I met her at the all-you-can-eat buffet of a local pizza parlour. I'd seen her there several times before, shoveling pasta and deep pan pizza down her gullet like her life depended on it. I never thought twice about it...some folks do like to eat.
But then came the day when she approached me.
"Could you possibly give me a ride home? My partner had to leave for an emergency and I just don't think I could walk the 3 miles to my house."
I silently debated the favour in my mind, watching as she wiped a napkin across her chin, cleaning a trail of pasta sauce that had dribbled from her mouth. I didn't really want to do it. But she had such a sad look in her eyes that I decided to be charitable just this one time.
She had me wait out in the car until she finished using the restroom. When she returned her shirt had been left untucked on the left side. I thought I saw a spaghetti noodle winding it's way down her torso, into the crease that was exposed. Then I realized it was no noodle, it was a blood vein. I really had second thoughts about this whole thing now.
When she sat down in the car I felt it sag and droop, like all the weight had shifted to her side (as indeed it had). But the thing that really made me regret my good intentions was the smell that came off of her in waves. A veritable potpourri of stank resembling a hearty stew of feces, Limburger cheese, hard boiled eggs, sun-rotted roadkill, sweaty armpits, moldy tuna, beer vomit, dog breath and skunk perfume. I nearly gagged a few times as I drove her to her residence, which was, thankfully, not too far from the pizza joint.
When we got there she insisted that I walk her to the door. Oh well, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.
I told her I needed to use the toilet before I headed on down the road. She showed me where it was. I locked myself in, expecting to be overwhelmed by another stench-fest. But to my surprise, her bathroom was remarkably reek-free. She had hundreds of "Playgirl" centerfolds tacked to the walls and a dazzling array of sex toys on the counter, but I didn't see anything wrong with that. At least it didn't stink.
It was when I walked out, still zipping my pants, that the evening truly reached the point where there was simply no escape from the downward spiral. For there, standing in front of me, was the buffet queen, and she had on black leather lingerie, carrying a cruel rider's crop.
She beat me with that crop. What's worse, she eventually worked her way out of the leather (trust me, SHE did the working...I tried my best to talk her out of it). What I saw then sent my head reeling and I lost all control. I blacked out. I couldn't tell you what happened after that even if I wanted to. All I've got to prove that I spent an evening with this woman is a collection of welts on my back, apparently caused by a riding crop which has extracted large amounts of flesh to leave a scar that will only conjure up a half-forgotten memory.
And I'll tell you this...I'd gladly suffer 50 more lashes if it would help me forget the other half...
