So, I showed up at ShyAnne's shack in Pittsburg last Friday afternoon.

I rang th
e doorbell, but all I heard from inside was a woman's voice screaming and yellin
g, and children screaming and yelling back. I rang the bell a few more times unt
il I finally heard the argument come to a halt as someone screamed "Shut the fuc
k up! I gotta get the door!" The house boomed with plodding footsteps, and sudde
nly, I sawthe bloated, broad, exhausted face of ShyAnne looming at the screen do
or, a mangled cigarette clenched in her teeth. She looked me up and down for a m
oment, and then asked: "The fuck you want?"
"Uh, I'm your date - I'm ____ from FC."
ShyAnne brightened up noticably. "Oh, hey, alright, well come on in," she offere
d, kicking the screendoor open and motioning me in. Ice cubes clunked in a huge
plastic mug she carried, filled with whatever alcoholic mix I smelled on her bre
ath. "Sorry, hope you didn't have to wait long - I was, uh, talking to my kids."
ShyAnne was wearing a long, stained and tattered red t-shirt, stretched almost
to her knees; she wore capri jeans against which her flabby legs strained mighti
ly. One of the knees was worn through. Her flip-flops did not match.
A loud thump and crash echoed from the basement - ShyAnne stomped furiously on t
he floor and screamed, "Goddamnit, knock that fucking shit off or I'm gonna come
down there and KILL YOU!" ShyAnne turned to me with a slightly embarrassed smil
e, muttering "Kids..." while the little ones in the basement pounded the ceiling
with what I imagined to be a broom handle and screamed back, "Fuck you, Meemaw!
"
"So, I, ah.. so, you ready?" I said. We had planned to see an early movie, follo
wed by dinner at a cute little Mexican cafe in Pittsburg. ShyAnne lit a fresh ci
garette, drank deep from her huge plastic party mug. Her foul belch led into the
sentence: "URRRRRP yeah, you wanna help me, like, fold some laundry first?" She
said it with a laugh - I got the feeling we'd be skipping dinner and a movie, a
nd going straight to the good stuff.
I was afraid, very afraid.
ShyAnne led me back through the house, kicking aside toys, magazines, oily engin
e parts, dishes, until we got to her bedroom. Interestingly, there were two dead
bolts on her bedroom door, which she swiftly unlocked. She put her shoulder into
the door, heaving it open against the foot-deep layer of underwear, cigarette b
utts, prescription pill bottles and burrito wrappers on the floor of her room. R
ipped and battered plastic blinds admitted only a few slivers of light into the
dark and musty hole that was ShyAnne's room, and I was thankful.
ShyAnne ushered me in, giving my ass a drunken swat on my way in, and bolted the
door behind us. She shambled over to to bare, stained mattress on the floor, fl
opped down on it, and fumbled through her purse. Having found a nearly empty pil
l bottle, she twisted off the lid and upended the contents - four pills of whate
ver - directly into her mouth, washing them down with a final chug of her drink.
Her face screwed up with the effort of swallowing, then she looked up at me, li
t yet another cigarette, patted the space on the mattress next to her, and said,
"I ain't gonna bite." Then she snickered in a way so tawdry, so filthy, so grac
elessly lascivious that I considered bolting out the window right there and then
. I don't have to go through with this.... I don't have to go through with this.
.. I thought to myself.
As she sat there on the mattress, swaying slightly and leering at me, I thought
of ways to stall. Over in the corner was a cheap second-hand desk with a nicotin
e-stained keyboard and mouse and an old, dust-covered monitor with the familiar
crimson glow of FC. Tiptoeing my way through the filth matting her bedroom floor
, I picked my way towards it. "So, here's the computer you post from, huh?" I co
uld hear the nervousness in my own voice. "There's - heh - there's a lot of peop
le who'd love to get their hands on this thing, you know."
"Yeah. Fuckin' cunts," she said, her words starting to slur. I rarely hear a wom
an used the c-word, but somehow it didn't sound so out-of-place in this house, f
rom this woman.
As I tried to discern what thread ShyAnne had been reading, I heard here flop ba
ck onto the matress - I looked back at her; she lay spread-eagle, cigarette poin
ted straight up from clenched lips like a miniature smokestack on some foul, pol
luted land. As I looked her over, and she me, she made her intentions plain with
a sentence that was half spoken, half coughed: "What the fuck you waitin' for?
You're horny, I'm really fuckin' horny, and I'm drunk."
ShyAnne took my five seconds of shocked silence as a yes. Without passion or del
iberation, she reached down, unbuttoned her jeans, and pried them off, balling t
hem up and heaving them into the corner where they knocked over a half-full beer
bottle. She didn't seem to notice - she was busy pulling her greasy red t-shirt
up over her head. Her bra, yellowed and threadbare, came off with a pang!, and
her pendulous, lumpy tits poured forth onto her belly.
For one blessed, hopeful moment, ShyAnne looked like she'd forgotten about me -
she puffed on her cigarette, regarding her breasts and flicking pieces of lint a
nd food off of them. I was busy concocting an excuse for using two condoms - sen
sitive penis skin? prolonging the sex? - when the kids banged loudly on the door
, hollering that one of them had gotten dishwasher detergent in her eyes.
ShyAnne cut them off, bellowing from the mattress at the door: "Just go wash it
out or call the fuckin' neighbors! My boyfriend's here!" Honest to God, my nutsa
ck went tight and cold at the word boyfriend. But the kids kept pounding away an
d begging for attention, so ShyAnne played whan I imagined to be her trump card:
she staggered to her feet, lumbered across the room, unlocked the deatbolts and
through open the door, looming above the kids in nothing but a badly overtaxed
thong. She yelled something at the children, something I couldn't make out over
the horrified shrieks of the little ones as they sprinted down the hallway and o
ut the back door.
ShyAnne slammed the door and staggered back to me, cigarette dangling from her c
rooked smile. "I'd guess we got a good couple a' hours now," she slurred.
Now the time had come - ShyAnne walked right up to me, looking up into my face,
her cigarette dangerously close to burning my chest. "Best part is, I don't need
no foreplay," she said, ending with a laugh that quickly degenerated into a hac
king cough. Not breaking eye contact, she reached down and peeled away her thong
, letting the woeful scrap of fabric fall around her feet.
I know this can't possibly be the case, but in my memory of this, ShyAnne removi
ng her panties was accompanied by a low, unearthly rush of air, a dreadful foom
that hearalded an equally vile smell. It was the strip-club odor of feminine hyg
ene spray that was badly losing its battle against feminine funk. I nearly retch
ed.
ShyAnne stubbed out her cigarette on the wall and flicked it across the room. Lo
oking back at me, she snickered, licked her lips, and said:
"Come to mama."
With that, she got down on all fours on the mattress, her knees spread apart, he
r hair hanging down to the ground, swaying uneasily. Her gigantic ass jiggled li
ke jello, and like some kind of perverse seismologist, I watched the ripples tra
verse her flesh, back and forth. "C'mon," she beckoned again in a drunken slur.
With trembling hands, I undid the button on my jeans, unzipped, and let them fal
l to the floor. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was horny and hard as a rock - no
sex for a month and a half will do that to you. But it wasn't just that; someth
ing about this sad, filthy, awful spectacle had really turned me on. I usually d
ated (or had sex with) "good" girls, nice clean professional women from the worl
d I'd grown up in. And now here was a fat, disgusting, degenerate skank on all f
ours for me, who wanted me to fuck her without foreplay or so much as a proper i
ntroduction. It had an irresistably dirty thrill to it, although I know I'd hate
myself later for this.
So, I rolled on the condom - never before had I felt so much allegance and grati
tude for a condom, I almost wanted to say a silent prayer of thanksgiving and sa
crifice for it. I got down on my knees behind ShyAnne, who mumbled something tha
t ended in "yeah, atta boy." Resting on her elbows, she was busy lighting her ne
xt cigarette. I wasn't offended - I just wanted to get this over with and get fa
r, far away from there.
I slid my cock in. She was wide and sloppy, but warm and wet, and she let out a
long "ooooooh" as I entered her that trailed off into another coughing fit. The
coughs were actually kind of a nice sensation - the spasms of her bronchial hack
ing, transmitted through untold pounds of fat tissue, massaging my cock. I began
to fuck her, my hands dug deeply into the mounds of fat on her thighs, and she
made vaguely sexual noises in between coughs, wheezes, and drags on her cigarett
e.
At one point, she muttered, "God damn, I really am drunk. Those pills..." I didn
't pay attention - my eyes were shut, and I was using all my energy to pretend I
was fucking someone else - my first girlfriend, my mom's secretary, Barbara Bus
h, whoever. I felt ShyAnne shift a bit, and opened my eyes - she had reached acr
oss the mattress to snare a small plastic bucket, the kind you buy at the beach
for your kids to make sandcastles with.
It happened too fast for me to do anything about it. ShyAnne uttered a couple mo
re words - "I think I'm-" and then brought the bucket up to her face. She gave a
little gag, then heaved forcefully into the bucket, vomit splashing out onto he
r face, her hair, her breasts; splattering the mattress and walls, and even me a
little. I felt her powerful waves of retches from deep inside her, and they squ
eezed my cock to a truly amazing orgasm, boosted by the pure depraved perversity
of the situation.
I pulled out just as ShyAnne collapsed onto her side, passed out, the bucket tip
ped over and forming a lake of puke in the mattress indentation where ShyAnne la
y. The vomit oozed around her, making a horrible little moat around her body. At
that point, the smell, and more importantly, the reality of this room hit me wi
th full force - and up came lunch, spraying between my teeth and out my nose, sh
owering ShyAnne with chunky, awful filth. She didn't stir, but continued snoring
loudly.
I ripped off the condom, tied it off, dropped it on the bed in front of ShyAnne'
s face (as a helpful reminder when she wakes up, I teased myself). I pulled on m
y jeans and ran out of the house, leaving skid marks on her lonely, decrepit str
eet as I drove away as fast as I could. All I could think of was my shower.