From Iceland — BEERMAN Meets Colossal Girl

BEERMAN Meets Colossal Girl

Published March 11, 2005

BEERMAN Meets Colossal Girl

It was only when I came that I realized I had made a colossal
mistake. Colossal in every way.
Her breasts were colossal. Which, in itself would not have been such a bad thing, except they were in direct proportion to everything else. A colossal head resting on a colossal neck leading down to a colossal body. She was a guilty pleasure in which I sometimes indulged. She was the kinda girl that if you had to take to a movie in order to get a blow job, you’d take her to a documentary or an Icelandic film or something; something you’d be sure no one you knew would ever go see.
She got more colossal every time I saw her. It had been three years, but she got down on her knees immediately and pulled it out. That reminded me of what I liked about her. As soon as it was over she expected me to return the favour. She lay down and undid her large girl jogging pants. Being a gentleman, I moved downwards, attempting to do what was expected of me.
It was then I learnt she was shaven. I don’t know why it is girls do that. It takes away all the mystery. As I saw that gaping, hungry mouth lying wide open, I lost my nerve. I tried to get off easy. I put my arms around her and hoped she would settle for a hug instead of an orgasm. She grabbed my crotch, then let go and reached for my hand. Getting no response from either, she gave up and fell asleep in my arms. It was now I remembered she was a snorer.
I always felt some kind of closeness to her. Perhaps because she was the first girl I ever had anal sex with. In an age where no one is a virgin anymore, it remains the final frontier. The one thing still saved for someone special. Except even that was quickly losing its value, thanks to Internet porn and men making demands for things they previously wouldn’t even have thought of, much less dared ask for.
It had started out as just another Sunday morning. I woke up, alone in bed as usual, and reached for my mobile phone. The dialled calls on the screen told me I had phoned every ex-girlfriend I had ever had they night before. They usually hung up or didn’t bother to pick up or sent me messages asking me to never call again. But even then I wasn’t in the habit of calling up Colossal Girl. I must have been even more desperate than usual. So, apparently, was she.
She called me back the day after. And as the poet said, there’s something ‘bout a Sunday that makes a body feel alone. So I asked her to come over. As I was waiting, I really wanted to be attracted to her. I really did. Even when she arrived and I remembered what she actually looked like, desperation got the better of aesthetics.
But as soon as I had come, desperation faded and so did whatever charms she had previously possessed.
Freud said that it is only at the moment of climax that you don’t care about the injustices or the misery of the world, or something to that effect. For a second or so, I felt like a true Freudian. But as she lay snoring in my arms, it all came back, the disgust, the regret, and Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer contended that we can only be attracted to people with whom we have nothing in common, our opposites, people who even out our faults. That way, we would have the perfect children. Of course, people who have nothing in common rarely work out, which is why children tend to be less than perfect. If Colossal Girl and I were to have kids, they wouldn’t be able to run very fast. And they’d snore at night. Sitting ducks for sabretooth tigers. Which is why nature didn’t allow me to be attracted to her. I wanted outgoing girls with perfect bodies. To whom, of course, I had nothing to say. Schopenhauer didn’t get laid much. But he thought a lot. And died as he lived, lonely and miserable.

Support The Reykjavík Grapevine!
Buy subscriptions, t-shirts and more from our shop right here!


Enough. Stop. Now.

Enough. Stop. Now.


Show Me More!