Motherly love
This is a repost from the Shit Towns qotw but it's about a girlfriend's mother. Maybe I'll get around to writing about my own old dear this week.

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.
(Stiff Richard, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 11:52, Reply)