It's Saturday night or rather Sunday morning. It's cold. Frosty. I am walking back home. Alone. Drunk. Totally drunk.
Take all your clothes off. Run naked down the road. You know it's what you want to do, the perverted voice in my head urges.
Yeah, fuck it, I will, I respond.
The road is quiet and residential. Suburban. Posh.
I briefly look around at the handful of houses and the darkness behind the windows.
Good, I'll risk it.
Under the harsh purple-blue fluorescent light of the street-lamp I strip off.
I am completely naked, and I feel the chill air on my flesh. Bracing. Arousing. Liberating. Yet I feel apprehension. Fear even. Fear of prosecution. Exposure. Ridicule. Derision. Public humiliation.
But the Devil is with me tonight, whispering temptations in my ear. Exhorting me.
I pick up all my clothes and place them under my arm.
I am hard. Achingly so.
With my erection pointing the way. I run and run. Fly down the road. Hedges and gardens and trimmed lawns whiz past. The cold air flows round my nude body, engulfs it, caresses it.
I am intoxicated with arousal and a strange sense of freedom. I am... me. I am... now. Forever.
I begin to gasp for breath and my heart is pounding. I slow down. The spell is fading. And the voice of the Devil is nowhere to be heard.
I stop and dress as swiftly as possible. I have come to my senses.
God, you fool, you could have been arrested and charged with indecency. You would have been a laughingstock. You would have shamed your family. Maybe lost your job.
I briskly walk the last few hundred yards home, hoping desperately that no one will run after and confront me, before descending the seven stone steps that lead to the front door of my house...
JUST ANOTHER SLUT ON A SATURDAY NIGHT
"If you promise to stay the night, Matt, then I'll let you sleep with me."
"Yeah, okay then," I respond flatly. I'm not that fussed either way. But since I'm here, well...
Her little plain face lights up, like a punter pulling three cherries on a fruit machine, and she says, all excitedly, "I'll go and set up the camp bed then."
"Why do you need to do that?"
"There's only one bedroom and one double bed here which I share with my sister. She won't want to come home and find you in bed with me," she replies, and then giggles in a silly and irritating way as though she was eight rather than eighteen.
"You sleep with your sister?"
"We can only just afford the rent on a one bedroom flat. My dad threw us out."
She disappears into the bedroom leaving me alone in the 'lounge' to look around. The place is certainly a shithole: musty and peeling wallpaper, threadbare carpet with single naked light bulb suspended by a twisted flex. I won't be staying here any longer than needs be.
I'm quite drunk having sunk pint after pint of lager and lime, first in Yelf's Tubs then down at the Prince Consort Discotheque with my mate, Jeremy. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't so pissed.
I suddenly chuckle, recalling having given Jeremy strict instructions at the beginning of the evening for him to drag me away from Janine if it looked like I was in danger of getting off with her. Unsurprisingly, as no other females were interested, I had grabbed her for a smooch when the DJ had concluded the evening by playing Sealed with a Kiss by Brian Hyland and then proceeded to snog her with the final bars of the track fading out just prior to the main lights flicking on to signal 'kicking out' time.
Whilst she was picking up her coat from the cloakroom Jeremy had approached me and said, "You're going to regret this in the morning, Matt. Remember what you told me: 'Don't let me get off with Janine under any circumstances.' "
"I know what I am doing. I'll be okay," I had slurred. I had then discretely flashed him the crumpled carton of Durex I had been keeping stashed in my back pocket.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he had reminded me, whilst briefly raising his eyebrows, before turning and heading for the exit...
The door from the bedroom opens and Janine drags out the camp bed along with a duvet and a couple of pillows. I watch her unfold the bed and place the bedclothes on the top. I can't be bothered to help.
"I'm just going to the loo. I won't be long," I inform her. Nothing more uncomfortable than shagging with a full bladder.
I push open the door to the toilet. It's in as a crappier condition as the rest of the flat: curled up lino, mouldy walls, rusty pipes and lime-scale crusted to the bowl like barnacles to the bottom of a ship's hull. Nice.
I unzip my fly and release a powerful jet of piss before noticing a small pool of yellow urine growing to the side of the pan on the lino - whoops. I adjust my aim, finish urinating then flush the cistern.
I re-enter the lounge to find her already under the covers.
"You haven't wasted any time then?" I say to her.
"Take your clothes off and then snuggle in, Matt. It's cold tonight."
I take all my clothes off, discarding them in a heap on the dirty floor, whilst she watches me and as she does, I become, despite the quantity of alcohol in my system, quite erect.
"What are you doing now?" she asks me with a hint of impatience.
"Putting a condom on," I reply matter-of-factually whilst I rummage through my trouser pockets.
"You don't need one of them-"
"I think I do," I interrupt.
I finally find it; tear open the packet then roll it over my stiffy. I'm ready now.
"Switch the lights off will you, Matt. I'm a bit bashful."
And only about two pints less from being pretty repulsive too, I want to add but don't.
I stride to the light switch and take a last look at her with only her dark curly haired head sticking out of the covers. I wonder for a second what I am doing here. Really doing here. She's possesses lovely olive brown eyes, her father is Italian, but facially she just reminds me of Woody Allen and that is just not an attractive look. Her figure, I remember from shagging her before, isn't bad. Her nipples are quite dark which I like. But she's also pretty thick and intelligence, in a female, is a turn-on for me.
I flick the switch walk over and then clamber under the covers with her.
I put my arms round her, put my mouth to hers, stick my tongue in and grab her tight whilst pressing my hard little prick next to the bare flesh of her torso.
"I knew you'd come back with me," she exclaims me with an air of triumph.
I say nothing, instead I bite one of her nipples with force enough to make her gasp. I then reach down with my right hand to her groin gripping her hairy crutch. She's damp. I push open her legs and mount her whilst guiding my cock into her cunt. It won't take long. Thankfully.
I know that she would like to get pregnant by me so that I'll have to marry her. But that will never be. I am just using her till I get someone decent.
I begin to thrust hard and start to fantasize about being slippered naked by Miss Shipley, the youngish, blond and rather strict French Teacher we had at High School...
I climax but not strongly. The alcohol and condom combining to take the edge off the sensation.
"That was good, Matt," Janine coos.
She's trying to make me feel better about myself because underneath it wasn't that satisfying for her. I don't really care though.
I slide my rapidly contracting penis out of her vagina and roll off her before dragging myself out of bed.
"What are you doing now?"
I pull the rubber easily off my cock, placing it on the floor.
"I'm off home now, Janine."
"Why?" she asks with hurt in her tone.
"I sleep better at home, that's why. Besides my mother and grandmother will worry about me if I'm not back in the morning."
"Got to go home to your... mummy then?" she mocks.
"You want to grow up," she adds.
"You promised me you would stay the night." The injured tone returns.
"I changed my mind."
She suddenly turns in the bed with her back to me.
I turn the light on and begin to dress. The flat seems even more of a tip than before. It depresses me. I also, from the sniffing emanating from her, suspect she is crying.
I finish dressing.
"I'll be off then," I say.
"Just go. User."
"I've left the used Durex by the bed. You probably don't want to leave it there where your sister can see it."
She doesn't answer so I walk out of the flat, closing the door quietly behind me. It is about three in the morning. I then descend the internal staircase before exiting out onto The Strand.
It's quite cold, I didn't bother with a coat, and I can see my breath turn to vapour every time I exhale. Still, it's not that far home, about a fifteen-minute walk.
I cut through Ashley Gardens, past the ornamental fishponds, the stone lions and the memorial plaque to the victims of the HMS George tragedy, and out onto Ryde Esplanade...
I clock him across the smoky and crowded dance floor of the Prince Consort discotheque. He is six foot, a couple of inches taller than me, blond with an athletic build and would be good looking were it not for the permanent sneer twisting his features. He's eighteen. I'm nineteen.
His mates call him Barney and he's a cunt, quite literally, from the wrong side of the tracks across town and he's from a rough family whose reputation he lives off.
He's heading my way because about an hour earlier he had been giving my mate Jeremy a bit of hassle. I had told him to piss off. And he had.
It's been eating him since, he has lost face, I can see that, and now with a few more beers in his belly he has come to even the score.
I watch him get closer. I shut out the thumping beat of the music and the dancers and focus, though pissed, on what I am going to do, have to do.
He's about three feet away and his eyes are angrily staring into mine. It's a mistake as he should be looking at my hands. I smile slightly to deceive him into believing that it is he who is in control and that I am no threat.
I smash my right fist as hard as I can into his face with the intention of pushing his nose into the back of his head and as I do an electric shock of pain shoots up my arm. He reels back in agony bringing his hands up to his face and turns away.
One hard punch and the cunt's had enough. I kind of feel good about that.
"Okay cool it lads, just stay cool everybody," says the DJ who has had a grandstand view. He also kills the music.
The dancers stop dancing and slowly realize that something has happened. Barney is over in the corner and one of his mates has his arm round him. Another one of his pals, quite short and probably underage comes up to me and says menacingly, "If you want trouble mate, we'll give you fucking trouble!"
I want to laugh, though it is swiftly dawning on me that I could really be in deep shit, because the line sounds right out of a badly scripted gangster movie. I decide to brazen it out - they don't know me and maybe I really am useful, besides I took their mate out pretty easily and he was supposed to be tough.
"Look Shorty, it was between him and me, but if you want some of the same then feel free to have a go."
He says nothing and sidles off. The problem is my hand is really hurting and I'm wondering if I've broken a finger. I'm fucked if there is to be any more fighting.
I decide to get out, but I have to do it coolly, if I show any weakness then I've had it. I nonchalantly push another one of his mates out of the way and make for the back way to the cloakrooms where Jeremy is attempting to chat up the cock-tease of an attendant. I've got to get him out in case they start on him. At the far end of the club by the entrance I just see one of the black suited burly bouncers begin to walk down, presumably called by the DJ.
I'm really shitting it now inside but I if I can keep my composure, I stand a good chance of getting away with it.
As I step off the dance floor a big blond fellow with a petite brunette hanging on his arm says to me, "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
I just ignore him and carry on walking. And pray he doesn't come after me. I stroll down the corridor fairly confident that nobody is following me. I see Jeremy leaning on the door frame of the cloakroom and he is trying to impress the flirty peroxide blond of an attendant. He looks a bit annoyed that I am about to interrupt him but he hasn't got a cat in hells chance of pulling her anyway.
I take him by the arm and out of earshot.
"Jeremy, we have to get out of here. And quick. I've just smacked Barney and we could be in big fucking trouble!"
"Uh, right," he says, suddenly realizing the seriousness of the situation.
"I want you to act completely normal till we get out of here," I whisper to him. He nods.
We make our way the ten yards or so to the exit. There is only one bouncer there; the other two are probably on the dance floor questioning people. I still can't hear any music. Not good.
As I approach the door, I fear that at any moment a member of Barney's little group could just appear. And we still have to get past the doorman.
The bouncer sees us and to my amazement swings open the reinforced glass door. "Early night lads?"
"Well there's not a lot going on and I've got to work tomorrow. Good night!" I respond breezily.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I step out into the late evening air and walk up the stone steps to the pavement, the Prince Consort nightclub being below ground level.
As we reach the top of the steps I turn to Jeremy and say, "I think it will probably be a very good idea if we sprint back to mine and wait for the furore to die down."
We're both pretty quick but we have only gone about seventy yards when I hear a shout in the distance.
"That's him. After them, lads!"
We get to the top of St Thomas's Street and then turn into Spencer Road. We're both badly gasping and as we get to my parent's house, I look for my pursuers. But we have left them behind and more importantly they haven't seen where I live.
I open the front door and we let ourselves in. It is quiet. My Mother and Grandmother have gone to bed.
"That was close Matt, what happened?"
"I punched Barney in the face before he hit me. I never realized he had so many mates and what's really bad is that I may have damaged my hand. It really hurts. I meant to punch him in the nose, but I think I missed and hit him on the cheek. I think I'll leave it a while before paying another visit to the Prince Consort."
We suddenly hear a group of noisy lads pass by outside the window and exchange knowing smiles.
"Fancy a cup of tea Jeremy?"
"Yeah, don't mind if I do, Matt."
I fill the kettle and then place it on the ring of the cooker before lighting the gas...
A COUPLE OF TALES OF MINOR REVENGE AT WORK
I'll be honest I struggled at school even though I passed the 11+ exam. I always performed poorly and in the first two years at Grammar School the best I ever achieved for term work was second from bottom and for exams, twentieth out of twenty seven.
In 1970 the school became comprehensive and they stopped reading out the results in assembly - about the only good thing I can say about the comprehensive system. Anyway the only subjects I found interesting were Chemistry and History though I sometimes used to like composing essays for English Language. The education system seemed to be largely a waste of time for most children and an even bigger waste of money for the taxpayer. I still think it is now.
Because the only subject I was good at was Chemistry I decided that the best career (note how career sounds so much better than job) for me was in the Civil Service as a Scientist. I struggled to get five O'levels after two attempts and then after a bit I managed to land a position as an Assistant Scientific Officer.
For a while I had visions of a slow but steady rise through the ranks. I also used to imagine me coming in to start the day in a smart blue suit greeting the junior staff with a cheery 'morning' before pushing back the frontiers of mankind's knowledge, which would of course lead to Utopia...
The actual position entailed analyzing engine oil samples from helicopters. Basically we determined the amount of wear metal by using an Atomic Absorption Spectrometer. If the wear metals began to rise too fast then it would suggest that vital bearings were about to break up. It gave advance warning of catastrophic engine failure which not only saved pilot's lives it also saved millions of pounds for the taxpayer.
I was quite proud of my job and I thought I was good at it. I was good at it in actual fact because I was conscientious and accurate. But the head of department took me aside one day and informed me that I wasn't going anywhere because I lacked ambition and drive*. I responded that I did everything I was asked to do. He then told me that I didn't show enough interest in the rest of the department. I explained that I was taught to respect boundaries and not to poke my nose in where it wasn't wanted. It was to no avail.
The boss was a highly educated man who only failed to attain his PhD because a fire destroyed his work before he could submit it. He was basically a decent fellow but he didn't suffer fools gladly. He was also a bit of a snob and looked down on the working classes. Naturally he was a socialist and voted Labour.
The upshot of this encounter was that he wanted me to undergo an I.Q. test - the other members of the department had taken it so I couldn't really refuse. I took the accursed test and my I.Q. was measured at 105. It was higher than the man in the street but the lowest in the department. shades of Grammar School and end of term assemblies.
I felt humiliated and my confidence never recovered. I also failed an exam at college. In truth my career was over before it had even started but what could I do? I soldiered on and tried to make the best of things. I was not yet twenty, unable to get a girlfriend (well, a decent girlfriend, I could pull sluts) because I was plain, spotty, big nosed and skinny and to boot my professional dreams were shattered. I did think about suicide.
I eventually left the establishment much to my colleagues' relief but not before a few rather satisfying incidents which consoled me a little.
As I explained earlier my job - which a trained monkey could do according to my immediate boss - was to analyze oil samples from helicopter engines to pick up excessive wear and prevent system failure. One type of engine was prone to aviation fuel seeping into the lubrication system. If too much did then an engine fire was a possibility. It was due to a design fault on a seal which was being looked into. In the meantime we were to sniff each oil sample and then determine how much fuel as a percentage was in the system - if it was more than ten percent then the oil system was to be drained and then replenished with new oil. After a while one could guess just by sniffing what the level was. If not we would distill some of the oil and determine it more scientifically.
One day I came into work and the boss was absolutely incandescent. An engine had burst into flames and it was thought the cause was fuel seepage.
"I want to find out who analyzed these samples and didn't check for contamination. What are we doing paying good money to these retards who can't even be bothered to do the job properly!" the boss had ranted before storming into his office slamming the door behind him and probably more concerned about how this would affect his career than any safety issues.
I said to the fellow who worked with me analyzing oil samples who was even lower than me in the hierarchy, "I don't think we're retards, and I know you are conscientious just like me. Something isn't right here."
A few minutes later the boss emerged and said to me: "I want you to dig out every oil sample from this engine, determine how much fuel was in each, and more importantly I need to know who was responsible. I'm considering disciplinary action."
Sure enough I rechecked the samples and discovered who had analyzed them - not one had me or my colleague been responsible for. They all had above-levels of fuel in with the last one being well over the safety level. The last one I had real trouble in finding out who had done it because the record card had gone missing - surprise, surprise. I persevered in my search and eventually found it: the last oil sample had been analyzed by the boss's 'blue eyed boy'. Result or what!
Because we were a seven-day-a-week facility other staff members of the lab would work weekends analyzing samples - 'trained monkeys' on double time and expenses. In the rush to get away for sailing or golf they had failed to perform the job to the standard of the 'retards'. I felt totally vindicated. Of course, no disciplinary charges were levelled against the 'blue eyed boy' but for the sake of appearances we were all called in to listen to the boss give us a pep talk on the importance of vigilance. At the end of the talk the boss turned to me and said: "Matt, You look like you have something to say?"
"Yeah, I was just wondering what we are doing paying good money to these retards who can't even do the job properly."
The boss looked daggers at me and then stormed out. I felt like I had just scored the winning goal for England in the World Cup.
Not so long after the boss challenged me to a game of chess. We went through a phase of playing chess during the dinner hour and had a chess ladder. Despite my low I.Q. I could hold my own and while never top I was never bottom either. The boss possessed a very high I.Q. and obviously felt he could thrash me - the 'retard' remark had rankled with him and it was only fitting that I be put in my place. I agreed to the challenge and looking back it was Mensa versus Denser.
We commenced play and there was no doubt that he was very clever - he set up some very subtle traps for me which it took a lot of concentration to suss out and then avoid. In fact he spent all his time scheming on them whilst I carefully set up my attack. It was a real shock to him when I announced 'check mate'.
"That was a fluke. I'll play you again!"
He played me again and it was exactly the same pattern - I won. This time he was absolutely livid.
"Put your lab coat back on and get back to work - NOW!"
He spent the afternoon in his office sulking. I had now equalled Geoff Hurst.
His weakness of course was that he couldn't see the bigger picture - depth reduces field of view. Is it more desirable to have less resolution and 180 degree vision or to be focused with tunnel vision? I'm putting it simplistically but I think there may be something in it. I have another speculation about this but I will leave that for another day.
Okay, one more World Cup goal...
The fellow who was my immediate boss wasn't that keen on me and he often treated me like shit - dressing me down in front of others when he should have taken me to one side. I really needed to get him back. And I did.
The main laboratory was the largest section of the establishment with the smaller offices radiating round it. There was a lot of equipment humming with cooler fans and ticking over. We would finish work at a quarter to five and just a few minutes before that time I would switch everything off. The boss wouldn't allow it to be turned off too early so as to create the impression with his superiors that we were an establishment always ready for everything. I noticed that as soon as I turned everything off my boss, like Pavlov's Dog, would get into his motorcycle waterproofs, put his helmet on and then shoot off. My boss if the big boss was away would come in late and go home early but the week previous he had been driving out of the yard only to be caught by the big boss - he had been bollocked and everyone knew he had been bollocked too. This one afternoon I waited for the big boss to go and visit some big wig and when he did I clicked off all the instruments - it was twenty past four. My boss fell for it, put on his wet weather gear and left the lab about twenty five minutes before he should have. Once he had gone I switched back on all the instruments. A few minutes later the big boss returned and asked where my boss was.
Dishonesty isn't really a part of me. "I think he's gone home," I said.
He was called into the big boss's office the next day first thing. I didn't laugh. Much.
*A couple of years later I attended a career appraisal. The guy who interviewed me said during it, "It has been suggested that you lack ambition, Mr Triewly." I had replied, "Well a man who is thinking about the next job is a man who isn't concentrating on the job in hand."
He never had an answer to that.
THE BAD TEMPERED BALLOON MAN
In the summer I turned twenty I was on a cycling holiday with a chum called Steve. The plan was that we would catch the train to East Kent, stay at the youth hostel in Doddington on the first night and then cycle back to Portsmouth over a week in stages using youth hostels....
As I'm writing this, I'm recalling long steep hills, drizzle, exhaustion but also beautiful days, the smell of the country, that pungent odour of fresh rain on hot tarmac, the wind in my hair and the sun on my back. Also, chatting to interesting people who we would never see again plus the novelty of waking up in a different location each day.
Anyway, Steve had carefully worked out our route beforehand, using specialist maps, which avoided main roads and skirted around hills. We had booked the youth hostels in advance and also made sure our bikes were sound mechanically. We only took the minimum of clothes and other essentials like tools which were packed tight into waterproof panniers. In addition, we'd made sure we were fit enough for the enterprise by going on long bike rides for a couple of months before. What could go wrong?
Well, the truth of the matter is that nothing really did go wrong apart from a puncture Steve sustained around about Cosham - he merely wheeled his bike back to the ferry instead of riding it.
Was it a coming of age trip with 'boys' facing adversity and character-building encounters to become 'men'? Well, no; I was no longer a virgin as I was in a relationship (kinky at times) with Claudia. As for Steve he was a virgin and still about a year from meeting his wife whom he would be totally faithful and loyal to.
Was it a journey of 'self-discovery'? No, we both knew what kind of people we were; though in my case I wasn't quite prepared to reveal the complete extent of my kinks at that point in my life.
So, the trip couldn't be remade as a Mike Leigh play or even turned into a film like Deliverance where a couple of cyclists make a wrong turn and stumble across some nasty country types doing something they shouldn't in the woods...
Na, none of the above. But there is one incident I do remember, and it is kind of funny - now. Okay, I have to be honest, though I'm a fairly pleasant person most of the time I can when tired and frustrated get grumpy and bad tempered and there were times on the trip when I got grumpy and bad tempered and swore a lot and even stamped my little feet. Now, when I did Steve would just stand there patiently and wait for me to calm down before we would carry on. He was a nice fella. Having said that I never stayed bad tempered for long; it was always a sudden squall for me - still is. Anyway, I only 'lost my rag' a few times whilst Steve remained cool. However, there was one occasion when we had taken the wrong turning and gone several miles off our route before discovering we had. Now, on that particular day it was raining quite heavily, was fairly windy and we had both put our waterproofs on. After a couple of miles, I was really wet with sweat so I took them off and carried on in just shorts and a t-shirt; I'd be soaked whatever. Steve had opted for keeping his on. So, we were stopped in this road in the middle of nowhere, rain pelting down, whilst Steve fished in his pannier for the map. Once he'd managed to open it (it was the size of an Ordinance Survey map and as unwieldy) he'd then sworn and said, "Fuck, we've gone about seven miles out of our way. We should have taken that road there. We can get back on route by taking the next left turn, but we've still wasted time and energy cycling a lot of miles we needn't have. What a bloody day to have gone the wrong fucking way."
I could see he was more cross with himself than anything as he prided himself upon meticulous planning. He then proceeded to attempt to fold the map up but as he did the wind kept blowing it out. Of course, the longer he tried the stronger the wind blew and frustrated his attempts even more. Finally driven to a brief bout of temper he just screwed the map up into a ball and stuffed it back into his pannier. For some reason seeing the normally calm Steve getting rather rattled amused me; though I did attempt to suppress a grin. We then mounted our bikes and proceeded with our journey but not for long as there was a loud crunching sound as Steve's chain leapt off the cogs and jammed into the sprockets. This was just the last straw for Steve who jumped of his bike and threw it to the ground before giving the prone beast a good kicking. The best of it was that the wind had now blown up his orange waterproofs giving him the appearance of a 'balloon man'. I don't know what the odd passing motorist would have thought having seen him, but I just burst out laughing. Steve realizing I was laughing then angrily responded by shouting at me: "You FUCKING* fat cunt, in all the times I've stood there whilst you had a tantrum and I never said a thing and the first time I lose my temper and you laugh your fucking head off. You CUNT!"
When he said that I just laughed even more.
It was a classic moment.
After a few minutes he did calm down and we carried on. But only after he'd taken his waterproofs off and sorted his chain out.
Oh, well, happy memories...
* I hasten to add (out of vanity) that I was quite slim back then. I'm fat now though, and some would, in addition, describe me as a cunt.
CLAUDIA GETS A REALLY HARD WHACK WITH A TENNIS BAT
The first spanking/beating I ever administered was to a girlfriend back in the late summer of 1977. I would have been twenty and she would have been eighteen; which sounds like the first lines of a song.
But I digress.
Claudia was very pretty - her father was of Italian stock- with doll like features, alluring brown eyes and lovely long, curly and dark hair and she did indeed put me in mind of an Italian actress. However that was where the similarity ended, Claudia although basically good natured was thick and quite ignorant; she couldn't even spell my first name correctly (a fairly simple name I hasten to add) which just added further to the list of things I found annoying about her. We were never going to last.
On the plus side, however, she was really sexy and also she had confided to me that the idea of being punished had thrilled her; she'd told me that she had often been naughty on purpose so that her parents would spank her and had once been caned at school, though she had admitted that that had been a rather unpleasant experience.
When she had confessed all to this me, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Of course, at that time, I had told nobody of my kinky inclinations for fear of being ridiculed or even ostracized, so I had to play it carefully.
Claudia had been my first long term girlfriend and she was the first female I fell in love with though I didn't realize that till we split up and I ached for her. I also realized that love was a kind of addiction and not necessarily a good addiction either, but that is to jump the gun as it were. Anyway, Claudia had been the younger sister of one of my mates and for some strange reason she had developed a crush on me, a 'crush' that ended up lasting over twenty-five years and is perhaps a tale for another day, maybe. So, timid as I was, I had plucked up the courage to ask her out...
A few weeks later, one evening, after a bit of clumsy groping, I fucked her, standing up against a tree, on the perimeter of a sports field. I'll be honest, it wasn't, for either of us, the rapturous moment we had both been led to believe; and because she'd been a virgin we had spent a while after attempting, not entirely successfully either, to wash blood off our bodies and clothes.
That said, we did get better at sex though I don't believe now that I ever made her climax; I really was quite naïve at the time. However, sometimes after we'd fucked, she did often request me to smack her bottom (which I did of course) because she'd felt 'dirty' or 'guilty'. Looking back on it now, with the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, I think she had been unsatisfied and underneath she had been hoping that the spanking would lead to an orgasm.
Okay, back to the tale...
It was a hot day on a weekend in 1977 that I had led Claudia to the top bedroom of my grandmother's old house (where I lived with my Mother too) with 'evil' intent. I hasten to add that my grandmother was quite infirm - though she could just about manage stairs - and it was highly unlikely that she would interrupt us. Also, my Mother, a psychiatric nurse, was at work and safely out of the way.
Claudia had known what I had planned for her and was excited, if not a little scared, by the prospect of a seriously hard whack with something solid and uncompromising: a rubber backed wooden table tennis bat.
When we had got to the top bedroom I had told her to strip quickly and bend over the side of the bed, which she did. I had then picked up the table tennis bat in my right hand in preparation for swatting her with it but before I did I had spent a couple of seconds studying her nude, and I think faintly trembling, body. I have to say, at that time (she got fat later), she really was in possession of a very sexy body: slim, beautiful tits with a sexy little mole on the mound of her left breast, sun bronzed (apart from the bikini line) and with a shapely and firm arse. It was no surprise that I was really stiff at this point.
I remember (how could I forget?) just before I whacked her, Claudia, turning her pretty face towards me with a very forlorn expression, and feeling momentarily sorry for her, but not sorry enough obviously, because I then drew back my right arm as far back as I could before driving it with as much force as I could muster down onto her bare left buttock.
There was a terrific 'thwack' which reverberated around the walls of the bedroom and almost instantaneously she had straightened up, clutched her buttock and called me a 'sod'. I had wondered, for a second, whether I had gone too far but I had no need to worry as she had then clambered back onto the mattress and lain on her back. I had then swiftly stripped before mounting and fucking her with her dark cunt being damp, musky, and extremely accommodating. With the image of her naked body reacting to the pain still fresh in my mind I had climaxed pretty quickly. I don't think she did.
After sex she had twisted round to inspect her now 'purpling' bruise and proclaimed that she was now mine as she threw herself into my arms. It was my first experience of female submission and, to be frank, I didn't really understand it fully (if I do indeed now).
A little while later she and her family moved away so I didn't see her that much though we did sometimes meet up for a fuck and the occasional spanking though none ever matched the intensity of the table tennis bat one.
I dumped her the day after my twenty-first birthday because I felt I could do better. Not nice, I know, but true.
For my birthday she bought me a pewter tankard with a 'key' and my name (actually spelt correctly) engraved upon it. I still have it and I keep my old swimming medals in it.
After we split up, in a moment of remorse, about three months later, I wrote to her and asked her to come back but she never replied and then heard a while after that that she had got married.
Twenty five years later she contacted me out of the blue. Which is a story for another day.
"You're a good kisser, but there's a strange taste in your mouth. What have you been eating?" she says just prior to flicking her tongue round her lips.
"That'll be the pickled onions I had earlier," I slur, and congratulate myself for quick thinking in spite of the ten or so pints I had consumed during the course of the evening.
In actual fact I had just puked up a beef burger and a quantity of aforesaid lager behind the back of the garage in Brading Road - I'd told her to wait round the front for me whilst I 'ostensibly' went for a piss - which was right next door to La Babalu nightclub where I had been boozing half the evening and hoping to meet the woman of my dreams.
As the evening had rolled on I had concluded that perhaps tonight wasn't going to be my lucky night. So, after Jeremy, my mate, had abandoned me after pulling a scrubber from Binstead and I had plumped for a fat, ugly-ish slut called Sue from a nearby council estate.
" 'Ere, didn't you used to go out with that Claudia?" she suddenly says with a kind of accusatory tone.
"Uh, yes... but we split up when she moved over to Lymington with her parents. All water under the bridge now."
It's not quite strictly true. Claudia has indeed moved over to Lymington but I am still seeing her now and again. However, I'm not going to tell Sue that since the only thing a woman hates more than a man that lies... is one that tells the truth.
"So, you're single then?"
"Oh, yes," and add, "Shall we go for a stroll along the seafront, it's a lovely evening,"
She slips her arm underneath mine and says promisingly, "Yes, let's."
I'm snogging her, whilst squeezing one of her nipples under her jumper, in the shelter on the northern side of the Canoe Lake when out of the blue I surprise myself by asking her if she likes being spanked on the bare bum.
Fuck! Why did I do that? She'll think I'm a pervert, go and tell everybody and then I'll have to leave the Island!
"Yeah, I do actually."
Relief floods through me. I live fucking dangerously at times.
"Do you like it hard?"
"Okay then, I'll just check there's nobody around and then you can lift up your skirt, drop your knickers and bend over."
I leave her momentarily, whilst she sits on the wooden slatted bench, wander over to the opening of the shelter before scanning first left then right. Nobody, but it is late and quite chilly.
"Coast is clear."
She pulls her knickers down then lifts up her skirt. She's quite porky around the waist and her arse is fat and flabby too - she'd be no good as a regular girlfriend, as after all, I have 'standards' to maintain.
As I bring my right hand back as far as I can I notice that she is also in possession of quite a hairy fanny too - yuk! I smack her hard several times observing her skin ripple with each blow in the dim yellow-orange light of the sodium lamp a good few feet away. After about four or five smacks she straightens up and turns to face me, saying, "Do you want to do something else now?"
I move closer, unbuckle my belt, lower my underpants and penetrate her. I feel quite cold as the alcohol is wearing off and I really don't fancy her; her face is chubby and her features are pig-like with her hair cut short and unflattering, but nevertheless I come though not strongly.
I hear a noise.
An elderly couple, walking their dog (at this time of the night?), suddenly poke their gray heads round and into the shelter. I don't fucking believe it!
As quickly, they pull their heads out and swiftly move on.
"Come on, I think we should go," I say to Sue.
We pull everything up, vacate the shelter and walk back along North Walk to the Eastern end of the Canoe Lake.
"You going to accompany me back home then?" she asks me.
"Where did you say you lived, Sue?"
"Little Preston Close."
"No, that's way too far. It's getting cold now. And you'll be okay as all the dodgy perverts will be in bed now."
"Thanks," she says sarcastically and missing the irony adds, "I see chivalry isn't dead yet!"
I don't respond as I've got what I want. No point in getting into an unnecessary argument.
"See ya," I say and head off along the Esplanade.
As I look up I see, about three hundred yards in front of me, the old couple, the old couple, walking their dog back home.
My 'dog', conversely, is walking itself back home...
MEMORIES OF GETTING BEATEN UP
It was in the middle of July and on a Friday evening. I was only a couple of weeks away from my 21st birthday and I was still with Claudia (who'd I'd whacked with a table tennis bat) - but not for long. It was also about a week after that I was informed that I had failed my exams - the first year of an HNC in Applied Physics. I could have passed if I had worked but I had lost motivation and was questioning everything - including the value of life itself. It was the beginning of the end for conventional ambition for me - the 2.4 children, the career, golf or squash with the boss, the house, the new car and foreign holidays. It was to take me a few more years, and a few more failures too, to finally realize that though.
I also knew that Claudia, despite the mutual interest in spanking, was not the right person for me as she was - though very attractive physically and also kinky - quite ignorant and annoying to be around. I needed and was looking for someone else.
So, on that Friday evening I had met up with my mates, Tom and Jeremy to go out on the town with the intention of getting drunk and meeting the woman of my dreams. A ridiculous way of doing things, now I look back on it.
Well, it was a hot and sultry evening and the town was full of tourist and revellers (a fancy term for pissheads) and we had trailed round the usual bars with a pint of lager in each establishment for me and Jeremy with Tom being a little bit more restrained as he was driving. Around about 10 o'clock we debated about what nightclub we should go to with me suggesting a place that seemed friendlier with better music - or rather music that I liked. However, I was outvoted by my chums who wanted somewhere with a 'little more action'. Well, we certainly got that - 'be careful what you wish for' and all that. So, we'd bundled into Tom's red VW Beetle and were driven the couple of miles out of town to the discotheque.
Even though I wasn't keen on the place, I felt it was rough and too loud, I soon got into the swing of it by boozing even more and eying up the talent. I even ventured onto the dance-floor - I was a crap dancer and was self-conscious about that I was so I must have been pretty pissed. The music was deafening and with the flashing and rotating coloured lights combining with the effects of the alcohol I just kind of felt overwhelmed. It was just after I had casually noticed Jeremy amble off to the toilets that the trouble started.
It had taken me a second or two - I think I had been a momentarily stunned - to realize that I had been attacked because all of sudden I was on the floor looking up at this short stocky blond guy wearing a black leather jacket with his arms pumping back and forth - at me.
In an instant we were both on the ground and he was grappling with me. At this point I began to resist as he seemed to be attempting to get me in some sort of hold which he never quite achieved because I was as strong as he was. However, he did get his hands round my bollocks and began to squeeze them hard. The funny thing was though that it didn't hurt where I was so fucking drunk. I was also wondering why nobody, especially my mates, were doing nothing to help me. I was fucking angry yet impotent as the guy was a better fighter than me (I later found out that he was into judo and his mate was an amateur boxer). Then suddenly he was being pulled away by one of the bouncers. It was over. I was then helped to my feet. Shocked and livid I had looked around to see Tom also being helped up just a few feet away. A few seconds later Jeremy had returned from the loos with a look of amazement upon his face.
As I had taken stock of my situation, I realized that I wasn't in too bad of a state physically - I had been overpowered and battered but it was the feelings of humiliation and inadequacy that were worse.
As I had looked at Tom, he had appeared to have got it worse than me as he was standing there with a cut lip and a blackening eye. He had also been consoled by the fact that it hadn't just been him who had been done over.
Somebody must have also phoned for the police - it wasn't one of us - as about ten minutes later a couple of coppers turned up to talk to us.
"Can you recognize who assaulted you?" the copper had asked me.
"He was blond with a black leather jacket," I had replied to the copper noting his exasperated expression.
"There's a lot of fellows here who are blond with black leather jackets. Can you point him out?"
I couldn't because the cunt had melted away - the cunt.
"Sorry, I can't identify him," I had responded.
The second copper had then whispered in the ear of the copper who'd been questioning me. The first copper then turned to us and said: "There's been a serious car accident and we've got to go. Contact us at the station if you have any more information."
They'd then walked hurriedly to the exit and disappeared into the night making me feel more than a little insecure.
"I think it's time to go home," Tom had announced sensibly prior to making for the exit.
I should have gone home as well but too much drink had resulted in too less sense.
And then I'd seen the blond guy arguing with a bouncer with his taller dark-haired mate being restrained by another bouncer against a wall. My anger and thirst for revenge suddenly overwhelmed me so I ran over and smashed Blondy hard in the face - it was the only good punch I got in. But then to my horror he broke free from the overweight bouncer. To make it even worse his mate had also shaken off the hold of the other bouncer too. They then both headed my way - fast. At this point I experienced sheer fear, so I ran off but all of a sudden there was nowhere to run - I was backed up against a wall.
I don't recall how I ended up on the ground, but I do remember flash bulb after flash bulb detonating in my consciousness and my head feeling like it was going to explode. I asked them to stop at that point - the most humiliating thing I remember from that fateful night. But they didn't and I managed to curl into a ball and bring my arms up to my face which warded off a lot of the heavy kicks. Nevertheless a few were still getting through. I remember thinking that I was going to die, beaten to death in front of everyone and that nobody gave a fuck...
In desperation I had lunged at one of the legs with the intention of up-ending one of the cunts and ripping his fucking balls off before he had time to regain balance. But when I had launched myself my hands had clutched empty air - he had seen it coming.
And then it was over - the bouncers finally got their act together and pulled them off.
I was lying against a wall with people just looking at me. The music had stopped, and the lights were on - harsh fluorescent lights.
"You've got to go the hospital you're in a right state!" Jeremy had said - I'd never been so pleased to see him. My friend.
Next, the bouncer was looming over me. "Clean yourself up and then get out - you've caused everybody a whole lot of trouble."
I'd felt like smacking him too - but wisely I didn't.
I'd then got up and walked or rather dragged my sorry self into the toilet.
In the mirror I could see one eye closed and the other badly bruised. My ear was lacerated (I can still feel the scar to this day) with blood still trickling down onto my ripped T-shirt which when I lifted it revealed a chest covered in reddening and purpling bruises. Of course, the only thing the mirror hadn't shown was the pain - or rather the humiliation. You see, I always thought I could handle myself. But I hadn't and that had hurt as much as anything.
"I've ordered us a taxi, I'll pay, don't worry." Jeremy had calmly said when I'd exited the toilet.
"You're fucking banned," the bouncer had sneered as we had passed him at the cloakroom.
"Like I'll be coming back - you lot were bloody useless," I'd retorted.
The taxi that had taken us up to Casualty was a Mark 4 Cortina - it was a car I'd always wanted.
After we'd left, we'd heard a couple of days after that more fighting had erupted and even that knives had been drawn. A little while later in the local paper we'd read that there'd been 13 arrests. I wasn't one of them - thankfully.
The outpatients was rather full of fellows with fight injuries and I'd wondered if it was like that every weekend. I hadn't recognized anyone which was probably a good thing. Nobody had said anything either - they were all losers like me. Victors didn't need to go to Casualty.
I was patched up with my ear taped back together before being given a painful tetanus jab in my bum by an unsympathetic nurse. She had then said: "You'll need to come back tomorrow and get an X-ray done of your head - just a precaution."
"So, when I get back in, just after twelve, my dad is still up and he's about to tell me that he's heard on the radio that there's been a massive fight with a number of people being arrested and as many taken up to the hospital and did I know anything about it? And then he sees me with a black eye and a split lip and goes quiet for a moment before saying: 'I guess you don't need me to tell you anything.' It was kind of funny, now you think about," Tom is saying to me and Roy as we are walking down the pier.
There's a bar at the end - it's where we are headed - and it's the Friday after we were duffed up. We've still got most of bruises - and the funny thing is that Roy has his arm in a sling after injuring it at work...
We swing open the door to the Pier Bar - it's pretty full and it looks like we'll be a while getting served. But as the other punters see us they adopt wary expressions and part, letting us through - kind of like the Red Sea for Moses.
We get to the bar and are served first. Because of our injuries people think we're hard - they don't want to piss us off. All three of us share a knowing smile - and say nothing. Funny that - people's misconceptions.
About thirty years ago (about 1979) we used to frequent a bar, the Ocean Breeze, on Sandown sea front. It was only a road's width from the sandy beach and the English Channel and aptly named.
In those days I worked nine to five with weekends off and weekends meant drinking, socializing and occasionally, very occasionally, getting lucky with a female. Most of my chums were now paired up (I'd split up with Claudia the year before) and I was beginning to feel a little out of it. About ten months later I too 'paired up' and in retrospect feeling a 'little out of it' was a hundred times preferable than being 'fully in'. But that's another tale.
Still, I had a couple of mates who I could phone and persuade to accompany me out and we would normally start the weekend on a Friday night. On the Island in the late seventies and early eighties most people looking for nightlife would head over to Sandown and Shanklin which was effectively one stretched town along the coastline of Sandown Bay since the boroughs merged into each other.
There were a lot of great establishments to enjoy: The Crab Inn, Holliers, The Chine, Keats Inn, The Eastcliff Club, The Beachcomber Bar - which kept young alligators in a pool separated from the clientèle only by a low pseudo stone wall, The Bird Cage discothèque - so called because extremely scantily clothed ladies would be hung tantalizing above the dance floor in a cage, The Jolly Sailr, Colonel Bogey's nightclub and The Yaverland which we found out later was a gay bar. There were numerous other pubs and hotel bars all crammed in the busy summer season and more so at weekends.
Being only about fifty yards away from Colonel Bogey's, the Ocean Breeze, along Culver Parade, was normally the last regular bar on the reveller's itinerary as you could park your vehicle in Colonel Bogey's car park before it got busy and then walk to the disco's entrance. It also wasn't a bad idea to divest yourself of the car prior to the police turning up at about eleven to make their presence known as we all used to drink and drive in those days.
The Ocean Breeze was a single storey affair with a glass frontage bisected by a door normally hooked open. It was probably about twenty foot wide with roughly carved wooden tables and bamboo backed chairs each side of a central aisle - to allow access to the bar at the far end - and about fifty feet deep. It was low ceilinged and illuminated dimly and cosily with low wattage red bulbs. The walls were clad with a faux bark in, what looked like, an attempt to recreate the interior of a Polynesian hut with a few garish murals hung up of Pacific Islanders fishing and sailing to strengthen the effect - I rather warmed to it, but then I'd never been there during the daylight hours or when sober.
Beyond the single bar would be the storage area and modest living quarters, the exclusive domain of the owner and manager, Dempsey. Dempsey wasn't his real name - I did know his real name for a short while but I have forgotten it now - but I labelled him that because it kind of suited him.
Dempsey was middle-aged with thick black hair slicked back across his crown and around about five eleven in height; he was possibly only a little overweight. He had a round florid complexioned face from an excess of alcohol with puffy eyes and a slightly flattened nose; at first sight the word 'pug' would come to mind, but he was a gentleman.
We knew he'd been a boxer and that he'd been in the Royal Navy - the black and white framed photos on the side of the bar told that story. One picture showed a wiry young handsome man in a singlet holding a trophy up in a ring amongst his entourage and another was of him in a petty officer's uniform in front of a warship in a foreign port; Singapore? Gibraltar?
Those days were over now, and so I guessed was his marriage. He would have been okay money wise with a good pension and also a pay-out from the selling of the marital home though I am joining the dots now as I don't really know. He was obviously well off enough to buy a bar and a profitable bar at that.
He was an affable man and would always address you as sir, or madam, but you knew if you gave him serious hassle he'd knock you cold, clean out. He had a style about him: Rick from Casablanca or Maurice Allington, played by Albert Finney, in The Green Man; though I never saw him don a white dinner jacket. He would wipe the table tops and empty the ashtrays whilst he left his staff to serve; he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He was socially adept; always said the appropriate thing and took the right actions. I sort of admired him. And now I have to explain something.
I have always hated the idea of getting old, and now I am old, I fucking hate it. I never relished the prospect of going gray, wrinkly, flabby and losing my health and sanity. I always vowed that I would kill myself before I reached that miserable condition; I guess there's still time to minimize the suffering. The human condition to me doesn't really make any sense, I mean nature brings us into being and at the same time gives birth to an ego that rebels against the ways of the very agency that created it in the first place. The 'oneness of nature' - pah!
I have digressed - sorry. As I have just stated I always hated getting old but when I used to observe Dempsey, I would be early twenties then, I started to think that if you could cultivate a style such as his then maybe it wouldn't be too bad aging - maybe. Naturally, I never revealed my inner thoughts or fears to any of my friends; that's another of my problems: repression.
Anyway, one evening a beautiful young woman came into the bar, ran up to Dempsey and threw her arms around him.
"Lucky old fucker. How did he manage to pull a gorgeous creature like her?" my mate had waxed enviously.
"I think it's actually his daughter," I'd responded; correctly as it happened.
I reckon she was about eighteen and she did indeed have film star looks: naturally blond, very pretty, perfect complexion and stunningly proportioned figure. Well out of my league.
We saw her quite a bit after that - she was regularly down at Colonel Bogey's - and I was infatuated with her, so infatuated with her that I could never pluck up the courage to approach her. She was constantly surrounded by admirers; though I never saw her with a boyfriend. I would fantasize about being with her and having Dempsey as a father figure. I'd sometimes wonder what they would say if they knew what the quiet, skinny and plain lad was imagining. It's odd how we become obsessed with people we only know on the outside; and really don't know at all.
When I look back there was no doubt that she was a daddy's girl; there was a strong bond between them.
About three months later Dempsey had committed suicide; he'd attached a hose to the exhaust pipe of his car and gassed himself. I'd read the report a dozen times in The County Press. I couldn't believe it. He was only forty nine. Only.
I thought a lot about her; and cried for her sometimes when I was alone. It also struck me that his whole persona was a mask, a carefully constructed mask to conceal his deep depression, magnified by alcohol, perhaps because of the break-up of his marriage. I wondered if he too feared the onset of age.
I stopped thinking about it all after a while because I met the person who was to become my wife; and she wasn't too dissimilar physically from Dempsey's daughter coincidentally...
CHEESE GIVES YOU BAD DREAMS
Many years ago, before I worked for the Bus Company, I was employed for a while at Tesco on the Wines and Spirits department. It was hard work, humping heavy boxes of bottles around all day, but compensated for with some great laughs.
The fellow who was my supervisor possessed a wicked sense of humour and he resembled John Thomson the actor from Cold Feet, though he was probably shorter and also a bit 'camp' too. His name was Albert.
One of the things that amused Albert was the bit in the Staff Training Manual that stated: The customers are not interested one little bit in your idle gossip...
"Yes they are, most definitely!" Albert would counter, and he would prove the assertion wrong on several occasions too with staged little incidents.
One quiet day Albert rushed out onto the shop floor looking a bit flustered and said to me loud enough to be heard: "Matt, can you lend me a fiver as my sister, who works for Tate & Lyle, has just phoned me to tell me there's going to be a severe and long sugar shortage."
"Bloody hell, Albert, I'll give you a tenner and get a whole load for me too!"
In the background was a middle aged woman pretending not to earwig. We knew different of course.
I handed Albert the tenner and he disappeared out the back. In the meantime I quietly watched the woman wheel her trolley out of the aisle.
A few minutes later Albert returned and we carried on stocking the shelves but keeping a sharp lookout in the direction of the pallet at the far end of the store where the bags of sugar were stacked.
Sure enough, after about ten minutes, the woman approached the sugar pallet.
I nudged Albert and we both looked on, trying to contain our laughter, as she placed bag after bag of sugar into her trolley till it was totally full.
I imagined her later at home and her husband asking her why every cupboard was full of sugar and she tapping the side of her nose and replying knowingly: "I have inside information that there is going to be a worldwide sugar shortage soon..."
That was back in 1983. They've probably just about got through it all now!
Albert and I scripted a few other 'wind ups' though that was probably the funniest but there was another weird incident...
One morning I was in the warehouse putting boxes away when I heard a thump followed by a gasp and then the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.
I came out to the main corridor to see this fellow in a suit lying unconscious at the door of the dairy refrigeration stock room surrounded by fourteen pound blocks of cheese. The First Aider was called and after a bit he revived and was well enough to go home though he was clearly shaken.
It turned out he had been counting the cheese which had been stacked precariously high when he had inadvertently nudged the pile for it to collapse with one landing on his head rendering him unconscious for a few minutes. Fortunately he made a full recovery.
After, there were a few jokes going round about cheese giving you bad dreams...
Funny enough, I attended, a few weeks later, the annual staff party which was fancy dress and was asked by the Dairy Manager why I hadn't come in an outfit.
I responded by lying on the floor with my eyes closed and saying, wittily I thought: "I've come as a cheese rep!"
"Very fucking funny, Matt!"
I've got a few other amusing tales of my time at Tesco which I'll get round to posting some time.