> Lonely man cries for love, and has NONE!

Originally posted by Eric_the_HalfaBee
2003-02-16 09:44:33
http://bbs.fuqedcompany.com/index.cgi? … c_id=18138

I guess all the bad stuff you people said about infusion is true

I hate to post this here, but I've got nobody to tell this to. This is not a troll, despite how unbelievably horrible she treated me on valentines even. We've been going out for over a month. I am crazy about her. She said she wanted to go out with me exclusively, I wanted the same with her. Things were great. Valentines came, I had a little bit of a cold, we go to some party of some architects that infusion knew. She goes up to get me a drink, she doesn't come back, I go to the bar in about 20 minutes, because she told me to save her seat. People were getting her drinks. She hands me the drink she got for me. We go back and sit down. She claimed she hated cigarette smoke, so I said to her that the place is a little smokey. She jumps up, runs over to this guy (Chris) and grabs his cigarette from him, and throws it on the ground. They begin talking, then we move over to where he was sitting. She's ignoring me, then she moves all by him, tries to get away from me. He invites her and secondarily me to some party. We go there, I put up a fight, because the parking garage was supposed to close at 3AM, I didn't want to be stranded in a snowstorm. Chris is totally drunk, slurred speech. I guess he was telling infusion about how much money he has. Then infusion meets this indian guy, with big warm hands (his nick name), she's all over him, dancing, etc. About 2 hours later we leave, after chris drank even more, could barely speak. He invites himself to infusions car that I was driving because I was sober, to drive him back to his place. WE get there infusion says she has to use the bathroom, I tell the indian guy to go in (because he wanted a ride). BTW, at the party, infusion sort of apologized to me, either that, or I misenterpreted her "I'm sorry" incorrectly, and it was really "I'm sorry, I like other people." I'm double parked, waiting in the car, they don't come back out. I knock on the door, say it's time to go, becase it's snowing and there's no place to park. Infusion decides she's going to stay there. I ask her how she can do this to me. It's valentines day, we're a couple, how could she go and have sex with this drunk, smoking, racist (he said "whyte" about 5 times in the span of 5 minutes) asshole that she just met. She throws her car keys at me and tells me to drive back to her place. I asked her how she could hurt me like this, she didn't care, she called me a "poopy" and told me to quit yelling at her. I just started fuqing balling outside the front door. I had never been so humiliated, nor felt so terrible in my life. I drove back to her place, got my stuff, left her keys on her bed, wrote her a note telling her how much she hurt me. I thought yesterday she would at least feel guilty and can or at least email me to say she felt bad. Nothing. Apparently, she's still at his place. I just called up that guy, because he gave me his business card. He said he drove her home last night. I called up her roomate a couple minutes ago, and he said she's not there, and she had called her roomate last night to say she's staying at a friend's house. So chris, that motherfuqer lied to me, stole my girl. The worst part is that infusion has no guilt, no conscience. I was so good to her. I bought her stuff, I spoke to her when she wanted, I gave her moral support, I helped her out on her space shuttle fundraising stuff by giving her STS 107 patches. We couldn't keep our hands off of each other. But she leaves me for a guy she just met? Not like it was behind my back, it was right in my fuqing face, on valentines day. How can she do this? how can she feel no guilt?

The guy is what she purported to hate. He's racist, he smokes like a chimney, and he's so going to fuq and chuck her. I'm suprised he didn't kick her out yet. But apparently she's still at his place, and she's going to be there for another couple days at least because of the 2 feet of snow we're going to get.

I loved that girl. She has hurt me so much. I decided to leave NY primarily because of her. I don't know how I will ever be able to trust a girl again. Everything was perfect until last night. She hinted nothing that she wasn't happy with me. But a couple drinks? Now she's sober, and she's still with him, and still no guilt. How can she treat me like this, have no regard for my feelings? To make it worst, she's the only girl I've ever been with, and she should know how much more painful it would be for someone like me rather than someone who gets girls all the time, who just views them as meat to fuq and chuck. I was, and still am crazy about her. But since she obviously has no feelings for me, I guess I should post this about her. I just am so hurt.

I know some people in here have had relationships with her, has she don't something like this to you? I just want to know if this is who she is, or she forgot to take some medicine or something like that. She hurt me so badly, I've been crying ever since this happened friday night, I haven't eaten since 3PM on friday, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get over this. Do I ask "what's wrong with her?" or "what's wrong with me that makes her feel no guilt for what she did to me?"

I know for many of you, you'll just say get over it, find someone else. That is SO difficult to do. I've never had a girlfriend before, I loved the companionship, I'm so sad right now. But are all girls like this? If this event didn't happen, I would still be convinced that infusion was the best girl on the planet, she made me feel until friday so good about myself, she gave me so much confidence, and I'm so attracted to her. How can she have no conscience? She's going ot be fuqed and chucked by this asshole she just met, she stays with him over me on valentines. God damn it. What did I do to deserve this?

MY DATE WITH SHYANNE (repost) 04/17/03 03:28 pm

So, I showed up at ShyAnne's shack in Pittsburg last Friday afternoon. I rang the doorbell, but all I heard from inside was a woman's voice screaming and yelling, and children screaming and yelling back. I rang the bell a few more times until I finally heard the argument come to a halt as someone screamed "Shut the fuq up! I gotta get the door!" The house boomed with plodding footsteps, and suddenly, I sawthe bloated, broad, exhausted face of ShyAnne looming at the screen door, a mangled cigarette clenched in her teeth. She looked me up and down for a moment, and then asked: "The fuq you want?"

"Uh, I'm your date - I'm ____ from FC."

ShyAnne brightened up noticably. "Oh, hey, alright, well come on in," she offered, kicking the screendoor open and motioning me in. Ice cubes clunked in a huge plastic mug she carried, filled with whatever alcoholic mix I smelled on her breath. "Sorry, hope you didn't have to wait long - I was, uh, talking to my kids." ShyAnne was wearing a long, stained and tattered red t-shirt, stretched almost to her knees; she wore capri jeans against which her flabby legs strained mightily. One of the knees was worn through. Her flip-flops did not match.

A loud thump and crash echoed from the basement - ShyAnne stomped furiously on the floor and screamed, "Goddamnit, knock that fuqing shyt off or I'm gonna come down there and KILL YOU!" ShyAnne turned to me with a slightly embarrassed smile, muttering "Kids..." while the little ones in the basement pounded the ceiling with what I imagined to be a broom handle and screamed back, "Fuq you, Meemaw!"

"So, I, ah.. so, you ready?" I said. We had planned to see an early movie, followed by dinner at a cute little Mexican cafe in Pittsburg. ShyAnne lit a fresh cigarette, drank deep from her huge plastic party whyte foul belch led into the sentence: "URRRRRP yeah, you wanna help me, like, fold some laundry first?" She said it with a laugh - I got the feeling we'd be skipping dinner and a movie, and going straight to the good stuff.

I was afraid, very afraid.

ShyAnne led me back through the house, kicking aside toys, magazines, oily engine parts, dishes, until we got to her bedroom. Interestingly, there were two deadbolts on her bedroom door, which she swiftly unlocked. She put her shoulder into the door, heaving it open against the foot-deep layer of underwear, cigarette butts, prescription pill bottles and burrito wrappers on the floor of her room. Ripped and battered plastic blinds admitted only a few slivers of light into the dark and musty hole that was ShyAnne's room, and I was thankful.

ShyAnne ushered me in, giving my ass a drunken swat on my way in, and bolted the door behind us. She shambled over to to bare, stained mattress on the floor, flopped down on it, and fumbled through her purse. Having found a nearly empty pill bottle, she twisted off the lid and upended the contents - four pills of whatever - directly into her mouth, washing them down with a final chug of her drink. Her face screwed up with the effort of swallowing, then she looked up at me, lit yet another cigarette, patted the space on the mattress next to her, and said, "I ain't gonna bite." Then she snickered in a way so tawdry, so filthy, so gracelessly lascivious that I considered bolting out the window right there and then. I don't have to go through with this.... I don't have to go through with this... I thought to myself.

As she sat there on the mattress, swaying slightly and leering at me, I thought of ways to stall. Over in the corner was a cheap second-hand desk with a nicotine-stained keyboard and mouse and an old, dust-covered monitor with the familiar crimson glow of FC. Tiptoeing my way through the filth matting her bedroom floor, I picked my way towards it. "So, here's the computer you post from, huh?" I could hear the nervousness in my own voice. "There's - heh - there's a lot of people who'd love to get their hands on this thing, you know."

"Yeah. Fuqin' qunts," she said, her words starting to slur. I rarely hear a woman used the c-word, but somehow it didn't sound so out-of-place in this house, from this woman.

As I tried to discern what thread ShyAnne had been reading, I heard here flop back onto the matress - I looked back at her; she lay spread-eagle, cigarette pointed straight up from clenched lips like a miniature smokestack on some foul, polluted land. As I looked her over, and she me, she made her intentions plain with a sentence that was half spoken, half coughed: "What the fuq you waitin' for? You're horny, I'm really fuqin' horny, and I'm drunk."

ShyAnne took my five seconds of shocked silence as a yes. Without passion or deliberation, she reached down, unbuttoned her jeans, and pried them off, balling them up and heaving them into the corner where they knocked over a half-full beer bottle. She didn't seem to notice - she was busy pulling her greasy red t-shirt up over her head. Her bra, yellowed and threadbare, came off with a pang!, and her pendulous, lumpy tits poured forth onto her belly.

For one blessed, hopeful moment, ShyAnne looked like she'd forgotten about me - she puffed on her cigarette, regarding her breasts and flicking pieces of lint and food off of them. I was busy concocting an excuse for using two condoms - sensitive penis skin? prolonging the sex? - when the kids banged loudly on the door, hollering that one of them had gotten dishwasher detergent in her eyes.

ShyAnne cut them off, bellowing from the mattress at the door: "Just go wash it out or call the fuqin' neighbors! My boyfriend's here!" Honest to God, my nutsack went tight and cold at the word boyfriend. But the kids kept pounding away and begging for attention, so ShyAnne played whan I imagined to be her trump card: she staggered to her feet, lumbered across the room, unlocked the deatbolts and through open the door, looming above the kids in nothing but a badly overtaxed thong. She yelled something at the childred, something I couldn't make out over the horrified shrieks of the little ones as they sprinted down the hallway and out the back door.

ShyAnne slammed the door and staggered back to me, cigarette dangling from her crooked smile. "I'd guess we got a good couple a' hours now," she slurred.

Now the time had come - ShyAnne walked right up to me, looking up into my face, her cigarette dangerously close to burning my chest. "Best part is, I don't need no foreplay," she said, ending with a laugh that quickly degenerated into a hacking cough. Not breaking eye contact, she reached down and peeled away her thong, letting the woeful scrap of fabric fall around her feet.

I know this can't possibly be the case, but in my memory of this, ShyAnne removing her panties was accompanied by a low, unearthly rush of air, a dreadful foom that hearalded an equally vile smell. It was the strip-club odor of feminine hygene spray that was badly losing its battle against feminine funk. I nearly retched.

ShyAnne stubbed out her cigarette on the wall and flicked it across the room. Looking back at me, she snickered, licked her lips, and said:

"Come to mama."

With that, she got down on all fours on the mattress, her knees spread apart, her hair hanging down to the ground, swaying uneasily. Her gigantic ass jiggled like jello, and like some kind of perverse seismologist, I watched the ripples traverse her flesh, back and forth. "C'mon," she beckoned again in a drunken slur.

With trembling hands, I undid the button on my jeans, unzipped, and let them fall to the floor. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was horny and hard as a rock - no sex for a month and a half will do that to you. But it wasn't just that; something about this sad, filthy, awful spectacle had really turned me on. I usually dated (or had sex with) "good" girls, nice clean professional women from the world I'd grown up in. And now here was a fat, disgusting, degenerate skank on all fours for me, who wanted me to fuq her without foreplay or so much as a proper introduction. It had an irresistably dirty thrill to it, although I know I'd hate myself later for this.

So, I rolled on the condom - never before had I felt so much allegance and gratitude for a condom, I almost wanted to say a silent prayer of thanksgiving and sacrifice for it. I got down on my knees behind ShyAnne, who mumbled something that ended in "yeah, atta boy." Resting on her elbows, she was busy lighting her next cigarette. I wasn't offended - I just wanted to get this over with and get far, far away from there.

I slid my cock in. She was wide and sloppy, but warm and wet, and she let out a long "ooooooh" as I entered her that trailed off into another coughing fit. The coughs were actually kind of a nice sensation - the spasms of her bronchial hacking, transmitted through untold pounds of fat tissue, massaging my cock. I began to fuq her, my hands dug deeply into the mounds of fat on her thighs, and she made vaguely sexual noises in between coughs, wheezes, and drags on her cigarette.

At one point, she muttered, "God damn, I really am drunk. Those pills..." I didn't pay attention - my eyes were shut, and I was using all my energy to pretend I was fuqing someone else - my first girlfriend, my mom's secretary, Barbara Bush, whoever. I felt ShyAnne shift a bit, and opened my eyes - she had reached across the mattress to snare a small plastic bucket, the kind you buy at the beach for your kids to make sandcastles with.

It happened too fast for me to do anything about it. ShyAnne uttered a couple more words - "I think I'm-" and then brought the bucket up to her face. She gave a little gag, then heaved forcefully into the bucket, vomit splashing out onto her face, her hair, her breasts; splattering the mattress and walls, and even me a little. I felt her powerful waves of retches from deep inside her, and they squeezed my cock to a truly amazing orgasm, boosted by the pure depraved perversity of the situation.

I pulled out just as ShyAnne collapsed onto her side, passed out, the bucket tipped over and forming a lake of puke in the mattress indentation where ShyAnne lay. The vomit oozed around her, making a horrible little moat around her body. At that point, the smell, and more importantly, the reality of this room hit me with full force - and up came lunch, spraying between my teeth and out my nose, showering ShyAnne with chunky, awful filth. She didn't stir, but continued snoring loudly.

I ripped off the condom, tied it off, dropped it on the bed in front of ShyAnne's face (as a helpful reminder when she wakes up, I teased myself). I pulled on my jeans and ran out of the house, leaving skid marks on her lonely, decrepit street as I drove away as fast as I could. All I could think of was my shower.