GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #123: DO THEY STILL DO THIS SHIT?

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Whoo-boy. This has never happened to me, but . . . I forgot to post this last night. I may have forgotten to finish it. I don't know. Here's what happened: I'd had a few drinks last night--not enough for me to black out or pass out, just a few--and I stayed up a bit too late. It was about two in the morning, which is waaaay past my bedtime, even for a non-work night. I started writing GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS, and by the time I got to the end, I was so tired that I decided to close my eyes for just a few minutes. A few hours later, I woke up and wondered why I was sitting up looking at a powered down laptop. At least Tired Me had been courteous enough to leave me a drink, and since I didn't have to go to work today, I finished it off. Waste not, want not. Besides, what was I going to do, put it back in the bottle? Anyway, in standing with my rule of never editing a GF post, I didn't touch this one. This editor's note is the only thing I added. I'm not sure if I even finished this, as I thought I might add something in there about how my grandfather might have made up the story just to fuck with a fucked up kid. I also used this incident in a novella I wrote in high school, which will never see the light of day because I ripped most of it off from Steinbeck. It was what would have happened if Jack Ketchum had written OF MICE AND MEN. I probably would have mentioned that, too. So, without further ado . . .]


When I was a kid, I remember my grandfather telling me a story of either his uncle, or his wife's uncle. I don't remember which. Either way, the guy in question owned a shoe store, and his shop caught fire. This guy's hand got burned down to the bone. How did they fix him up without amputation?


THEY OPENED HIS BELLY AND SEWED HIS BONY HAND INTO IT SO THAT FLESH COULD GROW BACK ON HIS BONES.


That's a fucked up thing to read, so maybe you should give it another go before you accept it.


Got it? Good.


The skin grew back, but it took a year. A YEAR OF HAVING HIS HAND SEWN INTO HIS STOMACH. I have problems with not being able to bite into cheeseburgers because of my gum graft. I could not deal with having a skeletal hand sewn into my belly for a fucking year.


Try to imagine that. Then realize that was the typical response. IT USED TO BE TYPICAL FOR BURN VICTIMS TO HAVE THEIR BONY HANDS SEWN INTO THEIR BELLIES.


Do they still do this shit? I imagine not. But what the fuck? How did they find out that it would work?

GIRLS WILL SHIT ALL OVER YOU

OK, as of now, I can also be found at Twitter (www.twitter.com/tusitalabruni). Now that that's out of the way, it's time to start this blog off right and proper. It's the first in a series of personal tales that I would like to call STORIES YOU WOULDN'T TELL YOUR MOTHER. My sexual adventures are few and far between, but when they happen, they happen in a big way . . . .

GIRLS WILL SHIT ALL OVER YOU
A weird sex story by John Bruni

Once upon a time, I had a friend who was all-consumed by the idea of receiving blowjobs. It didn’t happen enough to suit him, so he constantly searched for women who would be able to satisfy this need that was integral to his well being. One night, he enlisted me in this quest.

We will call him Mike, because that’s his brother’s name.

Mike found himself in a relationship with a wonderful woman, but the problem was, she hated giving blowjobs. She just thought they were dirty, nasty things. The penis does not belong in someone’s mouth. We’ll call her Lucy, because that’s her sister’s name.

Lucy had a friend for whom she was always trying to find a date. No one wanted to go out with this unfortunate lass, and anyone who went out with her once never did so again. We’ll call her Nancy, but only because she has no siblings, and I can’t think of anything else to call her.

Lucy made a deal with Mike: if he could find a date for Nancy, then she would suck Mike’s dick to his heart’s content. Desperate, Mike turned to me for help and explained his situation. Far be it for me to stand between a friend and a prospective blowjob, so I agreed to go out with Nancy, even though I had never met her.

“Is she at least good looking?” I asked.

Mike got a weird, pale smile on his face. “She’s got a great personality.”

I should have known then and there. Perhaps a part of me did. But I went ahead with the plan, regardless.

We all met at Mike’s apartment, and while I hadn’t been expecting much, it would be unfair to say I was anything less than startled by Nancy’s appearance. From the neck down, she was as perfect as a woman could get. She would have made a great lingerie model, provided the camera never went above the neckline.

Half of her face was dainty and beautiful and very kissable. The other side, however, was a horrible, mottled mess of burn tissue. She brushed her long hair over that side to keep it as concealed as she could, but there was no way to hide her Harvey Dent visage from the world.



I hid my shock as best as I could, and we greeted one another. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mike suppressing a smile, and Lucy stood by, trying to be a supportive friend.

I ignored the 400-pound gorilla in the room, and we went out for an evening of debauchery. There was a movie, a cheeseburger dinner, and an outing to some bar that I don’t even remember where it was. It was a bit too expensive for my tastes, though, and this was in the days before I flasked those kinds of places, so my wallet was hurting pretty badly.

It was late, but we decided that we hadn’t finished drinking ourselves silly yet. We got a bottle and went back to Mike’s place, where we hung out for a bit before Mike and Lucy started getting a bit too frisky. They were about the width of a pubic hair away from fucking each other in front of us, so Nancy suggested we go for a walk.

The walk was a bit too arduous, though, since we were both hammered out of our minds. We stopped at my car, and she asked if we could just sit in the backseat for a while. We got in, and she rested her head on my chest and told me her story.

Apparently, she’d been the all-American girl. You know, prom queen and all of that nonsense. She fell in love with the most popular motorhead at her high school, and they went on to be married after graduation. Unfortunately, her beloved turned out to be an abuser, and she found herself getting the shit beaten out of her on a regular basis.

One night, she cooked her husband’s steak the wrong way, so he held her face down on the stove. Divorce and jail time followed, and not necessarily in that order.

As she told her story, her voice became more garbled, and she slid further and further down me until her head was in my lap, and she was massaging my crotch. The next thing I knew, she was sucking my dick, and she was working it like a pro. I’ve only ever had one blowjob better than that one (perhaps a story for another day). Looking down from that angle, it was hard to tell that she’d been a burn victim at all.

We maneuvered around a bit (because the backseat was not very big), and we started fucking, but it wasn’t doing much for her. “Take me from behind,” she whispered.

“Uh . . . I’m not into assplay,” I said.

“No, not like that. Just fuck me from behind, okay?”

Well, that was fine with me. I’m just not a fan of the butthole. That’s where shit comes from.

She turned around, and I started fucking her slowly at first, but that wasn’t good enough. She wanted it faster and harder, so I complied. I got a bit worried when her face started hitting the window, though. She didn’t seem to feel it, even though she was leaving smudge marks all over it, and the glass was fogging up.

“Harder!” she yelled.

I pushed myself harder until I heard a sudden tearing sound. I stopped, wondering what the hell had just happened. My body was wet from my dick to my knees, and I wondered if maybe she was a squirter.

And then I smelled it. Shit. Deep, fruity, pungent shit.

I had fucked this drunk burn victim so hard that she’d shit all over me. All over my backseat. All over the library books I had on the floor. It was everywhere.

I was just about ready to start screaming at her when I heard her sob softly against the window. As she broke down, I knew there was just no way I could yell at her now.

Instead, we came apart and sat next to each other. There was a box of tissues in my car, so we wiped ourselves off with those and threw the soggy Kleenex out the window into a fetid pile in the parking lot. We cleaned as much of it up as we could in utter silence. Neither of us said a word to one another, not even as we got dressed. Then, quietly, she got out of the car and walked out of my life forever.

The next day, Mike was very happy. Mission accomplished. But Lucy was clearly not pleased with me. She’d obviously heard from Nancy what had happened, and Lucy never said a word to me again. Well, she was polite and spoke in terse, but complete, sentences. But she never engaged in conversation with me again, as if the whole thing had been my fault.

I’ve always kind of wondered what happened to Nancy. If you’re out there somewhere, drop me a line. You know who you are.