The Unbelievable True Story of the World's Worst Sex
(As Judged By Josey Vogels)
A deleted scene from the forthcoming novel Naked Montreal
by Laura Roberts
Copyright 2012 Laura Roberts
Smashwords Edition
Cover image, “Bacchus and Ariadne,”
by Guido Reni
(Public domain, via WikiPaintings.org)
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Peter Peckerwood thought he was the best thing to happen to women since Charles Bukowski. Of course, if you’ve ever read any Bukowski, right now you’re asking yourself “Who’d ever want to be such an asshole?” And, indeed, even if you are a Bukowski fan, the last person you would ever want to sleep with was a guy who thought he was Bukowski. Or even Bukowski's alter ego, Chinaski, for that matter.
I first met Peter online, which at the time was still a bit of a weird thing for a woman (or, indeed, anyone) to do. We had both filled out dating profiles on a system that was pimped out by several unrelated sites, pooling their members together without revealing that while one person had joined the dating site thanks to a cheeky adult website featuring tasteful nudes, the other had come via a lowbrow comedy site catering mainly to dick and fart jokes.
I suppose, in the end, this all amounts to much the same thing anyway: people meeting people who need people to fuck. Aren't we all just lucky people?
Peter was an actor, which mostly involved him being out of work, waking up at the ass-crack of noon, and calling his agent every single day in order to yell at her for not having any gigs for him. Picture the character Withnail from the film Withnail and I, and you'll have a good idea of the type of person we're dealing with here: self-absorbed, manipulative, supposedly a classically trained actor with a Shakespearean background, and yet, somehow, totally unable to land a job.
Peter also resembled Doogie Howser's older, less attractive brother, which meant if he was actually cast in anything, he would have to overcome millions of comments such as, “Hey, you know who you remind me of? Doogie Howser, MD!”
Now, Peter, being for the most part unemployed and not so bold as to collect welfare like many other struggling actors in the city, had concocted a get-rich scheme of sorts: he had put together a comedy troupe with several other under-employed actors from around the city. The goal was to write up enough ridiculous sketches to create a show, perform at one of the cheapest venues in town, and get all of their friends and family to pack the house. I suppose it was a better idea than playing to someone's parents' basement, stuffed with the same family and friends supporting your little acting habit, but it amounted to much the same thing, in practice.
In short, Peter was a legend in his own mind, and would continue to play to this safe crowd in order to feel like a big fish in a small pond.
Meanwhile, this was his “side project” to the uglier endeavor of producing a one-man play about a serial killer who had slaughtered 14 women for being feminists and supposedly “stealing” his spot at a local engineering school. The killer committed suicide after his shooting spree came to a close, and Pete informed me that he “identified” with this psycho, as they both hailed from the same West Island suburb (among other seemingly insignificant connecting details).
To me, this was a peculiar character. I didn't believe him when he said he identified with a serial killer, mostly because I felt he must be saying it for shock value, or as an actor discussing his craft—not as a human being saying that he literally understood what must have been going on in the mind of a deeply deranged individual who singled out female victims, one by one, and shot them point-blank for no reason at all. I figured he was trying to impress me, somehow, by suggesting that he was deep, or involved with darker issues, particularly once he knew that I edited an online magazine dedicated to erotica and the darker side of the psyche.
I'll admit it: I was curious to dig deeper. On the surface, this person seemed stable, normal, reasonably intelligent, and not entirely unlikeable. Kind of like your average, everyday serial killer, but only in retrospect—once the bodies beneath the house had begun to pile up and the neighbors had called the police to complain about the smell.
I wouldn't say that what we did could be considered “dating,” as I mostly took an unpaid job wrangling props for his comedy troupe, and acted as a consultant on the pieces they wrote and performed, so I spent a lot of time with him whether I liked it or not. And after our first (and only) sexual encounter, I was not inclined to a repeat performance.
This was, in fact, the worst sexual experience of my life. And, according to the sex columnist Josey Vogels (aka “Canada's Carrie Bradshaw”), it is also The Worst Sexual Experience On Record, EVER.
How's that for a claim to fame?
Despite having been written up in her column, there are some glaring errors in her transcription of the events, which I would like to correct at long last. Without further ado, here's what really transpired on that fateful night:
Peter and I went to a party where we were both out of our respective elements (i.e. him acting sullen and me writing saucily). The music was incredibly loud and heavy on the bass, making it nearly impossible to converse, so we did what any self-respecting couple on a first date might do: we got rip-roaring drunk to make up for all transgressions.
Fueled by the foolhardy ego of booze, we took to the dance floor (such as it was) and began to dance like epileptics on crack. We became hot, sweaty, blinded by tequila and lust. It was time to blow that pop tart stand in search of further bodily pleasures.
Back at his place, we made out like drunken lushes. He talked non-stop, in between kisses, alternating between utter nonsense and berating me about faking my moans of passion. (For the record: My moans were real, though my passion waned as he continued to mutter and berate me about them.) When I finally told him to shut the fuck up, he requested a blowjob.
I started to go down on him, deploying the finest weapons in my arsenal of sensual titillation. And that's when he began to hiccup uncontrollably and pushed me away. Minutes passed as he attempted to still the hiccups, but nothing worked. I lay back on the bed in frustration, and the next thing I heard was the sound of his snoring.
Never before have my oral skills been so roundly and crudely rejected, and at first I was furious. But when I realized this meant I didn't have to go through with fucking someone so drunk he could hardly remain conscious, I set down the blunt instruments I had grabbed from his bedside table to bludgeon him and simply rolled over to get some shut-eye.
In the morning I awoke to an ominous sound. It reminded me vaguely of running water, but it seemed too close at hand to be coming from the bathroom. After a moment I heard him mutter, “Fuck!”
Cracking one eye open, I saw him jump up and place a second mattress onto the floor. In the dark when we had first entered his bedroom the night before, I hadn't noticed it there, leaning up against the wall. It was ready for action.
“Get up,” he said, “I pissed the bed.”
“What?!” I shrieked, shrinking from his side of the mattress.
“Just get up!” he said, and I scrambled off the urine-soaked bed, avoiding the dampened area. He calmly leaned the soiled mattress against the wall and lay back down on the second mattress, which was now occupying most of the available floor space.
I gathered my things and hurried into the bathroom to dress. There was no way I was going to waste any more of my quality time with a full-on bed-wetter.
Unfortunately, this sad tale has a coda. Later on that same day, I ran into some of his friends whom I'd met, in passing, at the party.
“So, did you end up going home with him?” they asked me, rather bluntly.
“Yeah,” I admitted sheepishly.
They nodded and smiled amongst themselves. And then one of them pulled the sucker-punch, asking: “So, did he wet the bed?”
I cocked my head and gave them all a hard look. I was utterly gobsmacked by the thought that not only was this guy's problem common knowledge, but his pals hadn't even had the simple decency to warn me. Resisting the urge to knock their heads together, Three Stooges style, I simply smiled and excused myself, leaving them in my dust.
Good riddance, to this pathetic specimen and his enabling buddies. The only thing I would really like to have done differently, when faced with a 30-year-old bed-wetter, was to offer two single, solitary words of advice:
Rubber sheets.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Laura Roberts is the author of a variety of humorous erotic ebooks, available from Smashwords and Amazon, including more installments in the Naked Montreal series coming this Spring. She is also the editor of the literary rebellion Black Heart Magazine. Laura currently blogs from in an Apocalypse-proof bunker at Buttontapper.com, where she lives with her unGoogleable husband and her literary kitty, Ned.
If you enjoyed this sample, check out more of Laura Roberts' work at Smashwords, including:
ACTING THE PART,
DOUBLE TROUBLE,
HOW TO SUCK BETTER,
THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN COCK,
THE MONTREAL GUIDE TO SEX,
NAKED MONTREAL,
NEVER TRUST A BROTHER,
TOP 5 REASONS YOU CAN'T GET LAID IN MONTREAL,
WHERE TO GET LAID IN MONTREAL,
HAIKU FOR HATERS
and
THE NOIR ISSUE
Thanks for reading, and don't forget to let Laura know what you think:
Write a review or tweet her @originaloflaura!