Ah, I remember it like was yesterday. The year was late 2000. A sonically questionable but uniquely spirited band by the name of Limp Bizkit were taking the musical world by storm and a young, impish George W Bush was looking ahead to an uneventful first year in office. The autumn breeze rustled through the bushes and the perspiring pubic hair of a passing naked hobo, and as the London skies gently darkened, it seemed like a serene evening for all. But this was not the case. Far, far from it.
The final episode of beloved sitcom Boy Meets World had just aired on British TV, and I was absolutely fucking distraught. The greatest television program to ever grace the screens had finally come to a heartbreaking end, and it had hit me hard, like a cannonball straight to my curiously over-sized nutsack. Dark, deranged, demonic thoughts swirled around my head in a nightmarish daze. I was devastated, and my state of mind manifested itself in the form of a savage beat-down to the wheelchair-bound spastic that lived next door and a profanity-laden tirade towards his carer Betty. Then I beat her up too. “Why, Mr Feeny?!” I squealed, eyes awash with tears, as the bloodied carcasses of Special Needs Kevin and Betty lay beneath me motionless.
Not even the subsequent, phenomenal shit I had next could cheer me up. I was explosive; shelves, tables and even a jar containing my late aunt’s ashes were smashed and strewn over the floor as everything felt the full force of my unrestrained fury that no longer would I get to experience the exhilarating adventures of Cory, Topanga and crazy Eric Matthews. I was angry and lost. So I took to the streets.
My peregrination was unprepared and I paid little attention to where I was going, the only thoughts occupying my mind that of Shawn Hunter and his girlfriend Angela, the black girl that never belonged. The night, just like my cogitation, got darker. Soon I realized I had ventured up to a particularly rough part of town known as Hackney, a fair few years before the vacuous hipsters emigrated to its graffiti-laden streets and gentrification had set in. As I continued northwards, a thin, lepidote Chinaman sprung out of an alleyway wheeling a suitcase behind him.
“You want buy dee vee dee?” he abruptly asked, his narrow eyes aflame with the thought of profit.
“Do you have Boy Meets World?” I mumbled back, dead inside.
“Boy meat?” he replied. “You want little boy porn? You big poof, yes? I provide you!”
“What?” I exclaimed. “No! I like women. Away with you, yellow heathen of the Far East.”
Then, it happened. The moment that changed my life forever and heralded in a newfound love for a subgenre of humankind. I saw my first freak.
I saw her out of the corner of my eye, which was considerably ironic as the Chinaman didn’t even notice, and his eyes were specifically designed for that kind of vision. There she was, across the dimly lit street, scurrying along in a hurried limp. A large beige overcoat did little to hide what appeared to be protruding, tufted wings on her back, while her face wore a fascinating handlebar mustache that was more akin to a Victorian gentleman. For the first time that night, Boy Meets World emptied from my mind and was replaced with the aroused stiffening of the bald headed butler in my pants. I was intrigued.
“I have vewy good snuff dee vee dee, yes?” interrupted the bootlegging Chinaman. “Filmed outside young boy primary school. You want? Five quid!”
“Go stick a chopstick up your ass, Mr Miyagi!” I retorted, wittily. “I have a freak to follow!”
When I turned back around, the majestic mongoloid had scarpered down a quiet residential street, so I hurtled after her faster than an Ethiopian chasing a chicken, needing to find out more about this fascinating freak. By the time I reached the corner, my usually Olympian stamina had confusingly let me down, my face and armpits sodden. Exhaling heavy doses of the freshest north-east London air, I looked up and noticed I was situated outside a grim, monolithic council estate, with a scratched and graffiti-laden sign in front of it reading “Denzel Washington House”. My acute sense of cultural and ethnic sensibilities led me to believe this might not be the best spot in town to stand and sweat. No sooner than had this thought emptied my mind, a gang of 20-something hoodlums, clad in dark hoodies and baggy tracksuit bottoms, approached me.
They were a deeply multicultural mix of black, light black and brown skinned larrikins, the largest of whom appeared to be missing the majority of his teeth. Another, clad in thick gold chains and carrying a can of beer, spoke up, perhaps the appointed leader of this mysterious tribe.
“Oi blud,” he pontificated, clearly also the intellectual chieftain of this ragtag assemblage, “what you doin’ round my endz, famalam? D’you wanna get murked in your face you pussio?”
“I’m sorry gents, but could one of you do me the privilege of acting as an official translator?” I asked, gently. “I’m not sure which particular jungle dialect you speak, but I’m afraid I’m not at all fluent in it.”
The group seemed wholly uncooperative with my language request, and one pulled out a menacing knife aimed squarely in my direction. I concluded that the only way out of this predicament was to stand and fight. It was time to get crazy.
“Come on then, motherfuckers!” I silently screamed with my eyes, pugnaciously tearing apart my Dragonball Z t shirt like Hulk Hogan in his glistening prime, inadvertently revealing a chest tattoo of Jade Goody that I would later regret getting done. “If you bastards want to get hopelessly caught in the crossfire of my barrage of destruction, then step right up!” I shouted at them in my mind. Adrenaline was cursing through my body, my lean but deadly arms shaking like Michael J Fox at the breakfast table. Shockingly, the hooligans seemed somewhat unperturbed by my fearsome display of combativeness, and approached me with a quickened pace.
The one with only two teeth in his diseased gums remarked “Why’s this wanker takin’ ‘is fackin’ clothes off, blud?” while his half-cast (are you still allowed to call mixed race people that? Note to self: Look this up) buddy replied “Eyyy, metinks mans is a batty boy, bredrin!” as the others heartily chuckled in intoxicated bemusement. After holding my arms out and attempting an ill-advised Ryu Hadouken to no effect and quickly realizing I didn’t actually know how to fight, I retrieved my torn T-shirt from the cold concrete and began frantically devising an escape route.
But it was no use. The gang were circled around me like BBC presenters to a 12 year old girl. Just as I was about to offer them the entire box set of Last of the Summer Wine on DVD as the ultimate olive branch, one disc to each of the lads in return for my freedom, the moment I’ll never forget transpired, like a lightning bolt to my soul. And my dick.
She was back. The freak I had been following leapt out of nowhere and decimated each of the employment-challenged gang members one after the other; vicious left hooks, devastating knees and brutal limp snapping. She clearly had retard strength. Her altruistic display and her systematic beat-downs were like poetry in motion. I knew it then and there, this freak, like a mutant Xena warrior princess, was to be my sexual conquest. Each of the men collapsed to the ground in screeching agony as she demolished the gang, her wings beginning to flap in symbolic victory.
My tally-whacker was bouncing against the inside of my underpants with all the impassioned verve of a bongo drummer on crack. My ballbag tingled as she approached me, her sleek auburn hair flowing in the wind, her scabby facial growth pulsating above her splendid mustache.
“Are you okay?” she asked me.
“I’m fucking outstanding, dear.” I replied, love-struck. I couldn’t quite placer her accent, possibly Romanian or Slovakian.
“I’m from Romania and I’m half Slovakian.” She said, confirming my suspicions.
We talked for what seemed like minutes but was probably just one minute, I couldn’t tell because my mind and heart were racing. She explained to me that she was a freak from a traveling eastern-European circus that was in town and had fled after arguing with the owner. But soon the words faded and the romance kicked in. We ran to the nearest cheap hotel we could find, and love was made.
She was ravenous. For the first few minutes all I could do was lie there in eroticized shock as if stricken by rigor mortis, my magnificent meat-whistle throbbing beneath her misshapen thighs. Her scaled wings spread apart like the pearly gates of heaven opening for God, her wingspan magnificent and dripping with a glutinous substance I wasn’t familiar with but smelt faintly of Nutella mixed with rotting fish. She removed her panties and my gaze lowered to her effulgent nether regions, where, to both my astonishment and intense arousal, I counted not one, now two, but three vaginas. And I don’t mean just three holes, like women apparently have done there (I say ‘apparently’ as I’ve yet to discover this enigmatic third hole), but three actual vaginas, complete with labia, hood and clitoris. Sitting right next to one another like attentive pink triplets.
I was like a fat kid at a sweet shop given a free voucher. I didn’t know where to start, but I eventually decided to bury my face in the middle vagina and stick two fingers from each hand in the side pussies. Then, after several minutes of cunnilingual delight (I’ve won awards for my pussy eating skills at several European conventions), I rose up for air, shook my face dry of vagina juice like a dog coming out of the rain and, in a rhythmic display of remarkable cadence, thrust my engorged member into each of the vaginas one at a time, three thrusts then the next, three thrusts then the next, like a repetitive beat on a drum-set.
After our 5 hour lovemaking odyssey commenced, we both sat there, nude, raw, alive. Boy Meets World had departed my mind completely, and I just wanted more freaks. She conceded that the touring circus was where she belonged, that most people weren’t like me and wouldn’t accept a deviant like her in normal society. With great sadness she left and returned to her people, while I sauntered home, a renewed spring in my step.
When I arrived back, wheelchair Kevin and Betty were both still lying on the street outside, clearly needing medical attention but I didn’t care. I was over the moon. I knew from that point on that I would keep looking for more brilliant, fascinating and above all else hilarious freaks. Fuck Topanga. Recently Boy Meets World has been revived as a new series called Girl Meets World, with some of the original cast members returning, including Cory and Topanga now as parents of the titular girl. But still, fuck Topanga.