The Cunnilingus King
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 1: The Cunnilingus King
‘I could really eat a big bag of cheese curds,’ Warren grins,
wiping sweat from his burnt forehead. ‘You know what I mean?
A big bag of fucking cheese curds.’
Si scratches the back of his head. ‘Yeah, sounds delicious.’
‘I love them!’ he laughs, rubbing his bloated stomach. ‘I
can’t stop eating them.’
Warren reaches over and snatches my cigarettes out of
my hand.
‘Can I crash one?’ he asks, placing a Marlboro between
his lips. ‘I’ve lost mine. I’ll buy some more and give you…’
he stops in mid sentence, ‘…actually, come to think of it,
I probably won’t.’
I turn to Si and shake my head in disgust. I’ve met a few
freaks in my time, but this dude takes the biscuit. One
minute we’re watching The White Cliffs of Dover shimmering
in the distance from the windy deck of this P&O
ferry, and the next thing we know some total stranger, who
introduces himself as Warren, plonks himself down beside
us and spoils our beautiful view. I saw him earlier as we
drove to the docks to catch the ferry to Calais. He was
walking, or should I say waddling up the main road
towards a busy roundabout. There was panic in his eyes
and a look of concern in his fat red face. I remember smiling
at his discomfort and thinking that any guy who has a
tight 80’s perm and wears a pair of paisley shorts ten sizes
11
too small, should deserve to look worried.
‘So where are you fuckers heading?’ Warren sniffs, pulling
hard on the cigarette.
‘Vladivostok,’ I reply.
‘Vladifok-what?’
‘Vladivostok.’
‘Where the fuck’s that?’
‘It’s in Eastern Siberia. It’s about ten thousand miles …
that way,’ I smile, pointing in the direction of Calais.
‘Fucking cool, man. Where you flying from?’
‘We’re not.’
‘You’re not?’
Si shakes his head. ‘Nope. We’re going to drive there in
our Ford Sierra.’
Simon, my twin brother and travelling buddy extraordinaire,
dreamt up the idea of driving across Russia whilst
stacking boxes of frozen oven chips in a -30°C freezer.
We’d bought the car for £300 from some dude with a
twitch, and even though it had over 100,000 miles on the
clock, attempting to drive the 1.8litre mean-machine
halfway around the world seemed all too irresistible. Our
family and friends thought we had finally lost the plot
when we told them about our idea of driving to Vladivostok.
They thought we were taking this new lifestyle of ours a
little too far. OK, so maybe we were going a bit over the top.
I mean, just because we had driven across the US six
months before, it didn’t really give us the right to worry
everyone or give us the confidence to play fools and take
on the world with this massive overland adventure. We
hadn’t even met anybody who had been to Russia before,
let alone driven across it. Were we kidding ourselves? You
could say it would be suicidal to even attempt such a journey,
especially as we hadn’t spent weeks researching the
roads, or invested money on the correct equipment that
would be required for such a huge expedition. Of course,
12
we made sure we had oil, a few spare tyres, a GB sticker
and an SAS Survival Guide, which Si bought from Oxfam
for 50p, but apart from this, we took the attitude that we’d
just see what happened along the way.
A few weeks before our departure, I jumped on the internet
to find out what we were letting ourselves in for. I
searched on Google to see if I could find any web sites by
people who had driven to the Far East. It was quite worrying
as I only found two. They were driving huge 4×4’s
and both had been heavily sponsored. On their web sites
it showed pictures of them driving over dusty potholed
roads and crossing deep rivers. It looked impossible, and
neither of them had managed to complete the journey to
Vladivostok without putting their vehicle on the train.
What really put doubt in my mind, was the fact that there
appeared to be a section of highway in Eastern Siberia that
was still under construction. What chance did we have if
the highway was still being bulldozed? How would we be
able to make it across Siberia without a 4×4? I mentioned
this to Si in passing, but he just shrugged his shoulders
and told me not to worry. Deep down, I knew that if we
were going to do it we might as well take the bull by the
horns and go in blind.
‘You’re going to drive across Siberia?’ Warren frowns.
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘No,’ Si replies.
‘Why dude? Get the fucking plane. It’s quicker!’
‘Yeah, that would make a lot of sense, but it’s not quite
the plan we had in mind.’
‘Well, fuck me hard with a dildo. Whatever floats your
boat, guys. It sounds far too adventurous to me.’ Warren
leans forward. ‘…So, anyway, have either of you two had
any pussy yet?’
I frown. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Pussy. You know, as in sweet pussy,’ Warren sings,
13
adjusting his tight shorts from around his crotch. ‘Are you
getting any? Last night I made out with this chick from
Dover. Fuck me she was hot. She had a face like Whoopi
Goldberg and a body like Tina Turner. Damn, what a
woman!’
Si looks completely horrified.
‘Where did you meet this girl?’ I ask.
‘Some nightclub in town.’
‘Which one?’
‘OK, you got me, guys. It wasn’t a nightclub at all. She
worked in a massage parlor. You know how it is, I’m a
fucking thirty-three year old Love God who needed some
release. Normally, I’ve got girls coming at me from every
direction. Back home they call me the Cunnilingus King!’
This guy has to be talking out of his fat ass. In the name
of the Lord, what sane girl would let this grotesque specimen
of a human being put his disease-ridden tongue anywhere
near her clitoris? He must be over twenty stone,
and if you squint your eyes for long enough he looks a bit
like Jabba The Hut from Star Wars. This guy is ugly. He’s
so ugly I find it amazing he has so much confidence. If I
looked like Warren, I’d be hiding in a dark hole somewhere
suffering from a serious communication disability.
‘I’m the cunnilingus King!’ he yells, pounding his
chest. ‘All the girls in Dover last night were obviously on
their fucking periods. You know, I hate it when you spend
an hour of your time chatting up a chick, telling her about
yourself, complementing on how the kitty-cat looks, making
her laugh, buying her drinks and all you get in return
is jack shit. They walk away without even giving you a
suck. That sucks. I like Dover, but it’s full of frigid chicks
and asylum seekers. The way I see it, it’s all a numbers
game. The more puppy dogs you chat up the more chance
you have of getting some action. Last night was bullshit,
so I paid for it. The bitch gets money to buy drugs and Iget-
to-taste-the-pussy,’ he sings, leaping back in his seat.
14
‘Mother fuckers!’
A small group of French school kids sitting close by stop
talking and look over.
‘Hey, guys, listen to this,’ Warren whispers, waving us
closer. ‘Have you two ever heard of klismaphilia?’
We both shake our heads and prepare ourselves for the
answer.
‘You don’t know what klismaphilia is?’ he repeats, looking
concerned.
‘No, but you’re going to tell us, right?’ Si replies.
‘You bet ya!’
We move closer and wait with bated breath.
‘OK, klismaphilia is the word for the sexual pleasure of
flushing your asshole with water.’
There’s a deadly silence. Warren sits on the edge of his seat
in suspense, waiting for our reaction. But there isn’t one.
‘Flushing your asshole with water!’ he cries, breaking
the silence. ‘Come on, it’s pretty cool, man. I bet you didn’t
know that?’
‘Uh … no, we didn’t,’ Si grins.
‘Fucking hell, guys, everybody knows what klismaphilia
is. Look, here’s some advice. The next hotel you stay in
and there’s brown scuff on the shower head…move
rooms.’
Warren has to be the most disgusting person I have ever
met, well, apart from a kid in my class at school who
used to eat shit and shag his cat, but apart from him this
monster is pure filth. What is he trying to prove? Maybe
nothing, maybe this is what he’s normally like. He doesn’t
know us from Larry and he’s talking to us like we’ve been
best buddies for twenty years. OK, so the showerhead
thing was good advice, but come on! This guy needs to
return home and seek some professional help.
‘To klismaphilia,’ Warren cries.
The French kids sitting nearby look over again, and
without a word they all get up out of their seats and move
15
speedily back inside the ferry.
‘So where in the US are you from?’ Si asks in an attempt
to change the subject.
‘The US?’ Warren spits.
‘Yeah, which state?’
‘You’re a rude dude, man.’
‘Why, what’s the problem?’ Si replies.
I turn to Si and try to indicate to him that it’s time to
leave.
‘I’m fucking Canadian, man, Canadian! I live in
Canada. Vancouver as a matter of fact.’
He reaches down between his hairy legs and picks up
his rucksack. ‘Look, I didn’t stitch this Canadian flag onto
my rucksack for the hell of it. I’m Canadian not American.
My God, why can’t people just shut the fuck up! Have you
ever been to Canada?’
Si shakes his head. ‘No, but I’d really like to go there
someday.’
‘I nearly killed an American guy in Hastings about a
week ago,’ Warren brags, his eyes darting suspiciously
around the deck. ‘He was pissing on my patch. I hate it
when a guy pisses on my patch. Have you two ever pissed
on someone else’s patch?’
He looks at us coldly, waiting for an answer.
‘No, I can’t say that I have to be honest with you,
Warren,’ I reply.
‘Good, because if I ever caught you making out with my
girl, I’d…’ he stops talking and uses the bottom of his Tshirt
to wipe sweat off his face.‘…Let’s just say he was in
a bad way by the time the medics arrived, red wine was
pissing out of the back of his head. He was hurt real bad.’
I quickly interrupt. ‘Warren, I hate to jump in like this,
it sounds like an amazing story, but we’ve got to go and
change some money before we get to Calais.’
Warren leans back in his seat and folds his arms. I avoid
eye contact with him for a second. His face is so ugly. He
16
looks concerned. It’s as though he’s trying to work out in
his head the slowest and most painful way he can kill me.
He wipes more sweat from his top lip before tilting his
face in the sun. We both stand up and say goodbye before
sprinting to the other side of the ferry. Calais is only a few
miles away now. The sooner I’m in the Sierra and driving
off this rust bucket the happier I will be.
Buy it on Amazon!
