The Mind of Spaz

She was twenty seven years old, a veritable cougar for me at the time.  She was blond, slim, hot, sexy, sultry, seductive and she wanted me.

Ok, ok. It was two-thirty a.m. and last call had been rung forty-five minutes ago. She was all those things above through a heavy vale of a college drunk on beer induced goggles.

My Last Call Sweetheart. Ain't she purdy?

It wasn’t long before we were on our way to a more private location.  I walked there with pride – actually, I was way too drunk to walk.  She carried me there in a modified fireman’s technique that has my nose buried in her ample ass.  Actually, the ass was so ample that my head disappeared inside it.  I didn’t mind – it was cold out.

She lay on the bed and I struggled to peel off the extra large clown pants so snugly fit to her monstrous lower half.  The pants came off, as did her panties which seemed to be stuck to the pants – probably in an effort to get away from her nether regions.  I was soon to find out why.

It wasn’t too long until it hit me, like a one ton weight dropped on the heads of cartoon characters for comic affect.  Although this affect wasn’t funny.  The rancid odour eminating from her crotch was like running headfirst into a brick wall. No, that’s not quite accurate.  The smell was so rancid, so putrid and so vile, it had an energy of it’s own. I didn’t hit the smell so much as it hit me like a runaway locamotive being hurled through the air after being at the epicenter of a nuclear explosion.

That isn't a vagina - it's.. it's... a MONSTER!

I fell to my knees and gasped for breath, trying desparately to find a section of the room that had any oxygen left.  She asked me what was the matter – so I asked her if she wanted a case of beer and half a pizza.  She asked me if it could wait until after and I told her no, and promply threw up in the laundry hamper.

I struggled to my feet, knees shaking, vision blurred from the tears running down my cheeks. I tried my best to get away from this disgusting monstronsity who had morphed from princess to vile monster right before my eyes.  I was three feet from the door when she screamed at the top of her lungs “NO!” and lunged for me.

She was suprisingly quick for a hippo sized woman.  She was also surprisingly strong for someone who didn’t appear to have any visible muscle.  I tried my best to resist but she shoved my face inbetween her cottage cheese thighs into the swampy, disgusting mess between her legs. “LICK IT!” she commanded, shoving my face even further into the sticky gooey nether region she called a twat.

With all the strength I could muster, I pushed myself away from this horrid thing.  But something wasn’t right.  Yea, fine, this whole situation wasn’t right.  This was something especially wrong. There was something on my tongue. Something gross and gooey and slimy and disgusting.

Oh, so cheese whiz DOES come from vagina's!

I realized something. Something very disturbing to me. Something which would screw up my head for a long, long time to come.  Something so horrible that I don’t know if I could deal with it.  I realized that I had just had my first run in with Smegma, and it was inside my mouth.

The Smegma......The Smegma.....

I threw up the rest of the beer, pizza and smegma all over her belly.  Actually, it collected in her belly button.  While she was distracted on trying to figure out how she could get all the way down there for a midnight snack, I made my escape.

I neglected to realize that we were actually in my dorm room, but that’s ok.  Sleeping on the park bench in January was much perferable to that.

The whole horrible experience almost turned me gay, until I realized that the only penis I don’t hate is my own.

Kids, the moral of the story here is do NOT pick up at last call while wearing beer goggles.  If you do, be prepared for some vagina cheese inside your mouth.

dumb things I do to myself, social commentary bad vagina, beer goggles, Last call, smegma, smelly twat