Fugly

Sometimes I hate myself. I am weak, I know it, especially when it
comes to sex. I have foibles and find myself in situations I would
never imagine myself to be in. Like this instance.

I was leaning at the bar of the country joint. I'd drank plenty,
mostly the rye whiskey with a ginger ale chaser that was the specialty
of the joint. I was feeling upbeat and a little hazy (which is why I
was leaning!), when I heard these women behind me.

"OOOH! Bobbi! Your hair is darling!" said one enthusiastic girl. Now,
I got a thing for hairdos, and so my ears perked up straight away.

"Thanks!" came an equally enthusiastic reply. Part of why I like
hairdos is that the women who are fresh from the salon always feel so
good about themselves. There is something very appealing about a woman
who likes how she looks.

"Its pretty damn short," said another voice, raspy with years of
sucking on cancer sticks. "Let me see the back." A short pause, then,
"Damn girl. Marleen use clippers on you or what?"

"I didn't go to Marlene," replied the bubbly voice, "and yes, she
did." Now I was horribly curious, since clippered napes are a
fascination of mine. I realized I was too tipsy, and fought extra hard
to not turn and gawk.

"I think it looks good," said the first girl, firmly. "I know you
wanted something like this, too."

"I did," replied the girl-with-fresh-haircut. She explained in the
long-winded womanly way how she had to go to someone besides Marlene,
because Marlene wouldn't give her the cut she wanted. To steel my
nerves against turning to look, I ordered another rye and ginger and
told myself I wouldn't make an ass of myself.

"Guys won't go for the short hair," stated the dour sounding smoker.
"They like hair they can grab hold of while they ride the bronco, if
you know what I mean."

I was debating with myself on whether to turn and refute that
statement when a guy's voice popped up. "Hey Bobbi!" he said warmly,
"I see you got your hair cut."

"I did!"

"Looking fine!" he said. "And ummm, ummm, I bet it twirls good when we
dance. Later, OK?"

"OK Mario," she agreed. After a brief pause, she spoke a little lower.
"That Mario is a touchy-feely dancer, isn't he?"

"Yep," agreed the chipper friend, "but he is touchy-feely in the sack
too, so it works out OK."

"You are such a slut!" proclaimed the smoker. "But let me tell you,
its that dick of his I like." They all started laughing.

The bartendress brought me my drink, which I drank down straightaway.
It was all to steal myself from turning around, but it was a wasted
effort.

"Damn, boy!" said the bubbly girl apparently named Bobbi, "you need to
slow down on that drinkin'!" Her voice had the mirth I associated with
an invitation to "turn n face", so I did just that.

I was stunned. Now, I had been prepared for her stunning hair. And it
was stunning. I couldn't see the back, because she was facing me with
twinkling eyes, but it was a glossy straight black hair that was chin
length except for the heavy bangs. Yum! However, what stunned me was
how stunningly fugly she was. Fugly did not start to describe her,
either.

I was taken aback by her face, which reminded me of Winston Churchill
or perhaps a pug. The hair could not rescue that face, not in a
million years. My sudden arousal was now replaced by a sudden
repulsion, and I struggled to reply.

"Aw, you are just wanting to steal a sip or two," I grinned as
charmingly as I could.

"Maybe," she agreed, grinning back and thereby exposing her
snaggle-tooth smile. "Whatcha drinkin'?"

"Rye and Ginger," I replied, hoping my face did not betray my horror.
I made a sign to the bartender to get two more, and told her she now
needed to drink one with me.

"OK," she agreed, flashing that God-awful smile again. If I had teeth
like that, I would try to hide them instead of showing them as much as
she did.

"Whose your friend?" growled the smoker. Although I dislike smokers,
she was at least someone I'd not be embarrassed to be seen with.

Bobbi turned to face her, and it was like time went into slow motion.
Her black hair spun out like Dorothy Hamill's did when she skated,
forming a flying wedge. While her hair was chin length in front, it
was buzzed to bristles in the back. Now my arousal returned with such
force that I couldn't remember what her face looked like. I hate
myself sometimes!

"I dunno," she said to her friend, then turned back to me (and slowing
time again). "My name's Bobbi, and this is Greta and Lorlene," she
said, indicating her two friends. "What's yours?"

"I'm Clem," I replied, looking at her friends to avoid seeing her face
again. Had I seen a mole with a hair sticking out of it?

"Here's your drinks," said the bartender, setting down four glasses.
Per the commonly accepted protocol, Bobbi and I slammed down the
whiskey, then pounded the ginger ale in single gulps. We both blinked
at the burn and Bobbi grinned that abominable grin of hers. I was glad
I felt a bit woozy.

"Hey Bobbi," came a very country male voice. "Done sumptin' with yer hair?"

"Sure did!" Bobbi agreed, turning to face the tall Texan strollin' by.

"Well, now!" he said, looking her over. "Mighty purty!" he declared, "Sexy!"

"Thanks Roy," Bobbi bubbled. As the lanky critter ambled away, Bobbi
turned to her friends. "See? Some guys think shorter hair is sexy."

I had turned back to the bar, wanting to clear from my memory the face
that could sink a thousand ships while retaining the fantasy of her
hair. I was forced to turn back by the gravelly voiced Greta, who
asked, "So Clem, what do you think?"

I turned to face Greta, not daring to look at Bobbi. "Think? About what?"

Greta seemed to accept the lie that I hadn't eavesdropped. "We're
having a debate about whether guys think short hair is sexy."

I glanced over at Lorlene, again avoiding Bobbi. "Oh, well it depends, I guess."

"On what?" Lorlene asked.

"How short, for starters," I replied.

Greta got straight to the point. "Like Bobbi's," she said.

I was forced to look at Bobbi, who was looking at me. It was hard to
decide exactly what emotion was painted on that face of hers, but I
guessed it was expectation. "I think her hair is pretty cute," I
allowed.

"Cute? But not sexy?" Greta pressed.

Dammit. She was pushing me down the path towards my secret hot-button,
a path I did not want to go down with Bobbi. I guess the drinks had
made my judgment a little suspect, because I asked Bobbi to turn
around "so I can see all of your hair." She turned a bit slowly (or
maybe time had slowed for me), and I felt my vulgar excitement grow
until she was facing completely away. "Hmmm, now that is sexy," I
blurted out, actually reaching out to stroke her bristled nape.

"I knew it," Bobbi said, triumphant. Automatically her hand reached up
to stroke her neck, displaying to me her chipped nail polish.

"I don't believe it," Greta maintained. "I know guys like long hair,
so they can grab hold when they are fuckin' the snot out of us." She
confronted me. "Don't you like grabbing on and pulling when you are
fucking your girlfriend doggy-style?"

I was taken aback, because as far as I knew, I was the one who had
been drinking hard, not Greta, so I was entitled to be crude. Even so,
I wasn't going to be shown up in gutter language by a woman! "Aw,
that's alright, but strokin' a pretty neck while she's giving head is
pretty nice. Besides, if I really wanted to, I could grab hold of her
hair on the sides, so it ain't much loss."

"I don't believe it," Greta muttered. Clearly, to her sexy hair was
long hair, and she wasn't to be dissuaded.

I was about to argue more forcefully, because she as much as called me
a liar, but Bobbi intervened. "Know how to dance?" she asked me.

"Am I a male Texan?" I laughed, using a "duh" tone. What a stupid
question to ask a Texan.

"I mean," she explained, "do you want to dance?"

Behind her back, Lorlene was making a "git along now" motion,
encouraging me earnestly. "Um, sure," I agreed, hating that I couldn't
say "no" to a woman, even a woman as distinctively ugly as Bobbi.

The tune was a moderate two-step, which I am partial to. Bobbi wasn't
a horrible dancer, knowing the steps mostly and only crushing my toes
twice. The problem with two-stepping is that you usually face your
partner, and that face was to be avoided. Luckily, I had a couple
options available. I looked over her shoulder to avoid traffic in the
pattern, and I twirled her a lot. Twirling was especially fine,
because her hair did fly out like Dorothy Hamill's "short n sassy"
cut. I found myself erectifying despite my rePUGnance of her face.
Dammit.

One of the more interesting facets of dancing with Bobbi was the
collection of compliments she received. Seems like most of the men
knew her, and most of them liked her well enough. She had a deep well
of good will, so she must be a fine lady somehow. Maybe she made up
for how nature cruelly inflicted her looks by being the best damn
talker in the world or something. Or maybe it is simply that Texans
treat the misshapen and unfortunate so well.

The next song was a Texas Cha-Cha. I rarely get to country cha-cha,
which is too bad because it is fun. Not wanting to miss this
opportunity, we stayed out on the floor. Again, she wasn't a bad
dancer, knowing how to follow my lead. Lots of women try to lead
instead of following, so dancing with a complaisant woman was a joy. I
was starting to see the merits of Bobbi when disaster nearly struck: a
slow dance.

The lights dropped before even the cha-cha ended, and the band leader
announced it was time for some couplin' on the floor. I wanted to
evacuate, but Bobbi grabbed me and held on tight. I felt my stomach
heave at the thought of slowly swaying and looking her in the face,
but she solved that problem by putting her face on my chest.

We leaned back and forth slowly for a bit as I evaluated her body
pressing to mine. Besides looking like the victim of a brutal baseball
bat attack, I found she had sagging tits supported partially by a pot
belly. Things were getting bad fast when she looked up at me and
asked, "would you stroke my neck?" I gulped, and she added, "like you
mean it?"

'Stroke her neck like I mean it' was a weird way to phrase it, but I
knew what she meant. She tipped her head down even a little more, and
I began to fondle her nape in a (to me) lurid way. Soon, we were both
breathing like we were in heat, and she felt the physical proof of my
excitement through my jeans.

She looked up at me, my fingers still on her neck. "Let's go outside
and I'll take care of your problem," she told me. Maybe I was sobering
up some, but I thought I could detect some lustiness on that face of
hers.

"After the song," I said, wanting some time to think about it. When
she lowered her head again and sighed when I stroked her neck, there
was little thinking required. I'd never had someone play to my fetish
so strongly, and I was totally aroused.

Two minutes later I was being led out of the bar by a hurried Bobbi.
The doorman started to offer hand stamps so we could get back in
without paying cover, but then just chuckled. "Oh, you'll be back soon
enough that I'll remember," he laughed. It seemed to me that perhaps
Bobbi's jaunts to the parking lots were kinda well known.

In fact though, she didn't lead me to the parking lot. Instead, she
led me to the back and between the garbage dumpsters. She pushed me
against the wall and stepped back. My eyes were wide when I saw her
lift her skirt and shrug off her panties. She handed them to me,
telling me "I don't want them to get wet."

I was resolving that comment mentally when she squatted down and began
working my fly. My cock sprang out when she pulled down my own shorts,
and she grabbed it with a moist hand. "Just promise me One Thing," she
said, looking up at me.

"What's that?" I wondered.

"Promise me you'll kiss me afterward."

I felt a wave of nausea, remembering her snarled teeth and frying pan
face. But I was standing there about to get blown (I guessed), and her
hand was already on my pecker. I hate myself for being weak, but I
agreed.

It was well worth it. Her mouth was like velvet... velvet with
suction. Her tongue was facile and knowing, rubbing that spot right
under my dickhead. It was the most amazing blowjob I'd ever gotten.
There were no games involved: she was blowing me so that I would cum,
and we both knew it. There was none of this "take me to the edge and
back me down" crap: I was gonna empty my nuts as quickly as possible.

The best part was that a few seconds into it, she asked me to make
good on my comment to "stroke a neck while getting head". Now I could
feel her mouth and tongue and throat vibrate when I brushed my fingers
over her sharp bristles. Both of us found the idea extremely arousing.

I am unashamed to admit I came in about three minutes. Yes, she was
that damn good. She made some sort of moaning noise, but kept her
tongue stroking that spot with her lips wrapped around me. Her fingers
milked my bone, urging me to empty all my cum from my dick. Not a drop
escaped those chapped lips of hers.

I fell back and leaned on the wall of the restaurant, overcome not so
much by the foul odor of the dumpsters as by the strength of my
release. I didn't realize I had needed to cum so much until it was
over and I was reeling.

I noted absently that Bobbi was standing. I was slightly aware that
she was leaning in. I foggily remembered that I had agreed to kiss
her, and so I let myself be kissed. I was disgusted when she kissed me
and my mouth parted involuntarily, thereby giving entry to the sperm
she spit into my mouth. It was bad enough to kiss that mouth of hers
without finding my tastebuds swimming in guy-gunk!

I tried to rebel, but I was weak with post-orgasmic anemia. And
despite myself, I reacted with pleasure to Bobbi's extreme passion.
She was moaning like crazy, urging me to share the wealth she'd
deposited on my tongue. I hate to admit how much I got into the nasty
kiss, driven by my natural desire to turn a woman on.

Finally, Bobbi released me, stepping back with chest heaving. "Do you
have a handkerchief?" she asked. I told I did not, and she asked for
her panties. "Sorry baby, but I tend to squirt when I cum," she told
me, wiping the remaining fluid from her pussy with her panties before
putting them on.

I didn't want to admit I didn't know what "squirting" was, but a sly
look at the asphalt parking lot revealed a puddle of fluid. I thought
at the moment that she had peed, but since then I've learned that it
isn't so. If that much juice had come from her muff, it was no
surprise she'd want to avoid soaking her panties.

We were nearly back to leaning our elbows on the bar when I remembered
what she had said: she had cum! From blowing me? Holy shit, I thought,
she is the hottest gal I'd ever met (in addition to being purty near
the fugliest woman I'd ever seen).

My plan had been to resume my spot but it was foiled by a group of
trashy women who had taken my place. I just ordered another couple rye
and gingers, and gave one to Bobbi as a thank you, then edged away to
find a place to stand. Feeling a bit like a scummy user, I drowned
that feeling with my drink. The burning feeling excoriated the guilt
effectively.

Now I was feeling really loose, fuzzy-brained, and on top of my
horniness. Thanks to Bobbi's sucking, I was not so horny that I'd prey
upon the skanks in the bar. Instead, I could afford to see which of
the fine women would start sending out signals of availability. I felt
on the prowl, although in reality I was already too inebriated to be a
good hunter.

From time to time, I caught sight of Bobbi on the dance floor. She
looked good when facing away, especially when she spun. Maybe I'd too
much to drink or a good BJ had impaired my judgment, but I found
myself a little jealous when I saw her lead guys off the floor and out
the door. I knew what was going on.

Finally, I watched her dance with Mario and then lead him outside. I
moved to intercept her on the way back in, but was intercepted myself
by Lorlene. "I hear tell that Bobbi gave you a big wet kiss," she
grinned. She slurred her speech enough that I knew she was nearly as
drunk as I was.

I nodded to the door. "I guess a bunch of guys got big wet kisses tonight."

Lorlene punched my arm playfully. "Naw, not many let her do it these
days. You're kinda special now."

I thought about how I had been surprised with no chance to escape. Or
was that the case? Maybe I had known what was coming and didn't avoid
it. "Believe me, if I had known she was going to do that, I'd have
ducked and ran."

Lorlene just laughed out loud. "Yeah, right," she snickered. "I guess
I shouldn't blame you too much, seeing as how you aren't a regular."

"Yeah, I'm just in town for a few weeks on business," I said.

"So you wouldn't have heard the rumors," she admitted.

Just then, Mario walked in with his arm over Bobbie sloping shoulders.
She wriggled free and walked straight up to me. I stood stock still as
she lunged at me, grabbing my ears and pulling me into another kiss.
Again my mouth opened automatically, expecting her tongue. What I
didn't expect was a load of salty saliva: Mario's cum!

"MMMmmmmph!" I cried out. "Mmmmppphhh!" Lorlene and Mario laughed,
apparently knowing full well what was happening. I went to push her
way, to pry her fingers from my face, but my fingers brushed her hair.
God help me, I stopped fighting and began stroking her hair and neck
even as the sloppy goo mushed around in our mouths. "Mmmmmmmpph," I
moaned.

Bobbi was the one who ended the kiss, leaving me confused, aroused,
and panting. I looked at her and the surprised pair of Lorlene and
Mario, who seemed dumbstruck. What the fuck had I done?!

"Damn, lover boy," Bobbi said, her misshapen face arranging itself
into what I took to be a look of revelation. She leaned in, and I was
afraid I was going to get another kiss. Instead, she whispered into my
ear. "If you are here around closing time," she said softly, "you are
coming back to my place." Then she announced more loudly, "I need a
fucking drink!" and strode to the bar.

I looked at Mario and Lorlene. He was practically laughing, but she
looked vaguely concerned. "C'mon, let's dance," she said, taking my
hand and leading me to the floor before I could resist.

"You're a pretty good dancer," I commented after a spin around the
floor. Pluswise, she felt good in my arms. My randiness was returning,
I could tell.

After a quick thanks, she changed the subject. "Look, I love Bobbi to
death, but I'd advise you to call a cab or otherwise get the Hell out
of here."

"Why?" I asked, confused. I'd'a thought she'd want her friend to get
lucky. With a face like that, her getting some sack time had to be
pretty rare. Getting blown in the parking lot was a sight different
than a roll in the hay for most guys.

"I just don't think you ought to go home with Bobbi," she stressed.

"A: I don't understand what business it is of yours," I said, becoming
grumpy, "and B: I don't see why not? I'm not sure I want to, anyhow."

"Just go with that," she told me. We two-stepped around the floor, and
moved into a quick little polka, then a waltz.

"So you're leavin' soon?" she asked.

"I didn't say that," I laughed. Now I was more curious than anything
else. "Why is it so dad-blamed important that I don't go to Bobbi's?
Just tell me!"

She looked up at me, her eyes worried. "Let's just say that I haven't
seen a guy walk without a limp after spending a night with Bobbi."

"What's that mean?" I said, puzzled at the possible meanings. The
thought that I might be physically maimed never entered my head.

The song was ending, and Lorlene broke away and headed off the floor.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," was her parting words. Shrugging, I
followed her and headed off the floor to get me another drink. The
puzzling conversation had left me thirsty.

Bobbi was at the bar, talking with a guy when I got there. Standing
behind her, I ordered my drink, half hoping she would notice me there.
The idea of being with her was interesting in the same way that we
have a ghoulish fascination with car wrecks; our more cogent faculties
tell us not to, but our prurient interests make us look. I felt queasy
intellectually about going home with someone whose face closely
resembles a baboons butt, but my maleness remembered that silky smooth
blowjob. I had all but forgotten the slimy aftermath inflicted on my
tongue, twice now.

I'd had too many rye and gingers by now to switch without puking, so I
got me another. I wasn't even wincing now at the burn, but welcomed
the sensation as it cleared my throat. My drink drunk, I turned to
survey the place, thinking maybe another woman would appear and invite
interest.

Turning my head left and right to spy an appealing target, I couldn't
help but notice Bobbi's nape right there. To be honest, I was drunk
enough that my normal restraints on being stupid about my hair
interest were removed nearly entirely. And her fresh cut was right
there, like a pile of bodies outside a smoldering car wreck: I
couldn't not look.

Well, that was a slippery slope, because a quick look out the corner
of my eye became a lingering glance, and then outright staring. It got
so that I forgot the reality of her fugly puss and just focused the
parts I could see, which were damn sexy. Eventually, staring turned to
the most forbidden of activities, touching.

Thing is, I knew I shouldn't. Most guys would never go up and jiggle a
woman's tits, even when drunk and having a boob fetish. You just don't
cave into stupid shit like that, and yet I did. I don't know how many
drinks I'd had, but clearly it was too many.

My hand lifted up, and I brushed the back of my knuckles on her neck.
OOOhhhh, it felt so good, both physically and tabooically. I was
expecting Bobbi to turn and beat the shit out of me for unseemly
behavior, but instead she dropped her head and purred, "Mmmm, feels
nice."

I found myself tracing my fingertips over her nape, in a way
fulfilling a secret fantasy. Part of the thrill was the feeling, but
another part was her reaction. She was digging it and I like turning
women on.

The guy I was talking to just watched for a minute, looking bemused.
"I'll let you kids play," he laughed, walking away.

That woke us up and I finally realized how pseudo-sexual it must have
looked. I yanked my hand back, and Bobbi turned to face me. I wish she
hadn't done that, because my boner wilted immediately. "Now I wish I
were still wearing panties," she laughed. Her face contorted into that
smile of hers.

I looked down, and she turned her legs out so that I could see thin
trickle of water running down her inner thigh. Only it wasn't water
and it wasn't sweat. "What happened to your panties?" I asked, both
aroused and disgusted. I was getting used to that combination of
emotions now.

"I didn't take them off before I squirted, and just tossed them into
the dumpster," she replied, matter-of-factly. "They weren't any good
then anyways."

My stomach roiled at the sudden mental image of having my face
splashed with this ugly woman's cuntjuice. I'd drown maybe and that
didn't seem like a great way to die. The death wouldn't be so bad
compared to my friends knowing I'd been face-first in her. I'm sure an
inquest would reveal that. They'd laugh that I was so hard up that I'd
sack someone so purely unattractive.

"Oh," I said, not quite sure what to add.

"So... you wanna come back to my place?" she asked, looking up at me
while tucking her hair behind her ears. She surely noticed my internal
struggle. I was leaning towards declining when she added, "Please
come... I want to have you kiss my neck for a while."

At that point, my brain turned off and I became a horny automaton. I'm
not quite sure what happened, except that I bought us both a parting
rye and ginger, and that I got into Bobbi's vehicle. She drove us to
her house, which apparently wasn't too far away, and led me in. As
Lorlene might have said, In to my Doom.