Her hair was golden, her eyes a deep green, and when he first touched her skin, it was so soft, soft like the cock of someone with impotence (not him – his cock was hard).
The constant and unbidden seeping of fluids from her rancid crevice into those tight, white briefs had left them not only permanently defaced by hideous yellow stains but also saturated in the gusset and crotch by the ceaseless flow of quingeinal pus.
They had cuddled closely, him spooning her from behind, for what seemed like an hour. Now she was snoring ever so softly, and he gently released her and rolled away, extricating his arm from under her and relaxing with a sigh onto his side of the b- PONK!! In an instant, the landmine detonated, cleaving him in twey and flinging the largest remaining section of him hard into the wall on her side, just below the purportedly ironic Roger Moore poster.
He fouled himself, and it was so much worse since he was wearing shorts, was a mile from his condo, surrounded by people, in a foreign land, amid intense heat, and the flow of excrement, so copious and fervent, had the consistency of tapioca pudding.
He knew that having a lip job was a mistake, let alone in the ‘seventies, and now, as he stared at himself in the mirror, bits of lip flesh sagging and hanging down from his abused mouth, he knew that only death could restore his dignity. But, hey, dignity was overrated, and instead he eagerly started calling lesser-known clinics to inquire about radical, cutting-edge remedial surgery at the lowest possible prices.
As she opened the door to his room, the thick staleness of the air hit her and she blanched. Then she stepped in bravely. She wouldn’t be there for long. She was just there to pick up his washing. He was still in bed, of course. Bloody students. “Where’s the washing?” she asked. He hadn’t even gathered it up, of course. He did now, stumbling at first – probably stoned. She was surprised at how skinny he looked. Surely she was giving him enough money to eat? Well, never mind. He had been chubby before. He handed the washing to her. It seemed to consist entirely of socks. “Agh!” she exclaimed, and retched, almost vomiting. The entire pile – it must be fifty pairs of socks – were all crispy with cum. She threw them back at him and fled, wanting to help but desperate to escape the smell of dried semen.
The necessary incisions had been made, the skin was rolled back and the organs were now exposed. The exploration could begin. Suddenly, his assistant leaped at him from directly behind and clotheslined him, his face splodging down into the liver and kidneys which pressed back at him with warm wetness and the faint smell of ammonia.
She began to recite her favourite line from Hamlet, but just as her eyes closed for a moment, he seized his chance to belch gutturally and blow every bit of it into her face as she winced and turned aside in dismay.