Bad Sex: Suzy

By Suzy

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I should have known. But we always say that don't we? The night was already on a downhill slide when I finally succumbed to the urge that had been lingering for the 4 months of being laid up - not to be confused with LAID - in this sex prison that white women get confined to periodically. My last sexual release had been a brief affair with this funny Yakuza-type guy who was bald. I'm not kidding.

But this story is about another guy, another evening. It was a glittering affair sponsored by my English school, which had decided in the spirit of company harmony to host a sukiyaki party at a dingy old restaurant. So there I was surrounded by co-workers with whom I had spent hundreds of hours on trains traveling to factories to teach auto parts workers my native tongue.

It just so happens to I had become acquainted with an Australian who was teaching at the same factory with me. We rode the trains together chatting and generally moaning about our fate, you know the scene. Anyway, I must admit Australian men kind of attract me. This guy had a sort of Mel Gibson persona, you know - a quick smile and laugh. Horrible breath, mind you. I guess I should have taken this as an early warning sign of his lack of enthusiasm for personal hygiene. But we always remember these things too late, don't we?

Back to the party. At this gathering of teachers and glad-handing sales agents we two ended up as conversation partners. The beer was flowing pretty heavily and I myself was drinking that chuhai stuff. We were both getting sloshed and this where what might been just another sad night of alcoholic excess veered off into one of the worst sexual experiences I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.

We shared a taxi home. Actually, I went home with him. Call me a slut if you will, but I don't really deserve it. Besides, the Yakuza guy was the last opportunity I'd had to "comb the rug", to coin a phrase.

HIs apartment was a mess, but the thing is, I was pretty focused on getting down to it and was carelessly avoiding all warning signs and posted speed limits. Down on his musty futon, the action got pretty raunchy and again I wasn't really too focused on much except (to my credit) launching the rubber dingy upon his tog. Despite all I'd heard about Aussie MEN, it was really quite average except -warning sign number three- a sticky odoriferous kind of film.

He did perform, I must admit. And I, having spent the greater part of winter in a drought, was more than thankful to have a bit of a quench. We did it a couple of times more and kind of drifted into sleep midway through round four which I guess you could say was more or less just going through the motions. I think you follow.

As morning broke upon his dimly lit abode, the sun gamely dared to shine where obviously no vacuum cleaner or trash receptacle has dared venture. As the few rays that made it past the greasy kitchen window flittered across my eyes, I gave him a snuggle / sloppy kiss. He didn't respond and continued to snore. Feeling a tad embarrassed at the prospect of walking around lest he awake, and unable to find my own panties, I randily donned his and trucked my way to the loo for a morning splosh.

I say trucked, but it was more of an off-road expedition. The guy collects models of just about every description and there were several in a state of assembly. Somewhat more disturbingly, some had been acted upon with force - perhaps a fire cracker or such thing.

I sat down to relieve my bladder and heaved a sigh of release. I was still fuzzy headed and not too focused. Staring at the wail I realized there was no toilet tissue anywhere in sight. I'm not one who takes much to the drip dry method and was already starting to panic when I frantically looked down in search of a stray roll which might be laying 'round the base of the toilet. Nope. Not even a pack of tissues that he might have been handed outside of some department store.

It was at this unfamiliar, uncomfortable, dirty-one-night-stand moment that I most unfortunately looked down between my legs at his briefs, dropping around my ankles. His undies were not white, but more of a yellowish hue, and to my extreme displeasure were sporting a deep ochre brown racing stripe that his bottom had no doubt freshly painted.

I started to get a bit dizzy and I don't know whether it was actually the hangover, the stuffy air or just the extreme stress reaction of my quivering heart racing to get blood to the skin which was creeping down my spine. I actually lost consciousness then and there. My head must have struck something because when I came clear after a minute or so, I had this nasty bump on my forehead and a remarkably intense headache. This all kept me disoriented for 30 seconds or so until the horrific reality of the situation once again became clear to me.

I glanced back down between my ankles and noticed that during the short blackout, they had become twisted and now the brown stain was TOUCHING MY SKIN!!!!!!!

I thought briefly about the feasibility of hacking off the contaminated appendages, namely my ankles and feet, but realized the impracticability of this endeavor, as I would momentarily be needing them to flee the scene of this horrible incident. Wishing no further tacitle interaction with the undies, and with kind of skill a brain surgeon must bring to bear daily, I managed to unbind myself from the offending article. This was done with the aid of a chopstick that had inexplicably traversed the distance from from it's more logical place of residence, the kitchen, to become employed in some mysterious capacity in the toilet area; a function of which I desperately tried to prevent my mind contemplating.

Free of my bonds, I made haste towards the futon area where I, through a bit of archeological digging, was able to locate the more pertinent articles of my previous evenings attire. I dressed myself sufficiently and departed, while speed racer snored his way through lap after lap of slumber. A man who has no doubt earned his stripes.

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