A sailor on shore for the first time is fucking yoinks,
decides he needs to hide the helmet, so he goes to the cheapest, dirtiest, dingiest brothels in Portsmouth. There was an old stove in the corner with a filthy old encrusted pan boiling something brown and runny which smelled slightly savoury with overtones of vomit. Hanging on the front were the whore's worn huge grey pants. The amonia had burnt away the gusset and left a map of Cyprus on the front and the stains in the rear were too heavily impressed, no detergent could shift it. He was greeted by a fat smelly whore dressed in a heavily spunk soiled pale grey nighty, which was most probably white a few decades back and a fag sticking out of her scabby lips. Well any port in a storm, and all that, he decides it will do. She lifts up her nighty releasing a smell quite similar to Billinsgate Market on a hot day mixed with the heavy stench of urine and a bit of shit.

The old hag removed her nighty over her head to reveal her breasts which were around a foot long and hung round her waiste like a couple of condoms filled with puke. Her belly was scarred with so many stretch marks, it looked a little like the London Underground map through a mist of grime. She farted. She farted again only this time a little bit of poo came out. She kicked the tiny turd under the coffee table without flinching.

He turned to look at the coffee table. There was some sivler paper, a burnt spoon and a needle nesting neatly next to a baby's feeding bottle. He also noticed several used condoms on both the floor and the coffee table. The remains of a take-away were visible and the remaining contents had begun to turn mouldy.
She opened her mouth to speak and a sound that only a chimp could relate to uttered, "You want it rough or smooth?"
The young sailor scratched his head a staired down at the little piece of toilet paper stuck to her enourmous twat.
Quicky, he answered, "What's the difference?". The ghastly woman looked him square in the eye with her one working one. She belched. She belched again on this time a little bit of sick came out. Then she answered him thus. "Rough you take me how I is. Smooth, I pick the scabs off and you ride in on the pus".
( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Mon 6 Feb 2006, 19:44, Reply)