Sloppy Seconds

When he was but a young boy struggling with the hormonal insanity of puberty, James would sneak into his father's room - as the old man sweated and groaned between the already-aged whore's leathery thighs - to smell her underwear as he watched their bedroom acrobatics. Lacy, satiny things that covered the feminine parts of a woman his young eyes were forbidden to see.

That feeling of being close to something so mysterious and dangerous excited him tremendously. The musky scent wafting from the seat of those silken fabrics; melded with the sight and smell of his father's passions, enflamed his pre-pubescent fantasies. He imagined a menage a trois with his father and the prostitute, participating through his olfactory senses in the bizarre sexual acts unfolding before him. Sometimes his father would catch him kneeling beside the bed with the whore's panties pressed to his face, grinning like a chimp with a handful of shit. Sometimes he would chase him away, but often he would just smile and wink at him.

As James grew into young adulthood, his attraction to women's underwear blossomed into a full-grown fetish. He would steal the panties and masturbate with them as he listened to his dad plunge the old whore's asshole with his miniscule cock from the other side of the bedroom door. His taste for women's underwear never abated.

James was now approaching his thirtieth birthday. It had been more than a decade since he'd even thought about the woman his father had contracted both gonorrhea and syphilis from and passed along to his unsuspecting wife. Then one evening, he flipped through the channels of late-night cable and spotted her on a corner where a news team had gathered to report on a police killing or some other nonsense.

James barely heard a word of the news anchor's ramblings as he stared past the onsite correspondent at the prostitutes working beyond him. Johns were still stopping to pick them up, unmindful of the news cameras or the gathering of police, ambulances, and coroner vans. Whatever addiction drove them was stronger than the threat of incarceration or exposure on national television. James knew the feeling. He visited prostitutes frequently and kept a refrigerator full of penicillin for those occasions when wearing a condom just wouldn't suffice and he had to go raw dog.

Among the half-naked crackwhores and heroin-addicted cum buckets stood his family's dirty secret, now so old that she leaned over a walker as she stood on the corner. She wore a miniskirt so high that her thong was visible, disappearing into the flabby narrow flaps of her wrinkled ass cheeks. A blonde wig hung lopsidedly from her skull with wisps of bone-white hair peeking from the sides. Her eyes were completely vacant - null and void. She absentmindedly popped her dentures in and out of her mouth as she flashed her withered tits at passing motorists.

James grabbed his coat and dashed out of the house. He had to have her, or at the very least, her underwear.

James had what the doctors called mysophilia. He was obsessed with women's underwear, and the more worn and ragged, the better. Skidmarks, menstrual stains - all the tastier. He purchased used underwear from eBay, stole them from laundromats and even the homes of friends and neighbors. He'd been caught on more than one occasion but it didn't matter to him. He could not imagine life without his face pressed into the sweaty folds of a woman's worn drawls. Or with her bloodstained undergarments wrapped around his cock as he joyfully masturbated himself raw.

He had no problem finding the old whore. He'd frequented that same corner many times. He parked across the street, working up the nerve to approach her as johns drove by, laughed, and spat at her. Every now and again, a desperate trick would actually stop for her. Bargain shoppers, he supposed. Then James would tail them as they drove to some alley where they raped and brutalized her for less than the price of a drink.

James followed her all night, watching tricks fuck her in her diseased ass for whatever change and lint they found in their pockets. No amount seemed too small. At her age, she was probably grateful that anyone wanted to fuck her, let alone pay for the privilege.

He watched her blow a homeless man in the park for a cigarette and stagger out, semen drooling from the corners of her lips and down her chin as she smoked a Marlboro down to nothing.

He watched twelve college jocks ejaculate into a 40 oz. bottle of Old English and then giggle themselves silly as she drank the entire concoction down. As far as James could tell, she earned five dollars for the feat.