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.
