Bad sex stories, damn, I’ve got a couple of these, it’s just figuring a way to tell it without the nutcases somehow finding me.

Might take a moment to set this picture up properly, stay with me.

Back a couple of years ago when I was traveling, I decided to stop off, settle down for a bit and go back to education, get myself some more learning. At twenty I ended up as a semi-mature student in these classes filled with freshly/nearly eighteen/ year olds. It shouldn’t feel like much an age gap but fuck, when you’re there, it yawns out. It’s like being the only person in the room who doesn’t have an extra chromosome or possibly the monolith in ‘2001’.

Usually late and hungover, I used to sit by a window hoping no one would notice the general stench of booze and chemical sweat. Now the first time I rolled into the class, I vaguely noticed this girl hitch up her things and move to the seat on the far side, parallel to me. I barely noticed it at the time, just a vague corner of the eye thing. That is until the paranoia began to creep in. Day in, day out this girl would stare at me, which, normally wouldn’t a problem if the girl didn’t look like Carrie with tits that could be safely used to murder a small child after smoking a big fat bag of crack.

Wild-haired, wide-eyed, pale, sorta like Glenn Close and Sissy Spacek’s love child only younger, not yet grown into her powers. Doing a lot of chemicals at the time, I put it down to the fact that I was sitting by the window and she had to be staring out the window, she had to be. I convinced myself of this and let it lie, fighting back the paranoia.

When we all socialized, she never joined in, never spoke, nothing. So in the end, I began to feel sorry for this shy girl who stared out the window all day. I’d only heard her speak once in class, she had this strange thin and reedy wavering voice that sounded so 1950s beaten valium wife that it almost didn’t seem real.

Back then for various reasons, I was on a bit of an Oliver Reed / Hunter S. Thompson kick and exam time rolled up and everybody had finished their exams but me. So I decided fuck it, I’d have a booze and fast party, invited my classmates over, making a point at the end of everything to invite the shy girl because I didn’t want her to feel excluded. I was, at the heart of the matter, trying to be nice.

So the party was going well, everybody was having a good time and looking around and seeing that almost all of them had their own smoke, I felt fairly okay wandering out to my kitchen to chop myself up a couple of lines of fast. It was my thing at the time, helped me cope with the pain of various injuries. Little did I know one of the fuckers was watching me. Back then I kept everything in the fridge. Fast, Acid, Salvia, Mushies etc. I didn’t supply ever but I always kept a fuckton around me. A healthy appetite, I figured the best reserve amount was probably that which would kill you or at least get you twenty years amongst the gabbling few in an asylum.

A very silent accidental walking in by one of them as I fiddled about in the fridge brought the revelation and it was only when I was walking back from the toilet did I realize it had circulated the party and that there had been a couple of trips to see the bottle of liquid acid I kept. I ended this party game quickly and things settled down off into the wee hours.

Now the shy girl, you remember the one, the one that looked like a cross between Aughra from the Dark Crystal and the girl from that movie Ms.45.

She had arrived a little bit later than the others, with a litre bottle of red wine, which she proceeded to drink all by herself, eventually drinking herself into a complete stupor. The sort of “My First Drunk Play-Kit” drunk that results in deep crimson red wine puke everywhere, well, it would have been everywhere had I not had a bucket handy. It’s usually a young female thing, hasn’t drank a lot, ooh I like wine, hour or two later, oh Jesus I’m vomiting blood through my nose, through my hand, through my hair, fuck I wish I could stop crying. Oh god, I’m crying and vomit sob snot is dribbling from my nose and I’ve got tissue paper stuck to my face and my make-up is running and oh Jesus I have to get sick again.

That sort of drunk.

At some point, she came back from getting sick and did that slump down head lolling epileptic hedge haired zoned girl thing on the couch beside me. Except, like something out of a Freddy movie and with co-ordination best left to a tentacle belonging to a Lovecraft story, she managed to snake an arm out and around me, somehow settling a nail between each rib. Every time I thought she was properly gone, every time I went to move to get a drink or a line, the hand would tighten and if I continued to move the arm would flex, it was like some weird sort of crackwhore judo.

Any way, through the genius serendipity of someone else having to get sick I managed to extricate myself and the rest of the party went well on into the wee hours of the morning and I forgot all about this weirdness.

About a day and a half later or so, early afternoon, I was trying to recover, listening to music and sorting myself out with just enough smoke so that I could sleep. So the doorbell goes. Not expecting anyone, I wandered downstairs, only to find the girl on my doorstep. The shy one with echoes of bunny boiler about her. I opened the door and she just pushed her way inside and darted up to where I live. Given that I’d been awake for a while, I tried not to think too much of it and followed her in and upstairs to where I found her, sitting, bag on her lap, big smile on her face. It was, for some reason, a vaguely disconcerting image and I was unable to deal with it.

So I wandered off with the words “I need to get a beer”.

When I came back and sat down in front of my computer, I noticed she had her hands up, almost like some sort of serf to King Arthur, head down, weird squeaky voice warbling “I brought you something.” Looking down, I saw that in her hands was an original Yoda figure. Trying to be polite, I gingerly took the figure and said thanks.

The following is a bit of a blur. I think possibly because the sane portions of my brain have blotted it out. We talked for a bit. I really only remember my responses. Probably because trying to remember her voice actually makes me stare at the door to my place and worry.

“It’s just that people don’t normally call to stranger’s doors in the morning, give them a Yoda and that says sleep with me.”

I think she said;

“I do.”

I’m fairly sure I said;

“You do what?”

Hoping beyond hope that somehow, I’d missed a portion in the conversation.

“I do.”

Slightly lost, I enquired again and she responded, her words on the topic I’d already begun to suspect, her words were so abstract, so out there, that it actually took me a couple of minutes to translate them back to a workable normal reality concept.

A quiet terror had set in.

This wasn’t drugs or booze; I was actually dealing with a crazy woman.

The translation came back almost like the answer to a mathematical equation;

“Well, it’s just not, hm, common, to show up on a strangers door, present him with a toy Yoda and say sleep with me. But, not even say it.”

“I do”

She said.

I drifted off into silence.

“Well, will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Sleep with me.”

“Eh?”

“Fuck me.”

“Eh, I need to think about that, lemme get a beer.”

I was looking for a way to get out of the situation. It wasn’t the sort of situation any man thinks he’ll ever find himself in, being bribed by a young Jason’s mother with a yoda figure to have sex.

As I tried to change the subject, I gently tried to indicate I wasn’t into it.

“I’m not sure I’m up for it. Back is killing me, ain’t slept. Yenno, to be honest, I don’t even think I could get hard, that’s how fucked I am.”

And various other excuses, expounding on how unlikely it was that I’d get hard.

Which puns aside, was hard. It’s not often you have to spend deep time calling into doubt your ability to get hard let alone stay hard. Just no, not as a man, you’re not supposed to have to use that to talk your way out of a situation. But yet, there I was, that desperate that I was belittling myself just in a hope that I could escape.

And then a silence descended.

And a weird look beamed up across her face.

It was a quiet question. A digging one, the sort you dread. Made all the worse by the fact she sounded slightly like that mouse from the secret of N.I.M.H after a homicidal breakdown brought on by decades of incest and spousal abuse.

“I heard last night, you have a lot of drugs in the house.”

“I don’t sell, they’re mine, for me.”

“Don’t you ever worry?”

“Worry about what?”

“Worry that you might get caught?”

“Not really. I’m generally careful.”

“I heard you have a lot.”

“Well I just keep a stock for myself.”

“How long would you go to prison for?”

“For what?”

“If you got caught?”

“What now?”

“Erm, I don’t know, just curious.”

“Seven to fourteen years. Maybe more. Depends.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes”

“So you don’t worry?”

“Worry about what?”

“Worry that you might get the police called on you? Worry that someone might call the police on you?”

“Eh…no…I don’t sell…”

“Oh it’s just that I’d be worried…”

A fat silence settled between us, where I, realising I was being blackmailed, quietly sipped my beer and cursed reality. She broke the silence in the end.

“So will you sleep with me.”

And I realised, I was caught. If I refused, she was going to call the police on me, I wasn’t sure what she would say, rape allegations could be thrown in with the drugs. Everything was generally taking that ohfuckohfuck spinny aspect, so I did the only thing I could do.

I said yes.

It was to say the least, bizarre.

She lunged for me and we started kissing. I’ve never understood this and I never will, it was like kissing a lamprey, except, she tasted of medicine, I don’t know what, almost like the smell of antiseptic or a hospital mixed with other chemicals and weirder still, kissing her made my mouth numb as if I’d sprayed anesthetic on it. It was so hideous that I suggested we move to the bedroom where I could do things to her.

Bad idea. Suggesting the bedroom.

Good Idea. Feigning death or better yet, actually dying.

As things progressed and she removed her top and I was kissing her breasts, trying to do anything to stay away from the chemical madness that was her mouth, even if that meant kissing stale sweaty breasts. I noticed she had all across her belly, as if it were a school notepad, thin straight scabbed over cuts. I stopped.

“What are those?”

“Cuts.”

I felt momentarily stupid.

“How did you get them.”

“From a knife?”

“What?”

“You know, a knife for cutting people.”

“Eh?”

“A knife, for cutting people, for cutting humans.”

“Um, do you mean a scalpel?”

“Yes.”

“Who did it?”

“It doesn’t matter. I did those ones on the sides with my nails though.”

Then without further word she stripped off the rest of her clothes. It wasn’t so much a bush as a lost piece of Narnia. When she opened her legs it was like getting a glimpse of Chewbacca rearing his head back and going “Merrawwgh”.

Trying to stall it, I left her in the bedroom and went to the bathroom. As I was taking a piss, she sat asking the same sort of questions about the police. I had been contemplating sliding out of the window, but when these started, I knew I had nowhere to go.

When I got back I resolved to stay as far away from her mouth as possible and having experienced her breasts decided to try and go down on her. Maybe that would work, maybe it could be all over then.

I made it to about an inch over her belly button maybe higher before the absolute rank smell of fetid stale piss and flaps actually sent me back to her mouth retching.

I had actually descended into hell.

If I got out of this with my sanity intact. No more drugs, I’d live a Taoist lifestyle, become a level six vegan, I’d stop playing drop kick with kittens, anything everything I promised all the good stuff away.

There was nothing left to it. I’d have to actually get naked and possibly let her do things to me.

To begin with, even though she treated my cock the same way someone from a different time treats technology in the movies, I still managed to get hard. I think it was a terror-on. Except it was like the lights in a haunted hospital, flickering on and off on and off. There was no head and when she actually tried to jack me off it was like a sort of twisting, skin shredding torture and that was after I’d stopped her and showed her how.

Things rumbled quickly on her end toward sex. Then stopped abruptly.

“I have something to tell you.”

I had been scared maybe terrified before, at the thought of this, I was becoming religious.

“What?”

“I’m a virgin.”

The train derailed. An eighteen year old virgin with a heavily scabbed belly from being cut up(?) had turned up on my doorstep trying to bribe me with a Yoda figure into deflowering her and when that didn’t work blackmailed me then jumped me once she’d backed me into a corner.

In the ensuing WHAT THE FUCK? of my mind at this carnival mutant nightmare I’d somehow landed myself into, she was busy trying to get me into her. Then she tried to get me to. It was like trying to fuck the coin slot of a piggybank. I was in, I think for the brief enough moment to break the seal.

Which was an interesting calm to it as she pulled away smarting.

And my brain drifted off distant, a bit like Kevin Spacey at the end of American Beauty when he’s had his brains blown out.

Quietly, distantly wondering if cold water would be enough to get the blood out of my sheets.

And if it didn’t then that would be the icing on the cake and I could quietly kill myself. Possibly a peppered up Ian Curtis-Morrisey Crossway. On a block of ice, waving a bunch of flowers wailing about love and fucking.

And there she was, back again, tugging at the edges of my drift like the mother waking the child from the fantasy that while a ninety minute movie has just been shown to be a thirty second day dream over homework.

Whatever pain had happened from the seal being broken was gone, whipped away in the wind. I finally knew how Alan Quatermaine felt when he missed that elephant in King Solomon’s Mines.

In fact, I could hear him now…

“You only get one shot Flup, one shot. Miss on an elephant and it’ll kill you.”

And I was back and she was all over me and I was lost. Tumbling into insanity, where a cock was hard one split second, soft the next and all I could taste was hospital chemical where that is I could even taste through the anesthetic and all I could smell was foul stale piss and all my brain could keep asking was;

“A knife for cutting people. You know for cutting humans. Holy shit, what human calls other humans humans. Really, when you think about it.”

In this time of panic, my internal voice had a quite reserved Vivian Stanshall tone to it that I have to admit, I found vaguely comforting.

And it was that voice, in that tumbling madness of a crazed not too long ago virgin trying to stuff me into a hole Jesus had once used to describe a rich man getting into heaven, that caught me.

And the whimpering mess of insanity actually landed and I became like Nick Mason’s voice in One of These Days.

There was, I found, just enough time to remember what and where I was.

I was male. The horror movie asylum lighting system hard-on confirmed that.

And I was just male enough to find momentary if horrified appreciation of the fact that hey, there’s a quasi-ex-virgin here desperately trying to find some way, possibly with the help of a shoe horn, to shove me inside her.

And based on those two last facets, by any right minded feminist’s regards, I was a bastard and I was just enough of a bastard to finish this.

I’m not sure what it was.

Whether it was my soothing voice of grunted exasperation.

Whether her body had just then clocked the fact – hey, I’m being fucked and I’ve been being fucked for the last hour, I really should loosen up and get wet.

But I was in.

Ain’t nothing fucked like I did when I got in. Anything to get it over it. Just over. Strict missionary. I had focused on memories of happier times enough to maintain some sort of stability, I could do this, this fucking nightmare could be over and I could be allowed to douse myself with petrol and die the quiet death.

Except no.

While I might have been able to concentrate enough to stay hard, I couldn’t cum.

So what I’d thought would just be a moment of hyper-bastard rabbit pumping turned into what I’ll refer to as The Ordeal.

I was on top.

She was on top for a while.

She didn’t like that – “It felt weird.”

I didn’t understand that – “I don’t think you’re in a position to make snap judgments hunny.”

And then in a flail of arms and legs as I deftly tried not to end up like the last small child those breasts had killed.

I was back on top. It was too tight. There is no other word for it and it was all too horrible, but, she wasn’t going to let me stop, every time I even slowed down she would ask me if I’d cum and if I replied in the negative a claw fingered hand would grasp the flesh of my hip and away we’d go again.

In the end the inner soulless bastard won out.

Without any permission, I flipped her over onto her hands and knees with yelped protests and with my eyes fixed firmly on the skyline of the city outside the window, quietly thought of my home, childhood and other soothing memories as I somehow, someway, managed to finish.

In the moments directly afterwards.

She said something breathy and squeaky like,

“Is it over?”

Which, almost sounded like “is that it.” except not, no, more weird, more you wanted to grab her by the shoulders and scream so loud spit hit her face, “Yes! Yes! It’s Fucking Over! Rejoice! Rejoice like you’ve never fucking rejoiced before.”

I was off that bed and dressed faster than I thought it was possible. For the first time in my life I believed properly in the quantum physics theory of everything being everywhere at once, until you look at it that is.

One moment I was naked on a bed with a cock so shocked it was afraid to go soft.

The next moment I was dressed, standing in a doorway.

Oneness with the clothes, the space, time, everything.

I think the words may already have been said, waiting for my mouth to appear behind them in the doorway; “I’m going downstairs for a beer. See ye down there when you’re dressed.”

I cleared those stairs in two steps, which considering they had a landing between them, was quantum impressive.

She came down to me, looking relatively sheepish, a mixture between simpering and sullen. The epileptic hawthorn of her hair used now to obscure a portion of her face as she made a point of pushing past me in the doorway. Granted though, sullen came back curtain like when she sat down and pulled the hair out of her face back to simpering.

I was, I realized sitting smoking like those survivors do in movies.

The earnest perch with the slight to-fro rock, cigarette cupped, smoked with an intensity usually kept for murder.

I had been to my sexual Auschwitz.

I looked at my watch.

I was about thirty minutes away from picking up the bag of grass that would facilitate the momentary destruction of these horrors.

She was talking to me, but I didn’t really hear it. She showed me a photo, I asked her; “How old is your brother then?”

She replied,

“That’s not my brother, that’s my sister.”

I seemed dumbfounded, because she pressed ahead in her description; “Oh my sister is my brother because she/he has had a sex change.”

The only thing that came to mind was a very small voice saying,

“Oh”

No question mark, no period, just, oh.

“Yeah, he had a sex change a few years ago.”

You know. I got raised by a social worker who marched in the seventies. I had a pretty forward fucking upbringing. I got thrown out of every religion class from about the age of seven for wildly exclaiming “Well! What about the Spanish Inquisition! How does your god explain that?!” even to Protestant Clerics. And while my mother may have covered the female orgasm in depth and told me how to deal with a whole fucking myriad of situations, she never once told me what to say to “Oh yeah, my teenage brother had a sex change a few years ago.” And for that, I felt slightly betrayed.

I didn’t really have anything to say, so I said;

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Must be interesting.”

She began to whittle on about her brother, how her father was a Marxist, a communist, how she’d been raised in that, but I had just enough bastard left to tune her out.

Then she wanted to go again.

Again?

Again? My brain whimper-laughed somewhat manically.

“Oh I don’t think that’ll happen again.”

“Why not?”

“Because I couldn’t go again…too old you see… couldn’t get hard again…”

This seemed to disappoint her. Greatly. But I busied myself with putting on my boots as she began to mumble about being Goddamn depressed and various other things. She wanted to come with me. I said she couldn’t. She wouldn’t relent until I finally broke and demanded that was I meeting a grass dealer and no one could come. She seemed to understand this, but that was all.

I called myself a taxi and played the waiting game hoping she’d leave. She didn’t. Instead she sat telling me how miserable she was and how much she wanted to do.

I tried to reason with her,

I wasn’t a good person for this. I used drugs. I was old, had problems getting erections. Various shit.

As she pushed on with her problems, the taxi arrived and I suggested that she was too young to let all this shit get her down. She asked me how to not let it. I said;

“Come with me then.”

So she came and listened to me discuss things that might, just might help.

I left her outside the nearest bookshop with the instructions to buy ‘The Tao of Pooh’, ‘Puckoon’ and ‘Who moved my cheese’. Books I felt would fix her reality.

And as the taxi pulled away and she stood outside the bookshop, walking after it waving earnestly, I clutched the driver by the shoulder and said the only thing I could say;

“Drive man, drive like the fucking wind.“