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A Maiden So Bewitching


A MAIDEN SO BEWITCHING Lexie Cheddy becomes a genius after falling on his head at the age of fourteen. His condition is known as Acquired Savant Syndrome. He is now a highly-sexed man of seventy-one living in Ireland and has long been banished to the outer reaches of the marriage bed by a wife for whom sex is but a vaguely distasteful memory. So, greatly in need of a relief valve, Lexie starts up a blog site purportedly written by a teenage bisexual girl called Denise whose current squeeze is a hunk called Huncan. Result: Lexie gets to be both Denise and Huncan. This is convenient because he himself is a closet bisexual. Complications set in however when Isabella, a teenage blog reader of confused gender, asks if she can fly to Ireland to visit both Denise and Huncan – and Lexie impulsively accepts. PLEASE NOTE: My novel has been described by screenwriter extraordinaire Armando Saldanamora as a necessary counterpoint to JK Rowling’s recent divisive attacks on transgender persons.

Erotica / Romance
Age Rating:

Untitled Chapter


by Colm Herron

Make no mistake about it. We’re all bitched from the start.

That’s what Ernest Hemingway used to say anyway. Now Hemingway was one smart cookie – no argument there – but the same boy didn’t know the half of it. Take me for instance. I was well and truly bitched nine months before the start. Well, nine months and two days to be exact.

There really is no good way of telling you this so I’ll just tell you the best way I can. On the night I was conceived Momma got her hands on a darning needle and poked a hole in Pappa’s johnny before she put it on him. So there you are.

She confessed on my fourteenth birthday and after that I went about for a while thinking the best of me was thrown out with the damn thing. Away in some landfill place with dead cats and crows and squashed hedgehogs and stuff. Guts and giblets and shitty nappies (diapers to all you U.S. folks out there. Hi!) and old tin cans.

The question is though, the real question is, why would a woman do a thing like that? That’s the question. Why would she poke a hole in a johnny?

Well she confessed that too. And I wasn’t ready for what I heard. How could you be? How could anybody be? So here’s what she said.

“See, I wanted a baby and your father didn’t. He always had to have his thingamajigger on when he was going to have relations. To tell you the Lord’s honest truth Alexis, the man hardly ever had it off. But it was a girl I wanted. That’s what I’ve been meaning to say to you for ages.”

Right, it was a girl she wanted. And she did her level best to turn me into one. You wouldn’t believe the things she made me do. God Almighty! I know what I’d like to have said to her, not that it would have done any good mind you. I’d like to have said “It was you Momma. You were my momma Momma. Do you not get it Momma? I could’ve been normal. I could’ve had class. I could’ve been like a normal boy instead of a freaking freak, which is what I am.”

And she never would have told me any of that stuff either except she was blitzed on near enough half a bottle of Southern Comfort and that’s what got her going about how I was a big disappointment to her and all. I’d been her ugly suckling, she said, a cross she’d had to bear, a cross between what she wanted and what I was turning out to be. She had a way of putting things my momma. But at least I came round then to knowing for absolute sure where I got certain urges from. Nurture, not nature, isn’t that what they say? All those dolls and dresses came back to me in a mad rush. And the cute wee panties with no place to pee out of. And the way she got me to walk, like I was modelling clothes or something. And the toys she gave me. I don’t even want to think about it. And mother of God, I had more Toodles dolls than you could shake a stick at. I didn’t know what in hell I was half the time, except it was a hell I’d never been taught in school. And believe you me, I got plenty of hell from the Christian Brothers. Only their hell was narrower and, how can I say it, burnier? It consisted of being constantly reminded of the dangers of the flesh that had to be kept down if we valued our God-given souls. Let me tell you now, there’s nothing like a good Catholic education.

And then of course there were my extra-curricular gender studies which weren’t what you would call the best either. I’m blaming John Bartley Stroker for that. He it was who used to keep us informed, if that’s the right word, at a workshop down the breakneck steps. We were the Dirtbird gang and he was our leader and the lane jutting off from the breakneck steps was our headquarters. Some of the other gang members didn’t want me in because I was a bit of a pansy but John Bartley insisted. I always had this feeling that he fancied me even though he never made a move. He was sixteen I think, two years older than most of the rest of us, but he seemed to me like about twenty at the time. Anyway, most of his talks were about this thing he called corpulation which the rest of us were sorely ignorant of.

“With corpulation,” he explained one day, “you’ve got to get her on her back. If you don’t get her on her back your jiz won’t go in. Gravity you see.”

I think it was Mugs McGuire that asked “What happens if you pee into her by mistake boss?”

“She dies,” said John Bartley, and his revelation was greeted with a collective intake of breath.

People like me were sometimes shouted at in the street and called nancy boys so you probably won’t be surprised to know that I’d give nearly anything to have my life over again, right from the very beginning, only it would be a different life, a very different life, one where I don’t have the awful cravings I have now, even at the age of seventy-one. One night not long ago, after I’d read the first couple of chapters of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I dreamed that I was given written instructions on how to start over. They were really daunting, so daunting that they woke me up, whereupon I got a biro and a pad and wrote down everything I remembered about the dream. Here’s what I wrote down.

Go to 666 Eureka Street, walk slowly around the American Pit Bull Terrier that you will find growling on the top step, remembering to pat it playfully on the nose as you pass (that way he’ll know you’re a friend), break the front door down with an Indo-Persian war hammer and proceed down to the cellar which you will notice has no steps and no stairs. There, in a locked treasure chest at the bottom of a toilet bowl overflowing with solid human waste, you will find directions on what to do next.

Not very helpful. Dreams aren’t up to much of course. But the part about the Pit Bull Terrier puts me in mind now of the dog I groomed back in nineteen sixty, Aubrey Hegarty by name. Two months at it I was. Lovely animal with a backside on it that would have put you to loss. Belonged to the breadman Seamus Hegarty from out the Slaughmill Road and was what you might call a street dog. Allowed to run wild like children you’d see on TV in one of those misfortunate countries. Hegarty was the kind of boy that’s all smiles to his customers and hard as nails underneath. He had a duty of care but didn’t bother his big arse. Aubrey was out all day and allowed to wander anywhere it wanted and meet all sorts of disreputables. Irish collie I think though I never had much of a clue about breeds.

Notice I’m using the word it here. That’s because I’m not saying what sex it was. I knew all right. After two months you get to know. After two seconds you get to know actually. But it doesn’t matter anyway. I moved on from dogs after Aubrey took a lump out of my scrotum, tried lambs for a while but found them unresponsive. Not as unresponsive as mattresses though, but as near as makes no difference. Which reminds me, I was sitting having a cup of coffee in Starbucks last Tuesday and I picked up this free Irish News from a rack and what do you think was down in the bottom corner of one of the inside pages beside the Footsie 100? MAN ACCUSED OF LEWD ACT WITH MATTRESS. Beside the Footsie 100. Just think of the speculators that get hit with that when they’re playing at the Footsie. Or the other one, the one that’s played under tables. Different kind of speculation of course.

Where was I? The Irish News. I took just one quick disbelieving look at it, wouldn’t lower myself to read the small print. I’d say that particular act must have been in a public place. Otherwise how would they know? We’re getting reports of a male Caucasian sleeping with a mattress at the junction of Beechwood Avenue and Laburnum Terrace. Members of the public are advised not to approach.

But anyway, most of that stuff is behind me. I’m seventy-one now, Emeritus Professor of Humanities, respectably and unhappily married, writer of the popular Steam 4 Teens site and still looking at girls a quarter my age. What am I saying? More like a fifth my age.

But hang on. I should have begun all this by explaining how falling on my head turned me into a genius. I’d intended to tell you about that at the very start but when you get to my age it doesn’t take much to distract you. A knock at the door, a flushing toilet, people out in the street having a row. You bloody forget what was in your head. So where was I? Being a genius wasn’t it? That’s it, being a genius. It actually happened after I threw myself out of a second-storey window at the age of fourteen and a half. And now I have this condition known as Acquired Savant Syndrome (labelled ASS by its detractors). What happened was, Pappa saw me coming out of the bathroom one morning in my bullet bra and Pretty Polly panties and he ran downstairs shouting that he was going to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. If I’d known what was in his stupid mind I’d have locked my door but I didn’t and the next thing was, he was coming at me across the bedroom with a big claw hammer. There was only one way out and that was the way I went. The window. And the next thing I remember was wakening up in the back yard with Pappa’s rottweiler Brando lying stone-dead under me. Three things resulted from this. One, Pappa went into a state of melancholia which he never came out of. Two, he didn’t try to interfere with my wardrobe again. And three, I was transformed into a genius. From the moment I woke up in our back yard I wouldn’t have thanked you for all the back copies of School Friend, a weekly comic for snooty adolescent girls that had been my staple diet for years, and to Momma’s amazement and mine I began to visit the adult section of our local library. I quickly developed an interest in a book called Anna Karenina by a guy I’d never heard of called Leo Tolstoy, devouring it in two days before moving on to Hermann Hesse who, along with the complete works of Kant, Joyce, Schopenhauer and Descartes kept me going for the next three months.

How did this happen? you may ask. How does a boy that drools over School Friend by day and strangles the Cyclops over it by night suddenly drop those kinds of activities and find an interest in the classics? And the answer is that, while a head injury or some other kind of physical disability can kill or cause permanent incapacitation, it can in some cases bring about a rewiring of brain signals triggering the release of dormant potential. Sorry about waxing technical here but this is more or less what happened to me. According to stuff I’ve read it’s a bit like people in wheelchairs developing very strong arms. A kind of compensation in other words. In my case, massive over-compensation.

There have been many documented examples of this since history was first recorded but I’m only going to tell you about three of the most recent ones (and if you don’t want to know about them you can always skip the next half page or so. No offence will be taken. To tell you the God’s honest, I don’t give a toss what you skip seeing as the only important example is mine).

Number one

A sales trainer called Derek Amato got severe concussion from hitting his head at the bottom of a swimming pool and became a master pianist despite not having had one moment of musical training.

Number two

Ellen Boudreaux is a blind autistic savant. She was born prematurely and had what is known as the blindness of prematurity. Yet she has reproduced hundreds of tunes and styles including the Supremes to Duelling Banjos (in which she plays both the four-string plectrum banjo and the five-string bluegrass banjo). One of her many amazing feats is with Whole Lotta Love, the Led Zeppelin apassionata in which she replicates every voice, instrument and sound effect.

And number three

Jason Padgett was a furniture salesman. In 2002, two men attacked him in the street, leaving him with a severe concussion and post-traumatic stress disorder. But Padgett was transformed into a mathematical genius who can now see the whole world through the lens of geometry.

I’m just remembering that I meant to tell you earlier about Steam 4 Teens. That’s the online site I started as a relief valve for my physical frustrations. And I was going to go on to say that I have no shortage of material. All I have to do is keep my eyes open and my antennae out. Write what you know, that’s what they say, right? For example, I was in Foyleside shopping centre yesterday and I absentmindedly went up a flight of stairs that’s only supposed to be for going down. Anyways I got near the top and out of the blue all these girls started coming down towards me, what seemed like an endless line of them, these amazing babes, about fifteen they were, that’s the age of them I’m talking about now, the age that it’s madness for you to lay a finger on them or be seen looking up their miniskirts (or wide-bottomed shorts for that matter) when you’re at the foot of an escalator, let’s imagine, and they’re near the top, or even for you to think about too long, to dream perchance to

with incredible little chests and crotches that jumped out at me – and these mouthwatering zones were alluringly covered with the shortest tightest tops and shortest tightest shorts I ever clapped eyes on; and then the cutest belly buttons everywhere you looked: the fecking stairs were coming down with them. Now Derry girls are in the habit of dolling up if they’re only going round to the corner shop for a half pound of sausages or a bar of Kit Kat for example, but this was something else entirely. And the most interesting range of colours I’ve seen since Jayne Mansfield graced the silver screen in The Girl Can’t Help It – dream pink, Persian rose, cream yellow, baby mustard, burnt sienna, frosted aqua, air force blue, oolala black, Alabama crimson, seal brown, Titian red, tiffany scarlet, papaya whip, blinding saffron, Mountbatten pink, deep carrot orange, dark vanilla, school bus yellow, Sacramento state green, amaranth pink, tulip red, Mexican fandango, American apricot and shocking salmon, to name only the ones I can remember offhand. (To be honest I couldn’t actually swear to Mexican fandango and American apricot because the whole thing got to be a bit of a blur near the end). And then they were squeezing past, that’s right, squeezing past, hips and thighs and all the rest of it squeezing past, chests too, some just starting out and some nearly fully formed or maybe as fully formed as they were ever going to be. I must have said sorry every time one of these nymphets came against me. Sorry miss. Oops. Sorry sorry sorry. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry. I beg your pardon. Sorry about that. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.

I used the word nymphets there. That was actually sort of a generalisation. But make no mistake, over a quarter of these girls were nymphets which for your information is at least three times the national average here in Ireland. Granted these statistics are entirely non-scientific, based as they are on personal observation, but I am a conscientious and acute observer and my findings are not to be taken lightly. Judging from their exotic complexions these girls were all foreign and that in itself probably explains the high preponderance of nymphets among them.

It has only just occurred to me that many of you may not know what a nymphet is. OK. First and foremost a nymphet is a girl who should be not less than thirteen and not more than fifteen. (Other nympholepts differ – with me and with each other. Some go as young as twelve and some will not entertain any that are over thirteen). Next, although she doesn’t need to have conventional good looks she does need to have something of the primitive about her. She should also have dim and distant eyes that go slit when she is either a) annoyed or b) up to no good; a bold and insolent mouth – this is not essential though it is highly desirable – and an almost diabolical charm in her movements that she may not even be aware of, what I would call a frétillement (Look at any video of Vanessa Paradis singing Joe Le Taxi when she was fourteen and you’ll see what I mean). And finally she must possess the kind of otherworldly face and body that have driven boys and men mad since Adam did a runner on Eve with Lilith. But hang on, I’m just remembering. I got things arseways there. Lilith left Adam, not the other way round. Yes, it’s coming back now. According to Genesis Lilith got fed up taking orders from Adam about which of them was top and which was bottom and she hit the road with the archangel Samael instead. That’s Samael the sleazebag now, not to be confused in any way, shape or form with Samuel the prophet that’s revered by Jews, Christians and Muslims alike. Samael was the bad egg who spent most of his time preying in Seventh Heaven, the place he took Lil to and proceeded to drive her out of her fucking mind. And just to set the record straight once and for all: sex didn’t start between the end of the Lady Chatterley ban and the Beatles’ first LP; it started some time before that. And not with Adam and Eve either. What those two did was a biological duty, “go forth and multiply”, with the unspoken threat: “because if you don’t you’re out of Eden on your ear.” No, according to the Apocryphon of John, Cain was born from Eve by intercourse with Samael. So this bad egg fertilised more eggs than would stock a chain of Walmarts and for all we know he’s still at it.

But there’s me digressing. I should have been telling you how nymphets lose their magic when they get to sixteen. Now here’s an example from first-hand experience. A bit over ten years ago an entrancing fourteen year-old who lived three doors from us used to ride her roller skates up and down the road past our house. She was a morose sort of a girl who was clearly unaware that her greatest admirer in the whole wide world was the middle-aged loser sitting on a chair outside his front door viewing her for all he was worth over the top of a sometimes rain-soaked newspaper which also served as a fig leaf. The girl, whose name was Emmanuelle by the way – I kid you not – wore nothing but a dirty grey vest, wide-bottom pink nylon running shorts, the cutest white ankle socks you ever saw, pale blue trainers and a polka dot ribbon in her light brown hair. She had long and lovely legs and rode her skates with perfect grace, surging forward on one foot, then the other, and when she did a U-turn (sometimes adding a pirouette mère de Dieu!) which I timed at roughly every forty seconds, her vest would rise up to reveal her pale little abdomen and some days when the breeze was favourable I would even get a glimpse of her little white bum.

I tom-peeped her many times over a period of about two years until she slowly grew out of my mind, until she and her roller skates finally stirred about as much excitement in me as a Massey Ferguson tractor. And if you think that’s bad you ought to see her now in full bloom nearly twelve years on with her big glossy face, ridiculously large chest, great shaking butt and legs like skittles. Ageing is such a sad thing.

But not as sad as me I suppose. Until the day I die there will always be something deeply appealing to my weak and a corrupt mind in the beguiling faces and pale pubescent bodies of these girls in that two year window from thirteen to fifteen. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself of course and am now throwing myself on your mercy, gentle reader. In my defence I will not even point to the phallocracies that are plaguing the modern world, controlled by dirty old men in positions of power. No, I will only say that all I want to do is dream. To be truthful, I sometimes think the whole thing is too much for me to bear. It doesn’t seem right, all that maddening beauty going to waste on pimple-faced boys and hairy-handed seducers. It has got to the stage now that my eyes are drawn as if by a magnet to the feral faces, beautiful little breasts and dainty round bottoms that torture me day and daily. Sometimes I’m convinced that the only solution is for me to be sectioned, kept out of harm’s way, not harm to these enchanting creatures, but to my sanity. And in case you’re in any doubt I must make this clear. I have never, nor would ever, lay a finger or anything else on even the most pouting, brazen, deliberately provocative nymphet. Neither would I view pornographic images of this lot on the internet. But just in case you didn’t know, droolers as old as a hundred or more have been known to think at length about girls of this age. (According to Biology For Learners: Scottish Edition, hardback, currently being flogged on eBay for £37.19 sterling, it’s the last thing to go in centenarian males except for their hearing).

So there you have it. All I do is look. Think of the cat and the king and you’ll know what I mean. The way I see it, where’s the harm in looking?

So I view and that’s it. Many of them catch me at it of course and there’s a whole variety of reactions when they do. Some roll their eyes in a blasé kind of a way, some are shocked, some pretend shock, some are tickled pink and some screw up their faces in distaste. But they all leave me feeling ashamed, as if I’ve already violated them.

Yet here’s a strange thing about shame. I’m only ashamed of these inclinations because the law here says I should be. You see, the age of consent in the United Kingdom is sixteen. Now if I lived in Angola I could lawfully sleep with girls of twelve. But if that was too young for me I could maybe spend a holiday in Japan where it’s OK to get off with a thirteen year-old. My preference would be South America actually. I’ve heard that a lot of the countries in that progressive continent set the limit at fourteen. This is the stuff of dreams of course because that’s the age certain girls change overnight into nymphets.

And dreams are what I live on. But who can tell what’s ahead? I mean, have you heard of William Blake? Prize painter, poet extraordinaire and total weirdo, he’s now considered by other weirdoes to be one of the most influential figures of all time. This is the dude that wrote

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Why is he weird? I hear you ask. He’s weird because he tells us to act out our longings. Just look at this gem from him.

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”

Tiger tiger burning bright indeedie.

So maybe I shouldn’t feel too bad about my shameful fantasies. I mean to say, the girl of the great Dante’s dreams was only eight. Ever since I stopped reading School Friend and took up with Dante the man has fascinated me. This God-like figure, the father of the Italian language according to some know-all on Wikipedia, would never have written his Inferno if he hadn’t gone through his private one first – the titillating image of eight-year-old Beatrice whom he first met at a children’s party when he was nine. And from then until the day he died he was haunted by that memory of her, a memory that never left him. He saw just her once more about ten years later, this time in the street, but he didn’t have the balls to speak to her. He did dream about her however, day and night, night and day. Poor Beatrice died young and even in death she was his obsessive object of desire. But he never admitted to wanting sex with her – too crude you see – either as an eight year-old or an eighteen year-old or anywhere in between. So he sublimated his shocking need by writing The Divine Comedy and having Beatrice guide him through the nine celestial spheres of heaven. Confusing, what? But then Dante was one confused dude. Certifiable of course.

He’s not the only one that had a Beatrice in his head. Hermann Hesse, the Swiss-German writer, had one in a book he wrote called Demian. Basically the same doll as Dante’s. The central character here is a student called Sinclair who spends most of his time searching for himself (not worth the bother, I could have told him).Then one day he sees this girl in the park. She has the face and figure of a boy and he immediately falls in love with her and he gives her the name Beatrice because Dante was his favourite writer. He doesn’t chat her up or anything like that, oh no, just goes home and thinks about her all the time. Not about having sex with her mind you, but about adoring her as if she was a goddess or a holy altar or something like that. This Sinclair obviously has a taste for boys as well as girls but doesn’t like to admit it to himself. The thought of straight sex is disturbing enough without dwelling on any other kind.

And you ain’t heard nothing till you’ve heard about this other screwball in Hesse’s book, creep by the name of Pistorious. This boyo is one of Sinclair’s mentors that help him on the path to truth. And what is truth? “I’m sure you have dreams and wishes of love,” says Pisser to Sinclair. “Don’t be afraid. Act them out. One should be fearless and consider nothing forbidden that our soul craves for.” Pistorius was actually based upon Doctor J. B. Lang, the psycho, analyst and all-round tithead who advised Hesse, the guy that wrote Demian, how to deal with his sexual urges. Let me tell you now, this is one mad fucking planet.

You know something? If any of these guys were around in the present day they’d be put away for conspiracy to rape. Just imagine it. You’re a healthy sex-driven man and you see a beautiful girl in the street and you immediately want to have her. Or maybe she’s a young teenager. But you still want her. So you think, what would William Blake tell you to do in this situation? And he’d probably say “I refer you to these words of mine which are still fawned on by scholars worldwide: The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” In other words, go for it mate.

Did I tell you that it wasn’t just Durante Dante and Herman Hesse that had a Beatrice? James Joyce had one too, except she was called Nora. Now James loved Nora Barnacle not as some kind of ethereal creature but as the brazen hussy who gave him a hand job on their first date, 16 June 1904, now known worldwide as Bloomsday. He’d seen her sauntering down the street, bold as you like, and unlike Dante and Sinclair with their Beatrices, he took decisive action and asked her for a date. She accepted but then stood him up on the time-honoured principle of treating them mean and keeping them keen. And so it happened that he asked her out again and this time she turned up. They walked to Ringsend on the south bank of the Liffey where they sat down and without further ado she put her hand inside his trousers and jerked him off.

By the way, if you think my account of Joyce’s experience is graphic you ought to read a copy of the letter he wrote to his Nora that went under the hammer awhile back for £240 000 at Sotheby’s. Only don’t show it to your mother.

And something else. Who ever heard of a man writing one of the greatest masterpieces of all time and setting it in the exact twenty-four hour period when he got the first hand job that he didn’t have to pay for? Makes you wonder what he might have produced if she’d given him a blow job.

Looking back at all I’ve written so far, I suppose the label certifiable could easily be stuck on me. The problem about being a genius is that you live in a different world from most of the rest of the world and of course you see things more clearly than they do. You perceive simple truths that the insane world can’t perceive or don’t want to perceive and this can drive you insane, so insane you could easily end up in the mental. As the brilliant playwright Nathaniel Lee said after they put him in a slammer in Bedlam, England’s first hospital for the insane: “They called me mad, and I called them mad, and damn them, they outvoted me.”

So make no mistake about it, being a genius can be fecking dangerous. You’re better not letting people know you’re different. A genius has to try and seem as dull and unimaginative as other people – which isn’t easy. Oh no. I had this idea one time of joining Mensa thinking I’d find some souls of like mind but everyone I met there was thicker than a coalhouse door. And arrogant on top of it. You should have seen them. All up their own arses and there wasn’t one of them you’d have risked sending out for a loaf of bread or a pint of milk. To hell with Mensa is what I say. Densa would be a better name. I stuck it out for two months with these phoneys and then told them I was having a breakdown. Which I suppose was true. When you suffer from too much sanity and too much brain you’re not far off being mad. Like for example, I listened to a five-part programme on BBC radio there awhile back. It was called Whodunnit and it was about the fifty per cent drop in teenage pregnancies in Britain over the past twenty years. Big news, but how did this phenomenon come about? That’s what the serialised study set out to examine. It wheeled on these academics by the shitload and they talked about things like government strategy, better sex education, a new sensible generation, cuter use of the condom, more teenagers staying on at college and going to university, less abuse of drugs and alcohol, it being uncool since nineteen ninety-eight for teens to get pregnant and a load of other things I can’t remember. Not one of these doctors of drivel had a baldy clue what the real reasons were. If they’d spent less time talking to so-called sexperts and more time jacking off over the problem pages like I do they’d have discovered a thing or two.

Like what? you ask. Well, like after nearly two hundred years of feminism, it has now reached the pass where a teenage girl will do almost anything to please her boyfriend. And this often means sucking him off or allowing him to bugger them, whichever he happens to be in the mood for at the time and neither of which have yet been known to knock a girl up. These soft-skinned lovely-limbed creatures have become receptacles for boys’ semen near enough from head to tail. “It’s all about him” sums up what many of them tell the agony aunts.

That’s bad enough but it’s the people that go to see plays by the supposedly avant-garde writers that really get up my nose. A few years ago I was asked by the Irish Times to review Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot that was being performed in the Millennium Forum here in Derry. So I did what was expected of me and wrote an entertaining litter of lies. Don’t be found out is my policy. I had observed this rule of thumb during all those years lecturing in return for a derisory salary when I’d paid leghumping lip service to conventional wisdom. Anyway, I sat in my seat for what seemed like all night listening to these two Beckett tramps Vladimir and Estragon sitting there spouting their bullshit and to be truthful I spent most of that time fantasising about what I’d really like to do. Which was to make my way to the stage at the end of the first act and say this to the audience:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I came up here to explain what’s wrong with you. You’re sat there thinking you’re doing what the upper middle-class do. Your lives are boring and pointless so you let on to yourselves and others of the same imagined class that you appreciate culture. In pursuit of this you’ve now come to a play about nothing happening and sit there not having the first idea about what’s not happening. Now I daresay you have some overdressed frenemies in the auditorium here tonight that you simply can’t stand the sight of and vice versa of course but it’s very important for both you and them that you all see each other at this cultural event, if you’ll excuse the expression. And so it goes, ladies and gentlemen. Sam Beckett would laugh his bum off at the whole charade if he was still around and he might even write a play about it that you and all these others would then go to. Beckett, ladies and gentlemen, was the smoothest conman ever to tap a typewriter. And he’s still getting away with it and him dead years ago. If I’d ever got a chance to talk to him I know what I’d have done. I’d have got him by the elbow and said “Mr Beckett, here’s what it’s about. You get born and if you’re lucky and work at it you grow a bit. And then you die. And that’s it. That’s fucking it. No mystery. Born, live, die. Goodnight.”

But I was telling you about Dante. Dante was off his head. A lot of these writers were. James Joyce was mad as a hatter. I mean, when this guy was in his mid-teens he adored the Virgin Mary like she was God but he had serious problems trying to distinguish between her and some of the whores he was doing business with during those tender years. He also had a lot of time for Catherine the Great who he claimed died in the middle of being sired by a horse. Catherine, he said, juggled at least twenty-two lovers and had a special interest in erotic art, owning several tables that had stuffed penises for legs. Can you beat that? Now how did she get her hands on the penises is what I’d like to know. Was she willed them I wonder, or were they taken by force? Anyway, it’s a funny old world whatever way you look at it.

And by the way, deranged writers who suffered from sex mania weren’t confined to just Dante and Blake and Joyce and Hesse. They were legion. And up there with the most revered was the mighty Roman writer Virgil that was Dutch to me till after I awoke in our back yard on top of Brando. I wasn’t studying Virgil long when I discovered that he was one of the biggest suckers of all time for these little nymphetic God-creations though I also learned that he actually preferred boys. Me now, I got over boys for good when I was thirteen after nearly getting myself castrated while making night-time mayhem on a camping holiday with Saint John Bosco’s boys’ club. That experience drove boys well and truly out of my system and I soon settled for shyly eyeing adolescent demon girls. And then as the years fell away I slowly came round to realising that I also had a disturbing penchant for fully furnished males. The thought of these dream men, big in the right places and to my mind as horny as honey bees, affected me greatly, especially if I imagined that they too had a taste for men. It may sound tragic to you but I loved nothing better than the thought of being wielded by a homo erectus, being his bitch, his invert, his permanent plaything.

Reader, don’t blame me. It was my mother.

Now I know there will be some out there, some sickeningly solid citizens and possibly virtuous long-nosed country folk, who will still be inclined to blame me and me alone for my wretched impulses. They will say “Don’t point the finger at your mother. Get a grip on yourself and behave like a responsible adult.” And there will be others who will question the truth of things they will read in these pages and claim that no one person could possibly have gone through as many raw and strange experiences as I will soon be relating to you. To the first two groups I say this: “Listen dipshit. There but for the grace of God go you.” And to the others I say: “Look, doubter, at the drawings made by almost any five-year old refugee child and ask yourself if they could really have been through what their drawings show. Well, I’m a refugee too and here are my drawings.”

I fought and still fight my craving for both nymphets and man-beasts with might and main. I fill my life with stuff to keep me sane, oh yes. For example I now get my kicks and company by posing as a highly-charged bisexual teenage girl on my Steam 4 Teens site, a site that stirs a lot of hearts and maybe more. And going way back to my mid-teens when I first became fully aware of my eclectic inclinations I made up my mind to channel them in any way that wouldn’t hurt others and possibly land me in prison. For example, I married Henrietta Bell when she was sweet sixteen and I was less than a year older. She actually looked more like fourteen at the time and in my state of tumescent fervour I told myself that she would always look the same. But the pity was that within months of being married she stopped being a girl and started being a woman, with the makings of a fine Zapata moustache into the bargain. Wait, scrub that. Bargain is not the word I want. This was no bargain. Gone was the fetching limp where she would sometimes do a cute little hop skip and jump to catch up with me as we walked out – and in its place was a sailor’s bow-legged tread.

But I interrupted myself when I was telling you about that never-ending line of nymphets in Foyleside shopping centre. The very thought of them had seriously discombobulated me and I urgently needed something to sort me out. Coffee, I thought. That’ll do it. Thinking about this sort of stuff for long could cause a man permanent damage.

Five stairs from the top I smelled the coffee and Starbucks hove into view. I remember reading something about it being wrong to go there because they were cheating on tax. Probably the boy who wrote that would be doing the same himself if he could get away with it. Starbucks it is then. Double espresso please. Strong. What did I order that for? I should be taking a sedative after that kittenwalk. Must try today’s newspaper rack here. DOG FOULING – LATE-NIGHT SITTING OF DERRY CITY COUNCIL. Banner headline would you believe? Christ sake, there’s Isis and Assad and Putin and the Turks and the Saudis butchering right left and centre and Christianist extremists taking out wedding parties and hospitals and there’s that jackass in the oval office and near enough the rest of the world being run by other nutters and the planet heading towards a war to end all wars and what is Derry City Council doing? Derry City Council is holding an emergency late-night meeting about dogshit. To hell with that. Now, where’s the death notices? What page does it say? Twenty-seven. Best part of the whole paper. Always get a bit of relief from reading about some bastard I can’t stand that’s just after shuffling off the old mortal coil. Those girls would destroy your mind. Hold on, something wrong here. Pages stuck together. Jam is it? And cream. Sticky gooey cream with jam in it. Forget it. Turn over. What’s this?


Foo Foo, he pet poodle belonging to Thailand’s Crown Prince Maha Vajiralongkorn, was recently cremated after four days of Buddhist funeral rites. It will be remembered that in 2007 US ambassador Skip Boyce hosted a gala dinner which Air Chief Marshal Foo Foo attended dressed in formal evening attire complete with paw mitts.

Well, if that doesn’t take the biscuit. What is it about these Yanks and their weird names? Skip, Trig, Clint, Track, Chase, Tick. Yeah, Tick. Heard of one guy called Stetson. What can you say? Stetson.

I’ll have to go soon. She’ll be asking about who I saw, who I met, what they said. I’ll have to make up a whole lot of stuff again. I’ll tell her I met Mickey McKenna. She’ll like that. She still fancies Mickey like mad. He’s dead fifteen years but that doesn’t matter. She never reads the paper and she’s never out the door with her agoraphobia. And she remembers nothing. Well, not much anyway. She hides things on me in case I’ll steal them. Hid her eyeglasses in the wardrobe one day and found them two days after in the back pocket of her dungarees. Put her nail scissors under the dog on the mantelpiece and nearly got her little toe amputated when she came across them a week later in one of her house slippers.


NB: Personal photos will not be tolerated. True beauty is on the inside.


Denise’s letters to her lover, steamed open for your delectation

Sweet sweetest Huncan

I was working with one of the dildos you told me to use the ribbed kind though nothing’s the same as you sweetie and I was trying to bring back that night out in Hawaii last September when you came to me in your beautiful bare pelt and carried me from the shower flat up against you and sat me on the window sill and worked at me softly with your lovely long fingers and then after you did that you lifted me even higher till my legs were round your neck and I felt your tongue reach inside of me and that’s when the spasms started sweet heavens but before I knew it you had me on the bed and you bucked me away up off it again and again till I thought I could take no more O Huncan I wish you were here right now

“Did you get the bread Alexis? And the eggs?”

“I did Henry. They’re all out there on the shelf.”

“I hope you got the right use by date on the eggs.”

“Course I did. Sure I always do.”

“You didn’t the last time. I was sick for two days after I ate one of them.”

“That’s because you let them lie for weeks before you even opened the carton.”

“I did not. Anyway, you should have reminded me. But tell us this. You didn’t come across anybody I know when you were out did you?”

“I did indeed. I was talking to Mickey McKenna.”

“Aw. Mickey McKenna. It’s a good while since ... how’s he doing anyways? And how’s he looking?”

“Great. Doing great and looking great. Actually I had a coffee with him in Costa. Never saw him looking better. Wearing a new brown corduroy jacket too. And he was asking about you, says it seems ages since he saw you and he wouldn’t mind seeing you again soon.”

God but she’s an awful sight. Sunken, empty-eyed and a hide like parchment. And those brown blotches all over her hands and arms and face. Liver-spots, isn’t that what they call them? Funny they’re called that when the people that have them are slowly dying. How does the saying go? You’re dying near enough from the minute you’re born? And the older you get the worse things get? Not for me though, not for me. Ageing doesn’t bother me anymore. Just a matter of adapting. Like here I am going down the slippery slope, not sliding mind you, more like edging on my backside and stopping now and then as I dig in the old heels hard and watch all these others whizzing past me and over the edge, some fat, some obese, some slim, some as healthy looking as trout. And obituaries don’t depress me either the way they used to. I’ve actually got to enjoy reading them, seeing ones younger than me going belly up. Did you ever notice? – these newspapers hardly ever give the cause of death when the dead person is over seventy, take it for granted you see that readers won’t wonder at that because we’re not expected to go on much longer after the big seven-o.

As for Henry, I try not to think about her too much now, those bristles on her chin and that open sore she has on her upper lip from trimming the old moustache. I should never have married her of course. The day she sashayed onto the green wearing those blinding white hot pants and twirling her fancy parasol was the day that finished me. And look at her now, just look at her now. Not a tooth in her head and chin wagging like a freaking wart. I know I shouldn’t bother my backside trying anything in bed but sometimes the old urge gets the better of me and I’m shifting over in a sort of desperation hoping to cradle her big bum in my lap and if she wakens I end up getting a dig in the ribs or worse.

And then other times I put on the frillies and inch over when she’s asleep, working on the logic that what she can’t feel can’t annoy her, though the last time I did it she woke up and nearly had a fit. I still have appetite enough but the way it is with her now she doesn’t want to know and always ends up telling me to act my age. It’s quite scandalous of course. As you and I know, seventy-one is far from being finished. Robert Mugabe had three children with his young wife Grace when he was over seventy. Rupert Murdoch was older than me when he and Wendi Deng went at it ding-a deng-dong and had two daughters in two years. Not that I’d be looking for offspring at my age. Not like Harry Stevenson from out the Glen that got married again aged seventy-six and had his eleventh when he was eighty-two – all girls, not that that’s strictly relevant. And he’s still going. Last I heard his third wife was expecting again. And she’s only thirty-seven – well capable of giving him another two or three children. Harry makes mincemeat of what some of these doctors say about men in their seventies and eighties getting heart attacks and strokes from having sex.

Mention of Harry reminds me of a letter I saw from this old woman to a sex adviser in some magazine I picked up at the dentist’s. “I’m seventy-nine and in the last ten years alone I have been married twice to younger men and taken a number of lovers,” wrote the geriatric. “They’re all dead now and, although I had very exciting sex with each and every one of them, what I always enjoyed most was masturbation. Lately however I’m not getting the same pleasure from this and I’m wondering if you could advise me on suitable sex toys?” Well, what about that? I thought. So I stuffed the magazine down the front of my trousers and brought it home and left it lying open at the right page for Henry to see but the next place I saw it was in the blue bin.

Anyway, I lost my concentration back there when I mentioned old Rupert. Who’s this he’s married to now? Don’t say. It’s coming to me. Whatdoyoucallher Hall. Samantha? No. Let me think. Kimberly? Not Kimberly. This bloody memory of mine. Ayesha? Nope. Jerry? That’s it. Jerry Hall, big Jerry Hall. Yes. He struck up with her after he divorced Wendi for having a little thing going with Saint Anthony Blair. But anyway, about the fourth Mrs Murdoch. Jerry, that is. From some of the trash newspapers I read in Starbucks I found out one or two things. This bird has been round the houses. Yep, round the houses is right. Antonio Lopez, Bryan Ferry, Mick Jagger (think of the height of Jerry and wee Mick not the size of two roasted spuds!) and now she’s stuck in her thumb and got the biggest plum of them all, the Dirty Digger himself. I remember reading years ago what Jerry’s mother told her was the secret of keeping a man. Simple, said old Mother Hall. You gotta be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. But Jerry reckoned she’d hire the first two and take care of the third bit herself. And, by the way, I heard that she brought Rupert to St Tropez for the honeymoon so as to deliver one in the eye for Jagger Wagger because that’s where the Jagger rat pack used to let their hair down in the good ol’ days before they got the walking frames. But there was another reason she picked St Tropez. Oh yes. It seems the place is all hills and there’s no transport to speak of. Word was, she had the poor eighty-five year-old out walking three quarters of the day. So I’d say there wasn’t any digging from Rupert come bedtime. Which meant fourteen nights of undisturbed sleep for big Jerry. Most blissful honeymoon she ever had.

Still, I’d rather be Rupert than me. Even though she’s a bit on the big side, Jerry would be streets better than my Henry. To tell you the truth I’d divorce her only it’d be too much hassle. And it would break her heart of course. She thrives on these little tussles with me and I get by with my reading and my Steam 4 Teens. Life could be worse.

And then the other time the time you did it twice in ten minutes after the first time you let me slide slowly down the front of you against your awesome manhood and I nearly wet myself that’s the honest truth my kidneys nearly went next you arranged me gently on the bed and tongued me everywhere everywhere EVERYWHERE and then you came up on top of me and made love all over again O my God it was like almost too much

Let’s be reasonable. Fifty-four years is a bit long to be married to the same woman, especially if she’s had a Zorro moustache for all that time. I‘ve already mentioned that particular appendage I think. My memory is that it became fully fledged about two weeks after the wedding and she’s never put any work into it since. The best she ever managed were a few botched efforts with Wilkinson sword edge blades that left her with dark stubble and half-open scabs above those livid yellow lips of hers. And then she’s got the nerve to get onto me about my nose hairs. Nose hair I should say. Singular. You know what happened the other day? I was sitting there in the middle of my dinner and she turned round and said “You’d really need to see about those nose hairs of yours Alexis. There’s one hanging down now and it’s nearly in your stew. And there’s something sticking to it as well.”

“What?” I said back to her and I said it in such a way that I didn’t want to hear another word about it.

It was far far better than the time you got me up on the bonnet of that sky blue Ford Pick-up outside the Everglades Hotel remember? when the doorman was away I remember I arched my front to tempt you and you crooked two beautiful fingers till you found where I needed them and when you found it you knew you had me and the things you did next drowned my mind I wiggled and wiggled and wriggled and wriggled and then you drew out your fingers so slow and tempting and then my whole body went all jelly when that beautiful part of you worked its way in growing rising and then OMG exploding I still have a crick in my neck to this day because I remember you kept shifting me to suit the way you wanted and my head was against one of the windscreen wipers and my neck was near broke but I didn’t care my whole body was trembling that much with what you were doing to me and then suddenly you were out too short a time it was and I cried out loud when you went because I needed you there and I was still crying when the doorman chased us

But once she gets started on that particular subject it’s hard to stop her. “I don’t know how long I’ve been telling you and you never see to it. Sure I got you a nose trimmer for your seventieth. Do you never use it?”

“I do use it,” I said, “but the hair grows again. That’s the thing about hairs. They grow even more after you cut them. Surely you of all people should know that.”

She didn’t like that one. There wasn’t a word out of her for the next minute or so and I knew she was huffing. I gave one quick look and couldn’t see her so I knew she was away to try and think of an answer. The woman has clearly never heard of waxing. Sometimes I think the real reason I’m still here is her mince stews.

I heard her shouting from the kitchen. She’d thought of something. “You should ask the barber to do it when you’re getting your hair cut. He would do it for you. It’s disgusting. How could you stand there talking to somebody when you’re out the town and that thing dangling down right in front of them?”

“Didn’t I ask him and he wouldn’t do it,” I shouted. “I offered to pay him extra and he still wouldn’t do it. So don’t be going on about that again. Do you hear?”

If only I’d known. But sure what does a seventeen year-old know about women? Damn all except that they’re well capable of driving him out of his fucking skull. This might sound odd when you see what she’s like now but to be completely honest with you and without being the least bit blunt about it she was the first girl that made me feel like a hundred per cent man.

You know what I’m talking about. I was still putting on lingerie in the privacy of my so-called home at that particular time and trying to get Bilko Hawkins the rugby player from down the street to notice me and suddenly, just like that, I was all man. Couldn’t wait to get her into bed. I suppose I should tell you here that one of the other people I had my eye on was Father Austin Mathers that I went to Confession to. He had the finest-looking arse I ever saw on a man. It had a powerful furrow in it that always put me in mind of the cleavage a mature woman has in the middle of her bosom. It’s hard to know what better way there is of telling you except maybe to say that the two sides of his bum met in the middle like a Donatello and you could tell this even with the coarse black material his trousers were cut from. Terrible clothes priests have to wear. I had dreams of him leaving his job to go away with me to someplace where we could sit talking moral philosophy every evening before retiring for another violent night in bed, preferably outside of Ireland which of course was very backward at that time in all matters pertaining to the flesh and modern morality. But it wasn’t to be. I think I must have given something away when I was confessing my impure thoughts to him because my stumbling compliments about his great empathy may have come across as something more than ordinary admiration. Whatever, he called me a pervert and a predator and told me never to come next or near him again.

Let me tell you now, it’s not easy to describe the daily disturbances that tormented my mind and body. Maybe you’ll understand if I tell you about something that took place at a dance I went to when I was just sixteen. I was inching around the floor holding a fairly ordinary looking big-hipped girl at a decorous distance to the strains of Unchained Melody, a really slow tinker teaser of a song in case you didn’t know, when she casually pressed herself up against me while making conversation about her friend Myrtle who had lost her hairdressing job for being late for work twice in a row because her mother was sick with the shingles, bringing about near-frantic activity in my already jittering genitals. All fine and normal you might say but, just as I was inconspicuously attempting to pull back from her to prevent an embarrassing spillage, I spied a sight for sore eyes over her left shoulder. A man in mauve shirt and tight cream trousers was practically conjoined with a girl whom I couldn’t see properly – but what I did see, and couldn’t take my eyes off, was his splendid bottom. Now I have unobtrusively viewed a good number of male bottoms in my day and studied and indeed serviced myself on pictures of the naked David in Michelangelo: Complete Works (hardcover £29.24) but here right in front of me was the daddy of them all, perfectly rounded, beautifully grooved and utterly breathtaking. Cue for massive discharge.

But I was telling you about Father Mathers. It actually wasn’t my experience with him that turned me off Confession for good. No, it was the thing that happened to Patrick Mitchell. Patrick was an acquaintance of mine in our teenage years, a young man of very nervous disposition given to lascivious thoughts about the half-Chinese woman Fang Clare O’Shaughnessy that lives across the street from him, a woman of boundless bodily beauty who opened her curtains wide every night before taking her clothes off too slow for words. This caused visible disorder in Patrick’s body and it got to such a pass that he was afraid the whole thing might give him some class of seizure and he’d end up dying in a state of mortal sin with purgatory not an option. That was bad enough but when he was describing the whole thing to Father Mathers in the privacy of the confession box he went into such detail, not only concerning the havoc the experience with the O’Shaughnessy woman had wrought on his organism, but also about closing his eyes tight every time except the first time when the lady in question undressed frontally (because the first time he clapped eyes on the naked front of her he could see that she was hideously hairy where he never expected her to be) and also about opening them really wide for the second half when she turned to let him see her big backside. The priest let an unearthly roar out of him (so unearthly that it might have come from heaven itself was what Patrick told me) and then hissed that he wasn’t there to listen to disgusting things like that and what was a Catholic doing with his curtains open every night opposite a Godless communist unless it was to steep himself in the cesspit of mortal sin? Patrick later questioned me on what a priest doing in the confession box if he wasn’t there to listen to disgusting things because sins were disgusting things and that was what Confession was for and it was then I made up my mind once and for all that Confession was not for me.

I want to be awash with you filled from you flushed by you that my love is why I’m going to insert this here right now and close my eyes to try and imagine it is that part of you so I can bring back some of your wonder and those Hawaiian nights that I want to live again as long as I live

Right, that’ll do it. Just post it for all my lovely young readers and that’ll be it for today. You know, it wasn’t very long ago that none of these hot little things would take me under their notice. Wait, that’s only partly true. Up till I was sixty or so I looked at them with the hunger of a sixteen year-old and they just looked through me. But for the last ten years or so some of them have been smiling at me and sending my body racing, even though I’m under no illusions. They’re smiling because I’m not a danger anymore, just a pleasant-looking pensioner, a harmless old git.

And to think I used to sing her that song after we got married. I didn’t actually mind the moustache and the sailor’s walk then. To be frank I’d say the reason was that maybe they helped to give me a bit of the man side of her.

I love you as I never loved before
Since first I met you on the village green.
Come to me ’ere my dream of love is o’er -
I love you as I love you, when you were sweet,
When you were sweet sixteen.

And then there was the first poem I ever sent her after we were married. She thought I wrote it myself. Well, I suppose I did in a way. I put purple ink in my pen and wrote the words on a pink sheet of Basildon Bond and sealed it in a pink Basildon Bond envelope. But the words are Alfred Tennyson’s. A lot of my writing back then was influenced by Tennyson.

But I still remember what happened the day she got it in the post. She took me by the hand (let’s say) and led me from one end of heaven to the other. How could I ever forget it?

My heart would hear you and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed.

My dust would hear you and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead,

Would start and tremble under your feet,

And blossom in purple and red.

For the next six months I serenaded her with the best of Byron, Burns, Baudelaire and Tennyson, not to mention bits from Wordsworth, Goethe, de Larra, Poe, Pope, Whitman, Leopardi and Lawrence, and long before the fire of my venereal appetite was outlawed my John Thomas had taken on the texture of a chalk-crusted shrimp.

Yes, it was outlawed. And that was basically because Henry wrote to her sister Majella Ann telling her how much she adored love poetry and the interfering bitch responded by buying her a poetry tome as big as a breeze block. It was called The Romantics and had some of my best stuff between its covers. The result was that I was banished from the conjugal bed and had all favours withdrawn to the accompaniment of slurs like Cheat! and Phoney! I pleaded with her, pointing out that James Joyce’s lover Nora Barnacle had pilfered parts of love stories from women’s magazines to use in her letters to him. But it was no good, I was out on my bum. I gave her flowers and posted expensive love cards to her. But nothing doing. I even tried logic. “Listen darling,” I’d say. “Would you refuse a love heart from me because it was made by Swizzels Matlow? Would you? And listen to me. Please! No, no, listen. Joyce overlooked Nora’s little white lies because he knew they came from her adoration of him. Now the question is, Henry, are you as big a man as Joyce?” (I don’t think the last bit helped my case).

And then after two years, in the middle of the worst winter since 1947, according to some girl from the met office, I was allowed back into the bed, but only as a draughtstopper. So the embargo has now in effect lasted the guts of fifty-four years. Unreasonable of course. Cruelly unjust. Grounds for separation too except that I do manage to sneak the occasional surreptitious spasm by making contact when she’s out cold and that keeps me going.

Lately I’ve been considering spending some time in Edinburgh actually. It seems they have massage parlours there that could do me the world of good. There’s one in particular I wouldn’t mind trying out. To quote the blurb I read on the web: “The closing stages – described variously as a ‘finish’ or ‘happy ending’ – focus heavily on the male genitalia. Massotherapists skilled in our treatment are also found in Cebu City, Philippines. Remember, friends, that the true purpose of the massage is to awaken one’s kundalini, an enlightened-related energy which when released can lead to eventual salvation.” Now I’d certainly be in for awakening my kundalini and I wouldn’t say no to eventual salvation either but there are two problems that I’d have to overcome before flying to Edinburgh. Firstly there’s what to do about Henry while I’m away – the woman wouldn’t be able to cope – and then there’s the embarrassment of asking beforehand if I could have a man as my massotherapist (nymphets are out, no point in looking for the impossible).

But here’s something I didn’t tell you. And it’s bittersweet. Henry and I got married in 1963 around the time the Beatles released their first album. This, as everyone knows, was the beginning of a new age. But not for me, no, not for me. The Swinging Sixties seen but not lived. Still, I stored the image of hot panted schoolgirls shimmying along the street being chatted up by longhaired lavishly endowed young men in tight jeans and used that same image as a bedtime aphrodisiac before tucking into my moustachioed wife. Anyway, must see if anybody’s read my latest offerings yet. She’s gone upstairs. I hear her feet on the bathroom floor. What’s this it was I was going to tell her? Jesus, I really think my memory’s starting to go.

YellaRoseofTexas Re: A Hard Night’s Night

Laguna Vista

Joined: 2 years ago


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