Horny as an Inbox Full of Spam

by Hewligan

“A little goes a long way,” the old gypsy woman had told me. At the time, I assumed she was talking about the embarrassingly inadequate size of my penis, but I was soon to find out how wrong I was.

I first heard of her one day when I was trawling throught the contents of my hotmail account, hoping I'd been sent some pictures by one of the horny teenage lesbians who seem to spend so much time on the internet.

“They''ll want YOUR Cock,” her message began. Well, that sounded like a good thing, so I read on. The email told me of an ancient gypsy potion that would render me irresistable to women for the bargain price of $49.95.

I knew then, that finally, at the age of thirty seven, at long last, I would lose my virginity.

I met the old woman at her caravan. The meeting was mercifully short – the whole place reeked of boiled cabbage. She sold me a small bottle of the potion, and told me to dab just a little about my person before going out to find some foxy chicks. Well, she didn't actually say foxy chicks. I made that bit up. But that's what I was thinking.

I left quickly, desperate to find women with a substantially lower wart to facial surface ratio.

I stepped from the taxi outside a night club. The kind of nightclub that would be filled with gorgeous women – women who before tonight would have done nothing but sneer at me. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I knew, they would be mine.

I opened the bottle, and sniffed, cautiously. Much like the old gypsy woman and her caravan, it smelled of boiled cabbage. “Oh well,” I said to myself, and tipped the whole bottle over my head. I figured I needed as much help as I could get.

Inside the club, the light was dim and the music was loud. Amongst the flashing strobes I could make out the shapes of dancing woman, their breasts bouncing in time to the music. Normally I would have sat in a corner, nursing a coke and hoping to catch a glimpse of underwear as one of those short skirts rode up during a particularly frenetic dance. Not this night, though. No, not on this night.

I strode out into the middle of the dance floor.

And all of those women stopped moving. Slowly, they turned to face me. To stare at me. At first I thought they were staring at the bulge of flab poking out between my “I Grok Spock” t-shirt and my Spiderman patterned track pants, but no, they were actually looking a couple of inches lower.

“Well, hello, ladies,” I said.

Then they charged at me. Scrambling over one another, tearing at their own clothes and each others; desperate for me; overwhelmed with lust. They fell, grabbing at my feet and legs, but always being pulled back by one of the others, all desperate for me. For me! I stood at the centre of this morass of writhing flesh, watching them, as they struggled across the floor, finding themselves unable to reach me. They masturbated frantically, my manly cabbage-scent overcoming all trace of their conscious minds.

It was as if my computer's monitor had come to full, three-dimensional life!

And then one woman strode through the crowd. She was bigger than the others, and pushed them aside easily. She was... she was... alright, she pretty much looked like a man. But I could tell she wasn't. No man could have said to me, in quite the way she did, “I want your fucking cock.”

She dropped to her knees in front of me, and tore away my track pants, then my y-fronts, exposing my pulsing manhood. What little there was of it.

Then, without warning, she pulled a large knife from her handbag and sliced away my tackle before I'd even had a chance to use it.

“Ohhh!” she screamed. “Oh, God, yes!”

As I lay, writhing in agony on the ground, amongst the still-masturbating women who had now been rendered useless to me, she added my penis to the others on her necklace, and walked away, satiated.