Disclaimer
Wrote this after a few drinks. Probably belongs in File 13 but I'm going to post it here anyway just for fun. I don't even think its can qualify for being a story but I'll let you guys tear it to shreds and as a result I shall lose all credibility as a writer on this forum
Content Advisor
The following text contains sexual references, profanity and potentially distasteful comments. This piece is intended for a mature audience of 18 years or over. Thank you.
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Untitled (First Draft)
The most common term for it is a queef, there are however, plenty more. A personal favourite is the muff guff. This phenomonen is basically an involuntary expulsion of trapped air from the vagina which can happen either during or after intercourse. A frump. Some women have even suffered the embaressment of letting one rip whilst practising yoga postures. A frontal bottom-burp. Prehaps, to either the displeasure or enjoyment of the man, the worst is when he's just finished doing his business. Spilled his beans, so to speak. This happened during the break-up of a five year relationship which I had been actively participating in. We'd just finished making love, probably for the last time when she says, "You know this has to end." It had been a mutual understanding for the past few months that we were going to split and so, naked together, we kiss softly and hold each other. Just then, in the appropriate tranquility of our last little cuddle, it happened and the moment was gone. The fanny fart.
Vodka and coke, no ice, no lemon please.
Breaking up, in most cases, doesn't happen because the man leaves to join the army or because the woman falls for her version of DiCaprio. It doesn't happen under a Paris sky or a in New York brasserie. It happens because of arguments over whether or not to get own-brand tomato soup or the expensive stuff. It happens because the woman finds her man snooping through her sister's knicker-drawer. It happens on the train, the fruit and veg isle, nightclubs or on a package holiday in Portugal. In my case it happened because I was given an ultimatum, the old classic.
"You either quit the booze or I'm gone." Needless to say, she is now gone and I very am drunk much.
I always remember a conversation I had with a stranger down at my local bar a few years back. The place was empty, as it usually was, with the exception of me and this stranger. I'll be honest and say the place was a shithole but it was always quiet and the drinks were cheap. More importantly though was that they had a Pacman machine, and even if it becomes the end product of my existence, my only skill, my life's work, I had developed a system which would allow me to play Pacman for sixteen hours straight, from opening to closing time, using just one quarter. The stranger turned to me after fifteen minutes of silence and told me that he could sleep with any woman he wanted. I smile and say "Hey, thats quite a feat. How'd you manage that then?" and he replies, prehaps a little too casually,
"I'm a rapist.
J and B, dash, on the rocks. Keep the change.
I've developed a routine for getting laid. I guide her through the living room and gesture to the sofa in front of a large plasma screen playing Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. This particular episode, I know from heart. I'd recorded it a few months before on to DVD, so not to diminish the quality (which as a result would ruin the illusion.) My date for the night would sit directly infront of the TV while I call out each answer from the kitchen.
The Louvre.
Jerry Lee Lewis.
She turns her head to nod and smile approvingly. From that indication, I know i'm in but for the hell of it I keep going.
Yves St Laurent.
I even go as far as dumbing it down a touch. "Oh, I can never remember, was it Sampras or Agassi?" I ask myself aloud, although I've answered this question at least five times before.
"Sampras, sure, of course".
I usually try and time this answer while I pour her a $2.95 dry, white wine from a $49.95 bottle.
I always take them to the same Italian restaurant and the occasionally the same French restaurant if I need two dates to bag a particular girl. I spent one Thursday afternoon learning certain Italian and French phrases for these particular occassions. At
Azzara's I always order the same dish, despite not actually enjoying it all that much. It's basically spinach, veal and chicken crepes covered in a tomato and cheese sauce.
"Vorrei i Cannelloni alla Romana e un vero di vino bianco, per piacere." I always look forward to this sentence on every date, knowing that halfway through saying it the woman in front of me will raise her eyebrows and smile in approval. This did backfire a few months back when I went through the usual process only to find that the bitch had majored in Italian and started spouting the stuff fluently at me. As i'm sure you can imagine I was totally stumped and momentarily trapped in a mental concoction of fear, shame and a self-realisation of stupidity. In a split second I concluded that the only escape route was to fake a heart-attack. Porca puttano.
Sambuca, double, straight.
Back at the apartment I take her coat but completely miss the hanger.
Tequila, straight. No, I don't want the fucking salt and lemon.
She asks me something about the antique clock on my fireplace. I don't quite catch it. I fall back onto the couch, landing on the remote. As a result the DVD starts back up displaying the end credits to Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. I can't move. When the credits eventually finish, and after the girl has taken all the money from my wallet, the screen jitters and switches to a home-made masterbation video of my flat-mate massaging his balls inside a pair of pink and black, nylon panties.
"You dirty fucker," she snarls as she slips my watch from my wrist. I hear the door slam and I break into hysterical laughter.
Brandy, straight. One for the road.
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