The rain hadn't let up for days, and I tried to make out the road as best I could from behind my rapidly moving windshield wipers. I’d come from America, Miami, and now was currently on my way up to Glasgow, from Bristol, to visit a few former colleagues.
En route to Glasgow, I'd decided to stop by Manchester to see a couple friends, who were putting on some sort of an arts show at a local pub.
When I found the pub, thanks to my rental car’s GPS, there was only one (rather tight) parking space available nearby. Trying to squeeze into it, I bashed into a hot pink Smart Car that was covered in flowery stickers and peace signs.
Stopping and exiting my half-parked car, stepping into the wet elements, I noticed barely a scratch on my rental but did spot a nasty gash to the Smart Car’s tiny hood.
I thought about leaving a note, but paper wouldn't hold up too well in the pissing rain, so instead I took down the license plate, on my phone, and decided to get in touch with the owner later.
First, though, I abandoned my failed parking spot and ventured down another block or two, soon discovering a much better and more spacious alternative.
Trudging through the rain, I made my way into the pub, which was full of smoke. Making my way through the packed crowd, way past fire marshal capacity, I found my friends sitting at a small table up front.
Hipsters, whacko artists, eccentrics, whatever you want to call them, they were decked out accordingly for the occasion.
One wore a Scooby Doo costume, and the other wore a plaid mini-skirt, Dallas Cowboys cheerleader half-shirt, go-go boots, and tall WW1 type military top hat, with multi-colored feathers at its apex.
Both wore monocles, were sipping pints of Guinness, and were slamming down shots of Ukrainian vodka, while making catcalls at a sluggishly moving, 50ish burlesque dancer, who was awkwardly gyrating to a Justin Bieber song.
The dancer’s large eyeglasses, frumpy figure, and granny panties were none too appealing.
Fortunately, though, she exited stage left soon enough, right as I started throwing down shots with Scooby.
The crowd gave the dancer a tepid but polite applause, and onto the stage, through a cloud of smoke, mystically appeared a slightly overweight, however quite alluring woman, very tall, around 6'8, and maybe of age 37 or so.
She had corpse white skin, and large breasts, I mean shockingly large (though not saggy) breasts that tested the laws of gravity in the tight fitting black low-cut blouse she wore. Her matching black microscopic miniskirt only extended to the very top of her succulent, pleasantly plump thighs.
It took me a second to notice, likely because of how entranced I was by her breasts and thighs, that she was strangely wearing only one high heeled black pump, and I also became aware of the fact that her flesh colored stockings had many, many runs and rips. Almost as if her legs had been attacked by an angry cat.
Scanning her body upwards, I discovered her clumpy, jet black hair was extremely disheveled, sort of like a dead, really furry cat was tied to her head. (Like maybe she'd killed the cat that attacked her legs and turned it into a hat or wig.)
Possibly more disturbing was that one of her eyes appeared much bigger than the other and her makeup was running, mascara tearing down her cheeks, lipstick jutting way too far past the corners of her mouth.
This freakish creature seemed to slowly hover like a ghost, through the nicotine mist, up to the microphone stand.
She swatted away the smoke around her, made a hacking sound, and then launched into a bizarre, hushed voice, metaphorical poem about the moon.
Every so often she'd pause and do these little weird swaying dances which involved an unhealthy amount of arm movement. At the end of her poem, she made an orgasm, moaning sort of noise, threw her lone shoe into the audience, stormed off stage, and ran into the men's bathroom of the pub.
Looking around, a fraction the crowd's audience appeared aghast, but a quiet stream of applause gradually built up into a raucous standing ovation.
People in the crowd yelled out “brilliant!” and “encore!” and my friend Scooby broke into tears, saying she'd never been so moved. A couple people fainted.
The next act involved a tall bald man in overalls and pink flip flops, and a midget, in a Spiderman costume, sitting on a stool, quoting Shakespeare, while the tall bald man rotated between doing jumping jacks, casting voodoo spells on politicians, and making farting noises with his armpits.
Their act didn't seem to be in unison, and the crowd wasn't paying much attention to them, except for cursing and booing every so often a politician's name was mentioned.
Scooby and I had resumed our shot slamming, when, from behind me, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the weird poet lady. Turning around, all I saw was her leaning over me, her tits hanging like two melons off a tree. They jiggled like jello as she breathed.
Before I could say anything, she pulled up a chair, sat down, picked up my remaining beer, chugged it down in one gulp, and threw the empty glass to the floor, shattering it.
Then she looked me straight in the eyes for about a minute, staring at me in complete silence. As I cycled through possible salutations, she drew herself closer to my face and muttered between clenched teeth, in a thick northern English accent, “Come back to my flat and shag me rotten.”
I'd never been propositioned so directly before and had a hard time mustering words to respond to her request. Plus I was already a tad drunk by this point.
Next thing I knew, though, she grabbed me by the arm and flung me out of my seat and dragged me out of the pub, into the pouring rain. As the door shut behind us, I could see Scooby and her cheerleader friend, laughing and pointing at me, in stitches at the whole situation.
“Think you might want to put on some shoes,” I pointed out, noting her bare feet sloshing through the dirty brown puddles lining the Manchester streets, as we made our way to who knows where.
“The ancient Macedonians didn't need shoes, did they?!” She snapped back at me. I didn't bother to mention that they probably at least had sandals or something.
She continued to pull me down the street, still by my arm, until we reached a hot pink Smart Car, which had a pretty good gash on its tiny hood.
“Grraahhh!!” she shrieked in a retard-like howl, upon witnessing the damage.
She opened up the driver's side door for a split second and slammed it. Apparently she didn't bother to lock her doors. It was a Smart Car, after all. I guess if someone wanted to steal it, they could just pick it up and carry it away.
She then shoved me into the car and walked backwards, in a circle around the car, keeping an eye on me and pointing at the sky the whole time.
After yelling some curse words at a random pedestrian, she got inside the vehicle, pulled out a screwdriver from the glove compartment, jammed it into the ignition, and ground the engine to a start.
I was starting to think maybe she'd stolen the car, which she may have, but it also occurred to me she might not be the type of person who could handle the responsibility of carrying around a car key. Maybe the screwdriver was easier for her.
She peeled out and drove only a block up the street and parked the car in the middle of the sidewalk, knocking over a couple trash cans and scattering a few stray cats.
Getting out of the car, she pulled me out, carjacker style, threw me over her shoulder and carried me up four flights of stairs, up to her flat, which wasn't locked, either.
Her flat was tiny. And I mean tiny. Only a small room with a kitchenette in the back.
The once-white paint on the room's walls was moldy and peeling and the whole place reeked like an unhealthy concoction of sandalwood incense, Chinese food, and old shoes. Funny enough, though, it had an enormous red velvet couch, which practically took up the whole room.
The poetry lady flung me down on the couch, pointed at me, with an agitated expression, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Looking around her flat, I noticed there was a huge ball of hash on a coffee table adjacent to the couch, next to a large glass crackpipe, which was lying on the floor.
Not wanting to let the hash go to waste, I picked up and packed a fat wad into the pipe, took a few hits, and was a bit shocked when I realized the floor was covered, practically flooded, with books, all types of books, from Agatha Christie, Chinese poetry (in Chinese), Kurt Vonnegut, even Dr. Phil. Guess I didn't figure her for that much of a reader.
A couple minutes later the poetry lady emerged completely naked. Except for a massive strap-on dildo and a long silver hunting rifle.
She pointed the hunting rifle at me and cried out, in an American, street pimp type voice, “Don’t move, you chickenshit, honky ass motherfucker!”
It was sort of weird being called a “chickenshit honky ass motherfucker” by another white person, but I was too freaked out by the gun she was pointing at me to really ponder this.
Prodding me up to my feet, with the icy tip of the rifle, she ordered me to turn around and place my hands on the edge of the couch.
It took a second to register, but soon enough, especially when she undid my jeans, I realized this crazy bitch was about to rape me.
Everybody, I'm sure, thinks about getting raped at some point. It's the worst fear of most women. But for most men, aside from maybe prison, the Catholic Church, Penn State, or the backwoods of Mississippi, we don't really think about that shit happening to us.
But here I was, pants around my ankles, gun to my head, soaking wet, drunk and high and staring down at a Dr. Phil book cover, about to take it in the ass from some crazy poetry bitch. It was the kind of moment that really leads one to serious introspection...
I guess she'd lubed it up, because it slid in my butt fast, the strap-on dildo. It didn't hurt as bad as I thought it would. Just felt like a big piece of shit going back into my ass rather than out.
By and by, it wasn't nearly as awful I'd imagined, the few times I'd pictured getting assraped in a prison shower or accidentally wandering into a gay bar, drunk, wearing a kilt or something.
Speaking of prison shower rape, the scene in the film “American History X” totally fucking scared me, but this wasn't nearly that bad.
It was a big breasted woman, after all, raping me, and not some heavily muscled, tattooed, white supremacist. Yeah, I'm sure it could have been a lot worse. As far as assrapings usually go, mine wasn't so bad, actually.
After about 20 seconds, my ass just went kinda numb. I pretty much stopped noticing the raping and focused my attention more on the quotes from Dr. Phil that adorned his book cover. I wondered what ole' Dr. Phil would say about this whole situation or how he might react to getting raped.
I didn't think he'd like it very much. I also wondered what it'd be like getting raped by Dr. Phil. I think that definitely would be worse than this poetry bitch, or even the prison Nazi.
The crazy poetry bitch seemed to be enjoying herself and was making strange monkey type sounds and every few minutes was yelling something about “gimmie that choon choon, you white bitch!”
Her chants were suddenly halted when I heard the front door to the flat open. Into the room walked a jaw droppingly beautiful girl in her late teens, around 18 or so.
She looked exactly like the crazy poetry bitch, tall, monster tits and all, though younger, much slimmer, and without the disheveled hair and messed up makeup. She did also have that one of her eyes looking bigger than the other thing, however.
“Oh, mum, not again!” The young girl screamed at the evening's proceedings.
The crazy poetry bitch didn't answer and just kept raping me. I was quite surprised she had a daughter, considering everything.
The daughter stepped angrily through the piles of books and slammed the door to the bathroom.
A minute later, she came out naked, also with a strap-on, and stepped up behind her mom, who was still raping me, and started fucking her mom wildly, slapping her on the ass, pulling her hair, and cursing at her in French.
Her mom, now being fucked, anally apparently, too, slowed down her raping momentum, and dropped her rifle to the floor. I took this as a cue to break free, which I did, and I limped over to the couch and tried to sit down but couldn't totally, since my asshurt had returned a bit upon breaking free of the strap-on.
So instead I shifted my weight onto only one buttcheek and rested my left shoulder against the soft, velvet couch, which felt quite nice on my naked skin.
Watching this young chick pounding her mom from behind turned me on. It sort of reminded me of an online video I saw of two ladyboys fucking. For some reason it had really aroused me, although I did feel like a complete fag after watching it.
The scene presently unfolding in front of me again brought up those confused feelings and I looked down and noticed my cock was rock hard, which led me to wonder if it'd been hard throughout the entire anal raping.
The possibility of that made me feel like far worse of a fag.
The more the mother/daughter team screamed out in pleasure as they fucked, the more hot I got, and before I knew it, I spit in my hand and started wanking like crazy as the poetry bitch's huge tits twirled in circles as her daughter banged away from behind.
Her daughter even started giving her mom a reach around, which I thought was polite, and the mom seemed to enjoy, which was hot, and I got that tingling feeling one gets right before orgasm.
Hoisting myself up, I pointed my hard cock at the poetry bitch's twirling tits and tried to aim my load at her rapidly revolving nipples, but it was hard to hit them, almost felt like an arcade game.
I got at least one of them, though, and spaffed a bit on her daughter's strap-on jerking hand, too.
Exhausted, a rush of vertigo overcame me, and I fell back into the couch and passed out.
I woke up the next morning with a headache and a sore ass.
Next to me on the couch was the poetry bitch's daughter, still naked and still wearing the strap-on. Her big juicy tits stood to the sky, even as she slept.
The sight of her, so young and innocent, yet so vile and perverse, wearing a pussy juice saturated strap- on (and having my shit on her hand) turned me on immensely.
My morning wood stiffened significantly, and I reached over and lightly stroked her firm, slightly muscular abdominals.
She awoke quickly, but wasn't startled; instead, she smiled at me, and cupped her shit-covered hand over the back of my neck.
I tried to climb atop her, but my ascent was interrupted by her strap-on nearly impaling my stomach. Pushing the instrument to the side, I mounted her and snaked my stiffy up into her moist young pussy.
It slipped in easy, into an extremely tight, warm opening, and we were sharing a deep, passion soaked French kiss until her mom burst through the window, smashing the glass and climbing into the flat, after maybe having come up the fire escape or rappelled up by a rope ladder or something, fuck knows.
She was wearing an elegant evening dress, but I could tell she still had the strap-on on underneath it. She was also still barefoot.
When the crazy poetry bitch saw me on the couch fucking her daughter, she flew into a rage, screaming in banshee-like, incomprehensible sounds. She then began picking up books off the floor and throwing them at us, well, mostly at me.
Having a dictionary whack me in the head kinda killed my boner, and I withdrew my semi from her daughter's pussy, shielded myself with my arms and ran out of the apartment, naked, into the gray, chilly English morning.
The poetry bitch followed after me. She continued to throw books and whatever else she could, chasing me about two blocks, barefoot, her feet bleeding and tracking bloody footprints down the sidewalk. She only ceased her pursuit when she got too winded to keep running.
Peering over my shoulder as I ran, I could see her hunched over, gasping for air and reaching one arm out in my direction, making a clawing motion at me as I escaped and disappeared into the city street.
I kept running for about another block but stopped when I saw a familiar looking vehicle. It was my rental car. I could jump in it and escape the crazy poetry bitch and this entire fucking city and entire fucking country. I could go back home to Miami, where things are much more normal.
However, I realized I didn't have my car keys, wallet, or passport. All that shit was back at the poetry bitch's flat. And fuck, I'm gonna have a hell of a time showing up to the American consulate like this, asking for a new passport.
A group of young yobs emerged from an alley nearby. Some were laughing, some were grimacing. One was mentioning something about the blood around my ass.
“Fucking hell! What happened to you?” asked one of them, a tall, bald headed kid, with blond eyebrows that had stylish slits.
He bore a slight resemblance to the bald guy with the midget from last night's show. Maybe that was his dad. (Probably the bald guy, not the midget.)
“Listen, dudes, it's a long story...”
They just stood there staring at me, with puzzled expressions, almost like they expected me to tell them.
And for some reason I actually had the urge to recount the entire incident, in vivid detail, which I bet is what Dr. Phil would have done. But then a sudden idea hit me.
“Hey, any of you fellas got a screwdriver?”
When I was 15, my friend and I ran into this really hot girl on the street. My friend sort of knew her, but I didn't. A couple days later, he called and told me she wanted my phone number. So I gave it to him and he gave it to her.
The girl and I started talking. She lived down the street. Pretty soon we started seeing each other, going over to whomever's house was parent-free.
We'd listen to Cypress Hill, smoke weed out of her tiny glass pipe and then make out and fuck. She had amazing tits and gave the best handjobs and blowjobs ever.
I quickly fell in love w/her. She really was beautiful. Looked sort of like Angelina Jolie. Even though her teeth were kinda rotted from bulimia and she had a pacemaker because of some sort of heart defect, she was still so perfect to me.
However, I wasn't her only admirer. Found out later she'd been w/almost every guy in the greater Miami-Dade area. Same routine, too, smoking weed w/them and fucking.
I was hurt at this revelation. But I was still in love. So I called her and told her I loved her. Told her I wanted her to be my girlfriend. She turned me down, though, saying how she'd just gotten out of a relationship and only wanted to be friends right now.
We saw each other less and less after that. Then I started hearing other things about her. Bad things... Really bad things...
First, someone told me she had HIV, but I didn't believe it.
Then I heard that she'd been at some party and these crackheads she hung out w/ had tied her up in front of everyone, like 50 people, stripped her naked and poured maple syrup over her and licked it off her naked body.
They'd also fucked her with hot dogs, stuck two up her pussy at the same time, and she'd moaned and squirmed and apparently enjoyed the experience.
Shortly thereafter she became known around the city as the “Hot Dog Bitch.”
I'd laughed upon hearing the whole tale and joked about it w/friends. But underneath, behind my smile, it really burned me up, thinking of her on that table, at that party.
I couldn't bring myself to return her phone calls anymore or even say hello when I saw her in the neighborhood, and a little while later she moved to another part of Florida and I never saw or heard from her again.
Until 15 years later, when she found me on Facebook and wanted to be friends. In her request message, she said that through the fog of adolescence and drugs, she couldn't remember why we stopped talking but that she remembered really liking me.
I lied, and told her I couldn't remember why we stopped talking either. I accepted the request and every so often we chat online, usually about politics or traveling.
She's become quite an interesting person now. She lives far away, in the Pacific Northwest, deep in the forest, and has become a wine enthusiast, organic food grower, and vegetarian. She has lots of tattoos, reads tons of books, and is married with two young kids.
But, as much as she's grown and as long ago as those high school days were, whenever I see her profile pic, there’s really only one thing I think about.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is Pedro there?”
“No, you’ve got the wrong number.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s there, isn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Pedro. I know he’s there.”
“No, he’s not. I don’t even know who Pedro is.”
“Yeah, right. This is one of his boys, isn’t it? Put him on the phone!”
“No. This isn’t. There is no one here named Pedro. You have the wrong number.”
“Whatever!”
click…
Ever since I moved back to Miami, this has happened to me with the last three phone numbers I’ve had. I’ve been getting constant calls for the previous number’s occupants.
The first was for a “Larry’s Tow and Garage.”
Every day I’d receive calls from distressed motorists, yelling about how “my fucking car won’t start!” Worse though was the angry Cuban man who’d phone several times a day screaming “jou did no fix my transmission right, mang!” followed by a series of Spanish curse words.
I’d had so many such calls that I decided to change my number. Unfortunately, the new number belonged to a Mr. Michael Bay, who apparently had a pet store specializing in small monkeys, large lizards, and exotic birds.
Many of his former customers would call to complain about their chimpanzee shitting all over the house or their iguana attempting to eat the neighbor’s cat.
Plus, Mr. Bay had run up several debts, and irate bill collectors would phone at all hours.
So I change my number, again, this time leading me to an obviously scorned young girl, likely in her mid to late teens, with a slightly nasal, Latin-tinged Miami accent, who has been calling me at least once a day, sometimes more, for a “Pedro.”
Nearly every time she calls, I’m eating or cooking, and I wonder if she knows this. Her calls are especially aggravating when I’m cooking. She’s caused me to twice slightly overcook a fish filet, several times to burn the onions, and just last night to leave the pasta boiling for two minutes too long, leaving it far too mushy and practically inedible.
And I can’t just hang up on her. For some unknown reason I feel compelled to convince her I know nothing of Pedro, and I’m tired of changing phone numbers, so I feel like I should put my foot down and defend this one.
But after two fucking months, the mild annoyance of her calls and the genuine desire to logically persuade her that I know nothing of Pedro dissipate. Far too many meals both at home and in restaurants have suffered because of her, and my feelings turn to rage.
And so I start to automatically hang up on her whenever she calls, slamming down the phone (though one can’t really slam a cell phone down, only push the button hard or throw it to the sofa or bed) as soon as she asks for Pedro.
In fact, I disconnect the call the second I hear her say “Is...” Then I begin answering the phone by not even saying anything, simply pushing the talk button.
You see, there’s a certain background noise I hear over her phone every time she calls. It sounds like an air conditioner or fan or something, and once I hear that sound, I’ll spike the phone into the couch without even saying hello, but from time to time I’ll yell “NO!” and then hang up.
The other day, though, after three months of these calls, she rang again. This time, I decided to answer.
“Hello?”
“Is Pedro there?”
“No! He’s not! Why do you keep calling!?!?”
“I don’t know... It’s just, I haven’t heard from him. He won’t answer my calls, and I don’t see him on Facebook, or nothing.”
She then bursts into what sound like tears and tells me the whole story in vivid detail.
He’d met her on Chatroulette and they hooked up at his friend’s party and had unprotected sex in a closet full of tennis equipment.
She missed her period the following month. After that, she noticed a strange rash on her genital region.
Fortunately her period was merely late, and she’s been menstruating regularly again, but the rash hasn’t gone away. Actually, it’s grown worse, now itches fiercely, and is accompanied by multiple triangular formations of large white bumps.
Her vagina has also developed an unsettling, rotten egg type smell.
“Listen. I’m really sorry to hear that. You should get, uh, that, checked out.”
She’s still in high school. Her parents would kill her if they found out. Her family doesn’t have health insurance.
(Her crying now turns from subtle sniveling to thunderous, shrieking wails, causing me to keep the phone about an inch or so away from my ear.)
The compassionate human being in me wants to meet her, take her to a doctor, buy her some sexually transmitted disease ointment for her vagina or a pill or whatever it is that cures or at least alleviates whatever is going on down there.
Although I’m not a gynecologist, I’m sure a rash covered, rotten egg smelling vagina with bumps on it can’t be good.
However, her being underage and me being 27 makes me wary of meeting her in any capacity. The mere thought of winding up on one of those “To Catch a Predator” type TV shows, trying to explain to Chris Hansen that I only want to take this girl to a doctor because of the rash on her vagina scares the shit out of me.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I… don’t know what to tell you…”
“Thanks,” she says, barely intelligible over her cries and what sounds like a terribly congested nose.
“Wwwell, if you see Pedro, pplease tell him to call me.”
“OK. Uh, yeah. I, I will.”
“Ttthank you.”
“Sure.”
“Bbbbye.”
“Bye.”
The following morning, as I’m about to stab my fork into a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is Pedro there?”
I wear a gorilla suit
When I drive my car in reverse through a drive-thru
and tell the motherfucker in the window about how I hallucinate Woody Allen pissing in somebody’s cereal while he does a handstand on their kitchen counter I wear a gorilla suit
When I talk to that tall girl with the awkward looking butt who walks with a limp and
says she’s had a grizzly bear jumping on the trampoline in her backyard for three freaking weeks Her name is Amanda, but I don’t know what the bear’s name is…
June 9, 2008
Bill O’Reilly is dressed like a Vietnamese hooker. He is levitating backwards into my apartment’s laundry room and sending me telepathic messages about how Lady GaGa is a transvestite and that Canadian people on exercise bikes can summon meteorites and cause toilets to explode simply by snapping their fingers.
I wear a gorilla suit
Every time I break into your house when you’re sleeping and rub my testicles on your computer keyboard
I wear a gorilla suit
Every time I get into fist fights with elderly women at Greyhound bus stops in Florida
May 21, 1997
Woody Allen mystically appears in my bedroom doorway shortly after midnight, having a hissing feral cat duct taped to his head, he smells like a weird shampoo, smokes hash from a cowboy boot, and hurls snarky insults into his armpits about my Spiderman pajamas.
I wear a gorilla suit
When I assemble flashmobs of Mr T. lookalikes via text-message
We run out naked into the streets, release animals from zoos and pet stores, ride on the backs of zebras, and pull drive by feather duster tickle attacks on hairy men with sunglasses and foreign accents who pull down their pants in public and feverishly masturbate at the mere sight of morbidly obese women in mobility carts.
I wear a gorilla suit
Every time I has premonitions about how 100 years from now people will be looking at LOLCAT pictures in art galleries
I wear a gorilla suit
When I ride a pink moped to the beach and throw ninja stars at that parasailer with a sombrero and goofy grin
Motherfucker, I wears a gorilla suit!
and I get drunk and make horse sounds and beat those smelly hippies in the farmer’s market over the head with nunchucks every Saturday afternoon.
April 8, 2014
My neighbor looks like French President Nicholas Sarkozy. He has a toilet tattooed on his forehead and calls me a warlock every time I see him riding the exercise bike in our building’s gym
I think he migh