Bumping Uglies
Carrie sat at the edge of her bed, aching in that horrible gap between filthy drunkenness and crystalline sobriety. Her sludgy brain throbbing into her skull, she winced as she smacked her paste-fastened lips apart. Carrie shuddered, then plucked a hair off her thick white tongue.
Her eyes squinted a short black pubic hair into focus. Carrie gagged. Pain shrieked through her head.
“Ooooowwww,” said Carrie.
She heard her toilet being flushed. Beside the kitchen-bathroom of her bedsit, the WC-shower door swung open. A tall skinny man with a long head that seemed to be dusted with iron filings stepped into the room. His naked body was a gangly collection of sticks that would probably glow in the dark if he stood under a lamp for ten minutes before lights-out.
Carrie shrieked. “Who the fuck… YOW!” she said, grabbing her head in her hands, “Who the fuck are you?”
The man looked confused. Carrie realized that she was also naked, and she threw her duvet over her body. Peering out, she noticed the man’s minute penis. Carrie felt embarrassed for him.
Kevin was also suffering a body-and-soul-crushing hangover. On waking, his pulped and pressed brain had taken several minutes to register that he had no idea where he was.
The girl he’d woken up beside was tremendous and covered in acne. Her face and upper chest and back were an apocalypse of sinister red rashes and spiteful green volcanoes, some of which were active. Kevin lifted the sheets and looked at his woefully small cock and sighed. Watching his sleeping host, he jammed a finger up his crust-lined nose, mined a lump of flake and goo and flicked it onto the whitewashed wall across the room.
Apart from the bed, Carrie’s bedsit housed a sparsely populated plain brown wardrobe and a small circular table that had just enough room for the dirty plate, full ashtray, and two empty tins of lager it now held. Her furniture stood on a threadbare forest-green carpet that hosted a bleak collage of stains and burns. A dead rose poked out of an empty wine bottle that stood atop the wardrobe.
Kevin had looked at the oozing pile of diseased raspberries that lay snoring and drooling beside him. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t. He watched his hand touch her. Carrie’s back was slick and warm and seemed to pulse. The sudden urge to vomit overwhelmed Kevin. He yanked back his hand, leapt out of her bed, and ran for the WC.
After emptying his gut of the previous night’s slivovitz, beer, wine, fernet, absinthe, whiskey, and gyros into the girl’s toilet, Kevin made the mistake of looking at the back of the bowl, where he spied a strip of yellow-brown shit. Kevin spewed bile for another few minutes, then dry-heaved until he felt he’d purged his system of everything shy of blood and air.
All Kevin’s hopes of dressing silently and making a clean getaway were dashed when he discovered the girl had awoken. She screamed. “Who the fuck… YOW!” she said, throwing her hands up to her head as if it were about to blow apart. She squealed in pain, “Who the fuck are you?” she said, staring at his child-sized knob.
Carrie smacked her lips again and felt another pubic hair sprout in the pouch of her left cheek. The man noticed her confused gaze and blushed.
In a crisp English accent that made Carrie think of Hugh Grant, the man said, “I’m Kevin. Erm… who are you and… um… where are we?”
“I’m Carrie,” she said, her tone softening, “We’re in my apartment.”
Kevin nodded and said “Last thing I remember was being at Chateau, at the bar. I was there with a couple of American tourists, Brad and Doug,” said Kevin, scratching the film of fluff on his head.
“We met at Chateau?” asked Carrie, who was trying to remember if she had even set foot in the place, “I started out at Dusk Till Dawn. I don’t know any Brads or Dougs.”
Kevin crossed the room and stood by the bed. He asked, “Mind if I sit down?”
“Go ahead,” said Carrie as she lit a cigarette.
Kevin sat down. “Can I bum a fag?” he said, adding, “Mine are in my jacket, I think.”
Carrie gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. Kevin nodded thanks.
They looked at each other, trying in their own minds to put the previous night together.
Carrie remembered sitting at the bar at Dusk Till Dawn, laughing at everything one of the bartenders said. The bartender’s name was Oliver and it was his birthday. Carrie loved Oliver and kept buying him shots he wouldn’t drink. Carrie drank them for him. The last thing she remembered was slur-singing Happy Birthday to Oliver before downing what she reckoned was her tenth shot.
Just down the road from Dusk Till Dawn, at Chateau, Kevin stood drinking alone beside Brad and Doug. The tourists were buying each other rounds and talking about women, watching women, admiring them from afar, too chickenshit to approach them. While trying to draw Brad’s attention to a big-breasted brunette who was peeling off her t-shirt as she danced, Doug knocked Kevin’s beer off the bar. It had been a fresh one, and the Americans felt terrible about it. And just like that Kevin was a part of their group. They were from New York. Kevin decided that New Yorkers were alright.
Three boilermakers later, Brad asked about scoring some grass. Kevin spied the house dealer, Moses, pitching his wares to the brunette, who was now strut-swaying around Chateau in a filthy white lace bra. The lads from New York were willing to pay, so Kevin was happy to be of service. He walked over to Moses and the brunette.
Up close, the girl was a wreck. Her lipstick was smeared, and her drooping lids covered blood-and-rage-marbled eyes. She snarled at Kevin as he approached. Kevin winced. The brunette smelled like she hadn’t bathed for days; her ripeness sliced through the smoke and boozefumes.
Moses was squeezing one of the girl’s plump ass cheeks. He smiled at Kevin and said, “Hey man, what can I do for you?”
“Give me the minimum,” said Kevin.
Moses’ free hand slipped out of sight for a second, then reemerged as a fist. The two men shook hands and the exchange was made.
The New Yorkers didn’t know how to roll. Kevin did the honors, producing a loose and crooked cone overloaded with low-quality homegrown. They went outside to smoke and, apparently, did not go back into Chateau.
Kevin looked at Carrie. She was lying on the bed, staring at the smoke rings she was sending up to the ceiling. She finished her cigarette and leaned over to put it out. The sight of her bumpy pus-infused back sent tremors through Kevin’s gut.
Carrie looked at the tiny lump between Kevin’s legs. She closed her eyes and rolled them back as far as she could. She tried to be grateful that at least somebody had gone home with her. Maybe they’d even danced together. She wished she could remember.
Throughout her teens nobody had ever asked Carrie to dance or go on a date. In her first year of university, she’d had drunken heavy petting sessions at a few parties she’d crashed. A crew of the school’s football gods witnessed one session and got an idea. Carrie was to replace the goat they had been using as part of a hazing ritual.
Carrie had to give them credit — they told her everything, including the bit about her replacing a goat. They offered her cash, but she turned them down. Carrie just wanted to feel what it was like to get fucked, damn the conditions.
So, from her second to fifth year, Carrie got laid every September.
The frosh who took her virginity was also big, but not in the way Carrie was big. He was pure beefcake, with a massive rod. To Carrie, he was built for porn. Throughout their fuck, he seemed to be on the verge of tears. At first he had difficulty getting hard, but he shut his eyes tight, concentrated, and banged away until she felt him blow his load in his condom.
The next few freshmen put just as little effort into hiding their disgust. During a break, Carrie found a paper bag to put over her head. A senior removed the bag. “They gotta do the whole hog!” he brayed.
So, Carrie kept her own eyes squeezed shut, praying that one of them would take pity on her and fuck her with at least a hint of tenderness, passion, and perhaps even love. None of them did. They just shoved their dicks into Carrie and, she assumed, thought about fucking porn starlets while they toiled their way towards coming on her massive belly.
None of them had had penises like that of the scrawny Brit that sat on the edge of her bed, smoking another one of her cigarettes. Kevin had his back to Carrie, partly to avoid looking at her, but mostly because he’d seen the way she was looking at the shriveled worm between his legs.
It was three inches when erect and had earned him several nicknames: Pinpoint. Pinprick. Pinhead. Pin. Wishbone. Fishbone. Toothpick. The worst was the one that followed him to university, courtesy of a few schoolmates who’d also gone out of town for their post-secondary studies: China White.
Nevertheless, Kevin found it easy to talk to women: he was charming, his voice was soothing, and he listened with genuine interest. Pulling wasn’t the problem, it was keeping them after the first night.
There had been one woman he’d had three times, a ragged Russian divorcée named Stanya, who went through two packs of smokes and two liters of vodka per day. She’d been a mail-order bride to a Pakistani man in Leeds. Stanya ran away from him one week after her marriage and ended up in London, where she cleaned apartments for a living. She laughed at Kevin’s penis as soon as she saw it, and teased him in her native tongue, but she let him fuck her. Stanya cackled as he slid his microdick in and out of her tight dry cunt, smirked as she faked multiple orgasms, but cooed and stroked Kevin’s dusty head as he came.
Kevin stood up from Carrie’s bed and started to get dressed.
“Wait,” said Carrie.
Kevin continued getting dressed. He was fastening his belt when he felt one of her hands on his lower spine, rubbing the small of his back, clawing at the belt, pulling it down.
Kevin resisted. Carrie said, “Please.”
Kevin said nothing. If he opened his mouth he would vomit. He turned around and let Carrie undo his belt buckle. Kevin looked outside and imagined porn stars fucking in the sunrise as Carrie took his three inches into her pasty mouth. Carrie thought about Oliver. She sucked hard and heard Kevin moan. She looked up and saw him looking out the window. Kevin looked down at Carrie, then slammed his eyes shut.
Tears drizzled down Carrie’s cheeks. She worked and worked and worked to get it over with, stuffing three fingers up her pussy as she imagined Oliver banging away at her. Kevin’s moans got louder. He shuddered and gasped and came and felt a vague relief, like he’d just taken a quick piss.
Carrie spat Kevin’s meager payload into a used paper tissue and fished a few pubic hairs out of her mouth.
Kevin got dressed. He did not look at Carrie as he muttered a barely audible “See ya,” before he walked out of her bedsit.
Carrie sat on the edge of her bed and smoked a cigarette, trying to shake off her hangover. Oliver was working at Dusk Till Dawn again tonight. Maybe Kevin would be there as well. Carrie wasn’t sure whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. More likely no thing at all, she thought, trying to smile to herself.
