Me and Kerri in front of our favorite Bournemouth restaurant. We never actually make it inside.
Some friends and I went to Bournmouth this past weekend for what was meant to be an innocent, drunken few days at the beach. Little did I know by the end of our trip I would be doused in the DNA of a fat lesbian. My life sucks.
Three of the guys I live with in our South London Squat (a.k.a. “Squallyoaks”) are in a band called Ratty Rat Rat. On Saturday night they were playing a gig in their hometown of Bournemouth, so a few of us squatmates decided to join them for a weekend get away. It started out fun—stealing Backstreet Boys cassette tapes from charity shops, getting drunk at the beach, watching cable TV (always exciting for the underprivileged), etc. Come nightfall we headed to The Consortium, Bournmouth’s trendiest nightclub. Little did we know that “trendy” in Bournmouth means a half empty room with sticky floors and a balding fat man touching himself in the corner. Good times.
Halfway though the night I started coming up on some shitty pills I bought off a girl in the club bathroom who I swear was pregnant. I love ecstasy but I despise the person I become when I’m on it. It just makes me love everyone and everything, which if you knew me is pretty much the antithesis of who I am when I’m not high.
Sufficiently loved-up, I spotted a girl sitting alone at the end of the dance floor. She looked about thirty, weighed roughly seventy-nine million pounds, and was wearing a floral crop top that beautifully accentuated her protruding fat rolls. Her rotting, jagged teeth hung like tiny stalactites from the roof of her mouth. I walked over and struck-up a conversation.
The girl’s name was Georgia. Georgia didn’t live in Bournemouth, but was there for the week visiting her parents. She seemed happy to have someone to talk to, and eventually we started dancing. A few minutes later she asked me to come to the bathroom to pee. Unbeknownst to me this was all part of her master plan to get me alone so she could work her psychotic dyke moves on me and rape me of my innocence.
We weren’t in the stall long before she had her overweight tongue down my throat. I didn’t mind really. I mean I’ve been with girls before and I’m into it. It was more the sheer size of her that scared me. Still, we spent a few minutes tongue wresting and hair pulling before she suddenly stopped, pulling away from me.
“I have my period,” said Georgia as she backed away from me.
“Oh… ok,” I replied wearily. I didn’t know where the conversation was going but I realized that this could be my possible moment of escape. “Maybe I should go….”
“No, I mean, you can stay if you want,” she smiled. “Actually, I’m not wearing a tampon. I hate tampons. They itch. I’m wearing this new thing called a Moon Cup. It cost fifteen pounds, but it’s amazing.” She began pulling down her skirt. “It’s good for the environment or something. It’s basically this plastic cup that you shove up your pussy and you can use over and over again. It has a little handle attached to… well… do you just wanna see it?”
“Well… I… umm…”
Judging by what happened next, I must have said yes (or something that resembled ‘yes’), but in my state of inebriation / disbelief, I can’t exactly remember. Nonetheless, Georgia proceeded to squat over the toilet and pull down her black tights to reveal her fleshy, hairless vagina. Next she reached deep inside. Once she had a firm grip on the Moon Cup, she began to tug. Instead of sliding out of her smoothly like she intended, however, the small plastic container popped, splattering the entire contents of the Moon Cup all over my thighs, hands, and face. I was covered in blood.
You’d expect the moments that followed to be some of the most awkward two human beings could experience. Georgia, however, seemed surprisingly unfazed.
“Oh shit, sorry” she moaned. “I guess I’m pretty heavy today. Maybe we better not…”
“Yeah… maybe you’re… right,” I managed to mutter, wiping bits of her uterine lining from my lips. “Bad timing. It was… nice meeting you though.” (It was the only thing I could think to say.)
“Ditto,” she grinned, cleaning my inner thighs with a wad of toilet paper. “Call me.”
2. It’s true. And gross.