Sep 022009
 

I took aim. There was a zombie. He looked like he might have been a lawyer when he was alive. I like that idea. My brother-in-law was a lawyer.

I shot him. One clean shot through the head. He fell just like they do in the videogames: straight down like someone cut his strings. Man, if my old clan from Team Fortress could see me now.

There was nothing else to do. I was safe. They weren’t getting into the church since I barricaded it. I had shitloads of ammo. Robbing that ammo store was the smartest thing I ever did. The second smartest thing I did was raid that Costco. I had enough canned food to last me 80 years. The third smartest thing I did was rig up that rainwater catcher. I was a god damn survival genius. All that science fiction horror shit I read was finally put to use.

Course, the dumbest thing I did was not rob a fucking porn store before locking myself up. Mother fucking god damn bastard fuck! I was so worry about surviving; I forgot to get some damn porn!

I took aim again. The zombies mulled around the church. The dumb fucks walked back and forth like they were caught in a tide. I see some walk by and a week later, the same ones are walking back the other direction. I don’t know where the fuck they are going, but they go somewhere.

I saw a woman zombie. Oh man. Her shirt was ripped open. She had a big floppy breast just hanging out. It was flat. Really amazing how flat a tit gets when you’re dead. My mouth watered.

Oh sweet Jesus, I miss breasts. I miss what they looked like when they were alive. I miss how hot they were when you have just pulled them out of a bra. I miss how the nipple would feel between your teeth. Oh dear god in heaven, I miss licking a nipple while it got hard in my mouth.

The zombie I was looking at had hard nipples. Hard as death. I couldn’t shoot her. I shot a guy who was behind her instead. He looked like a lawyer too.

At first I was too scared to jack off. Then after a week, I started dreaming about sex. Oh man. I dreamed about my bitch wife who left me behind as she jumped on the evacuation train. I dreamed about my first girlfriend, with sixteen year old tits the size of my head. I dreamed about everyone. I dreamed once about fucking Gladys, the damn secretary at my company who must have been seventy years old.

The second week I masturbated. Oh shit, did I masturbate. I was a teenager again; whacking my dick. Three, four and even five times a day. Sometimes I would just sit here on the roof, whacking my dick like a damn pervert in the sun.

The third week, I started to forget how women looked. I mean, I sort of remember. They looked pretty. They were soft. I liked the big girls the best. Oh fuck, I loved a big girl who could climb on top of you and her big breasts would swing down in your face like two moons in the sky.

But I can’t stop thinking. When I got my dick in my hand and I’m grinding away, that’s when I have trouble. I close my eyes and I don’t see my bitch wife. I see the zombie with the bleach blonde hair who almost ate my goddamn hand the first day of the outbreak. I see the shambling cheerleader squad who walked by in their fucking uniforms. I see blood and dead flesh.

God, I would give my right nut for a Playboy. I would give up my supply of chocolate bars for a fucking Victoria Secret’s catalog.

I would murder my own mother if I could get the Internet back.

I line up another shot. I go looking for a zombie. It’s like dating. Plenty of fish but you want the right one. I skip over zombies that are too old. I skip the ones that are too young. I look for a pretty one. One that maybe died of the flu. One that isn’t missing half their face.

One with really big breasts.

I find her. She’s a big lovely black woman. Oh God, her breasts shift underneath her big red shirt. Oh Jesus and all of your pecker sucking disciples, she has sunglasses on and it makes her almost look alive. She’s beautiful.

I want to shoot. I want to nail her. I can’t fuck her, but I can fuck her over. It would be a release. Instead of seed, I would shoot a bullet.

I don’t. She might one day try to eat my face off, but I can’t do it. I found her. That was enough. I found her and now I spare her. It’s like I did her a favor. If she was alive, she might let me kiss her tits in gratitude.

I shoot a zombie who looks like a doctor instead. Fucking doctors.

God, I wish I had brought some porn.

  3 Responses to “Fiction: Zombie Hard-on Blues”

  1. You know, reading this just after waking up from a night of sexy dreams – and zombie dreams – I am now a tad uncomfortable. But that was brilliantly written, and hilarious :)

    xx Dee

  2. Thanks. I wrote this in one sitting halfway through reading Wellington’s brilliant ‘Monster Island’.

  3. I heart zombies. This story reminded me of a phase I went through in which I had dreams/nightmares about fucking zombies. I was both terrified and turned on.

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