The Bug Collector

by Wrath James White

“Bug Catching”: A fetish involving the act of collecting as many STDs/STIs as possible. —Urban Dictionary

seeing my face, she thought he’d returned from the grave to lick the custard-like discharge from her rancid geriatric vagina.

I decided to take my own pleasure between her flabby, wrinkled ass-cheeks. If there were any other infections to acquire, I was pretty confident the murky depths of her colon was where they would be mined from.

I found a wasted bucket of half-eaten fried chicken and used the congealed chicken grease, my saliva, and whatever rot leaked from her vagina to ease my intrusion into her gaping, well-traveled anus.

My face was a horror. Exposure to humanity’s rich bounty of venereal infections had overcome my once comely features and left a ghastly fright mask. Bleeding scabs and pus-filled blisters, bumps and lesions, and craters of rot and decay had completely overcome whatever attractiveness I’d once possessed. My nose had been lost to syphilis several years ago. Only an unctuous chasm moist with snot remained in the center of my face. Herpes sores and ulcers blossomed on my lips and eyelids like wild red berries. So much blood and pus seeped from my countenance it felt as if my face had liquefied and was oozing its way down my neck, which wasn’t far from the truth.

They say that dreams are when your mind loses the tight grip it holds on sanity when you are awake and allows itself to relax and go insane. My dreams were of demons and cherubs fucking in pools of blood, vomit, and excrement on the floor of a truck stop bathroom. In the dream, I was reciting the Lord’s Prayer while being sodomized by a devil with muscles like a bodybuilder and a cock like a porn star while he raked fiery claws down the shaft of my cock, shredding my penis and scrotum while simultaneously cauterizing them. I screamed in agony and ejaculated in ecstasy

“I have a fetish for sexually transmitted diseases. I collect them. I have sex with women, men, young, old, it doesn’t matter. I just look for the ones who look the sickest. I don’t care about their sex or gender; it’s the prospect of contracting another infection that attracts me.”

Thick dollops of coagulated semen and vaginal yeast fell onto my outstretched tongue. I swallowed this fetid pudding of pestilence, choking it down with a satisfied grin, then turned my attention to the glistening brown ring of her asshole. It looked like she was shitting cake batter. Diarrhea, blood, lubricant, and the sperm of a half dozen young jocks leaked from her torn rectum like frosting from a cake decorating tube.

The cluster of raw blisters and sores around my mouth rubbed against the blisters on her labia, scraping them raw and reopening ones that had healed, popping the angry red pustules like zits, and leaking pus and blood into my mouth.

It was a familiar taste, plague and infection.

The salty, vinegary taste of her discharge lingered on my tongue, warm and familiar, like being reunited with an old toxic friend.