Sex

Early Spurt

by Enormous on October 9, 2009

Audrey and I went for a jog at the crack of dawn today for the first time in months and we bumped into a woman with whom I was acquainted years ago. She used to look like a mutant version of Jennifer Aniston. Huffing and puffing uphill this morning she just looked like a mutant.

She was jogging towards me along the footpath that leads over the sheep fields to the Memorial at Crich. I recognised her as she drew near and my heart sank. I used to dislike her intensely. She was the receptionist for a studio in Mansfield in which I used to work, and if I stated that we didn’t appreciate each other’s company, I would be, yet again – very much like one of my literary heroes, Bill Bryson – indulging in riotous understatement.  Needless to say, I knew to a moral certainty that I was not about to enjoy our encounter.

‘Davy?‘ she panted as she drew near.

‘Well, well. Hello, Kristin. How are you? I haven’t seen you in years.’

‘Fine. Fine. Just moved into a new house in Blackwell with Jeff – you remember Jeff?’

‘Of course. Good old Jeff. How is he, your Jeff?’ I had no idea who Jeff was.

‘Davy, you’re looking absolutely wonderful. I can’t believe it! Really athletic and toned. You must work out a lot.’

Old animosities were suddenly forgotten in the parade of years. Kristin was my new best friend.

‘Well, actually – ‘

‘You must come round to visit. Jeff would love to see you again.’

‘Yes, I – ‘

‘Come to one of our swingers parties. You’d be very welcome with a physique like that.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’d be very popular with all of my special lady friends – and one or two of my older male friends, too. You’ll make the hairs stand up on the backs of their little legs, you really will. Tuesdays. Eight o’clock.’

I tried to smile. I tried not to say anything. I was afraid that, as usual, in so doing, my mouth would slip and I would offend. But I did say something – and it wasn’t what I was expecting to hear come out of my mouth. It was this: ‘Yes, quite. That would be delightful.’

I think I’ll forget about jogging for the foreseeable future and confine my workouts to the gym in the village. It’s a good gym – small, but good.

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Sex Education

by Enormous on August 1, 2009

‘You look well, Reg. Are you managing to stay of the booze?’

‘I am a bit, as it happens. Have you heard those kids over there?’ He pointed towards the teenagers that gather around the bandstand on the rec’. ‘Effing and blinding like nobody’s business. Lots of sexual swear words – stuff I haven’t heard since my army days. Some of them are only about ten and eleven years old. It makes you wonder where they pick it up, doesn’t it.’

‘School,’ I told him. ‘Or in the home. Their parents are just as bad.’

‘I blame the schools,’ he informed me. ‘Sex education for five year-olds? What the hell is that all about?’

‘Well, I imagine it’s just basic theory and anatomy. The teachers don’t provide practical demonstrations as such.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. The things that kids get told these days.’ He made a loud huffing sound and shook his head in mock despair.

‘You have to refer to them as “little adults”.’ I told him.

‘Mind you in my day, it was even worse, Davy. I never got told anything about the birds and the bees and that. My father took me to one side when I was thirteen and told me that the man goes on the top and the woman goes on the bottom – that was the only sex education I received.’

‘Well, it was probably sufficient, wasn’t it?’ I couldn’t help laughing.

‘Not really, Davy, no. When me and my wife got married, we spent the first five years sleeping in bunk beds.’

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Considering Mister Shooter

by Enormous on June 3, 2009

‘Well, as I keep telling you, it’s very inconvenient and annoying, to say the least. Please make sure it doesn’t happen again. Thank you.’

That was me on the telephone this morning speaking to a nice woman called Velma at the local Post Office depot.

Velma is the latest in a long lone of Post Office employees who have been hearing my complaints about a certain item of mail that is delivered on a regular basis to my address. She is the latest of a dozen various officials who have told me: ‘Yes, sorry about that, Mr Lawrence. We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

Despite her and her colleagues’ well-meaning assurances, I am happily confident that it will, in fact, happen again.

About six times every year, an large envelope addressed to a Mr P. Shooter – a previous tenant, I have ascertained – is stuffed through my letterbox. Inside this envelope is a glossy catalogue displaying in full-colour and highly graphic detail a large range of sexual toys and various rubbery implements from a company called Up Yours.

Whilst I am not totally averse to quickly flicking through its pages before depositing said catalogue in the bin, I have noticed that the range of products available is almost always entirely the same; Up Yours’ range of wobbly vibrators and pink, blow-up dolls has, over the years, remained pretty constant. Thus, I do not need to see any more. Neither, I suspect, if he were in receipt of his catalogue, would Mr Shooter.

It seems that the Post Office has been ignoring my requests, however. And I do not have any intention of personally contacting Up Yours; goodness knows what else they might send me once they have my details. I do not want my actual name on further envelopes full of offers to buy embarrassing ‘real-feel’ contraptions at knock-down prices.

Not being listened to seems to be the story of my life – well, the main chapters, at least.

I am feeling slightly anxious and uncomfortable for another reason this morning, also. I had a lurid dream last night in which I was engaging in rampant sex action with the pretty wife of a Hammond organ-playing friend of mine. I still feel very guilty about it – she’s a happily married woman, after all. That dream was immediately followed by another in which I was on trial at Nuremberg.

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Every Cloud

by Enormous on April 16, 2009

Boy, it’s grim weather here today: heavy cloud and constant drizzle.

Looking out of the window I can see a massive, black, anvil-shaped monster of a thundercloud to the north just idly waiting until Audrey and I leave the house for our afternoon stroll around the park. It looks as if it is about to collapse under its own weight of grey.

Hum, I know that feeling.

We already got soaked to the skin when we were out by the old railway tracks this morning at eight o’clock. I didn’t mind, though, because we encountered a gorgeous female jogger who we often see down that part of the village. I was going to introduce myself but I messed up as usual.

‘Lovely morning,’ she panted as she drew near.

‘Is it?’ was my inspired reply.

Is it? Good grief, no wonder she frowned and just carried on past us, puzzled and slightly frightened. Is it? I was frowning too. The way I blunder through my lonely bachelorhood is a constant source of amazement to me.

My dissatisfaction with my awkward and depressingly charmless personality was tempered somewhat on the way home by my recollection of her tight Lycra jogging bottoms.

I just couldn’t get them out of my mind.

Their image remained there for most of the morning, in fact, precise and perfectly represented (I have a pornographic memory), suggesting to me all the stimulating possibilities for sexual mayhem that two healthy adults might enjoy together on the floor of a small recording studio on a wet and misty morning in April.

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Telling Teenage Fortunes

by Enormous on April 6, 2009

No.38:

You will have a party and no one will come.

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Gay Abandon

by Enormous on February 4, 2009

So it finally happened: Nelson Galaxy slept with a man.

I must say, it is rather exciting to have such a sexually emancipated character in the family, but I think he is feeling rather awkward about it now.

For Nelson, waking up with a hairy man in your bed is definitely an idea conceived in the abstract – or yet another embarrassing incident that can be blamed on the intemperate consumption of alcohol, but, either way, I am convinced he is on some kind of personal quest to redefine stupidity and heedless action. When one drinks as much as he does, anything can happen.

As for yours truly, all you hairy men can keep to your side of the universe and I’ll keep to mine.

The salty and challenging things that take place in Mr Galaxy’s life would never happen to someone as brutally heterosexual as me – as long, at least, as my sobriety does not falter.

That being said, I suppose I’m more of a tri-sexual kinda guy, really.

(I’ll try anything sexual.)

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Sex And The Single Man

by Enormous on January 29, 2009

He isn’t getting any.

Instead: a ghost story – well, it’s better than watching television; the programmes on TV here in England at the moment would make an idiot weep.

I did once see a ghost. I was about 18 years-old and it was a strange experience to say the least.

I was doing some shopping in town when a group of about a dozen or so fast-moving people hustled past me. In the middle of this group was someone who I thought I recognised: a young man who attended the same school as me but to whom I had never spoken or personally acknowledged in any significant way.

I was thinking I recognised him from behind, when, swiftly disappearing along the busy street, he turned his head, confirming to me that it was indeed who I thought it was, and smiled benignly at me. ‘Oh it’s that fellow from school,’ I thought to myself. ‘I should make a point of saying hello to him the next time I see him.’

Later that same day, I was reading a copy of the local newspaper. On the front page was an article about a murder that had taken place a few days before, the homosexual victim of which had been discovered wrapped in a piece of old carpet and dumped upside down in a wheelie bin.

He had been fatally stabbed several times and horrifically beaten about the head. The article included a photograph of this unfortunate individual which had obviously been taken recently but before the tragic event that had lead to his untimely demise.

I was stunned.

Smiling at me from a grainy black and white image was the boy I had seen just a few hours previously as he passed me in the street. I checked the date on the newspaper. His body had been discovered five days before the article was printed.

Now that is weird.

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