Mathilde Martel is a whore with a tendency toward passivity. She has steel blue eyes and curly dishwater blonde hair. The most obvious thing about Mathilde Martel, aside from her coquettish behaviors, is her pudgy figure.
Mathilde Martel has a standing Tuesday afternoon engagement with a man that carries a comb over and is missing two and a half fingers on his right hand. He swears up and down that while he was in the womb, the umbilical chord became wrapped around his little digits, causing them to lose circulation and fall off. His name is Claude Something-or-other and he is prone to nail biting and poor personal hygiene.
Mathilde Martel always finds herself wondering if those little bitty fingers are still swimming around in his mother's anatomy as Claude is about to come. She wonders if they tickle the right spots inside of the woman whose breasts he suckled for all those months. She wonders if they've turned gangrene and started to make her ill, ill like he makes Mathilde every Tuesday afternoon.
And so it goes for a long while. Every Tuesday afternoon dirty-missing-finger Claude comes for a visit. His filthy sweat pooling in the curves and folds of Mathilde's fat.
But then, one Tuesday, a lady caller made an appointment right before Claude was due. Mathilde accepted this because she could use a break from the strands of comb-over tickling her forehead.
The woman wasn't much and easy to overlook with her average everything and subtle nothing. Mathilde didn't mind, better to forget than to remember the details. Like the crust underneath Claude's long toe nails, what she would give to forget that slimy yellowish green color.
Mathilde placed her head between the middle aged woman's legs. It had been a long time since she licked a cunt, but she didn't worry. She immediately shoved her long tongue into the slit. She felt something touch the tip. She pulled her tongue back out, slightly stunned. She figured it was a fluke, maybe just all in her head. So she plunged back in. Again, she felt something obstructing the way. Perplexed, she removed her tongue from the aging pussy and placed her left eye right at the opening. She used her fingers as a speculum to try to spread enough to see deep within. She couldn't. So with the spread vagina staring her down, she stuck her tongue back and curled it upwards, trying to catch the little blocker.
The woman caller found great delight in these odd sensations. She bucked and wriggled around the tongue and fingers, causing Mathilde to forcefully hold her down with her weight.
Mathilde was feeling the little obstruction beginning to move. She wriggled and she wraggled. She jiggled and she jaggled. She began to suck, then pluck. Over and over. Suck then pluck. And finally, in the midst of a very deep suck, something flew into her mouth.
Mathilde begins to choke, coughing loudly, banging her chest. Her hands over her mouth, she keeps coughing and gagging until the foreign object is spit into them.
Pudgy little Mathilde Martel opens her hand to see a little finger laying in a pool of her saliva. Decaying and putrid green, it wiggled a bit, as if saying, "You wondered about me, now here I am!"
The woman caller, confused and slightly scared at this point asked what was going on.
Mathilde said, "Do you have a son named Claude?"
The woman confirmed that she did.
Mathilde replied, "There is no charge for you today, but I will be keeping this. You need to leave now, and never return. Tell Claude that I will no longer be seeing him as well because I have everything that I could ever need from him."
Mathilde Martel immediately went home and dipped the finger in lacquer and tied it to a necklace.
When she becomes horny in a most disgusting manner, she shoves it deep inside of her, with the golden chain still dangling out a bit. She laughs to herself and walks around town and when she sees a man she admires, she moves her vaginal muscles in a way that she'd imagine would make the finger motion in a come-hither way.
Moi
I’m an air snob. I hold by breath around ugly people so that I stay perf. Which is why traveling - especially by train - is air hell. Just sit near the toilet next time and inhale all those stranger-shit particles. Bon voyage.
Him
It takes a fucked-up fellow to gross me out but this guy was one yummy puss-shake of a man. Of course he sits next to me.
He has long dirty-brown man nails. You know how brown becomes brown? From fucking all the other colours. His nose looks like an elbow. He's reading some sort of fantasy novel (barf) and the cover is all over the place; waterfalls, wizards, fairies, unicorns, fields of moistened moss. He one-hands the book open while the other hand travels his pepperoni face.
Moi
I knew a girl once from Santander who loved mechanics' hands. Don't get it. All black from the oil changes. Won’t that infect scraped labia?
Him
So this guy is reading his "Amulet of Mercanium" book or whatever and starts picking at his faceroids with his spare hand. As he rips them off, they burst like little puss pools under his nails. Ok fine, we all pick our zits, whatever - but not in the train man. I’m right fucking here! And then, this hobbit-ramming freak starts to snack on them. His teeth peel the little volcano tops from his nails and then he sucks them back into his mouth. His jaw muscles flex on the side of his face as he munches down.
Moi
I lift my head off the headrest. Who knows if they ever change these things. What if a jackass similar to this guy rested his deep-fryer scalp where my head is. No thanks. Fuck, I hope my neck can hold this pose for the rest of the trip.
Him
Ah shit. Now he's picking his nose. Great. And...sigh, straight into the mouth again. We now have a scab sucker and snot snacker.
Moi
I look out the window for relief – fuck - his reflection, I still see him. Snack, snack, snack. Damn, eating snot. Not good.
Him
He yawns and I pick up what smells like the never-before-brushed-mouths of three million toothless dog-eating Asians. I gag quietly and cover my mouth with by headphone cup like an athlete heaving on oxygen.
Us
This guy will kill me. I pop my head up like a prairie dog and peer around looking for a vacant seat. Nothing free. Dick bitch.
I sneak a look at the rest of him; his crow-like profile, his hairless arms, his wear-in-any-weather dark blue jeans, his Super Mario shirt. He rips off another zit and pops its salty tip onto his tongue while fully immersed in his fairy novel.
But the worst comes next. Yes, he had another orifice for me to sample. I should have known, I should have ran. I should have kept my headphone cup on my face. I wished I was one of those champion deep divers who could hold his breath for eighty minutes or whatever. I was simply too immersed in side-eying his face to notice him shift his weight slightly to one side. Then he released. It singed my sense of smell so my taste buds took over. That’s right, I was eating his McDonald's combo’d, root beer laced, chocolate cookie chased, neglected for weeks ass's silent atomic shit bomb. It was like being in a Nazi oven where instead of gas, they burned lower-class shit.
So I removed my headphones and placed one of the cups back onto my face. Too bad, "Happy Together" by the Turtles was playing. I fucking love that song.
Cado
