The Ugly Guy

Celebrity Sex: The Ugly Guy
Suki on the lust that dare not speak its name.

Ugly Guy is not a celeb. Yet he is a star. He stars in all kinds of films and magazines, usually by pumping away at a bored-looking naked lady. Yup, those kinds of films and magazines. You know. Don't pretend you don't.

Ugly Guy is gross with a capital G. Fat with a capital F. Unsexy with a capital U. There are quite a few men out there who fit the Ugly Guy archetype: Captain Pugwash; Bluebeard the Pirate; Adrian from Arab Strap; even Bruce Springsteen when he's all unshaven and sweaty and stinky in a dirty vest, though he could stand to gain a few pounds. So why is Ugly Guy in Celebrity Sex? Well, this is where you sensitive, delicate souls must avert your eyes. Basically, every time I see a really ugly, gross, icky guy, really fat, dark hair, round buttocks, white flesh, I think ergh! How gross! What would doing it with someone like that be like?


And this is what I imagine.
A young man in his twenties. Dark, shiny hair, shaggy, grown out. It would brush his collar if he were wearing one but he's not, he's wearing a string vest. The vest is white - no, offwhite. It needs a wash. Through its mesh you can see plump tits and a taut, protruberant belly under a mat of dark hair. This hair seems to start on his face, where it grows in different directions like a coat made from the pelt of several different animals. It spreads down over his chest and belly and probably all over the rest of him. He is all flesh and hair, hair and flesh.


He leans on a table and drinks Coke from a can; snacks on chips that make his lips shiny. The thing with The Ugly Guy is that he's so hideous that even he, with his rampant male ego, knows there's no way he's going to get it if he asks nicely. So he doesn't bother. He's callous, a drunken brute, gesturing obscenely, grabbing me, rubbing me, kidnapping me. And I want to be kidnapped! He grips my forearms with calloused hands and presses my lips up against his big, chipgreasy ones. He won't take no for an answer and he doesn't care about my pleasure. He plunders me. I want to be plundered! Plunder me, Ugly Guy! His beard is all scratchy on my delicate flesh; his stomach fits into the arc of the small of my back as he has his way with me. Afterwards I find criss-cross patterns from his string vest all over my body. He's a fat fiend, alive with hellfire and deranged lust.


Another Ugly Guy
Scary, huh? But thrilling!
The Ugly Guy thing isn't a conscious fantasy, like peeping at cute boys with Converse baseball boots and imagining perverse scenarios that would turn these boys pale if they knew. This is something that creeps up on me and curls its tendrils round my brain without permission. I'm the victim in all this! I don't want to be thinking such things! I don't enjoy these thoughts! There's something forbidden and shocking about imagining doing it with The Ugly Guy. Something truly horrible. And horror brings out one's sensuality. Me and The Ugly Guy - no! And then...what's that stirring down below?



A L S O  O N  S L E A Z E

A Eunuch - the Ideal Man?
He's gentle and he likes foreplay. But he's got no balls. Welcome to the world of the voluntary eunuch.






In a recent survey, 50% of women under 25 admitted they had thrown up whilst on a night bus. Not that that's anything to be proud of, mind. Not at all.