food poisoning???
Most people contract some form of food poisoning at least
once a year. Most of the time the symptoms are mild, and can
even be mistaken for a 24 hour flu bug. Other times, the symptoms
are similar to one having a very bad case of the flu, but rarely
do people ever need to go to the hospital for food poisoning.
Just by its nature, the probability of contracting food
poisoning from fish is always higher than most other foods.
This is why, based on personal experience, I recommend
that no one ever engage in anal sex after your date ate a large
fish dinner.
We hadnt been dating that long, only about a month. Even
though we'd only been dating a short time, we were having
sex since the second date, and it was the best, freakiest,
porno-style sex of my life. Seriously, this was the kind
of sex that every man, deep down, dreams about having at
least once in his life. It was the kind of sex that I had wished
for ever since my voice started changing. It was with this
woman, and only with this woman, that I was ever addressed
with the phrase, Use your whole fist for Christs sake.
On one now infamous date night, we were enjoying a romantic
dinner at an upscale seafood restaurant. Through the entire
meal, however, sex was all that was on our minds. In retrospect,
every date we ever went on seemed to just be a temporary diversion
from the best part of the night, which involved animalistic
insertions, feral lickings and brazen misuse of food products.
We emptied wine bottle after wine bottle over the course
of the dinner, and by the time the main course arrived, fish
for her and lobster for me, she slipped off her shoes and
casually masturbated me under the table with her stocking
covered feet. Completely plastered and horny by the end
of the meal, we decided to skip dessert in the restaurant
because a much sweeter dessert was being prepared in her
hot, wet crotch, she said. I paid the bill and narrowly
avoided getting a speeding ticket, not to mention a DUI,
during the drive back to my place.
By the time we got into my apartment, we were tearing each
others clothes off. Sloppy in our drunkenness, we knocked
over two lamps during our horny, groping journey into the
bedroom. Once in the bed, she got down on all fours, arched
her back, and presented her delicious ass to me. I grunted
my approval while aiming my rock-hard cock missile at her
hairy silo. When the head of my cock began to penetrate her
lips, she stopped me.
No. In my ass, she hissed at me, sounding both horny and
angry at the same time.
Are you sure, I asked?
She giggled as she said, If I could handle last night. .
.
Oh yeah, I thought. Last nights adventure involved a clown
mask, three packets of Pop Rocks, and a twenty-inch replica
of the Eiffel Tower. What the hell was I thinking? Of course
she could handle some anal-action. She reached between
her legs and began lubing up her asshole with her own pussy
juices. Where did I find this girl? I thought. I was in horn-dog
heaven. Blessed. Not being an expert in anal intrusion,
I slowly eased my way into her lovely stink-star. First
the head, then a quarter of the shaft, and soon I was buried
to the hilt between her ass-cheeks.
Go slowly, she said, half moaning, half panting in both
pleasure and pain, I think. I did as she bid, and very slowly
began pulling out, like a steam piston on an old locomotive
beginning its first run in a century. Almost all the way
out of her, but keeping the head firmly planted in her ass-iris,
I slowly began inserting again.
Yeeeeees! she moaned and began diddling her clit. Soon
she said, Faster. So faster I went, the tempo increasing
until the train was running at full speed, the piston pumping
in and out so fast my cock became a complete blur, her hand
rubbing her clit like she was trying to start a friction-fire
in her pussy.
Gnnnnnnnah! she screamed. Thinking she was close to
orgasm, I pumped that ass even faster, faster than Amish
meth-head churns butter.
Gnnnnnahstoooop, she screamed, or something like
this, because the noise in my head was drowning out the reality
around me, for in my head I heard a steam locomotive, chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-Woo-Woo!
Barreling down the tracks, and somehow I pumped even faster.
YES! I screamed.
She started reaching behind her and flailing on the bed
in what I thought was ecstasy
Stop! she screamed, able to finally get out the word
I had mistaken for groans of ecstasy moments ago. She screamed
this with such volume and guttural, primal force that it
had the effect of pulling the emergency brake on a 100, 000
pound locomotive running at full speed. The sex act squealed
to a halt, and I pulled my cock out of her ass like the rip-cord
on a parachute. Did someone order champagne? No, that popping
noise was my cock coming out of her ass.
Arrrrrrgh! She screamed, as I yanked my cock free. And
then it happened.
Immediately after my cock popped out, I was sprayed from
belly to thighs with watery, fish-smelling diarrhea.
What the-? I said, not able to get the word fuck out
of my mouth because of my shock at the brown funk lining my
body. As she sprayed me, she seemed to be propelled forward
by the force of the jet-propelled diarrhea, and she collapsed
onto her stomach.
Oh. My. Fucking. God. I murmured, completely shell-shocked.
Everything was still. I could hear my wind-up alarm clock
ticking on my dresser. I stared at my shit-covered body.
I surveyed the room to see if there was any collateral damage.
The trajectory of the diarrhea spray was similar to buck-shot
in a sawed-off shotgun; it was everywhere. Unfortunately,
during the sex act she had been facing the feet-side of the
bed, which meant that the headboard, my bedside table and
lamp had poop on them as well. Even my bedside clock had a
few speckles staining its face. The bed sheets: Killed
in Action. A total loss.
I looked at my date, lying there motionless. I called her
name. No response. I called her name while shaking her a
bit. Nothing. Fear shot through me, as I thought, Oh my
god, what if shes dead? But this fear quickly dissipated
when I heard her snoring. She was passed out from the wine.
I on the other hand was no longer blasted drunk, because
the blast from her ass rendered me completely sober. This
night was definitely going down in the (ahem) annals as
the all time worst date of my life. In fact, I had to invent
a new special category, Even the Devil would feel sympathetic,
to describe this night.
I cleaned up. I cleaned her up. I cleaned the headboard,
the dresser, the lamp and the clock. With some manipulation
of her passed out body, I was able to wrangle the sheets from
the bed and throw them down the garbage chute. By two in the
morning, I found myself lying on my couch, drinking Jack
Daniels from the bottle. I dont remember passing out myself,
but I can say that unconsciousness didnt come soon enough.
It was food poisoning, her voicemail message explained
to me the next day. After some silence, she added, The fish.
More silence. Sorry. She left this message the following
day, around 2:00 p.m. I had slept until Noon, and, thank
God, she was gone when I woke up. How do you face that? She
never called me again. I never called her. I definitely
learned two valuable lessons that night: 1) Never have
anal sex after a sea food dinner. 2) Be careful what you wish
for. Theres only one other experience in my life that entered
into the Even the Devil would feel sympathetic category,
and frankly I dont know if Ill ever be able to tell that
story. Lets just say that the morning after a great one-night-stand,
the beautiful woman you banged the night before can certainly
use your bathroom. . .but she shouldnt be more comfortable
standing up while she pees.
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