Never lose hope. Even in the direst of situations.
It was a summer Sunday's afternoon and I was enjoying a few pints with my chums, Greg the Loafer and Harry the Chink, in a country pub only a short bicycle ride away from our home town. It was a clean establishment and clearly very old, yet well-maintained. Half-way through my fourth Guinness I felt the call of nature and so decided to shuffle off to the men's room to relieve myself.

I walked in taking great care as the tiled blue floor was damp. The gents' was quite a spacious room with five urinals against the longest wall and two cubicals at the far end, all lit by a single strip light down the centre of the ceiling. I positioned myself in front of the cubicle second from the left and unzipped my jeans. My flaccid member rubbed gently against the starched navy denim of the trousers as I handled it and it came to rest upon the cold brass of the zip, its musty odour dispersing in the cold air of the room. I relaxed completely. My bladder flushed. The sense of relief was so great that my face contorted involuntarily into an expression somewhere between that of an elated Down's Syndrome and a weeping Spanish nurse.

It was in this state of guilt-ridden bliss that I first became aware of the presence behind me. It was the aroma of toffee permeating the soupy smell of urea and bleach that initially caught my attention. Still in full flow, I turned my head to look behind me, and there she stood - five foot of panting old woman, her mouth open to reveal a set of false teeth that moved in and out like a diaphragm as she breathed. Her beige, knee-length overcoat was fully buttoned and looked new, while her black, flat-soled shoes encased a pair of tiny feet, her thin varicose-riddled legs masked by tan stockings. Her face, surrounded by a flyaway mane of permed, snow-white hair, would have appeared kindly had it not been transformed by her wild, goose-like eyes and her sinister, thin-lipped half-smile.

I was about to offer her directions to the ladies' room when, without warning, she opened her coat and let it fall to the floor. It was clear that beneath she was wearing only stockings and shoes, her matted, silver, piss-stained thatch on full display. The moisture was evident. The shock caused my whole body to spasm, directing a golden arc of liquid feculence up the tiled wall and onto the underside of the cistern. Above her pubis she had a small pot belly, her belly button only just visible in the shadow of her veiny, milk-white breastflaps. Before I could replace my freshly-drained fleshy hose she lunged at me head first with a calf-like grunt, but I was quick to move. With the reflex of a souped up heron I evaded her unexpected attack and dashed to the right towards the relative safety of the first cubicle as her head glanced off the gargling urinal with a dull thud.

Inside the cubicle I had hoped that there would be a small window that I might escape through, but there was only a small ventilation fan. I could hear my attacker outside the cubicle flailing wildly on the floor outside, her naked limbs slapping against the cold, wet surface. I felt tired and helpless, but I thought of my cousin and our imminent marriage and vowed to myself there and then that I would survive this terrible ordeal. I resolved to turn the tables on this rampant, haggard old sex-witch.

I brandished the brush located in the holder to the left of the toilet bowl and burst from the cubicle, my aggression and determination to survive equalled only by my fear. "Stay down, vile lavatorial hag!" I cried, as I thrust the toilet brush threateningly at the wrinkled, loose-skinned figure on the floor. This did not repel her as much as I had hoped, so I continued. "Do not force me to bloody my hands with thine vital juices!" But the old crone would not heed my warning and lunged again. By now I was weak and ready to surrender to her and as she flung her hideous, ancient frame open-mouthed and headlong towards my crotch, I begged my twitching phallus to perform quickly and efficiently so that this ordeal might be over as soon as possible. But I had reckoned without the young velociraptor that burst from its hideout in the second cubicle and seized the vicious old harpy by the throat. As it tore into her flesh with long, rapid strokes of it's muscular, scaly hind legs, I made a swift exit.

Even today I look back on that afternoon and, as I feel one should from every bad situation, I learned something from my mistake: when in times of trouble do not fear - there may be a late-Cretaceous Period bipedal lizard concealing itself nearby.
(stusut79, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 16:07, Reply)