Vaginosaur: All You Can Eat




Suggested Audio Candy


[1] Bow Wow Wow “I Want Candy”

[2] The Hitmen “Bates Motel”




Only a single thought entered my head as I walked into McGovern’s and that was that dinner was served. With each subsequent feeding time, my untamed uterus just became all the more ravenous to the point where independent thought was barely necessitated. I still had a brain in my head, those diodes still sent instruction to the furthest outposts but between my legs was increasingly becoming something of a no-signal zone. Two days ago I never would have dreamed of strolling into an establishment so lacking in virtue as this; it was wall to wall with deadbeats and misinformed smooth talkers, the amalgamation of which provided the locale with its own exclusive aroma of ale, urine and ejaculate. This was no place for a twenty-one year-old girl with an ounce of self-dignity but, ever since consuming my second meal, my lustrous pelt had become little more than a bargaining tool anyhow. I had always been rather choosy with any potential suitors whereas now it was more a case of come one, come all. There wasn’t a solitary soul in attendance which would be missed in the grand scheme of things and, in that respect, I considered myself to be providing a community service of sorts.


I glanced about at the human buffet before me and every last one of these suckers looked like The Gosling right now. It wasn’t that I had been hit by an unforeseen dose of cataracts; my vision was 20/20 and I was in no doubt whatsoever that the subjects here were the absolute dregs of humanity, devoid of anything which would ordinarily be considered palatable. It was a free-for-all; the ultimate pick and mince, plentiful snacks for the consumption. Of course, given the fact that I was positively brimming with verve and swagger, coupled with my winning rack and plump derriere packed into denims which appeared sprayed on, every last one of these cretins was already aware of my presence before I could so much as inhale their toxins. They fell over themselves to organize space beside them just in case my standards stooped to that improbable level; each trying their luck as they had precious little to lose after pummeling their kidneys with stout for the past few hours. I found their polarized attention to be mildly flattering, partly inexcusable, but mostly just welcome. I had a rigid game plan in mind and had just well and truly hit pay-dirt.


There was to be no more pussy-footing around; I evidently had the pick of the litter thus honed in on the sleaziest looking slouch I could set eyes on and made my way over for introductions. No sooner had I perched myself on the bar stool beside him, than suitor number one suffered what appeared to be a light stroke. Clearly it had all gotten too much for this hapless douche and, I may have been culpable of some atrocities over the past 48 hours, but kicking a man whilst down wasn’t one I wished to add to that list. Actually, considering one half of his brain had ceased operations so callously, he maintained his posturing, chin balanced on the rim of his tankard and same blank expression as before, only this time with slightly deader eyes. Fortunately, I was in good company; dozens of alternatives beckoned and I only need rotate a quick 180 degrees to pinpoint my next victim. This guy was probably ten years his junior, mid fifties and, whilst hardly an advertisement for healthy living, a lot less jaundice in his appearance. He would do, this was no time for being selective; as long as the bile began to rise in my gullet within the first minute of interaction then he would own the credentials to become my third course.


True to form, the chunks commenced their percolation after the simplest of introductions and I licked my pouting lips as though Ramadan had just drawn to a close. Terrence Trott, the name alone seemed fitting punishment for being such a blot on mankind’s evolutionary copy book. He was in accounting and who better right now to assist him in crunching numbers? Predictably he spouted some inane chat-up line which was so hackneyed that I forgot it instantly. He had nothing to say that I desired to hear other than “here are the keys to my Buick” and, while cutting to the chase wasn’t his strong suit, eventually and with a little delicate coercion on my part, we got to the meat and potatoes. “Here’s a dime, go call your mother and let her know you won’t be home tonight” That was the line, just remembered. I mean, who actually says that? I thought it was urban legend but, given my current company, I guess it was no less than should have been expected. Bless ’em, I just wanted to take every last one of them home and give their vocational skills a brush-up. That would be suicidal right now as retaining a low profile was key to sparing any subterranean blushes. Gluttony would cost me dearly and Terry would just have to do for now.


The last method of transportation I had expected was a station wagon but beggars can’t be choosers and the vehicle was superfluous anyway so I climbed in while he attempted to fit his belly behind the steering column. If I had dissected him at this point then I’m assured that there would be sufficient red meat stuffed into his colon to craft a bullock and enough leftovers for a sizable doggy bag to boot. He wasn’t big-boned or suffering from excess fluid, other than around a gallon of bitter; this was purely a case of poor living and woeful shortage of exercise. Poor sap probably hadn’t seen his penis without the aid of a face mirror in over ten years and any chances of getting it up were questionable from the offset. I had mixed emotions as I watched him struggle to slacken his seat belt enough to act as harness for his midriff; on one hand I was excited to get to the crux while the other proposed a dash of guilt over ending the days of one in such poor physical condition. I did still possess a conscience, you don’t go from sweet-natured twenty-something to cold calculated killer without a little resistance and I still just about had senses intact, so I procrastinated for a moment before he sealed his own fate with the old belch and ball-scratch combo.


The fact that he was proposing to drink and drive didn’t sit at all well with me as the last thing I wished for was to pull any innocents into my web of decadence. I suggested a grimy motel less than a click away from our coordinates and, when Terence admitted to only having six bucks in his pocket, I took it upon myself to offer funding. I was about to masticate his T-bone so it appeared only civil to finance the festivities. What should have taken 90 seconds tops, soon became twelve excruciating minutes as the gout in his left ankle, in addition to his hefty carriage and a skinful of alcohol, slowed the expedition to a virtual crawl. I didn’t much care for his body odor either; Terrence could have done with reviewing his antiperspirant as his underarm bore the aroma of a spoiled kebab dipped in duck diarrhea. It was enough to make a lady gag and, furthermore, with me acting as leaning post the whole time, it spent the entire journey resting upon my shoulder-blade. So I could now add poor personal hygiene to my reasons for feeling slightly sympathetic to Terrence’s cause. This wasn’t boding well. Fortunately the fact that my jacket would likely require three intense washes to return to its former glory kept me focused and, after what felt like far longer than it should have been, we arrived at our destination.


For thirty-five dollars we were afforded the penthouse suite which sounded a dash more lavish than it was in reality. No Jacuzzi, B-day, or heart-shaped cushions; merely a rickety bedstead which looked fit to capitulate and a magic tree hanging by the window, presumably there to elevate Room 6 into the next pricing bracket. I felt somewhat swindled by the additional extra provided for plumping on top-tier accommodation and the manager was less than hospitable which had my teeth a grinding before we had even checked in. Terrence fell headlong onto the mattress and it creaked its disapproval. This was starting to lose its appeal as I had no intention of consuming a meal which couldn’t put up at least a struggle. I gave his his thigh a couple of playful swipes and he was indeed out for the count. Wouldn’t you know it, old Terry boy was counting sheep while a particularly supple lamb stood before him just begging to be fleeced. Typical, my plan was foiled and it had cost me $35 for the privilege of hearing him fart in his slumber. I could have rented King Frat from Red Box for a measly buck and spent ninety minutes in sphincter land. It seemed like false economy to me.


Where there’s a will there’s a way; Terrence may have been out of the question but all was not yet lost. The motel’s gatekeeper may hardly have been attentive upon primary introduction but I was cock sure that a quick flash of my chest pebbles would turn the tide back in my favor. I left sleeping beauty to sleep it off and exited before his emissions could sting my nostrils any further; heading back to the lobby and putting on my planned performance. His name was Dennis; the name emblazoned across his dirty white work shirt attested to that. Dennis looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t say no to a dose of smut so I unbuttoned my top, lifted my 34 B’s out of their cups and jiggled them before him teasingly. Nothing, not so much as a raised eyebrow. I was distinctly flummoxed by his lack of reciprocation and slid my perky peaches back into their holster, still encouraging no formal response. Was he a eunuch? Could it be that I had found myself a real live one? I actually felt a little despondent at his lack of arousal or even discernible acknowledgement. I would rather he had told me that he preferred them larger than cock a deaf ‘un. What an ungrateful swine.


Just as I was contemplating leaping across the counter and engaging in a spot of comfort eating; Dennis said two words which scuppered me a further time. “I’m gay” he remarked, utterly deadpan in his delivery. That was just fucking marvelous, what does a girl have to do to get laid these days? To make matters worse, funds had taken a severe knock which priced the Rampant Rabbit out of the equation. I would have to return home with my head in my hands, take the great walk of shame, meanwhile catching occasional whiffs of Terrence’s armpit from my jacket sleeve. All of this wouldn’t bode well for Randy who had jumped the pecking order and was growing more appealing by the second. So what if he was an all round nice guy and helped geriatrics avoid the fate of Frogger on a daily basis? A girl’s got to eat. Repeated disappointment had worked against me as my failure to produce a hearty meal had led to matters being taken out my hands. No more the fool, it was chow down time and that pool party was about to become an all you can eat buffet.



Click here to read Leftovers



Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014




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