Repost: Ghastly Diane
Enemy of the State
jaydog
my good deed for the day
/*---------------------
Subject: Ghastly Diane
Date: 1997/03/25
Author: Vomit Boy <asl...@thewheel.net>
"Hey Vomit Boy, tell us all about the
ugliest girl you ever boffed!"
Well, since you *asked*.
I was thinking about her last night, in fact.
First, lemme set the scene. It's 1982, and
I'm hanging out in a sleazy disco club called
AKA with my black sidekick, Donald "Shaft"
Bowens (the nick came from the sheer
enormity of his choad, *not* the Richard
Roundtree character)...
Anyway, me n' Shaft had a little blow (that's
cocaine -- not cocksucking) racket going in
those days -- so well-established that AKA's
manager and head bouncer actually reserved
the same corner table for us (overlooking the
dance floor for best possible twat-trolling)
every Saturday night.
Of course, they required a gram of blow each
per week for such special treatment, but they
let us (openly) peddle our wares, so the profits
outran the losses twenty-fold.
Well, this wasn't a particularly good night for
Old Vomit. Usually, I could count on snaring
some skin n' bone cokewhore and dragging her
off to my apartment for a corpse-fuck -- but not
this night. Maybe it was the fact that I'd been
snow-binging for a week straight, and had lost
that Slimy Swagger that dope dealers wear so
well... Maybe it was the coke-induced, maloderous
sweat that was soaking into my clothes.
Who knows? Who cares? Point is, it looked like
I was going home without a little trollop to
service me. Shaft had already scored with some
little blonde zombie, and was on the dance floor
making an ass of himself.
As the night went on and slowly, mercifully, drew to
a close, I cast my drunken gaze toward an enormous,
pimple-pocked beast named Diane -- a 200+ pound
mankiller I'd seen there many times before,
unsuccessfully trying to snag a guy polluted
enough to take her home.
Glub help me, I was polluted enough.
I chatted her up a bit, stuffed her nasal passages
with some of the "commercial" (heavily cut) stash
I carried especially for the purpose of throwing
away on the local leeches (including the manager
and his bouncer -- hehe), and suggested, with a
demonic li'l glimmer in my yellow eyes, that we
find a place to be <ahem> alone.
Shaft's jaw dropped and he shot a sickly "Are you
*sure*, man?" grin at me as I headed toward the
door with my behemoth ChoadVictim-to-be.
Before I knew it, Di and I had arrived at her ratty
little apartment and were rolling around on the
carpet (and I mean *rolling* -- shit, I couldn't even
getmy scrawny arms all the way around her)... She
quickly peeled out of the gawdawfully-ridiculous
disco outfit she had on, and soon had her
freakishly-large head clamped inside my designer
jeans, sucking me like a starving Pakistani on a
Pink Charms Pop.
Actually, that was prob'ly the best part of the evening,
in that my face was nowhere near hers, and, when I
closed my eyes, she coulda been Dana Plato... But
you know me, eh? I decided a hot, steamy and
<gag> romantic shtup session was in order, so I pulled
her up onto my chest and began kissing her deeply
and rubbing her twat like a genie's bottle (I didn't get
my wish; she was still hideous when I opened my eyes).
I don't know which was worse, the slimy, sour texture
of her mouth (complete with that engorged purple tongue
and *beige* teeth) or the odor that wafted up and stung
my eyes as I probed her gash. As soon as I caught a whif
of *that*, I withdrew my fingers, only to find that they were
drenched in sticky (spermicidal?) goo -- and that stuck *to*
them were 4 or 5 twisted black pubic hairs (the kind that
came up by the roots, with that teeny white stub at the end).
Not gross enough for Vomit, though. Nope. See, coke has a
way of making you a Pansexual FuckLizard when you mix it
with beer and Tuinal.
Yukon Ho went I!
We made it to the unmade (and clearly unclean -- y'know
that "sandy" feeling of a dirty mattress?) bed, and I did what I do best --
flopped onto my back and invited her up for a ride
while I layed back and watched (so I'm lazy -- sue me)...
God, how I wish I'd asked her to turn off the fucking lights
first.
She climbed aboard and immediately began ramming my
choad like a Blue Ribbon Idaho Hog on meth, panting and
trying --bever-so-hard -- to make that goofy "romantic" eye contact with me
(I simply refused). I looked down to see the
gigantic white folds of her disfigured, flabby belly hanging
over my pelvis... Reminiscent of bloody cottage cheese --
but with spider veins...
As my eyes wandered up from her (extremely) hairy and
unkempt bush, they froze at the frightening apparition of
her huge, swaying breasts, aureolas the size of Mrs. Vomit's
patented Greek Pancakes (read: very big)... As I peered more
closely, I noted a swath of tiny, black clogged pores in-between the
fuckers -- and six or seven long curly *hairs* growing
from the perimeter of the nipples.
Enough to make the Average Man shrivel. But *I* am no
ordinary man!
No -- I am FuckLizard!
Keep in mind that, all the while, the stench of her cooter
is thick as honey in the room, and she's so wet now that the
briny, clouded juices are beginning to pool on my belly and
trickle off down my thighs... Either that, or the vile pig was
pissing on me and I was too stoned to realize it at the time.
Pretty soon, she's in a god-damned frenzy, pumping so hard
that every other stroke is a clear-miss, sending my
poor, bruised choad careening off her pelvic bone. Fellas --
you know what I'm talkin' about here, right? Real hard to
*stay* hard under such a sloppy, disgusting and painful assault.
Ah, but that coke n' Tuinal combo was really holding up well,
and FuckLizard finished like a matador -- sliding the blade in
ever so smoothly at the finish and watching my designated
Bovine O'The Week buckle and expire before me in a gasping,
blubbery heap.
What is it about fat, ugly broads? They just fuck harder and
"meaner" than pretty,. thin ones... Glub knows where they perfect thier
technique.
Prob'ly on drunken assholes like yours truly.....
Anyway....
Next thing I knew, the sun was battering me through the
open window (complete with those really cheap, yellow-
stained drapes -- like the ones in 'Eraserhead'). The oily
odor of bacon was in the air (which, even with my hangover,
was an improvement over the previous night's aromas), and
I knew, right off the mark, I was in deep, deep shit.
I looked down at my naked body, and cringed at the sight
of the dried slime and spoo, which had matted my pubic, leg
and belly hairs down in a gloppy, crusty mess. My head, needless to say,
was poundiing to a rythm that exactly matched the
relentless, detoxifying tremble in my hands and legs. I quickly drewmy
fingers to my lips and cheeks to confirm that I hadn't
<gak!> eaten any pussy the night before.
I poured myself outta bed like Elmer's Glue(tm) and slipped
into my clothes, which were laying in a soggy, smelly heap
on the floor. I didn't quite remember what the Monster looked
like at that point, but it didn't matter. I knew my best move
was to sneak out of there and run like hell.
I tiptoed my move toward to the living room safely -- shoes
in hand -- then began to slink toward the door...
"Hiya, Lover"...
The words ripped through me like phosphorous schrapnel.
I spun around and faced The Monster.
It was horrible, I tellya. Like Medusa she was, only heavier
and not as well-dressed.
She was clad in a tattered "Rush On Tour'" T-shirt. Her dirty blonde hair
hung over her shoulders like cobwebs...
I thought I was gonna faint.
"Up for some breakfast?", she winked at me and smiled with a crooked,
lipstick-smeared "come hither" leer.
"We should get going soon."
Uh, g-going?", I stammered.
"Yes, to my dad's clothing store!"
Wh, w-what?"
"Oh c'mon -- you weren't *that* drunk. You were gonna
come take pictures of the store for his new clothing
catalog, 'member?"
"P-pictures?"
"Yeah -- you said you were a photographer, right"?
"ummm.... I gotta go, Diane..."
"But what about the photos?"
"Uh, my, uh, camera's broke".
Diane finally got it. I could see the anger seething
from within her as the true identity of the creep
in her apartment penetrated her neanderthal skull
like a boiling enema in the ear.
"You sonofabitch... You USED me!". Now her
eyes were ablaze -- her fists clenched in knots
of newfound loathing.
Then -- in an instant -- she fell apart and began
crying hysterically.
"I KNEW this (sob) was going to (sniffle) happen!"...
I felt *really* guilty all of the sudden, and took
her gently into my arms to comfort her, trying
to explain that men were *all* this way...
Nah. You know me better n' that.
I made my break for the door like a jackrabbit, and
never once looked back. As I maniacally hit the down
button on the elevator, I *prayed* (first time in my life)
that she wasn't coming up behind me with a kitchen knife...
I made it home, called Shaft *immediately* and made him
*swear* he'd never tell a soul what he had witnessed the
night before. Then I showered (thoroughly -- in *really*
hot water)) and flopped face-first into bed for one of
those nine-hour, "jesus I'm sick", crash sessions I had mastered so
wonderfully in my wretched youth.
I continued hanging out at AKA, one eye keenly
cocked over my shoulder, for the next year or so.
Diane, however, did not. Never saw 'er again.
<knock on fucking wood>
~~~~~~~~~~ flash-forward to the day I die ~~~~~~~~~~~
-- Scene opens at the Gates Of Hell Stadium. Vomit Boy
& The Devil Himself face each other at the Ticket Booth --
Vomit Boy: "So, tell me Satan -- are 50-yardline seats
available for the game today?"
BeezleBub: "Why, certainly, Vomit Boy -- for *you*,
season-tickets, Sky-Box seats -- right
next to my daughter -- no charge!".
-- Devil accompanies Vomit Boy into blazing hot room
overlooking the Tortured Souls' Playing Field and leads
him in a spiked electric chair, next to a girl drinking
blood from a Chicago Bears' Collector's Mug
Bezzlebub: "Vomit -- have you met DIANE?!"
-- Sound of eternal, horrified screaming as screen fades to black --
Cheers!
Vomit Boy(II)
Fauxtographer
Fuck 'er *one* more time, then run, man."
-- Captain Death, in reference to my old girlfriend, Robin
(aka "The Evil One")
-- but that's another post *altogether*.
Max Warmbier
-Bill
Adam Finkelstein
with beer and Tuinal."
Best thing I've read in a month
Thanks
Adam
--