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Used to work for AVIVA offshoring IT to India.  Now retired through ill health, writing my life story as a series of blogs chronologically from birth to current time.  At www.jw-alifeofsurprises.blogspot.com
 

Friday, 26 July 2013

A Sucker for Punishment


The Suns heat had begun to diminish in strength and its glare coming off the beaches and roads lessened to a murky haze.  The almost naked bodies took a few minutes longer to cook to a nice crisp brown, or in many cases a vicious violent red; and inevitably the pace of life began to slow down so Dave and I could take a little more time relaxing.  Our own tans were now a lovely warm brown, the white bits starkly white in contrast and as we’d taken our time to develop the colour, it was all the more consistent and uniform; we actually looked liked ex-pats now.  We’d transitioned through a year that so far had offered a number of delights, excitements and the occasional shock and sadness, but one that had been memorable if nothing else.  Bar Confusion was still busy as September 1989 plopped into being with its offer of evening rain to counter the daytime warmth, a blessing to the locals and a misery to those who’d paid a hefty price for late summer heat.  Dave and I were tiring of bar work by then and we took longer to rise each day, to stock up the bottomless fridges with bottles of Heineken and to open the doors to customers.  September’s song was mainly one of games of seduction married with football on the beach, a heady mix of sex and sunshine all washed down with beer and tequila of an evening. 

Natalie had arrived mid-summer with a gaggle of friends and we’d taken a good day to get into one another’s underwear.  She had returned to the Island in September for another break, staying with me in town and we’d spent a nice week together; Natalie going out with Dave’s wife Rebecca and her friends as I worked, meeting up late on to satisfy ourselves of the built up sexual tension that sun combined with alcohol has a tendency to concoct.  I was still happy to mix it up once she had returned to Norwich; she was from my hometown and a nice co-incidence as there might after all, be someone to go home to now, as well as my Mother!   Once Natalie was home I’d returned to my Lothario role as if nothing special had happened and as if to prove his existence, the God of “What goes around, comes around,” decided on having his sport pretty soon after she’d left.  Tony the Tennis Pro’ and Yachtsman was preparing to leave late September taking with him, a woman he’d met on the island who was from Liverpool. 

She was in her late thirties, though more likely early forties but whose figure and looks belied her age hoodwinking the onlooker into believing she was far younger, although in truth there is nothing wrong with that.  To bid farewell to them both I convinced her to extend to me the gift of a goodbye blowjob and she obliged rather too easily looking back.  We’d managed to sneak off to my apartment after a late evening spent in Star Club where she’d not even let me undress before clamping herself onto my knob and sucking like a Dyson.  In fact, such was her mouths vice like grip and power of suction that I swayed between pleasure and pain in equal measure.  It was more “suck-job” than blowjob, as she breathed through her nose and never once looked up, down or sideways.  If she had she would have seen my face alternating between fractured grimaces and eye-popping pleasure.  Her powers of suction were starting to worry and funnily enough annoy me, as she went at it like a limpet sticking to a rock, burying her head into my groin deeper and deeper.  

I tried my best to focus on the more pleasurable aspects but looking down at the top of her head I was suddenly distracted, as I could see the roots showing through her dyed jet-black hair at the crown.  “Focus old son, focus now,” my brain shifted its attention this time to her tits, honing into view in brief snippets as she moved backwards and forwards at an ever increasing rate of knots.  “Use the force young Skywalker,” said a voice in head and as I started wondering just how much force was needed to get her to relinquish her grip my orgasm ripped through me.  Shouts of joy and relief were equally matched as she slowed and I tentatively moved backwards afraid of what might drop from her lips; “Would I recognise my lifelong friend after that terrible journey into the unknown?”  

She raised her eyes to look at me; her smoky slightly saucy fairground looks those of a Gypsy girl, her lips a vivid red pout.  In fact her pucker looked like a clowns it was that red, it was so very red because I was bleeding for fucks sake!  I leapt backwards and smacked into my wardrobe, my limp Willy dropping from her mouth like a leech falling of an arm once gorged on the feast, only this time drained of blood.  She was a bloody vampire.   My head rang as it clipped the wardrobe a good one and I looked through stars and birds for a moment as she sat there looking at my waist covered in blood.  “Oh…my…God!” her voice rose with each word as she sat back onto the bed, its springs arguing beneath her and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.  Her lipstick was long gone and her hand fell away revealing a line of blood merging with sweat.  She had after all been going like the clappers.

What, the fuck, have you done?” I said, tenderly cradling my cock in my hand; it resembled a skinned and legless mouse (could’ve written rabbit, don’t wish to brag!), all timid and afraid to raise its head again.  “I don’t fucking know!” was her reply.  “You’ve killed it,” I said, “its dead, it’ll never work again.”  I ran to the bathroom and bathed myself in cold water and after sometime, with the skin cleaned of dried blood, he returned to a nice pink colour.  The blood had actually come out of the end, from my japseye, not through any cuts I could see and I went back to my bedroom to find her disrobed and in bed.  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I asked her.  “Going to sleep, it’s the middle of the night.”  Her assumption that she was ‘invited to stay’ was a step to far.  “You’re not fucking staying! You could have bled me dry you mad twat.  Get dressed and get the fuck out.  You’re barred.”  

I grabbed her dress and shoes and threw them at her.  I went into the lounge and waited for her to get dressed and she walked out of the bedroom after five minutes or so, trying to hold her head high but failing, miserably.  “Dave said you were bloody mad, he was right.”  I said as she sulked past.  “Well I’m going away with Tony tomorrow so you can get fucked.” She continued to mutter as she left, her lady-like tone echoing off the cobblestoned road and stuccoed houses as she went, her Liverpudlian accent ringing in my ears as she shouted, “Cunt.”  

I went inside and collected loads of toilet paper and wound it around my knob, pulled on a pair of boxers and went to bed; an early doors appointment with “One-shot Vidal” was called for!  Vidal the Doctor had a surgery on a side road leading up from the bay, not too far from the West End.  I took a seat in his waiting room and sat reading unknown Spanish from a magazine until called for.  I entered his surgery and Vidal sat behind his desk.  He looked typical Ibicencan; he had dark hair, slightly chubby and definitely wasn’t tall.  Gesturing for me to sit down he asked in good English what my problem was?  He’d become known as “One-Shot Vidal,” back in 1984.  Anyone and everyone had been going at it and inevitably, viruses and infections were passed around.  Vidal had a massive store of Antibiotic’s, or quick access to them and as the main Hospital was across the Island, he’d quickly developed a loyal local customer base and an annual on-going trade from visitors, who’d collected something on holiday that they’d rather not take home, along with their miniature Raffia Donkey and Leather Pouch of Sangria.  

I explained the basic facts, leaving plenty out, assuming he’d rather not know too much.  Wrong!  In a wonderful Spanish/English inflected accent he asked me questions that quickly ascertained exactly what had happened.  “So, these a lady fellated you until you bleed, correct?” I nodded meekly, “I must a look at these a penis please,” he said and I dropped my shorts to reveal my old fella swathed in toilet roll.  One-shot put on his gloves and peeled away the makeshift bandages until my knob dropped away and hung there.  “Ok,” he said.  A thorough examination followed and he finally stood back surveying the damage.  “She sucked your blood from inside, there are arteries inside by your tubes and the blood come a through the walls and out of the end.  Understand?”  I nodded again.  “Nothing to do but a wait.”  I nodded again.  “No infections here, I don’t a think so anyway. No pains or aches?”  He asked. “Nope, none,” I replied and he gestured for me to dress.  “Take these a bill to the desk and pay the girl, thank you,” and that was that.  One-Shot had cleared up my worries and apart from a few days on the subs bench, I would be playing first team football in no time.  

With September upon us custom dwindled away fast, only the bars in the West End turning over any trade.  Long days and long nights started to reduce as we were closed earlier after a later opening, movies weren’t shown by now and we spent more time in the OK Corral and on the beach.  One afternoon I went back to my rooms to find someone had broken in and had stolen my Leather Jacket.  I was fucking livid and had an idea that Les the Chef had done it, only I hadn’t any evidence to go on of course.  Blind with anger I marched into the bar on the other side of Confusion, where Les would drink beers when not cooking.  “I know you've got my jacket, you thieving twat,” I accused him, waving the wrench around that I had collected from Confusion on the way past.  “Fuck off dickhead,” he replied.  

Despite “knowing” he’d done it, I had no evidence and after shouting a lot, I walked out, reminding those in the bar that if I caught the thief, I’d brain them with the wrench.  But the Jacket was gone and along with it my desire to appear as George Michael.  Perhaps George did it?  Competition scared him?  My time as a lookalike was done and I decided to never again dress up as George and prance about; I’d retired from that career for good.  Whatever John Fashanu might or might not offer upon my return, I wasn’t going to do it.  I wanted to join a band and sing my own lyrics and I would do so in the New Year.  For now, we had to clear up the mess created over six months of madness and have our staff night out.