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» Will you go out with me?
My Childhood Sweetheart
She had large brown eyes and long wavy hair worn in plaits tied with navy blue ribbons.
When she smiled the room lit up and when we all played kiss-chase she never ran from me.
We were both five when I proposed and from that day on for two years each morning we could be found sitting on the steps outside our classroom repeating the same words to each other –
“I’m going to marry you when I grow up”
When we were seven and the allure of an older woman who owned her own jumbo sized pencil-sharpener became too great I faltered.
My lovely brown-eyed fiancée was told that I was going out with Clare H now and I no longer loved her in her pencil-sharpenerless state.
She cried and I felt like a heel.
Even stories of Little Black Sambo who outwitted the tigers and ate pancakes for tea couldn’t cheer me up.
Each time I glanced around the classroom her large brown eyes would find me and silently plead with me but my hand was held fast in a sweaty embrace with Clare and our love was sealed by her placing her pencil-sharpener into my pencil case.
Young love is a fickle beast and soon my relationship with the sweaty-handed Clare was over and I was once again single and sharpener-free.
I was always one of the lads and my days were taken up with football and playing Superheroes.
All of the girls refused our pleas to be our Wonder Woman or Bat Girl.
The girls wanted to play house under the rhododendron bushes, collect the fallen blossom or play strange clapping games.
A few fast and loose ones would entice you into a rhododendron house, lie on the beaten earth and lift their skirts so you could see their knickers.
None of us lads were interested in their cotton undies with the days of the week printed upon them – these could not match our pants with ThunderCats emblazoned upon them.
One girl finally accepted our offer to be Wonderwoman, to eschew the draw of flowers, house and other girl games, one girl saw how good the Superhero game was - the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; she would be Wonder Woman for me.
Soon we were nearing the end of our long days in Primary school. We had all been split up, girls no longer talking to or sitting with boys, separate games lessons, boys smelled and girls were bitchy.
One girl was always in trouble with the teachers.
One girl was to be punished for her constant chattering to other girls.
She was to be sat next to a boy as surely the conversations would cease.
And so it came to pass that my wavy haired, brown eyed girl sat next to me.
Each Monday morning would be spent in giggles as I re-enacted Saturday night’s ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ for her with the aid of my novelty cigar biro pen.
Each Monday afternoon would be spent in detention – each of us smiling gently at the other.
And then the end came – off we went in separate directions to different schools – she to an all-girls’ grammar and I to a mixed comp.
I had been at my new school for a few weeks when I saw Diana – she was fifteen, blonde and stunning.
I found out that she lived in my village and I began a determined effort of stalking her. I followed her each Friday evening when she went to the youth club. I played pool with my friends and Diana, lovely Diana disappeared behind the back of the youth club hut and smoked with the local bad lads.
Then quite out of the blue I received a telephone call.
It was from the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair.
“Hello Richard. I’mgoingtoadisconextFridayeveningwouldyouliketocomewithme?”
“Um….”
“……”
“I’ll have to ask my mum. I’ll ring you back.”
Friday nights were Diana’s.
Diana had big bouncy breasts and smoked cigarettes.
I phoned the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; I told her I had to visit my Aunt on that Friday, but thanks anyway for the invitation.
She never called again.
Another year passed, I grew by six inches and my mates sent me into the Offie for cans of Stella.
I still went to the Youth Club with its twin attractions of Diana and the pool table.
Then one evening Diana invited me around the back for a fag.
She leaned forward and kissed me gently, her lips were damp and her breath was heavy with Silk Cut and cheap cider.
My mates stood and watched, each drawing deeply on their cigarettes and laughing about Diana’s friends in their short skirts and large thighs.
I slid my hand up her white blouse until I could feel the silken smoothness of her bra. I kissed her deeper, my virgin tongue slipping in and probing her warm wet mouth. My hand cupped her lacy clad breast and my engorged cock began to nudge against her thigh. Her tongue began to respond to mine by twisting and circling in a way that I thought was sexy in a HotPoint kind of way. I kneaded and pulled gently at her tit, feeling her hard little nipple dance in my inky fingers. Diana’s fingers were playing with the waistband of my jeans, sharp fingernails were scratching my stomach and I could bear it no longer. I took her hand and shoved it down onto my rock hard pork sword and as her cool fingertips made contact I spluffed into my boxers.
“Will you go out with me?” I groaned to Diana as my brain began its slow journey back up to my skull.
“Nah. You’re cute right. But I like a man who can go all night. Wanna fag?”
Fifteen years passed.
During that time I shagged my way through Uni and across the world.
Diana I found out now had four kids and a loyalty card for IceLand.
That summer I received an invitation to a wedding of an old mate I’d studied with in Uni – a bit of a bastard if I’m being truthful, but it was the opportunity to get drunk at his expense, catch up with old mates and maybe even get laid.
I expect you can guess who the bride was…when I saw the invitation I did a double take – she has a very unusual name the girl with big brown eyes and wavy hair.
I went to the wedding and watched my first love walk up the aisle.
I watched her marry a man whom I know is a bastard.
I watched her marry a man whom I know was unfaithful to her during his stag night – I know because I was there right along side him as we both screwed working girls for £60 each.
After the ceremony I finally got chatting to her, my wavy haired, brown eyed girl.
I reminded her of her promise to marry me when she grew up. She laughed and just as when she’d been a child, her laughter and smiles lit up the room.
And finally I had the courage to say to her what I should have said long ago,
“Will you go out with me?”
She laughed again and told me that if ever things went wrong with her marriage I’d be the first one she’d contact.
Six months later she called me.
(Mon 1st Sep 2008, 16:39, More)
My Childhood Sweetheart
She had large brown eyes and long wavy hair worn in plaits tied with navy blue ribbons.
When she smiled the room lit up and when we all played kiss-chase she never ran from me.
We were both five when I proposed and from that day on for two years each morning we could be found sitting on the steps outside our classroom repeating the same words to each other –
“I’m going to marry you when I grow up”
When we were seven and the allure of an older woman who owned her own jumbo sized pencil-sharpener became too great I faltered.
My lovely brown-eyed fiancée was told that I was going out with Clare H now and I no longer loved her in her pencil-sharpenerless state.
She cried and I felt like a heel.
Even stories of Little Black Sambo who outwitted the tigers and ate pancakes for tea couldn’t cheer me up.
Each time I glanced around the classroom her large brown eyes would find me and silently plead with me but my hand was held fast in a sweaty embrace with Clare and our love was sealed by her placing her pencil-sharpener into my pencil case.
Young love is a fickle beast and soon my relationship with the sweaty-handed Clare was over and I was once again single and sharpener-free.
I was always one of the lads and my days were taken up with football and playing Superheroes.
All of the girls refused our pleas to be our Wonder Woman or Bat Girl.
The girls wanted to play house under the rhododendron bushes, collect the fallen blossom or play strange clapping games.
A few fast and loose ones would entice you into a rhododendron house, lie on the beaten earth and lift their skirts so you could see their knickers.
None of us lads were interested in their cotton undies with the days of the week printed upon them – these could not match our pants with ThunderCats emblazoned upon them.
One girl finally accepted our offer to be Wonderwoman, to eschew the draw of flowers, house and other girl games, one girl saw how good the Superhero game was - the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; she would be Wonder Woman for me.
Soon we were nearing the end of our long days in Primary school. We had all been split up, girls no longer talking to or sitting with boys, separate games lessons, boys smelled and girls were bitchy.
One girl was always in trouble with the teachers.
One girl was to be punished for her constant chattering to other girls.
She was to be sat next to a boy as surely the conversations would cease.
And so it came to pass that my wavy haired, brown eyed girl sat next to me.
Each Monday morning would be spent in giggles as I re-enacted Saturday night’s ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ for her with the aid of my novelty cigar biro pen.
Each Monday afternoon would be spent in detention – each of us smiling gently at the other.
And then the end came – off we went in separate directions to different schools – she to an all-girls’ grammar and I to a mixed comp.
I had been at my new school for a few weeks when I saw Diana – she was fifteen, blonde and stunning.
I found out that she lived in my village and I began a determined effort of stalking her. I followed her each Friday evening when she went to the youth club. I played pool with my friends and Diana, lovely Diana disappeared behind the back of the youth club hut and smoked with the local bad lads.
Then quite out of the blue I received a telephone call.
It was from the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair.
“Hello Richard. I’mgoingtoadisconextFridayeveningwouldyouliketocomewithme?”
“Um….”
“……”
“I’ll have to ask my mum. I’ll ring you back.”
Friday nights were Diana’s.
Diana had big bouncy breasts and smoked cigarettes.
I phoned the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; I told her I had to visit my Aunt on that Friday, but thanks anyway for the invitation.
She never called again.
Another year passed, I grew by six inches and my mates sent me into the Offie for cans of Stella.
I still went to the Youth Club with its twin attractions of Diana and the pool table.
Then one evening Diana invited me around the back for a fag.
She leaned forward and kissed me gently, her lips were damp and her breath was heavy with Silk Cut and cheap cider.
My mates stood and watched, each drawing deeply on their cigarettes and laughing about Diana’s friends in their short skirts and large thighs.
I slid my hand up her white blouse until I could feel the silken smoothness of her bra. I kissed her deeper, my virgin tongue slipping in and probing her warm wet mouth. My hand cupped her lacy clad breast and my engorged cock began to nudge against her thigh. Her tongue began to respond to mine by twisting and circling in a way that I thought was sexy in a HotPoint kind of way. I kneaded and pulled gently at her tit, feeling her hard little nipple dance in my inky fingers. Diana’s fingers were playing with the waistband of my jeans, sharp fingernails were scratching my stomach and I could bear it no longer. I took her hand and shoved it down onto my rock hard pork sword and as her cool fingertips made contact I spluffed into my boxers.
“Will you go out with me?” I groaned to Diana as my brain began its slow journey back up to my skull.
“Nah. You’re cute right. But I like a man who can go all night. Wanna fag?”
Fifteen years passed.
During that time I shagged my way through Uni and across the world.
Diana I found out now had four kids and a loyalty card for IceLand.
That summer I received an invitation to a wedding of an old mate I’d studied with in Uni – a bit of a bastard if I’m being truthful, but it was the opportunity to get drunk at his expense, catch up with old mates and maybe even get laid.
I expect you can guess who the bride was…when I saw the invitation I did a double take – she has a very unusual name the girl with big brown eyes and wavy hair.
I went to the wedding and watched my first love walk up the aisle.
I watched her marry a man whom I know is a bastard.
I watched her marry a man whom I know was unfaithful to her during his stag night – I know because I was there right along side him as we both screwed working girls for £60 each.
After the ceremony I finally got chatting to her, my wavy haired, brown eyed girl.
I reminded her of her promise to marry me when she grew up. She laughed and just as when she’d been a child, her laughter and smiles lit up the room.
And finally I had the courage to say to her what I should have said long ago,
“Will you go out with me?”
She laughed again and told me that if ever things went wrong with her marriage I’d be the first one she’d contact.
Six months later she called me.
(Mon 1st Sep 2008, 16:39, More)
» Rubbish Towns
South Shields
Originally I come from a small market town in the south but for a few years I was a regular on/off resident in South Shields, Tyne and Wear. I wouldn't describe it as particularly shitty although at the back end of the eighties it took a beating from Maggie and her band, this stretched on into the nineties when I was there.
My girlfriend of the time was the traditional mix of Geordie women - almost six foot tall, blonde and slender - she could have been a model if it wasn't for the rather bent nose - the result of closing time punch ups. She taught me new swear words and farted almost constantly yet seen from the distance of a Guinness at the bar she was Farrah Fawcett's fitter sister. We'd met in a gay bar in Old Compton Street - I'd been 'experimenting' and the place was nicer than most straight bars - the carpet wasn't too sticky and the toilets were kept clean. She - Helen - had been in there with mates - women tend to not get hassled too much in gay bars although one of her friends was getting a sneaky feel from a short dumpy brunette who'd been buying her G&Ts all night.
Anyway, Helen thought I was a player on the other team and came home with me - I'd a one bedroomed place in Brixton - she said she knew she'd be safe with me...and she was. She also had the usual female thing of wanting to 'turn' a gay man - except I wasn't gay so it was a good night despite the farting (hers).
So...Shields. Helen was working in London but liked to get home to her folks as often as she could. One week we went up. Used the Big Bus thing - the Clipper I think it was called; charged £10 took 10 hours and as many stottie cakes as you could stuff in your gob. Helen slept for most of the journey and then woke up at the Washington services - from there on she bounced up and down on the seat and let me slide a crafty hand down her jeans - I only did that the once on account of the bouncing and her wind problem.
Finally we arrived, I'm standing there with all her bags and cases - my rucksack on my back, while she runs up the road to jump on a short fat bloke who looked rather like the old comic Frank Carson. He must have been bloody terrified to have a six foot blonde Amazon bearing down on him - six four in her heels but he was just smiling and laughing - her dad. Behind him was an even shorter woman - blonde like her daughter but with the largest arse I've ever seen on a human being - for a moment I did wonder if something had escaped from the zoo - leopard skin coats were fashionable at the time I think. When I met Joan I knew where Helen had got her mouth from and one night under their roof told me where her stinking arse had arisen too. Being hugged by her parents was rather how I imagine Willy Wonka felt if ever he embraced the Oompa Loompas - her mum even had the same skin tone.
Enough of the locals - onto the shitty town....
Joan and Fred loved to spend their Sunday nights down the Ocean Road which is where all the best Indian restaurants can be found and on a Sunday back then you could get a three course meal for £4 a head so it was a regular fixture and explained their ample girth. After eating a cracking meal Helen and I decided to hit some of the pubs - she wanted to show me off and I was only too willing to check the place out - Joan and Fred wanted their beds.
The northeast during the summer is rather like a warm day in the Arctic - stinging blue skies and vodka washed winds. The nights all the year round are similar and I with my feeble southern blood felt the chill like a slap from a witch's tit. Helen wore a vest top, six inch high heels, leather mini skirt, and as I was to find out later, no knickers. God, even now my cock twitches just thinking about her.
We had been into loads of trendy places full of fag smoke, neon signs and B.O. - every woman in there more beautiful and harder than the bloke standing next to her. Helen insisted on getting the drinks - she said if I opened my pretty boy mouth I'd end up fucked - I remember raising and eyebrow and smiling slightly - open for any opportunity until she clarified that I'd be pissing blood from my mouth for a month.
This was fine until the last place we went into; I think it was called something like the Star and Garter, something traditional and full of old men coughing up the only coal to be had in the whole of the northeast. No way was I going to let Helen go to the bar here - I'd had enough of being her pussy for the evening now was the time to go back to being real. The place went very quiet as I ordered a half of lager and lime and then noise returned as I added a pint. We found a booth in the corner to sit in and in true classy tradition she let me slip my beer soaked fingers into her wet velvet pocket - she insisted on sucking my fingers after and then dunking them into my drink before ramming them back up her furry muff. We downed two pints like that before my aching balls and full bladder could stand no more - time to break the seal. I asked where the bogs were and got sent out the back of the pub. I'd heard that there was a traditional pissoir in the area - I think the urine was collected for dye or something - maybe they sent it to France to make wine with. I ambled on out into the darkened alley, prepared to find an open air trough.
Instead I saw something that'll stick with me for the rest of my life - one of the old blokes from the bar had his keks lowered and was hammering into a large dimpled arse - in the darkness it was whiter than the fucking moon and only the flapping leopard skin that was wrapped around it prevented my eyes from being completely blinded by its glare. He was huffing away, his emphysemaed lungs doing their best and all the while his greasy flat cap stayed fixed above his sweaty fat face, eyes closed, mouth gurning between each laboured breath until he either had a cardiac arrest or shot his load and the leopard skin and arse shouted out, 'Gaaan on pet!'
Then she turned her head and Joan saw me, 'Eee, hinny! Y'gan next pet?'
Now I've done my fair share of mercy fucks, fat lasses, ugly lasses, pretty boys and fit birds - Christ I'm not choosy, if it's got a hole I'll have a go. But my girlfriend's mother? It just seemed like taking advantage of their hospitality. I shook my head and got on with my piss - I decided to just go there against the wall like everyone else was doing - did I mention I wasn't the only audience?
The next morning over cold toast and hot tea Fred nodded and grinned, 'I hear you saw Joan in all her glory last night then, lad? If you want a go you're welcome. Best bit of cunt this side of Bolden colliery. Keeps us in cheap curry even now.'
Helen and I split up after that - she took after her mother and you know what they say: you can take the girl out of Shields but you can't get half the fucking town out of her.
(Tue 3rd Nov 2009, 13:57, More)
South Shields
Originally I come from a small market town in the south but for a few years I was a regular on/off resident in South Shields, Tyne and Wear. I wouldn't describe it as particularly shitty although at the back end of the eighties it took a beating from Maggie and her band, this stretched on into the nineties when I was there.
My girlfriend of the time was the traditional mix of Geordie women - almost six foot tall, blonde and slender - she could have been a model if it wasn't for the rather bent nose - the result of closing time punch ups. She taught me new swear words and farted almost constantly yet seen from the distance of a Guinness at the bar she was Farrah Fawcett's fitter sister. We'd met in a gay bar in Old Compton Street - I'd been 'experimenting' and the place was nicer than most straight bars - the carpet wasn't too sticky and the toilets were kept clean. She - Helen - had been in there with mates - women tend to not get hassled too much in gay bars although one of her friends was getting a sneaky feel from a short dumpy brunette who'd been buying her G&Ts all night.
Anyway, Helen thought I was a player on the other team and came home with me - I'd a one bedroomed place in Brixton - she said she knew she'd be safe with me...and she was. She also had the usual female thing of wanting to 'turn' a gay man - except I wasn't gay so it was a good night despite the farting (hers).
So...Shields. Helen was working in London but liked to get home to her folks as often as she could. One week we went up. Used the Big Bus thing - the Clipper I think it was called; charged £10 took 10 hours and as many stottie cakes as you could stuff in your gob. Helen slept for most of the journey and then woke up at the Washington services - from there on she bounced up and down on the seat and let me slide a crafty hand down her jeans - I only did that the once on account of the bouncing and her wind problem.
Finally we arrived, I'm standing there with all her bags and cases - my rucksack on my back, while she runs up the road to jump on a short fat bloke who looked rather like the old comic Frank Carson. He must have been bloody terrified to have a six foot blonde Amazon bearing down on him - six four in her heels but he was just smiling and laughing - her dad. Behind him was an even shorter woman - blonde like her daughter but with the largest arse I've ever seen on a human being - for a moment I did wonder if something had escaped from the zoo - leopard skin coats were fashionable at the time I think. When I met Joan I knew where Helen had got her mouth from and one night under their roof told me where her stinking arse had arisen too. Being hugged by her parents was rather how I imagine Willy Wonka felt if ever he embraced the Oompa Loompas - her mum even had the same skin tone.
Enough of the locals - onto the shitty town....
Joan and Fred loved to spend their Sunday nights down the Ocean Road which is where all the best Indian restaurants can be found and on a Sunday back then you could get a three course meal for £4 a head so it was a regular fixture and explained their ample girth. After eating a cracking meal Helen and I decided to hit some of the pubs - she wanted to show me off and I was only too willing to check the place out - Joan and Fred wanted their beds.
The northeast during the summer is rather like a warm day in the Arctic - stinging blue skies and vodka washed winds. The nights all the year round are similar and I with my feeble southern blood felt the chill like a slap from a witch's tit. Helen wore a vest top, six inch high heels, leather mini skirt, and as I was to find out later, no knickers. God, even now my cock twitches just thinking about her.
We had been into loads of trendy places full of fag smoke, neon signs and B.O. - every woman in there more beautiful and harder than the bloke standing next to her. Helen insisted on getting the drinks - she said if I opened my pretty boy mouth I'd end up fucked - I remember raising and eyebrow and smiling slightly - open for any opportunity until she clarified that I'd be pissing blood from my mouth for a month.
This was fine until the last place we went into; I think it was called something like the Star and Garter, something traditional and full of old men coughing up the only coal to be had in the whole of the northeast. No way was I going to let Helen go to the bar here - I'd had enough of being her pussy for the evening now was the time to go back to being real. The place went very quiet as I ordered a half of lager and lime and then noise returned as I added a pint. We found a booth in the corner to sit in and in true classy tradition she let me slip my beer soaked fingers into her wet velvet pocket - she insisted on sucking my fingers after and then dunking them into my drink before ramming them back up her furry muff. We downed two pints like that before my aching balls and full bladder could stand no more - time to break the seal. I asked where the bogs were and got sent out the back of the pub. I'd heard that there was a traditional pissoir in the area - I think the urine was collected for dye or something - maybe they sent it to France to make wine with. I ambled on out into the darkened alley, prepared to find an open air trough.
Instead I saw something that'll stick with me for the rest of my life - one of the old blokes from the bar had his keks lowered and was hammering into a large dimpled arse - in the darkness it was whiter than the fucking moon and only the flapping leopard skin that was wrapped around it prevented my eyes from being completely blinded by its glare. He was huffing away, his emphysemaed lungs doing their best and all the while his greasy flat cap stayed fixed above his sweaty fat face, eyes closed, mouth gurning between each laboured breath until he either had a cardiac arrest or shot his load and the leopard skin and arse shouted out, 'Gaaan on pet!'
Then she turned her head and Joan saw me, 'Eee, hinny! Y'gan next pet?'
Now I've done my fair share of mercy fucks, fat lasses, ugly lasses, pretty boys and fit birds - Christ I'm not choosy, if it's got a hole I'll have a go. But my girlfriend's mother? It just seemed like taking advantage of their hospitality. I shook my head and got on with my piss - I decided to just go there against the wall like everyone else was doing - did I mention I wasn't the only audience?
The next morning over cold toast and hot tea Fred nodded and grinned, 'I hear you saw Joan in all her glory last night then, lad? If you want a go you're welcome. Best bit of cunt this side of Bolden colliery. Keeps us in cheap curry even now.'
Helen and I split up after that - she took after her mother and you know what they say: you can take the girl out of Shields but you can't get half the fucking town out of her.
(Tue 3rd Nov 2009, 13:57, More)
» Teenage Crushes - Part Two
My girl
Have a pearoast from just over a year ago - this question is a rehash, so this is appropriate.
*****
She had large brown eyes and long wavy hair worn in plaits tied with navy blue ribbons.
When she smiled the room lit up and when we all played kiss-chase she never ran from me.
We were both five when I proposed and from that day on for two years each morning we could be found sitting on the steps outside our classroom repeating the same words to each other –
“I’m going to marry you when I grow up”
When we were seven and the allure of an older woman who owned her own jumbo sized pencil-sharpener became too great I faltered.
My lovely brown-eyed fiancée was told that I was going out with Clare H now and I no longer loved her in her pencil-sharpenerless state.
She cried and I felt like a heel.
Even stories of Little Black Sambo who outwitted the tigers and ate pancakes for tea couldn’t cheer me up.
Each time I glanced around the classroom her large brown eyes would find me and silently plead with me but my hand was held fast in a sweaty embrace with Clare and our love was sealed by her placing her pencil-sharpener into my pencil case.
Young love is a fickle beast and soon my relationship with the sweaty-handed Clare was over and I was once again single and sharpener-free.
I was always one of the lads and my days were taken up with football and playing Superheroes.
All of the girls refused our pleas to be our Wonder Woman or Bat Girl.
The girls wanted to play house under the rhododendron bushes, collect the fallen blossom or play strange clapping games.
A few fast and loose ones would entice you into a rhododendron house, lie on the beaten earth and lift their skirts so you could see their knickers.
None of us lads were interested in their cotton undies with the days of the week printed upon them – these could not match our pants with ThunderCats emblazoned upon them.
One girl finally accepted our offer to be Wonderwoman, to eschew the draw of flowers, house and other girl games, one girl saw how good the Superhero game was - the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; she would be Wonder Woman for me.
Soon we were nearing the end of our long days in Primary school. We had all been split up, girls no longer talking to or sitting with boys, separate games lessons, boys smelled and girls were bitchy.
One girl was always in trouble with the teachers.
One girl was to be punished for her constant chattering to other girls.
She was to be sat next to a boy as surely the conversations would cease.
And so it came to pass that my wavy haired, brown eyed girl sat next to me.
Each Monday morning would be spent in giggles as I re-enacted Saturday night’s ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ for her with the aid of my novelty cigar biro pen.
Each Monday afternoon would be spent in detention – each of us smiling gently at the other.
And then the end came – off we went in separate directions to different schools – she to an all-girls’ grammar and I to a mixed comp.
I had been at my new school for a few weeks when I saw Diana – she was fifteen, blonde and stunning.
I found out that she lived in my village and I began a determined effort of stalking her. I followed her each Friday evening when she went to the youth club. I played pool with my friends and Diana, lovely Diana disappeared behind the back of the youth club hut and smoked with the local bad lads.
Then quite out of the blue I received a telephone call.
It was from the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair.
“Hello Richard. I’mgoingtoadisconextFridayeveningwouldyouliketocomewithme?”
“Um….”
“……”
“I’ll have to ask my mum. I’ll ring you back.”
Friday nights were Diana’s.
Diana had big bouncy breasts and smoked cigarettes.
I phoned the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; I told her I had to visit my Aunt on that Friday, but thanks anyway for the invitation.
She never called again.
Another year passed, I grew by six inches and my mates sent me into the Offie for cans of Stella.
I still went to the Youth Club with its twin attractions of Diana and the pool table.
Then one evening Diana invited me around the back for a fag.
She leaned forward and kissed me gently, her lips were damp and her breath was heavy with Silk Cut and cheap cider.
My mates stood and watched, each drawing deeply on their cigarettes and laughing about Diana’s friends in their short skirts and large thighs.
I slid my hand up her white blouse until I could feel the silken smoothness of her bra. I kissed her deeper, my virgin tongue slipping in and probing her warm wet mouth. My hand cupped her lacy clad breast and my engorged cock began to nudge against her thigh. Her tongue began to respond to mine by twisting and circling in a way that I thought was sexy in a HotPoint kind of way. I kneaded and pulled gently at her tit, feeling her hard little nipple dance in my inky fingers. Diana’s fingers were playing with the waistband of my jeans, sharp fingernails were scratching my stomach and I could bear it no longer. I took her hand and shoved it down onto my rock hard pork sword and as her cool fingertips made contact I spluffed into my boxers.
“Will you go out with me?” I groaned to Diana as my brain began its slow journey back up to my skull.
“Nah. You’re cute right. But I like a man who can go all night. Wanna fag?”
Fifteen years passed.
During that time I shagged my way through Uni and across the world.
Diana I found out now had four kids and a loyalty card for IceLand.
That summer I received an invitation to a wedding of an old mate I’d studied with in Uni – a bit of a bastard if I’m being truthful, but it was the opportunity to get drunk at his expense, catch up with old mates and maybe even get laid.
I expect you can guess who the bride was…when I saw the invitation I did a double take – she has a very unusual name the girl with big brown eyes and wavy hair.
I went to the wedding and watched my first love walk up the aisle.
I watched her marry a man whom I know is a bastard.
I watched her marry a man whom I know was unfaithful to her during his stag night – I know because I was there right along side him as we both screwed working girls for £60 each.
After the ceremony I finally got chatting to her, my wavy haired, brown eyed girl.
I reminded her of her promise to marry me when she grew up. She laughed and just as when she’d been a child, her laughter and smiles lit up the room.
And finally I had the courage to say to her what I should have said long ago,
“Will you go out with me?”
She laughed again and told me that if ever things went wrong with her marriage I’d be the first one she’d contact.
Six months later she called me.
(Tue 10th Nov 2009, 16:51, More)
My girl
Have a pearoast from just over a year ago - this question is a rehash, so this is appropriate.
*****
She had large brown eyes and long wavy hair worn in plaits tied with navy blue ribbons.
When she smiled the room lit up and when we all played kiss-chase she never ran from me.
We were both five when I proposed and from that day on for two years each morning we could be found sitting on the steps outside our classroom repeating the same words to each other –
“I’m going to marry you when I grow up”
When we were seven and the allure of an older woman who owned her own jumbo sized pencil-sharpener became too great I faltered.
My lovely brown-eyed fiancée was told that I was going out with Clare H now and I no longer loved her in her pencil-sharpenerless state.
She cried and I felt like a heel.
Even stories of Little Black Sambo who outwitted the tigers and ate pancakes for tea couldn’t cheer me up.
Each time I glanced around the classroom her large brown eyes would find me and silently plead with me but my hand was held fast in a sweaty embrace with Clare and our love was sealed by her placing her pencil-sharpener into my pencil case.
Young love is a fickle beast and soon my relationship with the sweaty-handed Clare was over and I was once again single and sharpener-free.
I was always one of the lads and my days were taken up with football and playing Superheroes.
All of the girls refused our pleas to be our Wonder Woman or Bat Girl.
The girls wanted to play house under the rhododendron bushes, collect the fallen blossom or play strange clapping games.
A few fast and loose ones would entice you into a rhododendron house, lie on the beaten earth and lift their skirts so you could see their knickers.
None of us lads were interested in their cotton undies with the days of the week printed upon them – these could not match our pants with ThunderCats emblazoned upon them.
One girl finally accepted our offer to be Wonderwoman, to eschew the draw of flowers, house and other girl games, one girl saw how good the Superhero game was - the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; she would be Wonder Woman for me.
Soon we were nearing the end of our long days in Primary school. We had all been split up, girls no longer talking to or sitting with boys, separate games lessons, boys smelled and girls were bitchy.
One girl was always in trouble with the teachers.
One girl was to be punished for her constant chattering to other girls.
She was to be sat next to a boy as surely the conversations would cease.
And so it came to pass that my wavy haired, brown eyed girl sat next to me.
Each Monday morning would be spent in giggles as I re-enacted Saturday night’s ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ for her with the aid of my novelty cigar biro pen.
Each Monday afternoon would be spent in detention – each of us smiling gently at the other.
And then the end came – off we went in separate directions to different schools – she to an all-girls’ grammar and I to a mixed comp.
I had been at my new school for a few weeks when I saw Diana – she was fifteen, blonde and stunning.
I found out that she lived in my village and I began a determined effort of stalking her. I followed her each Friday evening when she went to the youth club. I played pool with my friends and Diana, lovely Diana disappeared behind the back of the youth club hut and smoked with the local bad lads.
Then quite out of the blue I received a telephone call.
It was from the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair.
“Hello Richard. I’mgoingtoadisconextFridayeveningwouldyouliketocomewithme?”
“Um….”
“……”
“I’ll have to ask my mum. I’ll ring you back.”
Friday nights were Diana’s.
Diana had big bouncy breasts and smoked cigarettes.
I phoned the girl with the large brown eyes and wavy hair; I told her I had to visit my Aunt on that Friday, but thanks anyway for the invitation.
She never called again.
Another year passed, I grew by six inches and my mates sent me into the Offie for cans of Stella.
I still went to the Youth Club with its twin attractions of Diana and the pool table.
Then one evening Diana invited me around the back for a fag.
She leaned forward and kissed me gently, her lips were damp and her breath was heavy with Silk Cut and cheap cider.
My mates stood and watched, each drawing deeply on their cigarettes and laughing about Diana’s friends in their short skirts and large thighs.
I slid my hand up her white blouse until I could feel the silken smoothness of her bra. I kissed her deeper, my virgin tongue slipping in and probing her warm wet mouth. My hand cupped her lacy clad breast and my engorged cock began to nudge against her thigh. Her tongue began to respond to mine by twisting and circling in a way that I thought was sexy in a HotPoint kind of way. I kneaded and pulled gently at her tit, feeling her hard little nipple dance in my inky fingers. Diana’s fingers were playing with the waistband of my jeans, sharp fingernails were scratching my stomach and I could bear it no longer. I took her hand and shoved it down onto my rock hard pork sword and as her cool fingertips made contact I spluffed into my boxers.
“Will you go out with me?” I groaned to Diana as my brain began its slow journey back up to my skull.
“Nah. You’re cute right. But I like a man who can go all night. Wanna fag?”
Fifteen years passed.
During that time I shagged my way through Uni and across the world.
Diana I found out now had four kids and a loyalty card for IceLand.
That summer I received an invitation to a wedding of an old mate I’d studied with in Uni – a bit of a bastard if I’m being truthful, but it was the opportunity to get drunk at his expense, catch up with old mates and maybe even get laid.
I expect you can guess who the bride was…when I saw the invitation I did a double take – she has a very unusual name the girl with big brown eyes and wavy hair.
I went to the wedding and watched my first love walk up the aisle.
I watched her marry a man whom I know is a bastard.
I watched her marry a man whom I know was unfaithful to her during his stag night – I know because I was there right along side him as we both screwed working girls for £60 each.
After the ceremony I finally got chatting to her, my wavy haired, brown eyed girl.
I reminded her of her promise to marry me when she grew up. She laughed and just as when she’d been a child, her laughter and smiles lit up the room.
And finally I had the courage to say to her what I should have said long ago,
“Will you go out with me?”
She laughed again and told me that if ever things went wrong with her marriage I’d be the first one she’d contact.
Six months later she called me.
(Tue 10th Nov 2009, 16:51, More)
» Public Sex
The Legend of SW19
She’d bought them in Victoria’s Secret on a business trip to New York. They were midnight blue satin with large cream polka dots, almost like something you’d see back in the 80s or early 90s, except these were the tiniest, flimsiest and most expensive pair of knickers I’d ever come across – quite literally.
We’d met at Sankey’s – the one in Royal Tunbridge Wells, I think it was 1997. It had a cellar bar I remember very well; all bare brickwork, candles and expensive wine. Tim was an old mate from Uni, he’d moved down to the posh countryside to marry a farmer’s daughter, have chocolate brown Labradors, excessively large 4x4s and an alcohol dependency problem brought on by gin and port. Sankey’s had been his suggestion, I was out of work at the time and would have preferred the simpler attractions of the local pub or even a few cans in front of the TV, but Tim wanted to impress me and show me the highlights of posh totty that the Wells could provide.
“Sal! Sal! Come on you old trollop! Show me the fucking ‘phone!” a crowd of over-made-up women were squawking at each other by the bar.
“But darling, your shoes cost less than this ‘phone, do you honestly think I’m going to let you, with your reputation for losing fucking millions, get your sweaty little mitts on this? I mean, for fucks sake – you’ve shagged bloody Nick Leeson!“ This one was the pack leader; expensive clothes, incredibly high heels that would do real damage if she wore them naked while walking across a man’s back, I mused as I looked closely for a knicker line on her tight short skirt.
“Commando?” Tim asked – all through Uni he’d been my wingman, he knew my moves, hell, once on a particular drunken night out in Leeds he’d even been on the receiving end of my moves but apart from some uncomfortable glances – not to mention uncomfortable body parts – we’ve resolved to never mention it again.
“Yeah, I think so. How much to find out?” I replied. Tim had many weaknesses: large girls called Polly, alcohol, Mexican marching powder, me, fast cars and gambling. He bet me a small sum to discover whether the ‘phone princess was more giving with her body than her possessions.
Having watched too much American film and television I decided to be classy – I paid for a glass of pinot griot and asked the barman to give it to her while I leaned nonchalantly against the bare brickwork in the corner, bottle of sol in one hand and arrogance worn like an aftershave.
She took my wine, handed it to one of her squawk of friends and then stalked towards me holding a bottle of Bollinger and two glasses. “Rather poor I think. This stuff is better.”
She was right.
Sally was a couple of years older than me; she worked in the City and liked her men a tad on the rough side – my (then) lack of job was a turn on for her. We chatted a little about French movies, she poured me another glass. Tim had been taken a willing hostage by her pack of girlfriends. Sal turned her back on them and gently forced me further against the wall. I remember the cold roughness of the soft red Kentish bricks and the sharp bubbles of the expensive fizzy wine. Her breath was slightly sour – wine and a hint of Marlboro lights.
She didn’t kiss me. There was never any suggestion that she might. Not even when her fingers ran up my thigh and across my hardening cock.
She gave me her card and told me she would be at Wimbledon on the Friday of the first week – corporate thing – be there.
Ticket touts made me cough up £85 for the pleasure of standing around in the pouring rain while dickheads decked out entirely by Hackett wandered past eating overpriced watery strawberries and braying at the poor people who didn’t have a second holiday home in Antigua. Not my type of place. I don’t play tennis and aside from watching some of the ladies matches just to get a flash of thigh this wasn’t my thing at all. I was beginning to wonder why I’d turned up, then I caught sight of Sally, my cock twitched in anticipation and I knew why I’d turned up.
She was wearing a dark red dress, sleeveless and strappy, full skirt and of course a pair of killer heels. She stopped the conversation she was having with a large rugger bugger type and strode over to me.
“Follow me”
The look in her eye told me how this was going to end.
I followed.
I’m not sure who she paid or who she knew but within a couple of minutes we were camped out under canvas in the corner of Centre Court.
“I’ve always wanted to do it here. Maybe it’ll improve my service.” She said as she expertly unzipped my trousers, unbuckled my belt, unfastened my clothes and freed my swollen cock into the stale grassy trapped air for a brief moment before she took it deeply into her mouth.
I kept quiet, hands slowly easing her skirt up her slender thighs then fingers gently edging their way towards the damp warmth of her silken pussy. She moaned and sucked harder. My fingers probed and slipped inside her, gliding on her wetness.
She stopped, pushed me back, slid her midnight blue satin knickers down, wiped them across my face, “So you’ll smell me all day”, then shoved them into my jacket pocket. Lifting the green canvas up a little above her head she straddled me, my cock now throbbing inside one of the tightest and wettest clefts I’ve ever had the pleasure to fuck.
Years of Pony Club practice paid off as she rode me and the rain pounded down on the green canvas over our heads. Voices from the spectator stands only served to make her wetter and to fuck with more frenzy until we both couldn’t stand it – I gripped her perfect tight arse and exploded into her like the cork being pulled from a bottle of her beloved Bollinger.
The rain had begun to ease, she rolled off me, ran a finger up her thigh, dipped into herself and then sucked, “Mmm, you and I taste good – better than those fucking strawberries. Oh, and keep the knickers. A keepsake.”
She led me out to one of the staff entrances and there finally she kissed me gently on the lips.
I never saw her or the knickers again.
When Wimbledon is on and it’s raining, I sometimes think about her.
That was until I saw this article in the Times Online.
(Mon 27th Apr 2009, 18:01, More)
The Legend of SW19
She’d bought them in Victoria’s Secret on a business trip to New York. They were midnight blue satin with large cream polka dots, almost like something you’d see back in the 80s or early 90s, except these were the tiniest, flimsiest and most expensive pair of knickers I’d ever come across – quite literally.
We’d met at Sankey’s – the one in Royal Tunbridge Wells, I think it was 1997. It had a cellar bar I remember very well; all bare brickwork, candles and expensive wine. Tim was an old mate from Uni, he’d moved down to the posh countryside to marry a farmer’s daughter, have chocolate brown Labradors, excessively large 4x4s and an alcohol dependency problem brought on by gin and port. Sankey’s had been his suggestion, I was out of work at the time and would have preferred the simpler attractions of the local pub or even a few cans in front of the TV, but Tim wanted to impress me and show me the highlights of posh totty that the Wells could provide.
“Sal! Sal! Come on you old trollop! Show me the fucking ‘phone!” a crowd of over-made-up women were squawking at each other by the bar.
“But darling, your shoes cost less than this ‘phone, do you honestly think I’m going to let you, with your reputation for losing fucking millions, get your sweaty little mitts on this? I mean, for fucks sake – you’ve shagged bloody Nick Leeson!“ This one was the pack leader; expensive clothes, incredibly high heels that would do real damage if she wore them naked while walking across a man’s back, I mused as I looked closely for a knicker line on her tight short skirt.
“Commando?” Tim asked – all through Uni he’d been my wingman, he knew my moves, hell, once on a particular drunken night out in Leeds he’d even been on the receiving end of my moves but apart from some uncomfortable glances – not to mention uncomfortable body parts – we’ve resolved to never mention it again.
“Yeah, I think so. How much to find out?” I replied. Tim had many weaknesses: large girls called Polly, alcohol, Mexican marching powder, me, fast cars and gambling. He bet me a small sum to discover whether the ‘phone princess was more giving with her body than her possessions.
Having watched too much American film and television I decided to be classy – I paid for a glass of pinot griot and asked the barman to give it to her while I leaned nonchalantly against the bare brickwork in the corner, bottle of sol in one hand and arrogance worn like an aftershave.
She took my wine, handed it to one of her squawk of friends and then stalked towards me holding a bottle of Bollinger and two glasses. “Rather poor I think. This stuff is better.”
She was right.
Sally was a couple of years older than me; she worked in the City and liked her men a tad on the rough side – my (then) lack of job was a turn on for her. We chatted a little about French movies, she poured me another glass. Tim had been taken a willing hostage by her pack of girlfriends. Sal turned her back on them and gently forced me further against the wall. I remember the cold roughness of the soft red Kentish bricks and the sharp bubbles of the expensive fizzy wine. Her breath was slightly sour – wine and a hint of Marlboro lights.
She didn’t kiss me. There was never any suggestion that she might. Not even when her fingers ran up my thigh and across my hardening cock.
She gave me her card and told me she would be at Wimbledon on the Friday of the first week – corporate thing – be there.
Ticket touts made me cough up £85 for the pleasure of standing around in the pouring rain while dickheads decked out entirely by Hackett wandered past eating overpriced watery strawberries and braying at the poor people who didn’t have a second holiday home in Antigua. Not my type of place. I don’t play tennis and aside from watching some of the ladies matches just to get a flash of thigh this wasn’t my thing at all. I was beginning to wonder why I’d turned up, then I caught sight of Sally, my cock twitched in anticipation and I knew why I’d turned up.
She was wearing a dark red dress, sleeveless and strappy, full skirt and of course a pair of killer heels. She stopped the conversation she was having with a large rugger bugger type and strode over to me.
“Follow me”
The look in her eye told me how this was going to end.
I followed.
I’m not sure who she paid or who she knew but within a couple of minutes we were camped out under canvas in the corner of Centre Court.
“I’ve always wanted to do it here. Maybe it’ll improve my service.” She said as she expertly unzipped my trousers, unbuckled my belt, unfastened my clothes and freed my swollen cock into the stale grassy trapped air for a brief moment before she took it deeply into her mouth.
I kept quiet, hands slowly easing her skirt up her slender thighs then fingers gently edging their way towards the damp warmth of her silken pussy. She moaned and sucked harder. My fingers probed and slipped inside her, gliding on her wetness.
She stopped, pushed me back, slid her midnight blue satin knickers down, wiped them across my face, “So you’ll smell me all day”, then shoved them into my jacket pocket. Lifting the green canvas up a little above her head she straddled me, my cock now throbbing inside one of the tightest and wettest clefts I’ve ever had the pleasure to fuck.
Years of Pony Club practice paid off as she rode me and the rain pounded down on the green canvas over our heads. Voices from the spectator stands only served to make her wetter and to fuck with more frenzy until we both couldn’t stand it – I gripped her perfect tight arse and exploded into her like the cork being pulled from a bottle of her beloved Bollinger.
The rain had begun to ease, she rolled off me, ran a finger up her thigh, dipped into herself and then sucked, “Mmm, you and I taste good – better than those fucking strawberries. Oh, and keep the knickers. A keepsake.”
She led me out to one of the staff entrances and there finally she kissed me gently on the lips.
I never saw her or the knickers again.
When Wimbledon is on and it’s raining, I sometimes think about her.
That was until I saw this article in the Times Online.
(Mon 27th Apr 2009, 18:01, More)
» Faking it
Swedish Cults
I scratched my arm lazily and my short nails were filled with black dust and sweat from the Agra sun. I could smell the heat of my unwashed body above the heady scents of spices, petrol fumes and camel shit. I’d run out of insect repellent and money.
I’d stood in the same cool spot near ‘Diana’s ‘ bench and watched the grinning tourists pay out a week’s pay in rupees just to have their photo taken where the dead princess had sat. The sun was beginning to set and the cream marble was beginning to change colour yet again – becoming slowly blue tinged until it would turn bruised violet as it did each evening like an exotic Blackpool illuminations.
And I would have to find somewhere to stay for the night.
A group of Swedish tourists turned up – all speaking a mixture of their own language and flawless hypoallergenic English. They stood out in their clean clothes and clean expressions, each holding a clean bag and sporting a clean innocent smile while gazing at the dusty and aromatic splendour that stood before them – the testament to a lost love.
One girl stood alone, faultless in her stereotype - blonde and blue eyed. The local men held back and looked at her warily, she was a Barbie doll made flesh but without the crack habit.
I wandered over and leaned against the fretwork panel.
“Amazing to have someone love you that much they build this for you, isn’t it?”
“Are you English?”
“No. I’m local, but educated in the UK” She, like thousands before her, believed my tired old line about being Indian/Turkish/Italian – in fact any nationality I damn well wanted.
She didn’t ask about why I was so dirty or even seem to notice the rather meaty whiff I gave off.
“I’ve come to India to see my Swami”
I nodded – the group she was with were all dressed similarly and some sort of religious cult did seem common, normal almost, amongst many western travellers.
I looked up at the sweeping sunset, took a deep calming breath and fixed my eyes upon hers as I said, “There are many paths to the divine. It is our journey in life which defines us. Love is all.”
It was as if I’d switched a small AA battery powered light on behind her pale plastic blue eyes.
She grasped my hand and asked me the killer question, “Are you Enlightened? Do you know the path to Enlightenment?”
Oh yes.
I did and out of my love for humanity I was prepared to share it with her for a small fee.
As is so often the nature of these things, true love for humanity has to be shared in private as too much tends to scare the horses. I didn’t mention the horses or the small fee – I didn’t want to scare her either.
After I had filled her head with tales of Mumtaz and her beauty we retired to her lodgings for the evening.
I explained that I had taken a vow of poverty and therefore had to trust upon the love of the universe and all humanity to provide me with a four star room with en suite and early morning call.
“Tell me your teachings, o great one.”
She was sat at my now washed feet. This was a good thing as firstly I now smelled of Ylang Ylang and sandalwood and I had an unrestricted view down her strappy top to her pale cream breasts which both glistened with fresh sweat and blushed with mild sun burn. The sight of these luscious globes made me stiffen and then remember my position – I had become her Swami.
“My teachings in this life are simple.
Love.
Give pleasure.
Enjoy life.
Be free with your possessions.
Be free and giving with your body.
Be sky-clad whenever possible and when that is not possible wear a tiny thong.
Eschew underwear – apart from the thong.”
She looked at me earnestly and asked if she should remove her clothing now. I solemnly nodded and watched detachedly as she slowly peeled off her strappy top and released the strawberries and cream puppies.
“I have a confession my Swami. I have not followed your teachings – today I am wearing large but practical knickers. How will you punish me?”
And she dropped her white linen trousers to reveal a skimpy pair of bikini bottoms which clung to her damp cleft and mound.
“You must accept the sword of truth into your body until it gushes forth with the love of humanity. Kneel before me.”
She knelt and I freed my throbbing sword of truth.
“Take this and suck upon it, for it is your path, your divine destiny.”
Her small pink rosebud lips opened and her wet tongue flicked over the tip of my purple bishop’s hat. Then her clean Swedish hands began their well-practised massage upon the holy organ. Her grip and speed demonstrated the years of IKEA assembly that her people are known for – it was efficient, purposeful, a little bland and somewhat lacking in finesse. However within a few minutes her buccal cavity began to draw against my hot hard man weapon. She licked, sucked and teased with her moist yielding smörgåsbord consuming orifice until I could hold on no more and with thoughts of universal love involving saunas and birch twigs I erupted forth with gushing spurts of divine ectoplasm filled with salty goodness. She was a good supplicant, willing, pliant, lacking in gag-reflex and all importantly, she swallowed.
And as she sat back on her heels and wiped her hand across her mouth she uttered one word,
“Surströmming”
“Now you need to remove the rest of your garments and pleasure yourself for the divine love to grow once more.”
I was calm and flaccid but I knew that her environmentally sound and undoubtedly shaven haven would soon engorge me in a manner that only Agnetha Fältskog before her had been able to achieve.
Sadly it was not to be.
“You are not who you say you are. According to the tracts your divine essence will taste of messmör but you taste of old fermented fish.”
Her eyes were full of hermetically sealed fury and while her glorious large dark nipples taunted me with each move of her sinuous pale body she landed her final crushing blow.
“You are no Swami. You are a cheap rotten Fakir!”
(Wed 16th Jul 2008, 11:09, More)
Swedish Cults
I scratched my arm lazily and my short nails were filled with black dust and sweat from the Agra sun. I could smell the heat of my unwashed body above the heady scents of spices, petrol fumes and camel shit. I’d run out of insect repellent and money.
I’d stood in the same cool spot near ‘Diana’s ‘ bench and watched the grinning tourists pay out a week’s pay in rupees just to have their photo taken where the dead princess had sat. The sun was beginning to set and the cream marble was beginning to change colour yet again – becoming slowly blue tinged until it would turn bruised violet as it did each evening like an exotic Blackpool illuminations.
And I would have to find somewhere to stay for the night.
A group of Swedish tourists turned up – all speaking a mixture of their own language and flawless hypoallergenic English. They stood out in their clean clothes and clean expressions, each holding a clean bag and sporting a clean innocent smile while gazing at the dusty and aromatic splendour that stood before them – the testament to a lost love.
One girl stood alone, faultless in her stereotype - blonde and blue eyed. The local men held back and looked at her warily, she was a Barbie doll made flesh but without the crack habit.
I wandered over and leaned against the fretwork panel.
“Amazing to have someone love you that much they build this for you, isn’t it?”
“Are you English?”
“No. I’m local, but educated in the UK” She, like thousands before her, believed my tired old line about being Indian/Turkish/Italian – in fact any nationality I damn well wanted.
She didn’t ask about why I was so dirty or even seem to notice the rather meaty whiff I gave off.
“I’ve come to India to see my Swami”
I nodded – the group she was with were all dressed similarly and some sort of religious cult did seem common, normal almost, amongst many western travellers.
I looked up at the sweeping sunset, took a deep calming breath and fixed my eyes upon hers as I said, “There are many paths to the divine. It is our journey in life which defines us. Love is all.”
It was as if I’d switched a small AA battery powered light on behind her pale plastic blue eyes.
She grasped my hand and asked me the killer question, “Are you Enlightened? Do you know the path to Enlightenment?”
Oh yes.
I did and out of my love for humanity I was prepared to share it with her for a small fee.
As is so often the nature of these things, true love for humanity has to be shared in private as too much tends to scare the horses. I didn’t mention the horses or the small fee – I didn’t want to scare her either.
After I had filled her head with tales of Mumtaz and her beauty we retired to her lodgings for the evening.
I explained that I had taken a vow of poverty and therefore had to trust upon the love of the universe and all humanity to provide me with a four star room with en suite and early morning call.
“Tell me your teachings, o great one.”
She was sat at my now washed feet. This was a good thing as firstly I now smelled of Ylang Ylang and sandalwood and I had an unrestricted view down her strappy top to her pale cream breasts which both glistened with fresh sweat and blushed with mild sun burn. The sight of these luscious globes made me stiffen and then remember my position – I had become her Swami.
“My teachings in this life are simple.
Love.
Give pleasure.
Enjoy life.
Be free with your possessions.
Be free and giving with your body.
Be sky-clad whenever possible and when that is not possible wear a tiny thong.
Eschew underwear – apart from the thong.”
She looked at me earnestly and asked if she should remove her clothing now. I solemnly nodded and watched detachedly as she slowly peeled off her strappy top and released the strawberries and cream puppies.
“I have a confession my Swami. I have not followed your teachings – today I am wearing large but practical knickers. How will you punish me?”
And she dropped her white linen trousers to reveal a skimpy pair of bikini bottoms which clung to her damp cleft and mound.
“You must accept the sword of truth into your body until it gushes forth with the love of humanity. Kneel before me.”
She knelt and I freed my throbbing sword of truth.
“Take this and suck upon it, for it is your path, your divine destiny.”
Her small pink rosebud lips opened and her wet tongue flicked over the tip of my purple bishop’s hat. Then her clean Swedish hands began their well-practised massage upon the holy organ. Her grip and speed demonstrated the years of IKEA assembly that her people are known for – it was efficient, purposeful, a little bland and somewhat lacking in finesse. However within a few minutes her buccal cavity began to draw against my hot hard man weapon. She licked, sucked and teased with her moist yielding smörgåsbord consuming orifice until I could hold on no more and with thoughts of universal love involving saunas and birch twigs I erupted forth with gushing spurts of divine ectoplasm filled with salty goodness. She was a good supplicant, willing, pliant, lacking in gag-reflex and all importantly, she swallowed.
And as she sat back on her heels and wiped her hand across her mouth she uttered one word,
“Surströmming”
“Now you need to remove the rest of your garments and pleasure yourself for the divine love to grow once more.”
I was calm and flaccid but I knew that her environmentally sound and undoubtedly shaven haven would soon engorge me in a manner that only Agnetha Fältskog before her had been able to achieve.
Sadly it was not to be.
“You are not who you say you are. According to the tracts your divine essence will taste of messmör but you taste of old fermented fish.”
Her eyes were full of hermetically sealed fury and while her glorious large dark nipples taunted me with each move of her sinuous pale body she landed her final crushing blow.
“You are no Swami. You are a cheap rotten Fakir!”
(Wed 16th Jul 2008, 11:09, More)