Tuesday, December 2, 2008

THE REAL ELEPHANT MAN

baby's arm

My first time was much like what most girls have described their first time to be like, quick, painful and left with a “That’s it?” feeling. Since it was such a horrible experience, I did what all the rest of you did, I did it again and again and again and found out the second, third and fourth time around what all the hot, filthy, wild fuss was about. On top of the awkwardness of the first time, and too many pubes between the two of us, #1 was fucking HUNG, skinny white boys – may not look it, but they pack some serious fucking heat. It felt like I had lost my virginity to a telephone pole or the Jolly Green Giant or a 2x4. It wasn’t until seven hopeful candidates following #1 that I met his challenger and the current reigning champion.

This is the story of #9, who blasted me open like a gold mine.

#9 was a South African living in Australia. One of my best friend’s in life was studying abroad, so naturally I came to visit and check out the “local fare.” She was living in Brisbane, and took me to one of the downtown bars, The Family Circus. All I remember seeing across the room was a skin tight white thermal straining to contain some of the sexiest fucking bulging back muscles I’ve ever seen. My clit skips a beat, she approves. I've found my souvenir.

I mosey up to the bar to “order a drink,” touching my elbow to his, and miraculously conversation is struck. He was a blonde-haired, sparkly blue-eyed, accent-wielding, scuba-dive teaching South African hottie. Complete fuck material. I didn’t care what he said, I just cared that he said it with an accent… and had nice pecs. This guy was every fucking sexy foreigner stereotype imaginable (Scuba diving instructor, seriously?), which kicks ass for a horny American slut like me. His buddy is gay, and mine is dating an Australian who’s out of town, so they keep each other company. His friend is an older gentleman, rich and, without a doubt, man-crushing on his straight pal. He keeps the drinks coming, so he’s a-o.k. in my book – even if mine may be roofied. South Africa and I are vibing. Like brush-my-ass-across-his-cock-on-the-dance-floor vibing. I feel what can only be described as an elephant trunk. Needless to say, this shit was ON mothafuckas.

We close the joint down and I go with South Africa back to Richie Rich’s house somewhere in the Australian suburbs. (NOTE: Do not, I repeat DO NOT, be a 21 year-old IDIOT like me and go off with two men you don’t know in a foreign country while your friend goes home to sleep and has no idea where you are. This was pre-Natalee Holloway, but still highly retarded. Thank you for listening to this public service announcement.) Anyway, this time I managed to escape the danger that could possibly ensue after going home with two strange men and instead stumbled upon some of God’s most beautiful work.

Once we get to Richie Rich’s house – who is completely cross-eyed fucked up at this point – he gives me the complete tour of the premises, including the luxurious tool shed. It was a beautiful house for sure, but like four bedrooms beautiful, not fifteen and I had other things on my mind, very large things, probably the same things he had on his mind. We finally get to the guest bedroom, where South Africa is lounging on a massive Granddaddy of a California King bed; I mean the size of my apartment massive, and it’s covered with a gargantuan white down comforter and equally ridiculous white sheets with white pillows. It was like a cloud from heaven floating in the middle of the room with a big-dicked man resting on it waiting for me to come and sit on it (damn, that shit really was heaven). You practically had to squint to look at the bed straight on. South Africa is holding two glasses of wine and looks like some type of homo-erotic mattress ad. I close my eyes, readying myself for a frolic through dick heaven on a giant Serta cloud with Elephant Man when…

I am stopped by Richie Rich, who is making me feel the quality of the blanket while he proceeds to go into an extensive, life-draining Martha Stewartesque explanation of his custom-made bed with custom sheets and custom pillows. We’ve got a drunken gay man discussing home d├ęcor and possibly trying to cock block; we could be here ‘til morning. He tells us that his friend made and stained the bed out of the finest Australian Timber available, and that the sheets are four billion thread count, and blah, blah, blah. I mean he’s very sweet, but Niagra Falls is gushing between my legs because South Africa won’t stop giving me bedroom eyes, so it’s kind of hard to give a shit about Egyptian cotton. South Africa is over it too and escorts his friend to bed. He’s back not three seconds later sportin’ a boner the size of a Titan rocket. I hoped to God that Richie Rich didn’t help him try to launch it. He takes a flying leap into the bed and we attack each other like wild beasts. It felt like we rolled twelve times and still didn’t hit the edge of the bed. This guy was good. He had some crazy South African Tantric Shaka-zulu methods, and was puttin’ fingers and tongue in places that I didn’t know I had and that I didn’t know would feel so fucking awesome.

He suddenly springs up out of bed, and I prepare myself for the main presentation. I sit up anxiously awaiting the arrival of my soon to be new best friend. He drops his pants and I almost pass out. Those random white dots start to trickle in from the corner of my eyes – I’m seeing fucking stars. I hear angels singing. There it was in the flesh before my disbelieving eyes – the infamous baby’s arm holding an apple! It was glorious. I thought maybe he went to the kitchen when I blinked and grabbed a foot long sub for us to share. Like a magnet to steel, I gravitate to the magical flesh sword. I stand in awe, jaw agape. I think I felt a single tear roll down my cheek. I touched it like I was a little girl petting a pretty doggie for the first time. Poked it, is this real? Holy shit, this is real. I don’t even know where to start. For the first time EVER I doubt the abilities of my Whirlpool technique. In fact, I almost blacked out trying to deep throat and slightly ripped the corners of my mouth. There is something so fucking dirty hot about that I didn’t even care, I blew that shit like a meat whistle. Then it dawns on me, I look down at my little lady, who I realize will no longer be little after this. Fuck it. I was 21; I decide to take my chances. This bull, I needed to ride. I instantly start doing my Kegels, hoping to save the walls of my much needed tight vagina. This is the only one I get after all and one day I’ll be turning her back in used up, banged up, tore up and fucked up… but not anytime soon.

Cue the porn music, South Africa’s got me hanging from the fucking chandelier. At one point, he sticks his fingers in with the elephant tusk and in my ass – I start weighing the options of reconstructive surgery. Certain positions I can feel him poke my liver, he of course knows how to breathe and gyrate so the organ crushing stops and we can continue bangin’ it out. Men with big penises have quite the job ahead of them. I now knew why South Africa was so fucking swollen; he had to suspend himself in some of the most awkward fucking positions ever to avoid actually blasting me open. He was making Pilates look like a cake walk. At certain points, I couldn’t tell if I was in pain or complete ecstasy and the craziest part is that it was all fucking working for me. I was the wettest I’ve ever been, broken fire hydrant style. He had something going on at every fucking orifice of my body; playing me like a fucking tuba and I didn’t want it to end. Thanks to the alcohol or the sheer mass of his Donkey Dick it didn’t right away. When it finally did, I looked like I was dropped from a building, during a hurricane and hit every fucking awning on the way down. I slept happily ever after dreaming of dancing, singing schlongs raining down upon me.

The dream was the last good thing to come out of this. I woke in horror. As my eyes fought to adjust, I instantly could feel that something wasn’t quite right. My vision sharpens and I see a blood streak on my arm. What the --? I sit up in bed, the morning light barely peeking through the curtains, which are probably custom-made from the finest silkworms China has to offer. As my eyes continue to focus, I can now see that the room looks like a fucking murder scene. HOLY SHIT. I’m not on my fucking period. Not even close. My heart rate increases. The bed looks like someone came in and splash painted the fucking thing. It’s on the walls, the lamp, the rug, a little on the ceiling – were we flying at one point? This motherfucker really did bust open my liver, which no doubt was already highly weakened by my alcoholic tendencies. He cracked me open like a God forsaken egg, and what I thought was the approval of pussy juice was the assassination of my hymen, who I thought had been dead for years. This is not good, I wasn’t in danger before but I sure as shit was now. I mean Richie Rich spent twenty minutes alone on the delicate fabric of the pillow shams, which are now soiled with my vajayjay blood – sweet. Speaking of which…

My eyes go WIDE. I slowly peel the covers back, look down, check the oil and bring my hand back up to find it bloody. Like the kid in Stand By Me with the leech, I feel like I may lose consciousness. At the speed of a sloth I slowly rise out of bed and practically walk on my toenails to the bathroom, where I immediately turn into a contortionist and flip my leg over my head to assess this very severe situation. I can practically see out my mouth and everything still seems intact and in working order. I clean her up, she looks like she went 12 rounds with Rocky. She’s a little swollen, but the bleeding seems to have subsided so I’m pretty sure she’ll live to ride another cock. My liver on the other hand may be internally bleeding. I’ll need to deal with that later.

I exit the bathroom and look over at South Africa who was dropped from the same building and is breathing heavily still lost in the euphoria of REM sleep. He moves, I freeze and silently beg God to not let him wake up, and not just because I’m standing in the middle of the room butt ass naked watching him sleep. I need to figure this shit out. I consider waking him, it’s the right thing to do, and after all, he should be used to this shit, having a monster dick and all. That is until, he puts his arm over his face and I now see his hands are covered in blood. FUCK! Most guys I know aren’t all that stoked to be covered in some chicks vag blood. How both of us neglected to notice the God damn cunt massacre that took place here is a fucking mystery to me to this day. Panic starts to set in, I want to do the right thing, but I don’t want to die. I picture myself shackled in Richie Rich’s basement, threading new sheets on a spindle like Sleeping Beauty and shit. I decided Richie Rich was rich enough to replace the blanket, and pillows, and lamp, and, well, to redecorate the whole room.

All I need to do now is get the hell out of dodge without making a single peep, should be really fun in a house covered with hardwood floors. Luckily, the "three am slip out" is one of my specialties. I glide through the room like there are invisible laser beams waiting to detonate and seal off the room. South Africa moves a few times and I stop breathing altogether. I manage my shirt and underwear back on, and decide the pants and shoes can wait until I’m outside and about to break out this bitch. I make it into the hallway, yes! Richie Rich’s bedroom is between me and the front door, no! I then notice to the left of me is a door that leads out to the backyard. I take it.

A small path takes me along the side of the house to a walkway that has a gate at the end of it – my ultimate escape. I make my way as quickly and silently as possibly down this walkway where I pass a window that is, of course, Richie Rich’s bedroom. I peek in one-eyeball style, see him stir in bed and try not to shit my pants on the spot. The only thing worse than getting caught is getting caught trying to sneak out and take no responsibility for your actions… in your fuschia g-string. I wait under the window for what felt like thirteen days to make sure he wasn’t getting up or making anymore noise. All I needed was Richie Rich to stretch and gaze out his window to find me army crawling through his garden trying to get the fuck out of there. I make it to the gate, which hasn’t been used in ten years. The latch is covered and locked with a chain, fucking rad! I’m now way too scared to go back in through the house and get caught coming in from the backyard clenching my clothes. This is it. This has to happen. I throw my clothes over, back up a bit, get the tiniest running start on the gate and practically smash myself against it like a squished bug. Adrenaline pulls my half-naked, ass-up body over the gate and I land brown eye first in the wet dirt. Fucking nasty. I hope his neighbors were up for an early breakfast because they just got one hell of a show. Anyway, I’m on his porch in my underwear, begging that I don’t get discovered one second before I escape to freedom or in this manner, since I now look like I’ve shit myself. I dress Superman-style and start sprinting to the end of the block like Forrest Gump. I stop when I realize I’m in a foreign country, have no idea where I am, and need to catch a plane back to the states in three hours.

Like a bad movie and I mean bad movie, I check my phone and realize it’s about to run out of batteries. This was '01 when they beeped once and died on the second beep. Luckily, I was smart enough to get a cab number from my friend for this precise Walk of Shame moment. I dial and cross everything on my body I can. The guy answers and I immediately start shouting the surrounding street corners at him. He asks me to calm down and that’s when the phone dies – SHITTY! I look down all four streets around me, if you could pan up like a movie, I’m pretty sure you’d be able to see that the stretches of suburban houses went on for an infinity, like Death Valley. I do the only thing I can and start walking through the Brisbane streets at 6:30am in my four-inch heels looking like I just walked out of the eye of a hurricane. I come to a few random little stores tucked in between the houses, which don’t open until 8am or 9am, so I carry on, with mud in my ass and determination in my heart. After another half hour, and my near nervous breakdown of being lost in the streets of Brisbane as my plane flies overhead and leaves me, I see what looks like a cab at the very end of the street. I start hobbling toward the car in my stilts. I’m sure to the cabbie I looked like Quasimodo limping down the street, which can only explain his horrified expression as I throw myself in front of his cab. He locks the doors, as I’m trying to explain that I need him to call another cab to come and get me. I then notice the passenger in the backseat who is H-O-T! Of course, of course he is. He rolls down his window and asks if I’m okay, it’s painfully obvious what I’m doing in my heels on a random street at 7 in the morning so I go with it.

“I’m fine, I just rolled over and saw what I went home with last night and need to flush the image out of my eyes before it permanently sets.” He laughs. “Been there, I see.” I look at the cabbie who’s not amused and keeps revving the engine. I explain to Australian cab hottie (ACH), that my phone died before I could call my own cab and I need to get to the airport –

“That’s where I’m going...” He scans my Walk of Shame outfit. “... but I guess you aren’t exactly packed yet. Where are you headed?” This just keeps getting better and better, because I have no fucking clue. “Um, I have no fucking clue… see I’m on vacation and I don’t normally (lies all lies) do this kind of – “

He stops me with a Who are you kidding? look. He’s right, who am I kidding? The mud in my ass starts to itch and it’s all I can do to stop myself from doing the potty dance to scratch it. “Well I can’t just leave a girl in your condition (Condition? Drunk Walk of Shame whore condition?) out here in the street. I grew up here so I know the area very well, you can use my phone to call your friend and I’ll drop you off. “

I want to offer to kiss him, but since it looks like I kissed every Australian in the country last night I’m sure he’d pass, so I settle with a “ThankyouIloveyou” and jump in next to him reeking of booze and sex and mud and God knows what at this point. Cabbie takes off like he’s piloting a space shuttle. I think all the Australian cab drivers are retired Nascar stars because they drive at ludicrous speed and only use the brakes once you’ve arrived at your destination all the while blaring AC/DC. I didn’t mind because I got to keep sliding toward ACH, I can’t say the same for him. To top things off, ACH turns out to be the man of my dreams, except he’s going to visit his girlfriend in the states (which upon hearing I think to myself, yes! I have a chance, if only I were a home wrecker). In this lifetime he’ll have to simply be my ACH, my hero, my savior, and some of the best and longest-standing masturbation material I have to date. I mean he got out and opened my door when we got to my friend’s house and wouldn’t take a dime for the cab. I did one of those romantic comedy moves where I stood in the middle of the street and watched his cab disappear around the corner, hoping he’d stop and run back down the street into my waiting arms. Instead a car honks and I get out of the middle of the road.

You bet your sweet ass when I boarded my plane I scanned every last seat for a sign of ACH, this has to be destiny… or maybe I’m still drunk. I instead find my seat, which is at the end of a cramped exit aisle, and next to a 101 year-old couple who are unable to stand to let me in. Before we even take off the stewardess takes food orders and Grandma and Grandpa order a big ‘ol omelet, of which every other bite actually makes it into their mouth. Eggs and mothballs are one of nature's secret little scents that you don't often get the chance to partake in. I, of course, got the pleasure after a night of drinking and fucking. It should be illegal to serve eggs on a plane or any cramped space where there is no free running oxygen. My stomach instantly turns, and it takes me twenty minutes to crawl out of my space to get to the bathroom. I accept the egg/plane torture as my punishment for destroying Richie Rich’s guest bedroom and try, unsuccessfully, to fall asleep and dream of the baby’s arm for the next fourteen hours.

So you may be wondering, after a vagina massacre, narrowly escaping death at Richie’s house, a grueling trek through Australian Suburbia wasteland, a psycho cab ride, and the sickest I’ve ever been on a non-stop fourteen hour plane ride in my entire stinkin’ life, would I do it again? Hells –motherfuckin’ – yes! Cheers to big dicks.

The moral of THIS story: Kegels, girls, kegels – learn it, live it, love it.

XoXo
Easy Lover

P.S. A Medical Note: Upon taxiing the runway at LAX I speed dial my gyno and tell her I sprung a leak. This was her diagnosis: "He basically poked your cervix causing internal bleeding, next time you come across such a large penis you need to communicate (like when he hit my liver aka cervix I should have said "slower" or "gentle"). While sex with a large penis is not impossible it requires responsibility and it's my responsibility to make sure I am lubricated and comfortable" (I picture myself being rammed up against the wall and one of the hanging pictures dropping as I scream "Harder, harder."). I just nod my head, "Oh yeah, that's totally what I did."

Moral #2: Don't let a big dick poke your cervix... even though that kinda seems like the point.