Cornflake Girl & Raw Chicken
Back in my early twenties I found myself – for want of any direction, meaning, or purpose in life – knee deep in Arabs in the sweatbox hellhole also known as Marrakesh. My advice on Marrakesh: don’t go there. It’s shit. Imagine you’re confronted by the fattest sweatiest harpy you’ve ever come across in your life. A girl the size of a tower block with great big rolls of flab hanging loose off her carcass and obscuring her fat fucking knees. Now imagine you’re but naked with your nose buried deep up her sweaty, pock-marked, wobbly arse crack in the classic 69 position as she repeatedly slams a meat tenderising mallet into your nutsack. That’s Marrakesh. Stinky and incredibly unbearable on so many levels.

So I found myself wandering round the Moroccan equivalent of Sainsburys – a place where if some random local didn’t attempt to lob a rabid monkey on your shoulder, take a photo, then charge you a shitload of money for the pleasure, you’d feel like you’d just won the lottery. And then I see her.

She looked like that mental bird who did that Cornflakes song, that Tori Amos. Who, I have to admit, had been the source of several wank fantasies during my teenage years (got to the point where I couldn’t look at a box of cornflakes without getting a raging boner). Being bored, hot, and sweaty I decided to give it a crack – and maybe get some hot and sweaty action of a different kind that didn’t involve any monkey-chucking, photo-taking, cash-stealing.

I sidled up to this girl, said hello. She turned and said hello back. Yes! She speaks English! Not only that, English is her first language. She turned out to be one of those semi-Americans, or what some people might call ‘Canadian’. We ended up going for a drink to cool down. Iced cold mint tea. Very nice.

I found myself strangely attracted to her hair. Soft coppery stuff that fell across her porcelain white skin whenever she tilted her head to one side and smiled. She was doing this a lot. I took this as a good sign. And once you got past the fact she looked like she was walking round Marrakesh after a particularly intense bukkake session (she was smothered in greasy white suntan lotion), she was actually pretty damn cute. OK, she was a bit of a new-age hippy type, but that’s ok with me. Damn it, I’ve even fucked the occasional Tory in my time.

So, with this in mind, I suggested we moved on to alcohol so I could get her pissed and have a go on her.

Fast forward a four or five hours, I’m in her hotel room and its absolutely magical! SHE HAS AIR CONDITIONING! I’m enjoying this as we slip out our cloths and get down to the mechanical act of having a quick no-strings fuck. And within moments I’ve slid down her lithe little form and I’m positioned between her wide open legs. She’s panting like a dying fox, and in the moonlight I look down at her silky slash and prepare to sup the furry cup. And I’m absolutely petrified. This girls pubes were radioactive. They glowed a shocking GINGER in the dark. It looked like something out of the X Files. There was an eerie sort of aura about her gash, it was alluring and scary all at the same time. Shit! I thought. Maybe her pussy’s haunted?

But I didn’t have time to think about this too much. My ginge Canadian fuck buddy for the night rammed my head down onto her floppy slimelips and I started playing the hairy harmonica for all I was worth. And I was a little disgusted (which I suppose is never a bad thing while you've got a stonking hard on). Not too sure why, but gingers tend to taste like raw chicken. Not a very pleasant experience. But, strangely, my involuntary retching action drove my nose down hard onto her clit and this seemed to drive her wild. She writhed about like she’d just been set on fire. I continued to eat my undercooked fur burger while trying my damdest not to puke all over her cunt. It was pretty damn sexy.

We finished up with some regulation drunken fuckery and when I woke up the next morning we went for a quick bite to eat and then I fucked off to my own place. Job done. No telephone numbers, no addresses, the only thing we’d exchange was a range of bodily fluids. Then I went back to my place.

A few days later I saw her – think her name was Carley or Harley – from a distance in the bar we’d spent that evening in. Her slight figure, her long coppery hair. She stood out like a redheaded beacon of joy. Her shimmering hair looked more beautiful tonight too. Much more, well, sexy... I was half pissed at the time so the only possible course of action was to go and have another crack, see if she’d let me fuck her again.

So I walked over to the table, she had her head down and was reading or snorting coke. I stroked her hair and said one of my most romantic lines: “Would you like me to make you cum like a train, darlin?”

Carley or Harley looked up, pulled back the hair from her face and gazed at me with a look of utter horror and disgust. Then: “Fuck off!”

And I did fuck off – quickly. Very quickly indeed. Carley or Harley had somehow transformed into a skinny redheaded bloke with long wavy hair from Leyton... Gorgeous hair, though. Bloody lovely sexy hair...
( SpankyHanky, Wed 3 Mar 2010, 12:09, 6 replies)

Hahahaha
Good stuff.

I remember the first time I went to London, and accidentally ending up in a gay bar, where my friend and I ogled a perfect, lithe form with great legs and arse, clad in white denim, and with long, beautiful blonde hair, who then turned 'round to to display his rhodadendron-sized beard.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 3 Mar 2010, 12:17, closed)

Tea splurt!
Nice! Even stroked the hair! Thanks as usual.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Wed 3 Mar 2010, 12:42, closed)

Tastes like chicken
Had me laughing and gagging on my expensive M&S sandwich.

You owe me £2.85
(Meganinja, Wed 3 Mar 2010, 14:14, closed)

got to the point where I couldn’t look at a box of cornflakes without getting a raging boner
gave you away, Although I may have to steal "panting like a dying fox" and "slimelips"
(Obi wanker nobi Its not a bug, its an unexpected feature, Wed 3 Mar 2010, 15:59, closed)

Spanky
I dont know how you manage to write all these, but you really should think about collating them into a book ;)
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 1:31, closed)

this

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 9:03, closed)