Gay Nazi Sex Vicar in Schoolgirl Knickers Vice Disco Lawnmower Shock!

Push it further

  Wed 18th November 2020

Two fireworks have gone off recently in the goldfish bowl of us, which I'm tardy in mentioning. I'm occupied with Mel, and I blame the job, which leaves little time for reading and writing, let alone long afternoons in the park with my confrère of alcoholics. Having a job has a sour flavour, not just discipline and punish, but discipline and punish and reward, in a cheap currency that capitalism has worked to make necessary for all but the most determined. The latter are the best people, and I'm involuntarily being drawn away from them.

A month ago, Crinklybee, my right-column man, invited me to a book launch in the contemporary setting, for a volume which included one of his blog's best posts turned into very short story form. The evening was a transatlantic affair, hosted with good humour and brevity from New York by one of Crinklybee's in-laws.

I remembered the original post well. It's about him breaking something valuable and all the tenseness that comes from not having the language and social knowledge to cover the shame, which only creates a guilty pleasure for the reader.

In its spoken form, though it was something else. It had his accent, and shorter sentences. In the written form, Crinklybee is a master builder of long sentences, which make you feel like you're being taken by the hand through a series of rooms each full of curios. Jenga-like, you daren't risk taking one clause out for fear of jeopardising the whole floor.

Whilst I am completely unaffected by any aching, longing desire to get published, I was delighted to see Crinklybee so deservedly elevated. The book's available from the devil for less than what a man who moves to Bristol might pay for his first pint in that expensive city. No need to buy it as a favour; buy it because of the quality of the writing.


Some people leave blogging for a while, and some have five years between posts. Miss Underscore suddenly emerged from beneath a pile of perfumed confectionary, to relaunch Parma Violet Tea. My one and only communication with Miss Underscore was almost exactly five years ago, when I told her by email that "I find your blog very moving and would love to tell your readers that too."

The first of her new stories is Lost, Part 1. I'm a bit behind with both Crinklybee and Miss Underscore's sudden loquacity, so I'm surreptitiously printing them both off at work to read in a relaxed setting. What are offices for, really?


Sexy Ex-Boss offered a bedroom in the Big House to us on Saturday. Mel wore her dog-toothed black and white dress and black tights. We all got on and I managed to keep the coke down to one line. They turned the ever-pestering television off and we were elevated into Alexa choosing the music for us. I wished we could have just enjoy the sounds of us talking, and the dogs' snoring, but it flowed well, two women released into talking about offspring and cancer and bereavement and money in a way that they wouldn't with me alone, with interludes of me talking about myself and Neil offering things designed to take me into a male envelope, whilst I found the female chat more interesting.

She never gave the slightest flicker of acknowledgement of our flirting, which made her higher in my eyes.

"In my book I'm calling you Sexy Ex Boss.

--Who's that?

Oh, I don't know, some bird I met in D--- Likes her gin.

--Oh must be a classy bird then?

Very classy. Well dressed too.

[A minute passes]

Listen, [real name] I'm going to have to go before this gets out of hand. Night night x

--Lol! Sexy Ex-Boss. Less of the Ex!

I can tell you Sexy Ex Boss, the first bit's still true Xx"


What a cunt, when I'm going out with Mel.

I bought Mel a couple of things. "I want to turn you into a tart for my pleasure Mel." She's not used to walking in them but she's going to get used to walking in them. As she was trying them on she had one leg crooked up on the bed and the other on the floor. I wanted to freeze her there. Her white knickers, her unmeant pose.

We're still working the sex out a bit. She said "I'm a very selfish lover", and she does get lots of attention, so it was a move forward, literally, to straddle her at shoulder height and push my cock into her mouth for the first time. She has offered several times in the past, but I like neither asking nor granting permission.

In the morning we ordered breakfast in, something I've never done before.

"What do you reckon the delivery man's called?". "Abdul", she said. "No look, it's Elvis, and it says he's on a bike." She played that Kirsty McColl track about the deluded bloke in the chip shop. When he arrived though, Elvis had gone sick, and Abdul had taken on the job. It all felt luxurious, beyond my income and class.

3 comments »

Underwear

  Sat 7th November 2020

In a training room at the hospital, I am sitting through a long afternoon of assessing the load and keeping your back straight, the fire triangle, and how you've got to be nice to gay people.

In front of me, a cleaning supervisor who has been sent on a refresher course sneezes, for the third time, into his hand. As he withdraws it from his face, a string of mucus hammocks between his mouth and his hand. He puts his hand onto his thighs, redoubles his interest in the slide, and wipes the slime on his trousers.


Me and Mel go to Wells on a day out. The jolliest seats on the bus, at the front, on the top. In the cathedral, we see the second oldest working clock in the world, which every quarter of an hour has a jousting scene popping out like a cuckoo clock, in which the same wooden jouster has been knocked off his horse since at least 1340.

That was impressive, but the thing I remember most was Jesus in a 60s sculpture, styling his yew corset.

Near the bus station, we find a micropub run by a misandrist South African woman in her sixties who keeps telling me that I won't like various of her ciders, as "men don't like that." We sit on an old sofa in what was recently a living room, and I deliberately have the one she is warning me off. I tell her, truthfully, that it is delicious. I feel my head melting a bit. I fall asleep against Mel on the bus, before waking up and guiding her hand on to my hard cock.

We spend a rather intense night at her friend's house. The drink and dope is plentiful, as is the resentment. There's an eight-year age gap between her and her seventysomething husband, and the drunker she becomes, the more complaining and flirty she gets.

Over and over again, she says she wants a toy boy and not "this old man", who is sitting next to her. He takes this with resignation, coping with cruelty. I tell her that she's being horrible, "and it's no good looking at me Trish, 'cos I'm taken now." Mel repeatedly rescues the situation by getting us all up and dancing.

We go to bed and Mel kisses me forcibly, almost violently, pinning me down, which turns me on. I tell her I'm buying some things for her to wear, or to take off rather. (And browsing hosiery websites is enjoyable in itself). She sounds hesitant. "I don't know...I think I might feel ridiculous." Patience, looby.

In the Suffolk Arms on the last day before we're forced into house arrest again, it's crowded, and everyone's stoned and chatting. As the crowd thins out a bit, Mel delights me by standing up and dancing, and I join her immediately. It's probably illegal now. "Oh God, here go the lovebirds again," someone says, and the best track from a rock-based, white man's pub jukebox comes on -- Grandmaster Flash's The Message -- and I'm showing off in suburbia to my girlfriend, knowing most of the lyrics.


The new job started on Monday. I'm not sure. Everyone congratulates me; I can't see what for. Les Murray, reading at Lancaster Literature Festival decades ago, had a line "Any job's a comedown from where I'm from." I've lost a great deal. It's a divorce from the smackheads and alkies down the park, and Hayley, and whole days spent drinking. When I talk to others about its advantages I speak in a voice that isn't my own, in something of the same way as I do when I tell Mel that I love her, my one false note.


We have a family conference over the phone, in which we resolved that we are going to spend Christmas together, along with Fiona's very likeable ex, regardless of any new rules of association.

7 comments »

Underwear

  Sat 7th November 2020

In a training room at the hospital, I am sitting through a long afternoon of assessing the load and keeping your back straight, the fire triangle, and how you've got to be nice to disabled black lesbians.

In front of me, a cleaning supervisor who has been sent on a refresher course sneezes, for the third time, into his hand. As he withdraws it from his face, a string of mucus hammocks between his mouth and his hand. He puts his hand onto his thighs, redoubles his interest in the slide, and wipes the slime on his trousers.


Me and Mel go to Wells on a day out. The jolliest seats on the bus, at the front, on the top. In the cathedral, we see the second oldest working clock in the world, which every quarter of an hour has a jousting scene popping out like a cuckoo clock, in which the same wooden jouster has been knocked off his horse since at least 1340.

That was impressive, but the thing I remember most was Jesus in a 60s sculpture, styling his corset.

Near the bus station, we find a little micropub run by a misandrist South African woman in her sixties who keeps telling me that I won't like various of her ciders, as "men don't like that." We sit on an old sofa in what was recently a living room, and I deliberately have the one she is warning me off. I tell her, truthfully, that it is delicious. I feel my head melting a bit. I fall asleep against Mel on the bus, before waking up and guiding her hand on to my hard cock.

We spend a rather intense night at her friend's house. The drink and dope is plentiful, as is the resentment. There's an eight-year age gap between her and her seventysomething husband, and the drunker she becomes, the more complaining and flirty she gets. Over and over again, saying she wants a toy boy and not "this old man" sitting next to her. He takes this with resignation. I tell her that she's being horrible, "and it's no good looking at me Trish, 'cos I'm taken now." Mel repeatedly rescues the situation by getting us all up and dancing.

We go to bed and Mel kisses me forcibly, almost violently, pinning me down, which turns me on. I tell her I'm buying some things for her to wear, or to take off rather. (And browsing hosiery websites is enjoyable in itself). She sounds hesitant. "I don't know...I think I might feel ridiculous." Patience, looby.

In the Suffolk Arms on the last day before we're forced into house arrest again, it's crowded, and everyone's stoned and chatting. As the crowd thins out a bit, Mel delights me by standing up and dancing, and I join her immediately. It's probably illegal now. "Oh God, here go the lovebirds again," someone says, and the best track from a rock-based, white man's pub jukebox comes on -- Grandmaster Flash's The Message and I'm showing off in suburbia to my girlfriend, knowing most of the lyrics.


The new job started on Monday. I'm not sure. Everyone congratulates me; I can't see what for. Les Murray, reading at Lancaster Literature Festival decades ago, had a line "Any job's a comedown from where I'm from." I feel I've lost such a lot. It's a divorce from the smackheads and alkies down the park, and Hayley, and her constant not turning up on time or at all, and whole days spent drinking. When I talk to others about its advantages I speak in a voice that isn't my own, in something of the same way as I do when I tell Mel that I love her, the one false note.


We have a family conference over the phone, in which we resolved that we are going to spend Christmas together, along with Fiona's very likeable ex, regardless of any new rules of association.

2 comments »

I am interrupted by a man whilst nude

  Sun 18th October 2020

The woman my age in Wethers, with two blokes at the table, dips her head to sleep. She slides herself onto the floor, where she curls herself around one of her friends' chairs, the better to sleep.

"You alright?" one of her company asks, not as a question, and carries on talking to his mate.

She starts vomiting, wide-mouthed volumes of clear liquid, until the landlord, at the end of his patience with her friends' ineffectual efforts at getting her to stand up, yanks her to her feet and directs her to the door.

Someone I vaguely know at the next table starts talking about Carol, with whom he used to work. "She was quite popular, Carol. We called her Chips." "Why?" "Chips. Goes with everything."


Thursday, and I have one day at my favourite paid job, at The Big House, with Sexy Ex-Boss. An afternoon gilding the villa ready to receive the judge and his clerk. The judge arrives and after I serve a muffin and tea -- doilies and a tray -- he settles down in the wide open reception room to work on his case, which leaves me free to sit and do nothing in the kitchen.

Afterwards, the clerk is keen to engage me in some of the wine. A tense newcomer clerk arrives, who is staying one night, and gets into a panic when she discovers that the sandwiches for "Her Ladyship" tomorrow haven't been made. I go down to the kitchen to make them myself, but she finds me there and tells me to put everything back, saying she'll do them herself. She says it with a show of annoyance, but pleased to have control.

Sexy Ex-Boss, who lives in an apartment on the top floor, texts me and invites me up for a drink. The telly is on, inanely, and when she goes to get the coke I turn it down. "They'll be talking about us now, downstairs." I'm enjoying myself, whilst thinking that doing coke at gone midnight before getting up for work at six isn't good preparation for entertaining Mel the following evening.


I get a phone call from the Ministry of Discipline and Punish, saying that my vetting has been completed, confirming my job, to start on Monday week. The wages are only £300 p.a. more than what I get from cleaning toilets, but I've been promised it'll be reliable, interesting work. I'm surprised I got it, what with one self-written reference from a cafe which never existed, and their access to the more accurate records of my criminally spotted past.

Once I start working there, I want to get my own place. It'll take up a large proportion of my income, but I'm tired of composing my face as I open the front door. As if I give a shit about how anyone's day has gone.


My weekend of having the house to myself arrives. I can breathe, walk around without worrying about my footsteps. It's liberating, but I take two Sildenafil as insurance. Mel arrives, and we paw each other, my cock chemically stiff. I serve her an unpleasant soup which I botched together from what I had in, which produced a sludge of red cabbage which I tried to rescue, and made worse, with some vinegary horseradish sauce. "Don't worry looby, it's not the food I'm here for."

The following morning, I am in the shower. Nude and wet, I am interrupted by a phone call from a man who has kindly offered to deliver a two-bed settee to mine for free, from a recycling site. I manhandle it upstairs by myself. My room stinks of cigarette smoke. I open the windows to their most gaping extent, wash the clothes I was wearing and put the ones in the wardrobe on the line.

She rings. "I've got an idea looby. Why don't we do something domestic today? Maybe we could cook together. Just have a nice afternoon without drinking a bottle of wine each." I'm worried, thinking I've overstepped some mark.

She makes a delicious tomato sauce for pasta. Everything's cordial, but it's important that I establish that she can't smoke in the house again. It's too much effort for me, washing and airing and de-fumigating. Smokers are blind to how they spread their smell. I'm relieved when she anticipates this, and says that she'll only smoke outside. We go to my room.Whilst there's room for improvement, we have the best sex in our short history on the new settee.


Today, Wendy rings and wants to know about it all, in a sexual detail that surprises me. "Have you had oral sex?" she says, repeating it over a croaky mobile connection.

Then a minute later, Mel: "I've put you into boyfriend/romance status...hope that's alright X" "Fucking hell, its more than alright Mel xxx"

8 comments »

I disappoint Mel

  Sun 11th October 2020

Monday.

Mel rings. We discuss her coming up to my suburb. I'm faced with the homelessness of our attraction.

There's an imitation European cafe, where we might at least be warm while we drink international alcohol. There's a cosy micropub with proper cider, but it can only seat about twelve, and it's always full before the evening starts. But afterwards? This is like courting in the sixties.

Five hundred pounds a month gives me a large unloved room. In place of what might have been a dado rail, there's a strip of maroon wallpaper with a wave of brown running through it. The fireplace has been flattened, as though such things should be extinct. There are unnecessarily large brown varnished wardrobes. The carpets are offcuts which don't fit and a thin rug which curls. Old-aged saggy pillows. For lighting, you can have local patches from two bendy lamps from Wilko, or a nude glare from the ceiling where a rose should be.

I could roll up the worst of the carpet, leaving the bare floor. Get a sofa from somewhere. Buy a couple more lamps. Some muslin to drape over the ugly wardrobes. But then I've still got the problem of Cath and Ingrid, the impossibility of privacy. We'll never have sex in this place. Not that I'm not aiming for sex, just now, only somewhere where we can be at our ease.


Tuesday.

Mel comes round. None of the home improvements above have happened. I rush and shove the junk into carrier bags and hide it in the voluminous wardrobes. I introduce her to Cath before ushering her upstairs. I have these ludicrous Nordic bootees on with a bobble hanging gayly from each slipper. "Now, looby, as I see you as a potential lover, I've got to ask you to change those shoes."

We start kissing. "Do whatever you want," she says. I straddle her with my legs apart, advertising a potency that I don't possess, while the klaxon announcing a flaccid cock that I hope she won't look at clangs in my head. I slide my fingers under her cunt and she moves them to where she wants them. She's wet. I like it, even as the worry klaxon rings louder.

We move onto the bed, naked, and she fiddles with my shrunken member. We give up. She's good about it, in a sophisticated way: not too much sympathy, which would make it worse.

She rolls a joint. I open the windows, stuff up the door jambs with scarves and T-shirts, but no smell leaks like tobacco. Cath shouts from the landing. "No smoking in the house looby! You know that!"

We get dressed and smuggle down the stairs and out. There's a half an hour wait for her bus. Bus stops, again. We kiss a short goodbye as her bus arrives. In bed, I feel crestfallen and wretched, useless. I text Kim. "Disastrous sex with Mel..."

"No, I know why it didn't work looby," she replied, pointing out first time nerves, the difficulty of getting a hard cock at my age, my misgivings about the state of my room, and the worry about Cath and Ingrid being in the house. "You're so sensible and reassuring Kim. I love you for that."


Friday.

We go down our pub, her local, where we go outside to sit in the lean-to, and the joints are passed around. The man with whom we played the dictionary game on a previous visit said to Mel, pointing and looking at me. "He's always smiling. Some people pretend to be happy, but he is." I had an impulse to say "I'm happy because of her," but stopped myself from doing so. My general happiness does not depend on Mel, although at that moment, the instance of it did have a lot to do with her.


Today

I have a date. I'd also told Mel I'd meet her at half two. Mel said she wanted to go for a walk without too much drinking involved. We do get a bit wankered sometimes.

In the shower, I looked down at it, and said "you fucking useless thing."

She's someone who internationally exterminates rodents. She told me about her time on Tristan da Cunha and Diego Marcia and Porto Santo, a small island off Madeira on which I once landed by swimming to it. Chatty, interesting, attractive, dressed in the grey, loose way that academic women dress. Autistic son. She made us brownies and banana cake and we sat by a Victorian pond.

I cycled to see Mel. Her friendly, unpretentious mum, to whom one has to shout somewhat. We went for a walk through Magpie's Bottom, a name which made me giggle. "I'm not sure if I want a full-blown relationship looby." And "if we have sex next weekend you won't hold it against me if I don't want to have it again?"

"I think we should just enjoy being with each other in whatever way we can," I said, affecting insouciance whilst hoping for repeated sex. She just wants a decent rodding. It's not much for a girl to ask.

We walked back through the woods, found a gap in the fence. "Put them inside," she said, inviting me inside her bra. And at last, a sign of stiffness, because I knew sex was impossible.

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 56 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

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