The Miss Coromandel Saga

Yes, Tucker Max did it first. No need to tell me that. But his Miss Vermont story has encouraged me to document my perspectives on the virtues and general mental stability, or otherwise, of chicks who are successful at beauty pageants. My conclusion, on the basis of my experience and Tucker’s, is that they are invariably fucked in the head.

Now, I do not object to women who are psychologically disturbed. My view is that that is a chick’s natural state of being. The purpose of a beauty pageant is to show a woman in all her feminine glory: hot, semi-naked, virtuous, and willing to please a man by showing that she is concerned for the future of mankind. It shouldn’t be showing off a woman’s essential foibles.

I have a strongly biblical heritage. That heritage serves me well. I am a moral conservative, in all things except my own behaviour. I will tell gays that they will fry at the end of Satan’s fork for an eternity if they continue to invite God’s wrath by willfully engaging in sin and decrepitude. I have a religious objection to women who go to work and get fat on big lunches, when they could be doing much more for humanity simply by keeping themselves, and their houses, much tidier. I object to feminism, as a movement, on purely ethical grounds.

Women’s liberation, as far as I’m concerned, merely means women are free to stay hot. And beauty pageants are the apex of liberation. If more young girls were put through the rigours of beauty pageantry, then I would receive far fewer complaints from feminazis who view my thoughts as misogynistic and sexist. The hot ones wouldn’t even understand that sentence, but sway and swoon at the length of my words, and assume that I must be highly educated, and ergo, earn ridiculous amounts of money, which I could use to buy them flash stuff which they could adorn my bedroom floor with, as long as they continue to please me.

The great advantage of a beauty pageant is that it encourages women to be really hot, while lowering their self-esteem. As far as the contestant is concerned, everybody who sees her anywhere is a potential judge. Any slight reference to chicks with buttery thighs, or the many benefits of rhinoplasty, sends her into fear and panic.

But apart from all these really positive aspects of beauty contests, there is a downside. And this is where I begin to discuss my brief relationship with Miss Coromandel.

Miss Coromandel was sitting with a group of friends when I walked into what was an otherwise seedy karaoke bar. It is difficult for me to describe just how seedy this bar is, other than to say that it is the coolest karaoke bar in Wellington, and for a while I was one of its most valuable patrons. That makes it very seedy. Without blowing my own trumpet, it is fair to say that when I arrive at that bar on a quiet night, the manager gives a sigh of relief that at last his five previous hours of unprofitable business will suddenly become much more lucrative. Hence, when I arrive, the manager, the karaoke DJ, and the two waitresses ignored what they were otherwise doing, and lined up to welcome me into the bar.

Miss Coromandel saw that I was getting a reasonable degree of attention, which, if I were a chick, would have made her envious and catty. Instead, on account of my non-chickness, I was instantly exciting to her. I grabbed my usual, which was waiting for me by the time I reached the bar and had greeted everybody, gave the DJ a nod, indicating that he was to put up my preferred first song, and pulled up a pew next to Miss Coromandel’s table.

“Do you own this bar?” she asked.

“I have a financial interest in the bourbon price not going up, but I don’t own it, no.”

She giggled. I didn’t think what I said was particularly funny, but she began to giggle at everything I said. No, it wasn’t a giggle. It was a titter. The kind that Japanese girls do whenever I say something ridiculous in Japanese: they don’t actually understand what I’m saying, but find it bizarre that I’m saying it.

Didn’t particularly mind this strange mannerism, since she was seriously hot. Brunette with outstanding tits—I don’t necessarily prefer brunettes over blondes, or even a non-fanta-pants kind of ginga—but hers was natural. And legs that seemed to go up to my armpits.

Eventually, once I’d placed a bottle of “champagne” on the table—Miss Coromandel had insisted on “Lindauer Champagne”, her friends disappeared. I pour a glass for her, and she says to me: “Did you spike my drink?”

I’m still sober enough to find this question shocking. “Errrm, no. Sorry.”

“Damn,” she says. “I wish you had.”

Okay, so I begin to realize she’s a little bit strange. She’s also nineteen, and the reigning Miss Coromandel, which she’s talked about at length, irrespective of the boredom that it’s inciting in me. I compensate for the boredom by ordering three drinks for myself at a time, and perving at her tits.

I sang loudly and obnoxiously, got considerably more boozed, and at 3am decided to bail.


Miss Coromandel followed me out.

“So, where to next?” I ask.

She pulled me against her. “I want you to take me home and fuck me.”

“That’s a good plan,” I say drily, not quite sure whether she’s meaning her place or mine. Before I know what’s happening, she’s ordered a taxi, and we’re quickly moving towards her place. During the discussion, which doesn’t involve many words, since she’s groping and telling me how much she wants me to fuck her, she reveals that she lives with her younger brother, and that her mother and her lesbian lover live in the house next door. She makes a comment about how lesbianism is a revolting curse and blight on her moral principles.

“So you don’t do chicks, then?”

“Of course I do!” she says. “We could have got Brandy to join us, if you wanted.”

Not remembering which of the other chicks was Brandy, I let the slight inconsistency in her argument slide. We finally arrive, I pay off the driver, I realize that I have built up considerable pressure in my bladder, and start pissing on the nearest tree. “Which is your place?” I ask, trying to keep track of the house numbers.

“This one. Come on up when you’ve finished,” she answers. And after my Austin Powers-like pissathon, I do exactly that. I go up and knock on the door.

No answer.

I knock a little harder. Still no answer.

I’m not an extreeeemely patient guy at the best of times. And this chick was gagging for it. So I rap on the window. A kid answers. He’s about thirteen. I say to him: “Where’s your sister?”

Kid disappears momentarily, and opens the door, and leads me through to her room. She’s asleep. I prod her and say: “Okay, well, I’ll be off then.”

I go back towards the door, and she says: “Come back in, silly!”

A bit puzzled, I get my gear off and climb into bed next to her. By this time, she’s fallen fast asleep again. And she’s snoring. Realising I’m not going to get my rocks off, I start dozing myself.

Two minutes later, there’s a knock on the bedroom door. I’m starting to think that the scenario is slightly unorthodox. A hideously ugly woman opens the door, and sticks her head inside. “Miss Coromandel, is everything alright?”

Miss Coromandel stirs. From her mouth comes the most impressive string of expletives I’ve heard in a long time. “Fuck off, you ugly dyke bitch!” was the abbreviated version.

Ugly dyke bitch closes the door, and all is quiet again, except for Miss Coromandel’s resumed snoring. Ah, I get it, I think. It’s a snoring competition. Two can play this game. So I go to sleep as well.

My sleep doesn’t last long, as I wake up noticing that Miss Coromandel is fondling me again. It’s not an unpleasant experience. It continues its natural course, and pretty soon I am rating Miss Coromandel quite highly.

I make a quiet departure the next morning, having acquired her phone number, and return to my place. I don’t expect to call it again, since one night stands are best left for the one night. It’s a good policy that has held me in good stead over all these years.

The week passes. I move apartments, and am holding a gathering for a few friends to let them know where I live, so that they can pop in and either contribute to the booze, or drink mine. About a hundred people turn up, which is a reasonable turn-out on a rugby night. I’m in top form, getting increasingly plastered.

My apartment at the time was on the twelfth floor. The intercom goes, and I pick it up, and who should I see on the screen, but Miss Coromandel with one of her chick friends. I look around the room, and observe that there are slightly more males to females already, so think it’s worthwhile to invite them up.

Miss Coromandel is looking slightly worse for wear, having imbibed vodka somewhere else earlier in the evening. But she’s still hot, even if I know now just how slutty she is. She heads straight for the fridge, pulls out a couple of beers, and then out onto the balcony.

Now, I’m not the kind of guy to strictly observe party etiquette. But I imagine that there are certain ways of behaving at beauty pageants, which Miss Coromandel apparently found somewhat constrictive. She did not follow the same rules at my apartment. After she’d thrown the second empty bottle of beer down onto the busy street, I decided it was time to have a little talk.

“Miss Coromandel,” I say. “It’s probably not a good idea to throw beer bottles down onto the road. It’s the middle of Wellington, and people are walking past, and you may well hit a car.”

“Oh, you’re so fucking boring,” she ripostes confidently.

“No, if you’re going to hiff something down, make it a champagne glass, or something. Less glass in that, and much less likely to injure somebody than a bottle. And if the neighbours complain, then I will get in trouble. Since this is my first night here, I’d rather not alienate them completely.”

At that point, Miss Coromandel grabs my shirt, and asks me if I will fuck her straight away. I say something about her snoring, take a swig of my drink, and then talk to the rest of the party.

An hour later, we’re all in the pub. I am extremely intoxicated, which is my habit when I’ve hosted a party. I’m slightly aware that there is a pair of guests who are comatose on my new lounge floor, but I’m not in a state to care where they chunder. They’re respectable drunks: the kind who clean up after themselves. Far more respectable than me.

I’m not particularly aggrieved that Miss Coromandel seems to be quite keen on another of my party guests, and make my way back home. As I do so, I make a booty-call, to a chick who promises to be over in a couple of hours. I get back into my apartment, prod the two comatose guests to check that they are still breathing, and then roll them over onto their backs, so that if they vomit they will choke themselves to death, and therefore limit the amount of spew on my carpet.

I retire to my bedroom, and nod off for a bit. Intercom sounds. I answer. It is Miss Coromandel, sans friend. I think of telling her to piss off straight away, as booty-call is due to arrive soon, and I’m not sober enough to work out the implications of Miss Coromandel meeting booty-call. I let her in anyway.

Miss Coromandel goes straight into the bedroom, and starts getting her gear off. It’s an amusing sight, but being the older guy, I am stern with her. “No, you can’t stay over, Miss Coromandel.”

“Why not?”

I try to think of a suitable lie to tell. The silliest possible fib pops in my head. I ignore that it’s one in the morning, and say to her: “My ex-wife’s lawyer is coming over soon for me to sign some documents, and if he sees you here, then that information will go straight back to my ex-wife.”

The preposterousness of both the logistics and the timing of the fiction escapes her attention. “Oh, okay. Can you give me money for a taxi?”

“Sure,” I say. I try to recall how much the last taxi fare to her place was. It was about ten bucks. “Will twenty do?”

“Oh, it’s probably forty,” she says.

Keen to get her out, I hand it over, give her a kiss on the cheek, and send her bailing. I think to myself that there was probably time to fuck her before booty-call arrives, since booty-call is ridiculously punctual, but there’s more relief in getting rid of her without her setting fire to something, than actually having sex with her again.

And that’s the end of part one, folks. Will there be a part two? Keep returning to this blog, and you will find out!