, which Biology 101 tells us takes care of logic, began muttering, "Dude, something's wrong here. Don't do it." The other side countered with, “Dude! This broad obviously wants you to take her home, and you haven't had any play AT ALL since your ass got dumped back in May! You're all heartbroken and shit, but getting laid might be the ticket out of this mess!" The debate went on, until the left lobe eventually shrugged its shoulders and said, “If you do this, I'm abdicating ALL responsibility. Something's not kosher here, and DAMNED if it’s gonna be my fault." So I look at the gal and say "OK, let's go to my house.
We start trudging through the snow and ice to my place, and I start thinking about work in the morning, and that I don't want to be screwing all night, so I say something like "Look, I've just gotten out of a relationship blah blah blah...so whatever happens afterwards, I'm driving you home. I don't wanna share the bed." She's cool with this... We get to my place, and start making out and groping, the whole thing. Sucking face like a couple of lampreys on the staircase, pressed against the wall, falling on the bed, and the buckles clanking as they unbuckle and buttons and snaps on all those winter layers coming open and then her shirt comes out and then off, and the left lobe screams like a goddamn air raid siren, "See I TOLD you something was wrong!!"

She was wearing that stretchy underwear that really obese women wear to hold back a huge nasty gut. Let loose, her skin was the color and texture of lumpy oatmeal, and it wasn’t improved in the stark light of the naked 75 watt bulb that hung from the ceiling. Her belly flopped over the waist of her pants. “Ugggh,” I thought, “leave the apron for the butcher...” It got worse: her breasts were twin bags of flab, sloppily dangling like two great grey pillows, topped by two distended and putty-colored nipples as thick as crayons. In her passion, she pushed my face between these two heaving bags, and the smell of her sweat was nearly overpowering. My erection was rapidly dwindling. I could only imagine the horror between those two jiggling and mealy tree trunk thighs, which is about when she plunged her face in my lap and started sucking my dick, and all the while I'm thinking "Fuck, she's gonna want me to eat her pussy and I DON'T wanna put my head down there, I DON'T wanna put my head down there, I DON'T wanna put my head down there..." On the other hand, what could I do? I had already jumped off the metaphorical cliff, and I was going to either smash into the jagged rocks on the shore, or I was going to pull off some sort of awkward dive into the water. No triple back flips or half-gainers here, we’re talking survival.

Now please keep in mind that I had just gotten my first real job. I was doing advertising, writing "buy this" and “buy that” copy for a variety of clients. And also, please keep in mind that 1998 was one of the glory years for “irony advertising”: the whole atmosphere at the office was a bunch of wiseasses, pushing the limits. It was a never-ending game of the dozens, who could make the most outrageous comment to the boss and get away with it. It was a great job for a person like me: anything anyone said was game for some kind of putdown or wisecrack.

So by this time, I’m panicking, trying to figure out how I'm gonna get out of putting this broad's engorged vagina in my mouth. I can already smell her rapidly-dampening hole, and my bowels are liquifying in terror. Meanwhile she's bobbing and slurping away between my legs, then proceeds to mount me and starts rubbing her crotch on mine, playing with her tits and moaning in a voice just like a dentist’s drill (or if you need a pop culture reference, like Edith Massey from “Pink Flamingos”), "OOOOHH BAAYYYYBEEEE! I'm ready for AAAAANNNYYYTHING!!!!
"Yeah?” I say, "Anything?"
And it just popped out of my mouth, fully-formed, spontaneously: "Oh yeah? Well how about up the ass?"
Rachel lets out a whoop like she won a million bucks at the track, "OOOOHHH YEEEEEAAAAHHHHH! OH YEAH OH YEAH! OH YEAHHHH,” and rolls off me, sticks her face in the pillow and her ass in the air. I rolled my eyes, then grabbed a rubber, wrapped the baloney, and went to town.
Now, I'd never had anal sex before but I had seen my share of it in porno films. Combined with my basic knowledge of human biology, I knew than an anus is a much smaller and less elastic hole than a vagina. I'm no Ron Jeremy, but the girls I've dated tell me I have a decent sized dick. Maybe it’s no full-sized Polska Kielbasa swinging down there, but it’s certainly no Vienna Sausage either. But what I experienced on this cold night in November was as easy as throwing a gherkin in a coffee cup, and this was without lubricant. Either this girl’s asshole was more worn out than an old radiator hose, I thought, or I’ve aimed wrong and I’m just sloshing away in her twat. Either was preferable to cunnilingus.

So there I am, fucking away like a jackrabbit, desperate to get this atrocity over with, and this broad’s moaning and groaning and carrying on, writhing and squirming and thrusting her butt against my pelvis, and finally, FINALLY, I bust a nut, pull out and throw the rubber in the trash. Silence. We laid there in the bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling, and it was quiet for a minute or two except for the sound of our breathing. Then she leans over, gives me a kiss on the cheek and says, in the same dentist drill voice, "We're the two sleaziest people in the WHOLE WORLD!"
"What? Why?" I ask.
"Because you just picked me up at a bar, brought me home and fucked me, and now you're gonna drive me home!"
"Yupper!" I said, and we get dressed, hop into the minivan, and head to her place. Obligatory insincere kiss goodnight, "sure I'll call" etc, and I pull away in the minivan.
By this time it’s about 4 AM and I have to be up at 8:00, and as I drive home, all I can think is “No way did I get her in the ass, no fuckin' way...
And I get home...
And I walk up the stairs to my room...
And I pull the condom out of the trash...
And there...
On the end of the condom...
still wet and glistening...

Post Script: Two weeks later I bumped into Patty, one of my former colleagues from the restaurant I’d last worked at before getting into the ad business. She seemed green and queasy.
“What’s up,” I said, “you look a bit hungover.”
“Oh yeah, and worse,” she said. “You know your friend Dave... with the hairy chest?”
“Uh... yeah?”
“Well, I went to an after hours at his house, except it was just me, him, and that girl Rachel. I’ve just come from the UGLIEST threesome I’ve EVER been in...”


Blogger Phillybits said...

You told the story! LOL!

12:51 PM  
Blogger Brendan said...

everyone loves this story. even people who are disgusted by it think it's funny!

actually this is a much older post; i had it at a sub-blog that used to be part of bcftu. (see "note from the proprieter" for the explanation)

2:16 PM  

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