Sloppy Seconds

Mary was a 500-lb contortionist who'd died with her titanic legs still wrapped around the back of her neck. Her legs were like two pale, bloated logs crosshatched with varicose veins. Even in death, her face was pinched and creased with the exertion of maintaining such an uncomfortable position. Her skin was now loose, slack, nearly sliding off of her from the buildup of necrotic fluids as she decomposed, adding yet more ripples to the rolls and rolls of billowy fat suspended from her chin in successive rows of increasing girth. Her engorged breasts and stomach were but more layers in a cascade of flesh that hung all the way down to the cavernous orifice yawning between her mammoth thighs.

Her vagina had been turned inside out as if a grenade had gone off in her uterus. The labia were red and swollen like a baboon's ass and glistened with a virulent unctuousness as a steady stream of dank liquid dribbled out of her raw and bleeding snatch. It looked like an infected hatchet wound — more the symbol of man's fury than his lust. A gangrenous stench wafted from her syphilitic cooze as I knelt between her thighs and licked my lips appreciatively.

'Scrumptious.' I dipped a finger into that frothing maw, stirring a creamy soup composed of what I could only guess was the semen of perhaps a dozen men, mixed with the discharge of an advanced yeast infection, and tinged pink with menstrual fluids. I licked my fingers clean and winced at the taste — which resembled spoiled caviar — as I prepared to gobble the fat woman's vandalized pussy. I lapped at it tentatively and then sucked on those bloated cunt lips; my face covered in the cocktail of rotting fluids, eagerly ingesting whatever disease had killed her.

'Delicious.' I shivered as illness and death bathed my stupefied taste buds.

I pulled out my knife and sawed at her cunt with the dull blade. Cutting off a choice piece that suppurated from bleeding sores and looked sort of like a barbecued pork skin, I bit into it and felt the blisters and corpuscles rupture in my mouth, splashing across my tongue and churning the bile in my stomach into a tidal wave. My eyes rolled back in my head as I shuddered with ecstasy.

'Scrumptious!' I repeated, delirious with rapture.

Just then, the fat woman's body convulsed.

'Is this fat bitch still alive?' It seemed an absurd question, but no more absurd than my own cannibalistic, necrophilic fat fetish.

A superstitious guilt made me wonder if perhaps my postmortem perversities had somehow reawakened her desire and in doing so, reawakened her from death as well. I stepped back as the corpse undulated. Her huge, gelatinous stomach looked like a sack of cats heading for the river as something within it struggled its way toward freedom. Impossibly, her thighs spread even wider and the gases of decay belched from her fetid, half-eaten twat in a stifling cloud, causing me to gag and cough but curiously adding steel to my erection.

Another great burping noise emitted from between her thighs followed by sticky-wet, squishy sounds as her cunt regurgitated a full-grown woman of pornographic proportions onto the floor at my feet.

She had perfect breasts like flesh-coated cantaloupes, the waist of a twelve-year-old, a tight little ass that wobbled gently high on her back, blonde hair down to her waist, a clean-shaved pussy, and big blue eyes like an Irish Setter. She slid out of that grotesque blob of putrescent fat in a stream of pus and goo, followed immediately by a yard of stringy wet afterbirth.

They say that inside every fat woman is a skinny woman screaming to get out and somehow, this one had just escaped, I thought.

I stared in slack-jawed amazement at the wide-eyed Barbie doll curled up on the floor, splashing around in a noxious pool of filth and rot, and then at the chunky red stew of steaming blood and afterbirth. My erection was straining in my pants with the power of death. I had two options now: I could fuck either one or both of these bitches; the fat dead corpse or the svelte young, living Barbie doll.

The funeral director wouldn't return until morning and no mourners were expected for this carnival sideshow prostitute who'd died gagging on rhinoceros semen live on digital camera before the eager eyes of an internet zoo sex crowd. And of course, no one even knew about the Miss Nude America who'd been trapped inside of her.

I dragged my eyes voraciously over that perfectly-shaped Venus recently evacuated from the loins of a bloated corpse, and then at the dead thing that still lay upon the gurney with its thighs spread wide. It took me a second to decide before I turned my back on the mindless newborn centerfold to finish my meal.

Panty Pudding

Second Place — 2003 Gross-Out Contest, Kansas City

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