Sloppy Seconds

Panty Pudding

James was in love with a ninety-five-year-old crackwhore who'd serviced the men in his family for nearly five generations. She was little more than a skeleton with wrinkled and mottled flesh wrapped loosely about her brittle bones. Her hair was all but gone save for a few white follicles clinging stubbornly to her crinkly, liver-spotted scalp. Her mouth was a hollow crater, devoid of teeth and with gums that shrank back against her jawbone. Her withered breasts were two empty bladders hanging from her chest, drooping past her naval like cue balls in tube socks. Her ancient thighs were a maze of varicose veins from which shriveled skin sagged like gooseflesh. Between them, her labia hung like dried, crinkled curtains of jerked beef in a withered tangle of flesh down to mid-thigh. Her ass was just a narrow coccyx draped in a translucent film of blue-veined skin.

Every ounce of beauty she'd ever possessed had been leeched out by decades spent on her back and knees. And James adored every age-ravaged inch of her.

When he was but a young boy struggling with the hormonal insanity of puberty, James would sneak into his father's room — as the old man sweated and groaned between the already-aged whore's leathery thighs — to smell her underwear as he watched their bedroom acrobatics. Lacy, satiny things that covered the feminine parts of a woman his young eyes were forbidden to see.

That feeling of being close to something so mysterious and dangerous excited him tremendously. The musky scent wafting from the seat of those silken fabrics; melded with the sight and smell of his father's passions, enflamed his pre-pubescent fantasies. He imagined a menage a trois with his father and the prostitute, participating through his olfactory senses in the bizarre sexual acts unfolding before him. Sometimes his father would catch him kneeling beside the bed with the whore's panties pressed to his face, grinning like a chimp with a handful of shit. Sometimes he would chase him away, but often he would just smile and wink at him.

As James grew into young adulthood, his attraction to women's underwear blossomed into a full-grown fetish. He would steal the panties and masturbate with them as he listened to his dad plunge the old whore's asshole with his miniscule cock from the other side of the bedroom door. His taste for women's underwear never abated.

James was now approaching his thirtieth birthday. It had been more than a decade since he'd even thought about the woman his father had contracted both gonorrhea and syphilis from and passed along to his unsuspecting wife. Then one evening, he flipped through the channels of late-night cable and spotted her on a corner where a news team had gathered to report on a police killing or some other nonsense.

James barely heard a word of the news anchor's ramblings as he stared past the onsite correspondent at the prostitutes working beyond him. Johns were still stopping to pick them up, unmindful of the news cameras or the gathering of police, ambulances, and coroner vans. Whatever addiction drove them was stronger than the threat of incarceration or exposure on national television. James knew the feeling. He visited prostitutes frequently and kept a refrigerator full of penicillin for those occasions when wearing a condom just wouldn't suffice and he had to go raw dog.

Among the half-naked crackwhores and heroin-addicted cum buckets stood his family's dirty secret, now so old that she leaned over a walker as she stood on the corner. She wore a miniskirt so high that her thong was visible, disappearing into the flabby narrow flaps of her wrinkled ass cheeks. A blonde wig hung lopsidedly from her skull with wisps of bone-white hair peeking from the sides. Her eyes were completely vacant — null and void. She absentmindedly popped her dentures in and out of her mouth as she flashed her withered tits at passing motorists.

James grabbed his coat and dashed out of the house. He had to have her, or at the very least, her underwear.

James had what the doctors called mysophilia. He was obsessed with women's underwear, and the more worn and ragged, the better. Skidmarks, menstrual stains — all the tastier. He purchased used underwear from eBay, stole them from laundromats and even the homes of friends and neighbors. He'd been caught on more than one occasion but it didn't matter to him. He could not imagine life without his face pressed into the sweaty folds of a woman's worn drawls. Or with her bloodstained undergarments wrapped around his cock as he joyfully masturbated himself raw.

He had no problem finding the old whore. He'd frequented that same corner many times. He parked across the street, working up the nerve to approach her as johns drove by, laughed, and spat at her. Every now and again, a desperate trick would actually stop for her. Bargain shoppers, he supposed. Then James would tail them as they drove to some alley where they raped and brutalized her for less than the price of a drink.

James followed her all night, watching tricks fuck her in her diseased ass for whatever change and lint they found in their pockets. No amount seemed too small. At her age, she was probably grateful that anyone wanted to fuck her, let alone pay for the privilege.

He watched her blow a homeless man in the park for a cigarette and stagger out, semen drooling from the corners of her lips and down her chin as she smoked a Marlboro down to nothing.

He watched twelve college jocks ejaculate into a 40 oz. bottle of Old English and then giggle themselves silly as she drank the entire concoction down. As far as James could tell, she earned five dollars for the feat.

She ended the night with a bukakki festival as eight or nine Mexican construction workers from a nearby high-rise project jerked off on her. Her face was still a white mask — covered in globs of thick cum that dripped from the tip of her nose, chin, cheeks; bubbling from between her lips with every breath, and even dripping from her eyelashes — when James pulled alongside her. Still, he loved her, even with her ancient features obscured by half a pint of dick snot. Even with cum bubbles popping in her pie-hole as she smiled that toothless smile of recognition when James herded her into his car.

"I knew your daddy, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"I used to watch you sniff my underwear while your daddy drilled me in the ass."

"Yeah, those were fun times."

He took the octogenarian whore back to the roach-infested tenement that she called home, reeking of urine and burning cocaine. She passed out on the mattress which sat naked in the center of the one-room apartment, and James turned to the pile of laundry on the other end of the room. He knelt down and rummaged through it for underwear.

He pulled silky, satiny, and cottony things from the piles of sweaty clothes and pressed them rapturously to his face. He dragged his tongue across the smooth folds of fabric in long luxurious strokes, wincing at the bitter, tangy cheese-and-horseradish taste of feminine discharge as he lapped up the crusty white stain from the crotch of her undergarments.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the heady pheromones wafting from the sweat stain around the waistband, the meaty whiff of steaming feces from the lumpy skid mark in the seat of the panties, and he tried to imagine her beautiful vagina leaking sluggish, sallow drips of yeast infection and venereal disease into her satin thong as diarrhea oozed from her loose, heavily-traveled rectum.

As he picked yet another pair of underwear from the pile (this one with a used maxi pad still stuck to it as if bandaging a copiously-bleeding wound) and began licking the bloody pulp from the cotton as if it was his last meal on earth, James thought of sliding his tongue between her flabby, mottled ass cheeks and into her dilated anus.

He looked over his shoulder. She appeared to have stopped breathing. Then he closed his eyes and remembered how sexy she'd been in her sixties. He'd love nothing more than eating the old whore's asshole.

James slid her skirt and thong off. She didn't stir. She had either passed out in a narcotic fugue or passed away completely. James was too preoccupied to check for a pulse. He knelt and put his tongue between her sagging butt cheeks, grinning from ear to ear. He was in heaven.

Along with the taste of Astroglide and chunky liquid excrement, he imagined tasting his own lineage, the sweat and semen of several generations of ancestors who'd ejaculated into her diseased bowels.

He could taste his grandfather's syphilitic penile drip like spoiled sour cream as he traced her puckered anus with the tip of his tongue, his great grandfather's juicy viral warts, the gangrenous tissue from his great uncle's running ulcers and chancres that had blossomed like bullet holes up and down the length of his rotting cock and smelled like death and raw sewage. His father's gonorrhea foamed out of her asshole in a thick curd like aged cottage cheese, and James eagerly consumed it all. Within her weathered anus lay decades of tradition — his birthright.

Even in his delusional state of romantic bliss, James realized right away that he might have picked the wrong asshole to eat. He stared down at those pale cheeks spangled with suppurating pimples. Bedsores leaked pus in virulent ooze that caught in the whore's ancient ass hairs and glistened like morning dew. The angry red outbreak of herpes blisters rupturing in a halo around the over-used asshole — stretched to the circumference of a soda can — erupted in an inflamed nest of blood and shit-slickened hemorrhoidal tissue, boiling up from her ass like a bunch of raspberries.

James's stomach reversed its flow. He regurgitated into her asshole, which funneled into the distended rectum like a flushing toilet. Then it promptly clenched tight and spat it back at him. The woman's saggy buttocks parted and released a spray of yellow vomit and liquid, brown offal in a deluge that rained down his face like a mudslide. He was in deep shit now.

After wiping his face as clean as he could with a pair of the whore's semen-stained nylons and regurgitating several more times, he finally worked up the nerve to try it again. As he neared the steaming mess of infection and disease, he tentatively stuck out his tongue and touched it to her anus. He pinched his nose and pushed his tongue deeper to the slippery wet warmth of that withered ass.

At that moment, he had discovered the true meaning of love: eating shit and calling it candy.