Strue I Tell You

The story I am about to tell you is true. Names of people and places have been changed (OK, omitted - who am I kidding?) to protect (mostly) the innocent, but also the guilty. How am I sure it's true? You're going to have to trust me on this, but I heard the first-hand account from a person who has never lied to me in any way, shape, or form; and I have absolutely no reason to doubt his word. Especially given the rather unflattering self-portrait painted.

It all started one balmy Friday evening when students all over the fairest Cape were indulging in their favourite activities - classes were done for the week, the semester was all but over, and all that loomed ahead was 48 hours of self-indulgence for both hard-working and slothful students alike. After all, it was far too late to undo the effects of either hard work or lack of study, and so the day passed into evening and the students jostled and mingled at their favourite watering-holes, looking for sweet oblivion in whatever form it took, be it alcoholic oblivion, drugged delirium, or the carnal knowledge of others, as opposed to the solo-performances of those who are rather harshly (if accurately) described as 'forever alone'.

Anyway, our 'hero' (for all good stories must have at least one) was nursing his second or third alcoholic beverage of the evening, and contemplating the possibility of indulging in a little cannabis smoke to wind his week down to a satisfactory if unexciting closure, when his attention was caught by a young damsel of rather pleasing appearance, being lovely of face and possessed of a figure that brought the blood thundering down from his grey-matter and into his 'little head', as the saying goes. He offered to buy her a drink, which was enthusiastically accepted and consumed, and which was followed by a significant number more, enough to make his all-too-rapidly-approaching Saturday morning one of acute penury, as well as physical pain.

Naturally, as the newly acquainted couple grew ever more cosy and comfortable with each other's company, talk turned to matters carnal, and the young lady displayed a highly tempting openness coupled with a certain worldliness which intrigued and attracted our hero. And upon watching an impromptu demonstration upon the dance floor of the crude but undeniably sexual genre of dance-movements called 'twerking' (little more than suggestive twitching and jerking of the buttocks and surrounding areas, hence the conflation of 'twerking'), the discussion quickly centred upon the attractiveness of the female posterior. Our hero was pleasurably surprised to discover that his companion thought his own posterior to be of an unusually and extremely attractive shape and size, and he found himself rather obviously enjoying her increasingly bold caresses of his aforementioned posterior.

When the young lady then invited him to join her in her modest little flatlet, conveniently located but a stone's throw from their current location, and sweetened the deal with the offer to share her private stash of a particularly good variety of cannabis, the proceedings were hastily relocated with scarcely a backward glance at the now-teeming bar-cum-nightspot. None of his fellow students even noticed his disappearance, and the young couple was soon totally engrossed in a protracted form of foreplay that entailed shedding all their clothes, drinking copious amounts of liquid (all of the alcoholic variety), and sucking enthusiastically at hand-rolled cigarettes containing a goodly amount of the aforementioned cannabis.

And things just got better from there on in. Our hero was thoroughly enjoying himself being an unselfish and considerate lover, intent only on bringing his lady-friend pleasure, while she, no doubt with the benefit of experience, managed to maintain and even increase his level of arousal through the judicious application of hands and mouth. The night seemed set to become one of the best of his young life.

It was at this point that reality began to unravel for our hero. Whilst the young couple had been indulging in this unusually intense session of foreplay, various substances had been brought into play, including but not limited to certain fruits, a bar or two of chocolate, and even some banana-flavoured lubricant. And when the young lady breathlessly suggested to our hero that he, being as open-minded and unprejudiced as was obvious to her from the moment their eyes locked, might enjoy a little anal penetration with one of her personal 'toys', he could hardly wait for the heavenly sensations he was sure would soon consume his soul. The unveiling of a rubbery rod upon which were moulded increasingly larger spheres, obviously intended to test the elasticity of the sphincter-muscles of its recipient, hardly fazed our hero - after all, he was special, unprejudiced, in touch with his inner female self, and ready to receive whatever the universe had bestowed upon him. In fact, the contraption reminded him rather whimsically of a Christmas-tree he had once designed and constructed in art class.

The insertion of the first sphere, small as it was, proved a little disappointing, but soon, with the lavish addition of banana-flavoured lubricant, the second, third, and even the fourth spheres were nestling comfortably within the colon of our hero. At this stage, a lesser man would have cried "Enough!" and had his way with the (still) yet-to-be-penetrated young lady. But our hero is made of sterner stuff than this, and it was only when the last sphere, roughly the size of a tennis-ball, steadfastly refused to enter the seat of his desires, that his dazed brain began to comprehend the enormity of the challenge he had undertaken.

However, in the position he now found himself occupying - on his knees with his chest pressed firmly to the bed - and the cooing encouragement of the damsel who was simultaneously stroking his painfully erect member, and jiggling the little christmas-tree while doing so, served only to heighten his excitement and bring him closer and closer to his impending orgasm, which he was increasingly sure would be the mother of all orgasms. And when his breathing became as erratic as that of an asthmatic searching wildly for his life-saving inhaler to fend off asphyxiation, she asked him "Do you want to come?" And when he managed to utter the heretofore simple affirmative word of "yes", his world as he knew it ended.

Instead of stroking him a little harder, or quicker, or adding stimulation via her tongue or any other part of her lovely body, the young lady whispered "Hold on!", grasped his penis with a grip that would have made a professional wrestler proud, took a firm hold of the small piece of rubber still protruding from our hero's anus with her other hand, braced her knee in his armpit, and with a motion not unlike that employed by tired gardeners trying to start a reluctant lawn-mower in a great hurry, ripped the anal intruder straight out of our hero's colon.

His lungs, which he had very recently filled with fresh air in anticipation of a long, drawn-out moan of pleasure, emptied themselves through his vocal cords creating a shriek the intensity of which shocked even himself to his core. His bowels, until recently occupied with resisting the advances of the relentlessly advancing christmas tree, suddenly found themselves pushing against a vacuum, and as has often been noted, Mother Nature abhors a vacuum. So his intestines jerked and recoiled violently in protest, and almost immediately found some grist for their mill, so to speak. The contents of his intestines, having been rudely repelled by the invader, were rushed in to fill the void, but for once found absolutely no resistance. The sphincter-muscle, until recently stretched larger than ever before in its history, was still in the process of contracting, and so the contents of our hero's digestive tract rushed pell-mell down - through the colon, past the sphincter - and out, onto the hitherto snow-white bed-sheets, making a strangely 'soft' noise like the purring of a giant cat while doing so. In the process, a shockingly large proportion of the squidgy, liquid-yet-lumpy mass found its way onto the alabaster skin of the young maiden, architect of our hero's increasing misery and shame.

But this was not the end of the saga. Oh no. Nothing so simple would befall our hero - lest we have nothing further to tell you, dear reader. And that would never do.

No, in the ensuing silence, broken only by the sound of what appeared to be random colonic burps, and in the rapidly thickening atmosphere, the reek of which (so our hero tells us) could easily have gagged a maggot, there awaited a further shock to the hitherto relatively unscarred psyche which would, until then, have been judged as indistinguishable from millions of other children of upper-middle-class parents, educated in a private school, and generally never been subjected to even the slightest amount of real trauma, such as is found in those countries such as Iran in the midst of social revolution.

Our young lady was apparently expecting just such a development, and had managed to place herself in the firing line, so to speak, of the semi-solid missiles that had been launched by our hero's twisting and spasming guts, leading me to believe that this episode was the culmination - or just another step - in a long developmental process designed to release her inner freak, so to speak. And with a look of pure lust on her face, her eyes half-closed in what seemed to be mid-orgasmic release, she roared, nay shrieked, to her erstwhile partner in grime (to coin a phrase), "YES! YES! BABY! RUB YOUR SHIT AAALL OVER ME!!"

Our hero was now reduced to a mere shell of his previously confident and libidinous self, and it took several long, drawn-out moments for the content of her words to sink into his befuddled brain. Here was a man who had believed himself on the threshold of discovering a new world of pleasure, who had demonstrated his open-mindedness and flexibility (no pun intended) in the belief that this carnal encounter would be mutually pleasurable and mind-expanding, who had fondly imagined himself as some sort of Christopher Columbus Lothario discovering a whole new world of pleasure - who now found himself breathing the stench of yesterday's barely-digested breakfast while kneeling in puddles of the same, trying frantically to locate his completely deflated penis which seemed to be intent on reversing itself into his body in some sick sort of socially-induced sex-change, and looking into the crazed half-closed eyes of a woman who seemed intent of having him plaster her entire body with his recently-expelled stomach-contents.

Now had our hero found in himself the strength to go on, I have no doubt that something would have ensued. What that something would be is anybody's guess - estimates range from the scatological side of the continuum, right through to a charge of domestic violence or even murder.

But instead, our hero smiled weakly, shuffled on his knees to the edge of the bed, and, while keeping a wary eye on the young lady who was now feverishly spreading what looked like a Nutella milkshake over her entire body while muttering in some strange tongue, located his clothes and pulled on what would cover his essentials, neglecting to wipe or wash himself in the insane urgency that now drove him to get as far away as possible from the scene of his shame. And so it was that he stumbled past the young lady who was now standing next to the bed, looking at him quizzically, and patted her on the head - much as one would pat a sick dog or horse - all the while muttering as a mantra, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He stumbled down the stairs and out the entrance, ran clumsily down the street towards the nightspot where his encounter had began while praying desperately not to encounter anybody that could possibly recognise him. He managed to locate both his car and (miraculously) his keys which were somehow still in his pocket, and drove, if not maniacally, then with at least with a modicum of haste and urgency to his home, repeating "I'm sorry" all the way there. Once there, he swore to himself, he would never leave in search of adventure ever again in his life; and he would never EVER again in his life be tempted into a one-night stand.

Due entirely to Lady Luck deigning to smile upon him, possibly out of sympathy, he reached sanctuary without encountering traffic police, and made his way inside, praying to all the Gods that be for his entrance to remain undetected. And his prayers were answered. He managed to disrobe, cleanse his body of all traces of excreta (although it took an entire geyser of hot water and an entire bottle of liquid soap to achieve this), and drop his clothes into a black plastic bag which he then surreptitiously added to the pile of garbage bags lying on the pavement for collection on the next strike-free day the city's sanitation engineers deigned to work. Our hero admits to a certain guilty pleasure imagining one or the other garbage-bag 'vulture' finding the bag, filled with expensive and almost new clothes, ripping it open in anticipation of a large windfall, and being confronted with the abysmal state of the clothing.

But to this day, no matter how many times our hero cleanses himself, no matter how carefully he vets all possible social entanglements, and no matter how often he tries to reassure himself that such things only happen once in a lifetime, our hero finds himself struck dumb with fear when in the company of comely damsels who profess an interest in him; and he retreats from such encounters with a look of fear on his face muttering his now-familiar mantra of "I'm sorry". Which has led, as one can imagine, to all sorts of rumours concerning his sexuality and whether or not he will ever exit the (putative) closet his friends believe he is trapped in.

It is said that in order to reduce him to a gibbering wreck, unable to function on anything but a rudimentary level, and confined to his room for a week or more, one only has to whisper in his ear "Yes, Baby, rub that shit ALL over me"...