Ubertines 07 - My Valentine's Gift To You - Genital Warts and a Horny Dog (641 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.66 on 8 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Fungah (View user info) at 2007-02-12 12:26:17 EST
We laid in the sometimes dark of my room the air was wet with the stink of our sex.
We hadn't moved for hours, and in each other's arms we climbed the peaks and valleys of pleasure, climax after climax followed with the meeting of our lips and the sopping probing of our tongues.
In this we sinned.
Her boyfriend was away in Spain where his genitals no doubt sought the crusted pleasures of latino disease. At least that's what she told me, in not so many words.
She'd cried it to me on her house phone, then her cell phone on the way over as she drank champagne from a paper bag. She'd cried it to me on my couch, and she'd smiled at me in my bed as I sacked eden with words of temptation and the flitting of my serpentine tongue.
In this we were sinners.
Her boyfriend, once an impenetrable everpresence set atop her shoulders had left the room, and now we were left naked at the end of a breadcrumb trail of clothing. The boyfriend was gone. We had replaced it with us, and delighted in his absence. She'd smile, and drunkenly place her lips on mine, and we'd tussle again in the sheets, me perspiring with concentration and her sweating out the drink. I had no doubt she'd be gone in the morning, and my searching hand would find nothing but the still-wet outline of her naked body on my bed, and the warts she'd left in her wake.
I'd known this woman for the better part of seven years. We would howl misery through the night across phone lines, and later our fingers would cipher emotion into strings of soulless letters. Her boyfriends never made her happy, and I was unhappy without a girlfriend. The answer was obvious to me, but she either was unable, or didn't want to admit to herself. So I bid my time, alone, and shouldered her outpourings of guilt and I was left stung and frigid with the weight of all that ice.
It had been three years ago, with Mike Desossa. She'd called me at three in the morning. She was drunk that only high school girls can be, and I listened in the way that only high school boys can.
"I've got warts" She told me, weeping. I wasn't sure when it had happened, but long ago, before that phone call we'd past the stage of tasteful friendship. There were no borders between us, just distance between us and an open sea. I was the barren antarctic, and she was fecund, warmed, and going barren in Australasia.
I talked her down from hysteria, she went to doctors. There was nothing that could be done. That ugly beast reared its head: cervical cancer. She responded in the way any hysterical high school kid would, she slept around. There were whispers in the hallways that turned to outright persecution. She had spread warts around the popular kids in the same way they spread coke around their parties. Thin streams of white, cut with the razor edge of masculine cruelty splattered across her face, chest, stomach, and uterine walls.
She was outcast. She left high school while I graduated. The phone calls didn't stop, she'd left for New York where she was working as a waitress. She'd found a boyfriend and his name was unimportant. I went to NYU. We got together for coffee and she never stopped leaning on me. I flunked out of school my first semester and got a job at the same coffee shop.
I was happy working in there with her, and we'd laugh, and go our seperate ways at closing time, where I'd remember her in the confines of my bedroom with a bottle of Jergen's and a box of tissue.
And so it had been for two years. But every night there were her phone calls. And one night it was different. I reached my hand down my pants, to touch myself as I so often did when she called, but isntead there was her boyfriend's voice. He threatened to kill me if I talked to her again. My dreams were shattered, I wept, and getting into my 1985 Honda civic I searched out a prostitute, and moving aside the heaping mass of my gut I entered her, she pretended to moan. I lasted for twenty seconds and she took a folded twenty dollar bill. I quit work the next day, and didn't see her again until that day, two years later when she'd called me drunk on the phone.
I went back to visit these women every week, always with a different woman, and always with my genitals unprotected by the thin veneer of sensation dulling rubbers. I wished to die, I wished to die for the shame of having lost my virginity to a prostitute I had never met again, and ashamed for never being able to tell her how I felt about her. I wished to die in stark opposition to my life, I wished to die sexed and diseased.
And so, when she called me that night I never told her I had AIDS. And I never told her when the rhasp of her voice exploded over my phone line that it wasn't life I hated, but it was her, and what she had done to me. I smiled to myself, and carefully hid the cocktail of anti-viral drugs in my medicine cabinet. I comforted her when she arrived at my dingy one bedroom apartment. She told me I looked good, I had lost over a hundred pounds, a side effect of constant sex and the ravaging action of the virus. I was everything she needed to be, no longer was I the fat loser she could spit her problems onto, no, now I was what she needed.
So we fucked. And now I lay beside her, and I wonder whether she will be here in the morning. I put my finger between her legs, and with spin circles around her warts. She looks at me in the eye, and smiles. She thinks she has been accepted, she thinks she may have finally found her one true love, but there are no used condoms on the floor, in the bed or on the walls, and she hasn't yet realized that love in New York is dead.
User Reviews
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2007-02-13 19:12:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I seem to approach your stories expecting them to be ridiculous. In some ways they are, sometimes it's just the titles. And while some of your writing may be done very tongue in cheek, you're a good writer. What's scary is that at the core of a story like this, as ugly as it is, is a scenario that happened somewhere before. I think I've walked away impressed by you this whole comp.
Submitted by Fungah (user info) at 2007-02-12 18:04:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
What is "the madness incarnate"?
Submitted by CrazyProtractorFace (user info) at 2007-02-12 17:04:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
an idea very similar to another ubertines post...so you only get the 1.
Submitted by InkyFingers (user info) at 2007-02-12 16:11:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Even though your name is the butt of a joke that's intended to be harmless and fun, and your presence here is subtly threatening, you do write well. And, as long as you aren't "the madness" incarnate then you'll get my +2's. Still trying to break some hearts? Or we're you one of the lucky peripherals showered in radiation and transformed into a mad hatter?
Submitted by CookieLass (user info) at 2007-02-12 15:26:45 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You're gross and I love you.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-02-12 14:52:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I hope you fucked her up the ass for a traditional delivery meTHod of teh ghey AIDS.
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-02-12 14:47:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by Fungah (user info) at 2007-02-12 13:10:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
LETTTERSSS