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Whore-R Stories October 6, 2006
A Hairy Hoing Experience
By Abram Magomedov Browse author

"He was so depressed, he tried to commit suicide by inhaling next to an Armenian."--Woody Allen joke

Oh yeah? I say, why don't you try fucking one of 'em.

To the modern world today, Armenians are what Jews used to be for medieval Europe. Everyone's heard about them, but no one's actually seen them. Their hooked eagle noses, their gut wrenching BO and their hairy women are the stuff of legend. But after dating a Lebanese-Armenian beauty on and off for 3 years in the States, I didn't believe any of it.

I thought I loved this Armenian girl, but I now curse her name. Her attractive mixed blood fooled me, so I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I finally went to Armenia this spring. After a few days there, I had to stop looking at the women, period. Coming from Russia, it wasn't just disappointing, it was downright nauseating.

But according to Armen, a young cabbie driver that I befriended, bad looks weren't the only problem. Trying to bed an Armenian chick is like trying to win the $1,000,000 Publisher Clearing House contest -- a lot of effort, false hope, and nothing to show for it. As if hairy arms, thick black mustaches, shapeless asses and inner-tube tummies weren't torture enough, Armenian girls won't screw you unless you put a ring on their finger. That's because if a chick isn't pure, she'll never get married. A mandatory prenuptial hymen inspection will expose her if she made the mistake of enjoying her single life.

As such, it had been two years since Armen got laid. He can't afford a wife and he can't afford to go whoring. All of the $75 he made a month was spent on the care of his paralyzed mom. Two years! A depressing thought through and through. Something had to be done.

After more than an hour cruising Yerevan's tochkas, we finally found a banya stocked with two of its own in-house whores. The girls weren't free yet, but were about to finish up with their previous johns.

As I was footing the $50 bill for both us, Armen gave me the honor of having first pick. The first girl who presented herself looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her face was pretty, but that was it. Her body consisted of hairy arms, rolls of stomach fat, two stumpy legs and a big, shapeless ass.

I hadn't yet seen the second girl, who was taking a piss, but I decided to gamble and told Armen the first whore was all his.

That was a bad gamble.

The second whore -- the whore I was now stuck with -- could've easily passed for an overfed crack ho. Her matted, oily peroxided hair, pockmarked face masked by flaking white face powder, lard body and matching pink mini skirt outfit made her looked like a cross between the Bride of Frankenstein and Miss Piggy. She was probably in her thirties, but looked to be at least a decade older.

Armen wasted no time in bundling up with his whore, but I wasn't so sure what to do with mine. Communication was impossible. All Armenians speak Russian, but she pretended not to understand a word of what I said. Maybe she was keeping solidarity with her hatchik brothers, to whom Russian prostitutes deny service... After sitting in silence, watching Armenian TV and downing shots of vodka, I decided that I had to get it over with.

I didn't want to, but I didn't have a choice. I either fucked or drank vodka for the next 1.5 hours. No chance of leaving, Armen was my ride.

She took a shower, immediately put her pink bra back on and promptly lay down on the bed with her legs wide spread, exposing a dark hairy patch of hair that stretched from her lower stomach all the way into her ass. I took a shower too and she motioned for me join her. As I moved closer, the patches of curly black hair on her big toes hinted at why she put her bra back on.

Even though I realized what lay beneath, I appreciated that gesture. Staring at a pair of hairy nipples would have been far nastier than simply knowing that they were there. It would have made the whole thing impossible to complete.

I got on the bed and positioned myself on my knees between her legs but I couldn't bring myself to lie on top of her. Her skin was a patchwork of red splotches and zits, a few of which on her shoulder had been scratched off and glistened with fresh blood and pus. Every inch of her body screamed biohazard. I was paralyzed with revulsion. Sensing that I needed help, she pushed me down on the bed, got between my legs and started to jerk me off. I thought it would be hopeless. No way was my dick volunteering for such horror. But no, a few unloving tugs and my dick starting coming to life. That was puzzling.

She got it into a semi-soft nub, slipped on a jimmy, rolled over onto her back and spread her legs again.

Resting on my knees and supporting myself with my hands so that I wouldn't press against her body, I managed to get on top of her and position my dick as close as a I could to her snatch. She grabbed my dick and slipped it in. I couldn't feel a thing. She attempted to pull me down towards her, but I resisted.

I closed my eyes, found a rim of her snatch that I could rub against and concentrated on fucking it. But I had no room and with every thrust I could feel her day-old leg stubble chafing my skin like sandpaper. There was no way I could maintain the little cock pressure that I had. I had to abort mission.

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