Meg browses the “Looking for New, Hott Bears to Fuck” thread on the Bear Fuckers Anonymous message board because she feels alienated from boy humans and craves the adventure that comes with hunting a more dangerous cock. Member SLALLYFARRT recommends a taciturn grizzly named Jangle: The One They Seldom Refer to as Bret, citing his “greasy fuck lips” and “sharp anus” as practical tools for novice bear fuckers. Meg leaves GAP early on a Friday in October: 2006 and boards a Greyhound for Saugerties, NY, grossly dehydrated from the previous night’s solitary Listerine binge drinking. She believes her bowels are under control, but as she fades to nap a nightmare hallucination causes her to unintentionally blanket her fellow passengers in a viscous shit. Alone on the shoulder, a golden pickup speeds past her hitchhiking thumb, but Meg stays balanced long enough to hail a taxi on the increasingly abandoned I-95, arriving to the Red Roof Inn as twilight dims. She beds before dinner and embarks on a hike in the early morning. An ankle high trail of shattered glass and epi-pens means she is headed in the correct direction; but besides a rogue bottle of cougar piss and lingering fart smog the clearing is empty of The One They Seldom Refer to as Bret. She hides in a thicket on the outskirts of the clearing, awaiting the emergence of her crepuscular target. The docile Jangle finally surfaces with the gaunt body of a pre-pubescent girl dangling from his brittle fuck lips. He nuzzles a patch of grass and Meg lumbers to his behind. Careful not to startle him, she grips the tit-less body with a great bear hug and yanks it out with gusto. Jangle lets out a great bear moan of relief when his ass is finally liberated. His great brown bear eyes meet Meg’s, which are nestled underneath folds of genetic obesity. The body of the girl is trampled during the ferocious sodomy that follows.
To repay her three thousand dollar overlimit fee to GAP Meg folds stacks of baby sweaters in a windowless basement sans ventilation. The unchanging smile smeared across her face is proof that demeaning labor in a hopeless pit of debt cannot dispel her fond memories of last weekend’s bestial sodomy. Though she won’t get another vacation until Thanksgiving weekend, Meg still hopes to see Jangle before his obligatory hibernation. These hopes are dashed when a surprise invitation to spend the holiday amongst a colony of jobless slugabeds alleviates the need to slink back to Jangle. The chance for a human fuck is a real possibility. Amongst the company is Xander: a Ted Logan lookalike whose V-neck cuts to the edge of his pubic jungle, where a family of golden warts resides. The dinner conversation alternates between Adam Levine’s ass cheeks and Failure to Launch, which the group unanimously elects as the best Romantic Comedy of the year. As the only woman in attendance Meg feels the pressure to suck at least one dick tonight, especially since the losers have now proven worthiness through their immaculate taste. She lifts the gravy boat to her lips and smiles timidly at a joke that has the whole table in an uproar. When gravy mucous sticks to the contours of her jowls, Xander’s naturally chivalrous inclination is to dab it away, but he reconsiders, admitting to her, by whisper: “It suits you.” When the Itis strikes, Xander retires to his room, beckoning Meg to follow. He amazes her for hours with an infinite stream of conspiracies and conjectures as the box spring groans under the collective weight of their seductive poses. Their faces become wet with each other, a cue for Xander to reveal the fresh pepperoni pizza hidden beneath his box spring. He opens it on his lap and pats it, inviting a Meg hypnotized by cheese to sit down on top. Her pallid cheeks are in the process of making contact with the pie when Xander turns his charm off and his canine on, and bends her over, dick breaking through the pizza box and making a deep, meaningful connection with her cunt, the edges of the box concealing her shapeless hips.
From Meg’s sleek buttery surface emerge nodules replete with pepperoni grease, which popping creates a torrent of demonic pus that floods the space beneath Xander’s box spring, soaking his stash of pepperoni pizzas. Flecks from the spray cast a constellation of pimples across Xander’s forehead, and he falls out of Meg and onto his dry concrete floor, shattering his palms. The pudding of Meg’s new body soaks the sheets and drips to the floor, mixing with the blackened floor pus, coagulating to form a coffin sized stick of luxury lard. Xander rubs his forehead then gets to work sifting for Meg’s vitals in this infernal, corporeal jelly, demonstrating tremendous grit in the five seconds between unrestrained pleasure and absolute terror.
I read this at The Bodega Monthly, a monthly reading at a local bar. By the last paragraph I heard someone boo and yell, “Hey, we’re eating!”