Sloppy Seconds (2 page)

Every ounce of beauty she'd ever possessed had been leeched out by decades spent on her back and knees. And James adored every age-ravaged inch of her.

When he was but a young boy struggling with the hormonal insanity of puberty, James would sneak into his father's room - as the old man sweated and groaned between the already-aged whore's leathery thighs - to smell her underwear as he watched their bedroom acrobatics. Lacy, satiny things that covered the feminine parts of a woman his young eyes were forbidden to see.

That feeling of being close to something so mysterious and dangerous excited him tremendously. The musky scent wafting from the seat of those silken fabrics; melded with the sight and smell of his father's passions, enflamed his pre-pubescent fantasies. He imagined a menage a trois with his father and the prostitute, participating through his olfactory senses in the bizarre sexual acts unfolding before him. Sometimes his father would catch him kneeling beside the bed with the whore's panties pressed to his face, grinning like a chimp with a handful of shit. Sometimes he would chase him away, but often he would just smile and wink at him.

As James grew into young adulthood, his attraction to women's underwear blossomed into a full-grown fetish. He would steal the panties and masturbate with them as he listened to his dad plunge the old whore's asshole with his miniscule cock from the other side of the bedroom door. His taste for women's underwear never abated.

James was now approaching his thirtieth birthday. It had been more than a decade since he'd even
thought
about the woman his father had contracted both gonorrhea and syphilis from and passed along to his unsuspecting wife. Then one evening, he flipped through the channels of late-night cable and spotted her on a corner where a news team had gathered to report on a police killing or some other nonsense.

James barely heard a word of the news anchor's ramblings as he stared past the onsite correspondent at the prostitutes working beyond him. Johns were still stopping to pick them up, unmindful of the news cameras or the gathering of police, ambulances, and coroner vans. Whatever addiction drove them was stronger than the threat of incarceration or exposure on national television. James knew the feeling. He visited prostitutes frequently and kept a refrigerator full of penicillin for those occasions when wearing a condom just wouldn't suffice and he had to go raw dog.

Among the half-naked crackwhores and heroin-addicted cum buckets stood his family's dirty secret, now so old that she leaned over a walker as she stood on the corner. She wore a miniskirt so high that her thong was visible, disappearing into the flabby narrow flaps of her wrinkled ass cheeks. A blonde wig hung lopsidedly from her skull with wisps of bone-white hair peeking from the sides. Her eyes were completely vacant - null and void. She absentmindedly popped her dentures in and out of her mouth as she flashed her withered tits at passing motorists.

James grabbed his coat and dashed out of the house. He had to have her, or at the very least, her underwear.

James had what the doctors called mysophilia. He was obsessed with women's underwear, and the more worn and ragged, the better. Skidmarks, menstrual stains - all the tastier. He purchased used underwear from eBay, stole them from laundromats and even the homes of friends and neighbors. He'd been caught on more than one occasion but it didn't matter to him. He could not imagine life without his face pressed into the sweaty folds of a woman's worn drawls. Or with her bloodstained undergarments wrapped around his cock as he joyfully masturbated himself raw.

He had no problem finding the old whore. He'd frequented that same corner many times. He parked across the street, working up the nerve to approach her as johns drove by, laughed, and spat at her. Every now and again, a desperate trick would actually stop for her. Bargain shoppers, he supposed. Then James would tail them as they drove to some alley where they raped and brutalized her for less than the price of a drink.

James followed her all night, watching tricks fuck her in her diseased ass for whatever change and lint they found in their pockets. No amount seemed too small. At her age, she was probably grateful that
anyone
wanted to fuck her, let alone pay for the privilege.

He watched her blow a homeless man in the park for a cigarette and stagger out, semen drooling from the corners of her lips and down her chin as she smoked a Marlboro down to nothing.

He watched twelve college jocks ejaculate into a 40 oz. bottle of Old English and then giggle themselves silly as she drank the entire concoction down. As far as James could tell, she earned five dollars for the feat.

She ended the night with a bukakki festival as eight or nine Mexican construction workers from a nearby high-rise project jerked off on her. Her face was still a white mask - covered in globs of thick cum that dripped from the tip of her nose, chin, cheeks; bubbling from between her lips with every breath, and even dripping from her eyelashes - when James pulled alongside her. Still, he loved her, even with her ancient features obscured by half a pint of dick snot. Even with cum bubbles popping in her pie-hole as she smiled that toothless smile of recognition when James herded her into his car.

"I knew your daddy, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"I used to watch you sniff my underwear while your daddy drilled me in the ass."

"Yeah, those were fun times."

He took the octogenarian whore back to the roach-infested tenement that she called home, reeking of urine and burning cocaine. She passed out on the mattress which sat naked in the center of the one-room apartment, and James turned to the pile of laundry on the other end of the room. He knelt down and rummaged through it for underwear.

He pulled silky, satiny, and cottony things from the piles of sweaty clothes and pressed them rapturously to his face. He dragged his tongue across the smooth folds of fabric in long luxurious strokes, wincing at the bitter, tangy cheese-and-horseradish taste of feminine discharge as he lapped up the crusty white stain from the crotch of her undergarments.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the heady pheromones wafting from the sweat stain around the waistband, the meaty whiff of steaming feces from the lumpy skid mark in the seat of the panties, and he tried to imagine her beautiful vagina leaking sluggish, sallow drips of yeast infection and venereal disease into her satin thong as diarrhea oozed from her loose, heavily-traveled rectum.

As he picked yet another pair of underwear from the pile (this one with a used maxi pad still stuck to it as if bandaging a copiously-bleeding wound) and began licking the bloody pulp from the cotton as if it was his last meal on earth, James thought of sliding his tongue between her flabby, mottled ass cheeks and into her dilated anus.

He looked over his shoulder. She appeared to have stopped breathing. Then he closed his eyes and remembered how sexy she'd been in her sixties. He'd love nothing more than eating the old whore's asshole.

James slid her skirt and thong off. She didn't stir. She had either passed out in a narcotic fugue or passed away completely. James was too preoccupied to check for a pulse. He knelt and put his tongue between her sagging butt cheeks, grinning from ear to ear. He was in heaven.

Along with the taste of Astroglide and chunky liquid excrement, he imagined tasting his own lineage, the sweat and semen of several generations of ancestors who'd ejaculated into her diseased bowels.

He could taste his grandfather's syphilitic penile drip like spoiled sour cream as he traced her puckered anus with the tip of his tongue, his great grandfather's juicy viral warts, the gangrenous tissue from his great uncle's running ulcers and chancres that had blossomed like bullet holes up and down the length of his rotting cock and smelled like death and raw sewage. His father's gonorrhea foamed out of her asshole in a thick curd like aged cottage cheese, and James eagerly consumed it all. Within her weathered anus lay decades of tradition - his birthright.

Even in his delusional state of romantic bliss, James realized right away that he might have picked the wrong asshole to eat. He stared down at those pale cheeks spangled with suppurating pimples. Bedsores leaked pus in virulent ooze that caught in the whore's ancient ass hairs and glistened like morning dew. The angry red outbreak of herpes blisters rupturing in a halo around the over-used asshole - stretched to the circumference of a soda can - erupted in an inflamed nest of blood and shit-slickened hemorrhoidal tissue, boiling up from her ass like a bunch of raspberries.

James's stomach reversed its flow. He regurgitated into her asshole, which funneled into the distended rectum like a flushing toilet. Then it promptly clenched tight and spat it back at him. The woman's saggy buttocks parted and released a spray of yellow vomit and liquid, brown offal in a deluge that rained down his face like a mudslide. He was in deep shit now.

After wiping his face as clean as he could with a pair of the whore's semen-stained nylons and regurgitating several more times, he finally worked up the nerve to try it again. As he neared the steaming mess of infection and disease, he tentatively stuck out his tongue and touched it to her anus. He pinched his nose and pushed his tongue deeper to the slippery wet warmth of that withered ass.

At that moment, he had discovered the true meaning of love: eating shit and calling it candy.

Alive

Fourth Place - 2005 Gross-Out Contest, New York City

"...I shall greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children." - Genesis 3:16

Johnny was a cannibal with an insatiable appetite for human flesh... and he just happened to work at an abortion clinic.

Each night, he clawed his way through the red bio-waste bags, feeding on bits of ground and shredded meat from the piles of mangled fetal corpses; bloody hamburger spit out by the vacuum used to extract the unwanted parasites from their mothers. Their tiny pureed forms looked like chunks of dough covered in cranberries, or squashed cherries suspended in Ragu - like a watermelon pushed through a meat grinder. He gobbled it up in fistfuls, making a slurping and smacking sound as he greedily sucked down the stringy ropes of premature flesh that drooled from his goatee in bloody gobs, like a fat kid in a pie-eating contest.

Occasionally, he performed back-alley abortions for the local crackwhores using a wire hanger and a pair of tongs to remove fetuses, piece by piece from the diseased vaginas of their mothers - as late as eight or nine months into their pregnancies, when their bellies had gotten too big even for the perverted johns who liked their whores ready to drop. The babies came out in chunks that looked like red marshmallow melted over a campfire. Sometimes he wouldn't even wait until their mothers weren't looking before he plopped the chewy morsels into his mouth. If they would let him, he'd suck the afterbirth right out of their syphilitic cunts and chew it up in front of them. It was his greatest joy in the world.

Most nights, however, he contented himself with garbage.

The rubbery meat and stringy, sallow fat tissue tasted like veal or raw calamari as he slurped umbilical chords out of the strawberry pulp of afterbirth and amniotic goo like strips of overcooked linguine. He bit through skulls that burst in his mouth like over-ripe fruit and sucked out the jelly-like gray matter. He didn't mind the maggots swimming in the stew of flesh and blood any more than he did the other undulating vermin. He slurped them up as eagerly as he did the various limbs and organs floating in that pulp of blood pudding.

But today, there was something else in there... something moving. He could hear it chewing its way from the bottom of the bio-waste bag even as he ate his way from the top. Something in there was alive. Johnny scooped aside the diminutive body parts until he located one still writhing with the spark of life. It was little more than half a fetus; a torso and a head. Yet it was alive.

It growled and gnashed its teeth at Johnny as he stared in amazement and prepared to pop the mewling creature into his mouth. That's when Johnny noticed the entire bag was moving. Hands, feet, heads, disembodied organs, all undulating with life. He could even feel the half-digested remains he'd devoured crawling within him. He felt tiny teeth, feet, hands, fingers, toes, and parts he shuddered to describe scratching and biting their way back up his esophagus, struggling to be free. They were wriggling in the back of his throat.

He regurgitated coagulating blood and partially digested meat again and again, trying to rid himself of them. But he'd eaten so much. Pounds and pounds of undead fetuses that were now hideously alive.

Alive inside of him.

"In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children" the Lord commanded.

"Damn kids." A great roiling began in his loins. He doubled over with a nauseating agony that twisted in his guts like razors. A spray of fecal matter crawling with living abortions erupted from his asshole and slid down his pants legs. He watched a fingerless hand attached to the shoulders, neck, and head of some mongoloid Down Syndrome baby wave to him as the toothless face grinned up from the puddle of liquid excrement.

"I wouldn't give two shits for a damn kid." He crushed the thing with his boot, enjoying the satisfying pop of its malformed head as it ruptured against his heel like a balloon filled with Jell-O. But he did give a shit, and it would be his last as the rest of his resurrected dinner scampered out of his rectum, dragging along his entire intestinal track.

And just as the Old Testament had prophesized two millennia ago, Johnny screamed in agony and sorrow as he brought forth children.

Felching The Worm

Second Place - 2007 Gross-Out Contest, Toronto, Canada

The worst part about sucking a dead dog's ass is the maggots, and the hair, and the fact that they don't bathe, or use toilet paper, and after they've been dead for a while, they get all bloated and start to leak, especially in this heat. Now I know you're wondering why any motherfucker would want to suck a dog's ass, a dead one at that. mean, it ain't exactly sanitary; the putrescence that leaks out of these things is stupefying, smells like a portable toilet and tastes about as good. Just imagine licking maggots out of a public toilet and you can almost approximate what I was going through.