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A world-wide calamity faces The Examiner’s crack news journalist as he investigates the day that vaginas quit pussyfooting around.The SEX Files
It all started on August 3, 2011. I keep late hours and was seeking a few more precious moments of quiet slumber when my phone rang mid-morning. Finding the phone through ocular cobwebs of steel, I said, “What?”
“Have you heard what’s happening?” Jimmy, from the newsroom, asked.
“What this time? Another homicide?”
“Turn on the news, man. You ain’t going to believe it. The boss wants you to call him as soon as you get your act together.”
I reached for the TV remote and punched in the numbers for CNN. The male news anchor appeared a bit discombobulated. He was on split-screen with some scientist from a research lab.
“What do they think caused it?” the anchor asked.
“We’re investigating.”
“So the official spin is that scientists and doctors aren’t yet willing to speculate?”
“That’s the case at this time.”
Speculate on what? I wondered.
“The head of Homeland Security is advising everyone to remain in a secure location until further notice,” the CNN guy said. “We are about to show you a piece of footage from the White House shot moments ago. We warn you that it is shocking.”
We all like “shocking,” so I rubbed my tired eyes for a better look-see. What I saw was a first for live TV, and I’ve witnessed a lot of shit as a reporter. The clip showed Madame President at the pressroom podium. She stood in front of the news cameras with a quirky smile and suddenly unbuttoned her jacket and blouse. She pulled the garments open to reveal two large saggy breasts.
“Give sex a chance. We want cock!” she screamed into the microphones. She turned to a male aide and grabbed his crotch. The other women on the podium began to remove their clothes. Then the tube’s picture went black momentarily before returning to the newsman.
I flipped over to MSNBC, wanting to catch that scene again. Instead of the sexy anchorwoman I was used to seeing, another male was broadcasting. “Earlier, the Pentagon placed the nation on top priority alert as the first reaction to this phenomenon was that it was some form of terrorist attack. Reports currently streaming in indicate, however, that this occurrence is happening worldwide.”
I watched, fascinated. Pictures from the capitals of Europe showed women stripping off their clothes and running through the streets after men—not to harm them, but to fuck them. Another piece of film from the Middle East showed females tearing away their black robes, and yet another clip from some unidentified location had filmed nuns leaving their habits behind in a convent and hitting the streets.
“Holy shit,” I exclaimed. I called the chief’s number in the newsroom while hastily pulling on some clothes. The news angle slammed into my frontal lobe with overwhelming force and unleashed a tremble from my spine into my extremities. Whatever was going down would be the story of a lifetime.
“Ed, it’s me, Dave.”
“Dave, we’re going to try and cover this thing, somehow.”
“The tube said that we were now under martial law.”
“Screw martial law. We’re the fucking press. Martial law ain’t gonna mean shit to these sexed-up femmes.”
Even in a crisis, Ed was all business, the consummate professional, and the voice of reason. “We can’t compete with the on-air media, but we can start recording our impressions and take interviews,” he told me. “Work is the best antidote right now. Take your equipment and start talking to people. If this is temporary, we’ll have the human-interest story of all fucking time. If it’s permanent, it’ll be the story of a brave new world.”
He was right. “Okay,” I agreed.” We had to do what we could to record this experience. Better than sitting around wondering what might happen next.
Before turning off the TV, I witnessed MSNBC’s female co-anchor appear on-screen behind the man providing the updates on this developing story. She was totally naked. She grabbed at the man’s crotch, but was quickly subdued by technicians and pulled off-camera. My eyes grew to the size of saucers. I had always wondered what she would look like naked. Now I knew.
Being a pro, the newsman straightened his tie and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse Lisa. She’s another victim of this terrible aberration that is apparently a worldwide epidemic. We must all pray this condition is only temporary. We should stay in our homes and remain calm. Specialists from around the world are communicating to try and determine what has happened.”
It was obvious that the “specialists” were clueless. As a newspaper guy, I had seen hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, earthquakes, and war rip people’s lives apart, but this was a whole new form of crisis. Apparently, the females of the earth were experiencing a real-life version of Girls Gone Wild.
I shut off the tube and stepped out of my front door. I realized there were no sirens outside. In every other crisis or catastrophe I’d experienced, sirens screamed from patrol cars and fire trucks. But I did hear something even more ominous—my next door neighbor, Big Bad Bertha.
“Dave, it’s you,” she bellowed.
She made a beeline for me. I was seeing more of Bertha than I had ever cared to see. She bounded across her lawn to mine. Her big tits swayed and her cellulite jiggled. Her arms shot forward and wrapped around me, damn near knocking me to the ground.
“Fuck me, you big hunk,” she chided and grabbed for my zipper.
I managed to break free from her power hold and outrun her to my car. I climbed inside and fired up Ole’ Betsy. As I backed out of the drive, Bertha threw herself onto the auto’s hood, screaming at me to stop and fuck her. Her huge melon tits squished against the windshield and obscured my forward vision. I backed out of my drive, and just when I thought I was headed down the street with a new, huge, pink hood ornament, another male neighbor appeared in his yard. Big Bertha slid off and headed for him at a full gallop. George saw her coming, dropped his newspaper, and ran for dear life to the protection of his house. I gunned Ole Betsy, leaving behind my quiet little Peyton Place of a neighborhood.
I turned on the radio. The all-news station was speculating about what could have caused women to suddenly break free of their morality and go on a dick-hunt. Although those weren’t his words.
The shrinks had already come up with a label for the phenomenon. It was being called Deviant Sexual Behavior Syndrome, or DSBC, but the newscaster referred to it as “the Sex Files, for short. Had a mad scientist gone Stephen King’s “super flu” one better? he rhetorically asked his listeners. A researcher in a lab who is concerned only with empirical results, breakthroughs, the advancement of knowledge, not consequences? Had some third-world demigod released a poison agent that first steals women’s modesty, and then leads to something worse? I sure as hell didn’t have an answer, but I decided the place to start with interviews was the shopping mall nearest my house.
I wheeled into the mall’s parking lot. Two women were pursuing a man across the handicapped parking. One of the women wore a lightweight top, but was naked below the waist, having discarded shoes, skirt, and drawers somewhere along the way. The man wore some fancy sneakers and was putting space between him and the two women. They pulled up and appeared to be looking for other prey. I kept going.
On the edge of a pickup bed, another woman had her legs wrapped around a man who was pumping her for all he was worth. His pants were puddled around his heels, and it occurred to me that this was not a horrible calamity for everyone. For many men, this was their wildest dreams come true, a fantasy beyond anything they could have imagined—a world full of women who wanted to get shtupped. For the first time, I thought about Zelda, my girlfriend, and wondered if she was shtupping everyone in sight. Her libido was pretty active to begin with.
The radio voice was providing updates. He said that children did not seem to be affected. The disease was only in pubescent women and older. Thank goodness for that, at least. Further, pregnant women also seemed to be immune. More small favors. That information should give the eggheads in the head-sheds a leg-up on what was causing this.
I pondered over the social fiber of our society. Women were more than one-half of the world population. Were wife and mother duties gone forever? What about traditional occupations such as nurses and teachers that were so vital? I wondered what this would do for rapists and procurers of sex. Would they have a heyday, or would they be more frustrated than ever without the element of power?
More information from the airwaves. On the negative side, I have been informed that there are huge traffic jams snarling many of the nation’s roadways that lead to girls’ schools and convents. My questions answered. So, there would be plenty of places around the globe where men would not be fleeing. I could picture the new curriculum on high school and college campuses. They would be teaching Semen 101 by now. I wondered what it might be like around Hef’s Playboy Mansion at the moment.
Big questions would require insightful editorials. I started to formulate my first story as I pulled up in front of the mall entrance. I placed my press pass on the dash board. An armed security guard walked up to me.
“I’m with The Examiner,” I told him. “I’m going to try and make some sense out of this.”
His metal nameplate read Joe-something. “Good luck,” he said.
I stepped out of my illegally parked car and flipped on my pocket recorder. “What have you observed?”
“The women have gone bug-fuck, basically. They’re all messed up. They come up to you and ask for sex.”
“So they ask rather than just start tearing at you like an animal?”
“They smile and ask first, but they have this kind of wild look in their eyes,” Joe said, looking at the recorder. “And they grab at your pants even if you say ‘No.’ But in my case, they seem to respect the pistol.” He looked at his weapon with admiration. He was some schmuck who had finally gotten the opportunity to use his gun for something besides posing with it in the mirror. “The ones that approached me looked down the barrel and went off to look for other men. Most of them have left because there aren’t that many men in the mall this time of day.”
“Come in with me, would you?” I asked. Joe seemed doubtful. “You’ll get your name in the paper,” I said.
All is vanity, I mused, as he led me in through the automatic doors. Inside was a scene that made me think of Viking rape and pillage. There were only a few people in the mall’s foyer, but they were busy running around like it was a Three Stooges world. But, unlike the Stooges, most were in El Buffo. One man, a store clerk perhaps, was pinned to the mall’s floor by two naked women who had placed their knees on his arms. A third woman was working his penis, trying to induce an erection.
“But I’m gay,” the poor man whined.
“You’ve got a dick, buster. Use it,” one of the females yelled at him.
Once the man’s cock reached her rigidity requirement, she pounced on it and started to undulate. Apparently, women were willing to work together for the common goal. I gave no thought about helping the man out of his predicament. I report the news. I don’t alter it. Besides, I wasn’t ready to have the three sirens turn on me.
Another woman appeared from nowhere and stood in front of the two of us. She looked to be in her early thirties, not at all bad to look at, and she actually had her clothes on.
“Hello, handsome,” she said to me.
Joe reached for his pistola. “Easy, Joe. She seems calm. I want to interview her.” To the woman, I asked, “Would you mind telling me how you’re feeling at this moment?”
“I feel fine, but I’ll feel better after we have sex.”
“When did this feeling—”
Damned if she wasn’t unzipping my fly and reaching for my jewels. My thoughts were racing helter-skelter, but I didn’t try to stop her. I thought maybe she would talk while I let her mess around. “Ma’am, can you explain why you have this urge?”
I thought she was going to answer me, but instead she liberated my penis and started sucking it. Joe and I watched her in amazement. Now, I was part of the story.
“We’ll be able to laugh about all of this some day,” the security guard said with a false laugh.
I wasn’t laughing. Something had gone hideously wrong and thrown my world into chaos. But it felt so damn good. There is something to be said for spontaneity. I couldn’t deny it. I wanted the erection, and I wanted to fuck her. I had already convinced myself that my beloved Zelda had, by now, run from her office to the athletic club next door and spread for every hard dick that was willing to do her. And this woman was better-looking than Zelda.
“Joe, why don’t you take a walk?” I said shakily. “The interview is getting a little personal.”
“You said my name would be in the paper.”
“Yeah, I’ll get back to you in a minute. It’s not her fault,” I added. “They obviously can’t help themselves.”
The woman pulled off my stiffening prick and slipped out of her shorts. She had long tanned legs. “If you’ll fuck me, I’ll talk,” she stated. Without waiting for my answer, she placed her palms on the edge of a huge cement planter by the mall’s entrance and offered me her ass.
The ball was in my court. I could cut and run, or I could fuck for fun. My cock had not reached its zenith, but her mouth had accomplished enough to give me penetration power. I sat my recorder on the planter.
The woman who was furiously polishing the purportedly gay man’s knob, let out a hoot of victory. “Yeeeeaaaahhhh!” Another woman took over as the man begged for penile mercy.
In the meantime, my cock found my sex-crazed stranger’s moist vagina and I put my automatic transmission into drive. “Talk to me,” I instructed. “Why are you begging to get fucked?”
“It’s like an itch I can’t scratch, newsboy,” she panted. “But this itch…Oh…Fuck me…This itch is way up my pussy. You’re my third fuck of the day and that itch is getting stronger.” Her painted toes spread further apart on the highly polished floor and she rose higher on the balls of her feet. “Come on now. Fuck that itchy pussy. Don’t disappoint me.”
Thinking about her itch was enticement to try harder and go deeper, even though it was obvious to me that an army wasn’t going to satisfy the condition these female’s condition was in. “So your desire is getting stronger each time?” I asked needlessly, just for something to say as I approached the brink of explosion.
“That’s right. Come on now, damn it. Fuck me like you live—hard.”
I figured the interview was over when I climaxed. I reached for my recorder and pulled away from her. I had given it my best shot and hoped my semen had not done more than attack that itch. My fuck-buddy looked over her shoulder and saw that I was receding back into my zipper.
“Can you go again, or do I have to go after that dufus guard?”
“I think I’ve got my story,” I told her. “But thank you, I guess.”
“Anytime.” She left her shorts behind and strolled over to look at the three women working over the gay guy, wondering if he would be worth the wait. I picked up her shorts—sort of a visual aid for the story I might be writing.
I didn’t see Joe and didn’t care to. I left the building only to find three men and five women fucking and playing with each other. The women looked to be in major heat and the men grinned and hollered like they had hit the million dollar slot machine. I wasn’t about pass any judgments. I was the neutral news guy, after all, and I’d had knocked off my own piece of the action before transcribing a single word.
I took my cell phone from another pocket and called the office. “Chief, this is Dave. I got an interview with one of these horny broads. I’m coming in to type it up.”
“Better go home and email it to me. We’re barricaded inside the office. We managed to force all the women into the hallway, but some of them are still trying to get in.”
“Holy shit,” I said for the second time. “What about Daphne? I always liked her figure.”
“Like all the rest. Stripped off her clothes and lay spread-eagle on the floor, offering to take on all comers. If it hadn’t of been in the newsroom, I’m sure half the guys here would have gladly fucked her silly. It’s like Pagan Rome, but it’s the females that are trying to take what they want.”
“Okay, I’ll go home,” I told Ed, but my curiosity about Zelda’s state of mind and actions tugged at me. I punched her number on my cell.
Ring, ring, ring. I started to disconnect when a male voice came on. “Thrill me,” the voice almost shouted.
“Can I speak to Zelda?”
“Zelda. You a friend of hers?”
“Sort of.”
“Not too good of a friend I hope. She screwed everybody that would fuck her in this building. Even offered money to whoever could last the longest. I won the loot. She’s nuttier than the rest of the broads. We tried to get her out of here, but she told us it would take more than her boyfriend to put out her fire. She said she wanted as many hard dicks as we could muster. You still there, mate? She’s not your sister or anything, is she?”
“Is she still there?” I answered weekly.
“Said she was going next door to fuck some of the steroid freaks.”
I hung up. I was glad I had put the wood to the woman at the mall. The world had turned upside down, and all the women in it had apparently turned bottoms up. Suddenly, I didn’t care much about sending in a story. The story was already in every house and street around the world. As long as this lasts, people would be too busy fucking, or getting fucked, to read.
If I went home, Big Bad Bertha might be hanging out. “So what?” I told myself. Getting lost in those gargantuan tits might be fun—once, anyway—and it could all end as quickly as it started. I decided to drive toward the palatial mansions by the lake. If everyone wanted to fuck, why not get with the women and their daughters who would not give you the time of day…until this unusual day?
I paid a guy a thousand bucks for a large bag of Viagra and got down to some serious roadwork. I became a slave to every cute nympho that craved cock and stopped only when I needed to heal. The story I finally wrote was about just this: Life goes on.
The Sex Files, or DSBC if you prefer, took its toll on relationships for sure. Housewives and girlfriends who couldn’t be satisfied by their husbands or boyfriends went AWOL. Life as I knew it had ended in the blink of an eye. Fashion vanished in an instant. Appearance no longer counted for much.
When the weather permitted, non-pregnant females between the ages of fourteen and death where seldom found wearing so much as a stitch. There was a half-assed government campaign that preached, Get Pregnant and Get Well, but that didn’t hold much water because all women wanted were to have that burning itch in their pussies scratched. Make Me Happy. Give Me Cock was their fervent and relentless battle cry.
Our mothers and grandmothers were in the mix as well. Fortunately, with all the erectile products and nostrums available, the old men tried their darnedest to take care of the seniors. Women started organizing Fuck Festivals. But, after a while, there didn’t seem to be much fun in all the sex without the “chase factor.”
The scientists squabbled and searched for a genetic answer for the plague that had swept across the face of the earth. They were fairly certain it was a respiratory condition, but could not figure out where it originated, or how it traveled so fast, or why it affected only females. The Trekkies knew it had to be an alien thing. The preachers prayed for salvation and called the phenomenon a wrath on a godless world. And, of course, they claimed it was a precursor to the Apocalypse.
Women’s only relief from their constant need was when they slept. That’s how the men eventually got the upper hand. The women of the world, as many as could be corralled, were sedated while they slept, just enough to keep them under some semblance of control, and then chained to their bedposts, if need be.
And, after a time, men were not so sure that they wanted women to behave. Free love was a powerful aphrodisiac and had a way of catching on. A lot of men used to spend their money on attracting and holding onto women. Now, finances were used for more practical purposes like ballgames and fast cars. Governments began devoting less and less money in pursuit of a cure. We all became more native.
I never caught up with zany Zelda. But I didn’t need to because there were more than enough women around to take care of basic physical needs. The saying about getting more ass than a toilet seat had truly come to pass for guys like me who didn’t have a wife or family to worry about.
But then I made a near-fatal mistake. I bought a pretty young vixen home with me. One of the unwritten new rules was to never let a woman know where you live. It was bad enough that Big Bad Bertha lurked next door looking for every opportunity to have her massive itch scratched.
So I brought this Trudy home, along with her hot little itch. I fucked her in every room except the closet, wore myself to a frazzle, and I crashed. When I woke the next day, I found myself tethered to my bed, spread-eagled, and defenseless. Trudy had called her girlfriends—five of them—to come over for a dick party. She had located my stash of Viagra and forced more than a doctor would recommend down my throat.
Big Bad Bertha took notice of the female parade in and out of my door and saw her opportunity. The others let her squat on me while they took a break. Bertha’s elephantine tits and sloppy love canal rode me hard and put me away wet. My heart palpitated and my sweat glands secreted. My drug-induced hard-on was my enemy. If the wild bunch hadn’t realized my eventual need to eat, sleep, and crap, they might have kept me tied down until I was fucked to death.
When my medication finally wore off, they moved on to greener pastures, but the incident brought one sobering fact home: women could eventually subdue men and turn us into fucking machines. If we could sedate, so could they. My outlook on life abruptly changed. I did not want to become a misogynist, but I was scared.
Five hundred years ago, King Henry VIII complained that the world was ruled by women’s crotches. The truth of it had come to pass. Maybe one day, enough of them will be pregnant that some form of order may return to society, but that would create and even larger problem.
Frankly, I’m beyond wondering if the Sex Files will ever have a solution and what might eventually become of this blue bauble in a sea of night on which we reside. I work from my home and I barricade my doors and windows before sleeping to avoid being taken hostage by any more hot pussies.
Because, next time, they might not cut me loose.
Acorns that contain condoms, held as evidence by Capitol police, are displayed after being taken out of an evidence envelope. These were brought in after being opened.
