Johnny America


The Anti­etam Whore


<3 / 🙁 / ( | ) / By Clay Brudeau

All you think about is sex, some­one told me. But what the hell did I care.
Sex this and sex that, sex hit sex with a base­ball bat. So I called them
re­tard­ed and I told them, I will write my au­to­bi­og­ra­phy, and it won’t con­tain a
sin­gle chap­ter about sex. Which is ex­act­ly what I’ve done, so there. It is as
fol­lows. It was writ­ten by me. I hope chicks dig writ­ers. I don’t want to waste
all this time for noth­ing. Call me, we’ll sex.

Wait, let’s try this with a pen name.

Does This Get You Hot? A Work of Short Fric­tion by Blay Crudeau

The sto­ry be­gins like this. Her sex was what I found most sexy about her.
The way her sex glis­tened her eyes; the way she would sex all her sextences
in­to a sex­tion at the end; how she would sex up in the mid­dle of the night
af­ter sex­ing sex­mares and need to be sexed and have a lul­la­by sexed to her
be­fore she could sex back to sexleep; even the way she would sex all the
blan­ket­sex in bed. In sex­hort, I sexed the sex out of every sex she could ever
sex in a mil­lion sexs and sex­cross a hun­dred sexs; and there was­n’t one sex
that could ever sex me sex her sexver; sex sex sex sex that sex sex sex — sex.

There was no longer any way of sexny­ing that I was ent(ssseeexxx)tirely ob­sexed with hsex­e­sexr. This is my the­sis state­ment. The on­ly down-side to our re­la­tion­ship was that she was very bad at ex­tra-mar­i­tal banging.

Sex­tion One.

We had been walk­ing on the side­walk for quite some time and my feet were sore from the con­crete so I had be­gun walk­ing along the lit­tle strip of grass be­tween the side­walk and the curb, so thank god we were in a neigh­bor­hood with grass. It’s nice to live in a town with op­tions. You can walk with an ug­ly bitch along con­crete any­where, which is why it’s such a re­lief to be able to walk in the grass with an ug­ly bitch walk­ing on con­crete be­side you.

“Why are you walk­ing on the grass?” she croned at me.

“My feet are sore.” I said that, but I want­ed to say, Hey, stop
mov­ing clos­er to me and get back to the mid­dle of the sidewalk.

“When we get back home, I need to talk to you about some­thing.” She rubbed
her mu­tant slut look­ing hands to­geth­er and wiped the sweat off on her skirt.
She was go­ing to ask me if I was cheat­ing on her. I was, nat­u­ral­ly. She looked
like a god­damn alien. It cur­dled my skin to think of her sweaty Mar­t­ian hands
giv­ing my en­gorged pe­nis a sweat-palm hand-job. It made my guts crawl to think
that I mar­ried her in the first place. Phys­i­cal­ly, all I want­ed to do with her
was punch her right in the vagi­na un­til her uterus fell out. And she would love
it every sec­ond of it but for damned sure that waste­land of a sex­u­al organ
wouldn’t be pro­duc­ing more alien hy­brids. Or else just kick her in the tits.

“Good,” I said to her. “I’m sick of this.”

She stopped walk­ing, like an id­iot, and stood there for a few steps then
jumped quick­ly to catch up with me. She was stam­mer­ing and I loved it.
“W‑w-w-w-w-w-w-W-wW-what?” She said that, I can’t be­lieve she said that, and I
laughed at her. Sex.

“You heard me,” I said, and I plopped my­self down on a nearby
bench, “my feet hurt.

I’m just gonna sit here a while. Go home, I’m in a bad mood and I don’t want
to see you.” Bitch­es love when you talk to them like that and that is my
guess as to why she clenched her fists and marched off in dra­mat­ic form. I am
sure her un­der­gar­ments were damp­ened with vagi­nal lu­brica­tive sex­cre­tions. Yea,
ba­by, sex’s go back to my place. The smoke in this bar is get­ting in the way of
see­ing your sexy sexy eyes, Sexy. Erec­tile dys­func­tion. Hey, Sexy-pants, how
many drinks does a guy got­ta buy around here

to get in­to them sexy pants. Sexy eyes, I like them.

Sex­tion Two.

Alex, just re­mem­ber, sex is­n’t like in the pornos. And make sure you wear a con­dom. Thanks mom. < – – Alex’s child­hood parental in­ter­coursetalk. This part es­tab­lish­es the char­ac­ters. Alex’s mom­my was wrong as balls. Cause there I was, sit­ting on the bench across the street from his wife, sexy Car­o­line. And I was the sexy elec­tri­cian with big pecs; and she was the chick with large lac­ta­tion or­gans I would make rail to. She would say, “Oh no, my hus­band will be home soon,” when she was kiss­ing me with her tongue, and I could say, “Shut up, I’m go­ing to bang you now.” And I would. If on­ly it was so read­i­ly avail­able, it’s all I can think about, and that piece of garbage hus­band, that grotesque Alex, touch­ing her with his fat flesh and his pe­nis. Or worse, her want­i­ng it. No, how she. Alex was fat and ug­ly. He was born fat and ug­ly as a ba­by. He would die fat and ug­ly as a bald old man with erec­tile prob­lems and famili­ile dys­func­tion. And as many erec­tion-mak­ing pills as he would pop through the years, he was soul­less in his bang­ing, be­cause he knew he was too hairy and that his sweat smelled very aw­ful­ly and es­pe­cial­ly when it was the re­sult of in­tense rail-mak­ing, and be­cause his pe­nis had nev­er grown strong enough to lift his bel­ly. And that’s the way it was. And that’s the way it would be. Alex the beast. Alex the back-tit­ted. Alex the fail­ure. Alex the dis­tant fa­ther. Alex who mar­ried a beau­ti­ful woman who was kin­da bad at ex­tra-mar­i­tal rail. Alex the sleep-gasser. Alex the ill-fat­ed. Alex the Alex. Alex the fatty-fatty-two-by-four-can’t-get-through-the-vaginal-door. 

Sex­tion Three: On Be­com­ing a Train­wreck, by Caly Deaubru

Now where was I? Oh. Yes. This part is the ris­ing action.
My Car­o­line. My Car­o­line, you

are mine now. You do not be­long to Alex. You be­long to me.

How long had I been sit­ting on the bench sex­tar­ing at her
house. Hours? Hours, had to be. It

was get­ting dark. If Car­o­line would not come out I would
have to go home and get some bang­ing from

my wife. Or she is mad; I’ll go to the bar. I should just
tell her I’ve been cheat­ing on her, it’s not like I

could pos­si­bly get banged less. I don’t need a face.
Vagi­na. Breasts. (Or worse, her want­i­ng it.) A

sil­hou­ette mov­ing past the win­dow and I knew whose breasts
and ass it was (not Alex’s) and was it

re­al­ly get­ting that dark out? (Who knew?)

Who knew where could we go that no­body would ever find us?
We will go lock our­selves in

the clos­et, my dear. We can kiss and pet. And if he comes
along we will hold our breath to­geth­er until

he leaves and we will hide in the shad­ows to­geth­er until
he goes and we will dis­solve underwater

to­geth­er un­til he dis­ap­pears. It is all in­no­cent these
days. You were so sweet back then. I’m not now?

No, you make me cry. You al­ways make me cry. Petpetpet.
I’m sor­ry, I am a wretch and I don’t

de­serve you. < – - in the years that may have fol­lowed, I thought, crys­tal ball-gazing. 

Sex­tion Four: This is the Climax.

The vagi­na. There are small hairs on the Labia ma­jo­ra are due
to be­cause the sub­ject in the draw­ing trims. Thus it is the case that most men
pre­fer their vagi­nas to be ful­ly shaven. There­fore some men like a perfect
equi­lat­er­al tri­an­gle to be sculpt­ed of the pu­bic hair. Thus­ly oth­er men prefer
what is known on the streets as a “bush” — this de­f­i­n­i­tion is
self-ex­plana­to­ry and means that the woman in ques­tion does not shave at all.
Whichev­er your pref­er­ence, the above fig­ure is a near-photographic
rep­re­sen­ta­tion of all nor­mal vagi­nas. Asians, how­ev­er, are known for their
side­ways vagi­nas, but this

can eas­i­ly be reme­died in this fig­ure by turn­ing it
ex­act­ly nine­ty de­grees, Fahren­heit. In Pitts­burgh, that is a hot day; in
Ari­zona, it is so-so; in Alas­ka, it is im­po­sexsi­ble. We live in Pittsburgh:
there­fore­ly, col­leges put hor­mones in their sex­e­te­ria food that make women’s
breasts heat up to well over nor­mal hu­man body tem­per­a­ture, and this is why
they al­ways have their cleav­age show­ing, for ven­ti­la­tion. Manual
get­ting-your-part­ner-off — or fin­ger-rail­ing, as it is prop­er­ly called — of the
wrong fe­male, if you have open cuts, may put you at risk for her­pes simplex
fin­ger. But if you don’t lose it, you use it. Con­stant mas­tur­ba­tion, however,
may lead to pro­longed bang­ing ca­pa­bil­i­ty with­out ejac­u­la­tion, due to callusing.
Avoid con­tact with eyes; to be used on­ly in well-ven­ti­lat­ed ar­eas. Harm­ful if
swal­lowed; in­duce vom­it­ing and seek im­me­di­ate med­ical at­ten­tion. Out loud, say
“ex” ten times, quick­ly. Man, you need to get sexed. How long has it

(How long?) The sil­hou­ette slips away and where was I and the door opens and Car­o­linewalks out in pa­ja­mas and slip­pers with her hair down and her arms fold­ed on top of her breasts and she is com­ing to­wards me and looks so sex­ied. (Her sex is lu­mi­nous. I want it all of the time.) I grin. “Hey, sweety-pie. What’s up? You sure kept me wait­ing long enough.” (Good angel.) 

“What are you even do­ing here?” She said.


She is be­ing stern and has a stern look on her face.
“I was drunk, and it was a mis­take. So we fucked, big deal. I don’t know
why you keep com­ing here and try­ing to see me. I have a hus­band, you
know.” Fe­male dog: bitch. Slut. Who was she. (Bad an­gel.) I liked her,
even though she was not very good at rail­ing, at least she was there. (How can
she say no.)

She is no bet­ter than me. I say: “You’re no better
than me.”

“Get out of here,” she says. Car­o­line. Sexy when she’s mad (I don’t know what she’s so mad about.)

“Fuck­ing worth­less.” I stand up and leave. Where
am I go­ing? Her vagi­na was soft and smooth (all nor­mal vagi­nas), I remember,
but maybe I don’t re­mem­ber, and maybe it was covered
in scabs and dis­ease. That whore. It must be and I’ve for­got­ten. (Where am I
go­ing?) (I’ll go to the bar.) Drunk chicks are so easy, but you have to wear a
con­dom, be­cause you nev­er know.

Fuck Alex.

Fuck Car­o­line.

Fuck that Mar­t­ian wife.

Some­where, some­one’s pe­nis is fit­ted with a la­tex sheath, re­peat­ed­ly pen­e­trat­ing a vagi­na which will not be used as a re­pro­duc­tive or­gan for years to come, and al­ready the pe­nis is wait­ing for the next oc­ca­sion it will have to ejac­u­late and roll over and have a cig­a­rette and want a sand­wich and the vagi­na will want the pe­nis to re­mem­ber its name.

Sec­tion Five: Yeah, You Like That, Don’t You, by: dcyuualrea 

I he­s­ex­i­tat­ed at the bar be­fore go­ing in. On­ly for a sex­ond. The mu­sex­ic was loud and sex­ome sex­tramp would be drunk to take me home.

Pos­si­bly for in­ter­course. This is the res­o­lu­tion. Wait, I need to add six­teen words to get the word-count to end in 69.

Filed under Fiction on May 17th, 2010

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Derek wrote:

Sick­ness or ge­nius? I’m not sure.

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