I'd lick the first two. And maybe #6.
But the rest would have to lick themselves.
I'm not indiscriminate.

You would pass on 4?  She's the hottest of them all.

DoucheEllington wrote:

Bigcat, would you really stick your tongue in this (#11)?  She's, at best, a candidate for donkey-punching.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/graphics/a … mugs11.jpg

I have to be honest. YES. I like skank.

fnord wrote:

Many of these women are streetwalkers.  Why would you risk getting a rare tropical disease?

Hard to explain. It's a hetero thing.

Bigcat wrote:

DoucheEllington wrote:

Bigcat, would you really stick your tongue in this (#11)?  She's, at best, a candidate for donkey-punching.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/graphics/a … mugs11.jpg

I have to be honest. YES. I like skank.

Then get out your tuna for cats and read this:

http://www.nerve.com/regulars/badsex/011/
by George Tabb

So there I was, my testicles super-glued to my Fruit of the Loom briefs in the tropical Florida weather, when she pops the question.
    "Mfffffmmm my pussmmmfffffm?" she mumbles.
    I remove my penis from her mouth, which is poking through the zipper of my ladies' stretch jeans I'd purchased on Fourteenth Street, and ask her what she said, this time without her mouth full.
    "Mfffffmm my pussmmmmmffffffm?" she asks again.
    I'm about to ask her yet again what she was saying, but then I remember that "I Need Lunch," off the Dead Boys album, Young, Loud, And Snotty, is blaring through the Archer stereo system of my Datsun 610 station wagon.
    I reach over She-Who-Can't-Be-Named's beautiful brown hair and turn the fucking thing off.



    I can now hear her with her throat clear and the Dead Boys muted. "Munch my pussy, man."
    I'm stunned.
    Here I am, with this beautiful woman in my newly purchased Datsun 610, with only 150,000 miles on it, and this rocker chick who has her own band and everything wants me to perform oral sex on her.
    I'm in heaven.
    Finally, my new car is going to get broken in. The seats will get that wet vagina smell that I can place my large nose against anytime I feel lonely and horny while traveling down I-95.
    I lift her sun-flowered dress and quickly try to remove her furry brown underwear.
    "Ouch," she snaps at me.
    With a small fistful of pubic hair, I tell her I'm sorry, and that I didn't realize she was naked beneath her dress — well, naked except for that.
    She kind of giggles and forces my head ever so gently with her left hand down toward her vagina.
    But let me back up a bit.


The University Of Florida rocked for me. While I was barely keeping a D-average, I was getting all the carnal knowledge I needed All I could think was, "If only that poor guest sofa knew what was about to hit it."
(or could handle). Plus, I was in the process of learning just how much alcohol my liver could stand before becoming toxic.
    It was a charming, beautiful and innocent time in my life.
    I was also the guitar player and lead songwriter in the state's only hardcore punk-rock band, Roach Motel. Anyway, one day we were asked to open for this hippie band with a female lead singer. I think. Or we may have just been there for the free beer.
    No matter.
    The point is that She-Who-Can't-Be-Named was the lead singer. Years later she would become really famous and end up talking to David Letterman and everything. While watching her stride confidently out toward Dave's desk, all I could think was, "If only that poor guest sofa knew what was about to hit it."


Back to the night in question. She-Who-Can't-Be-Named and I are talking between sets, and the next thing you know, I'm making out with her, this beautiful brunette. And I mean beautiful. Silky brown hair, skin as soft as a baby's and a mouth with a full set of teeth — a rare find in Northern Florida.
    As I'm squeezing her ripe melons behind her van, she tells me to stop playing with the fruit she'd purchased for her band at Pic N' Save and pay some attention to her.
    The next thing I know, we're in my new used Datsun and she's giving me a blowjob.
    Well, sort of.
    She keeps sliding her head up and down the shaft, but she won't use her hands to keep the rhythm going. I think about asking her to do this, but then I remember that if she does it this way with me, she must do it this way with her husband too, and he wasn't complaining, so why should I?
    Plus, it really didn't matter that my groin area had turned into Niagara Falls. So what if there was so much saliva running down my shaft and pooling in the car seat that I'd have to get the vinyl buffed?
    Finally, she's squirming in her seat, and asks if I'll go down on her.
    She asks this mid-blowjob.
    I reluctantly accept.
    This is after I have to tell her not to talk with her mouth full.
    And that's when it happened.


As I throw the clump of pubic hair out the driver's side window so as not to mess up my green shag carpeting, I make my way down to her "Oh my God," she screams as I bathe her vagina with used nachos and beer.
pulsating womanhood with the help of her left hand upon my head.
    It's a good, strong push, by the way, as if she's used to plugging up leaks.
    Anyway, very soon I realize there's trouble in paradise, which explains her surprising forcefulness.
    When my nose is about three inches from her vagina, a smell begins.
    You know, the one you notice on overly hot days in New York City when the garbage men are on strike? Or the one your dumpster-diving pals develop after visiting the bin behind Red Lobster when it's over a hundred degrees out?
    That smell.


My arms begin to flail wildly, and the surprisingly strong lead singer is still holding me down there. I try to take deep breaths, but that just makes me feel even sicker. So I decide that maybe it's just a smell and that her vagina tastes like wine and roses.
    As my tongue makes contact with what can only be described as rotting Brillo, I feel little hard things begin to fill my mouth as I graze. It feels like sand.
    Being the trooper that I am, I search through the wild bush to find Charlie, who must be hiding in there somewhere. While managing not to breathe, I finally find that wet crevice and my tongue follows the slippery slant all the way to that glorious opening where I'm hoping the roses aren't dead and the wine isn't Thunderbird.
    Instead, my tongue finds something that feels like a hard-shelled crustacean, and I feel it crawl from the back of my tongue to the inside of my right cheek. As this happens, I manage to hurl into the hippie's hole.
    "Oh my God," she screams as I bathe her vagina with used nachos and beer. "What the fuck are you doing?"
    I try to tell her I don't feel so well, but end up puking even more onto her thighs. As I do so, she reflexively snaps her legs tightly together, causing the vomit to pool in her lap.
    Thinking quickly, I leap out the driver's side door and, in one motion, slide over my hood to the passenger side, and in another, pull her out of my car to safety.
    Safety for my car.
    While jumping over the hood, of course, I catch my penis on the car's antenna and rip open some skin.


A few months later, She-Who-Can't-Be-Named and her band show up in town again and I go to their gig. While she sings from the stage, she spots me in the audience and glares at me.
    After her fine set, I find myself alone with her in the women's room I'd followed her into, planning to apologize.
    "You can't come in here," she says in one of the meanest voices I've ever heard.
    "You're telling me," I mumble, and make my way out of her life forever.  n°

Last edited by DoucheEllington (2007-11-05 00:13:15)