Armenian Courtship and Mating – A Hairy Hoing Experience

As Told By Abram Magomedov

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.

As if hairy arms, thick black mustaches, shapeless bumes 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 an Armenian chick isn’t pure, she’ll never get married and will never become the Middle Eastern breeder she’s aspired for so long to become.

Anyway, after more than an hour cruising Yerevan’s tochkas, we finally found a banya stocked with two of its own in-house whores. After seeing the first whore – her face was pretty, but her body consisted of hairy arms, rolls of stomach fat, two stumpy legs and a big, shapeless bum – I told my friend that she was all his and I’d go with the next one.

That was a bad gamble.

The second whore – the whore I was now stuck with – could’ve easily pbumed 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.

There was no chance of leaving for the next two hours – Armen was my ride. For a long while, I just sat in silence, watching Armenian TV and downing shots of vodka, before deciding that I just had to get it over with. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t really have a choice.

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 bum. 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 male reproductive organ volunteering for such horror. But no, a few unloving tugs and my male reproductive organ 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 male reproductive organ as close as a I could to her snatch. She grabbed my male reproductive organ 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 ****ing 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 male reproductive organ pressure that I had. I had to abort mission.

As I got up, to my horror, she actually enjoyed it. A lot. She smiled – and in her half-guttural Russian – promised me a freebie on my birthday. I drank vodka continuously in an effort to black myself out. It was a good thing Armen was driving. I wasn’t sure how he managed to drag me back into the car.

From that day on, the very mention of Armenia would numb me like a vodka hangover.

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