Erotic Fiction

I’d like to make a welcome to my new friends.

But in particular, I’d like to say hello to Ellie.

Hello, Ellie.

I don’t know if the rest of you have been to Ellie’s blog, but it’s quite, um, candid. She appears to be a woman of considerable appetites and, while I’m not one to judge, I do feel a little sorry for her husband. Presumably he doesn’t know what she’s getting up to behind his back with a string of men, women and portable equipment.

I was uplifted by the frankness of her writing. Indeed, I hadn’t been reading Ellie’s blog for more than a couple of minutes before I felt a post coming on.

So here we go: I was reminded, as I so often am by these sorts of things, of the few years that Dave the Roofer spent supplementing his income by writing erotic fiction for a publishing house called Fantasy Towers. Sadly FT has gone bust now (they even sold their web domain to the Financial Times in a bid to stay afloat) and that was, in part, Dave’s fault.

To be fair to Dave, he’s always striven for new territory and, after a while, he began to find the constraints of the FT style guide a little tight. He wanted to really stretch the genre as wide as it would go and so he managed to persuade FT’s owner and chief editor to take a gamble on what turned out to be his final book, Nun Buggers.

Sadly it proved too extreme for FT’s readership and the firm effectively choked to death, not unlike Sister Gloria, the auto-erotic asphyxiation-inclined Mother Superior in the book, who was found hanging by her rosary from the door handle of her office in the Convent, with a tennis ball in her mouth and an extra large love egg up her whotsit.In a poignant twist, the love egg was still jiggling. It was, Dave wrote, the only life left in her.

But it was the chief editor’s call to publish the book, ultimately, so he’s to blame. Dave told me that when he first went to see the chief editor, he was staggered by the amount of books in the office, with many classic British novels among the bongo. He asked the editor if he’d read them all, and the editor said he had, indeed.

“Oh yes,” he said, “all of them, and more than once. Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Sense and Sensibility, Brideshead Revisited, Bleak House, Wuthering Heights, Pamela, they’re all terribly dog-eared, I’m afraid. But none is so well thumbed as Howard’s End.”

“That’s good, is it?” said Dave.

“It’s wonderful,” said the editor, smiling wistfully. “Time after time I lose myself in it for hours.”

It was three months before Dave realised that Howard was the office junior.

For a couple of years Dave was their biggest selling author. Of course he didn’t publish under his real name, Dave the Roofer. He had a nom de plume, which he actually took from a distant ancestor: The Contessa Alexia von Lichtenstein (the Roofer – lol!!).

Dave started out writing erotic twists on established stories or genres. The saucy horror short story The Camel’s Paw gave him his first big break, and he followed this up with Charles Dickings’ Great Expectorations, a skit in which pathological liar Pip feeds Estella an absolute whopper and she finds it hard to swallow. Then there was the Life and Times of Miss Hand-Shandy, a story about a girl who works in an eighteenth century massage parlour, which had a very happy ending. Of all of Dave’s books from this early period, I liked the semi-autobiographical Wankenstein the least; it was too self indulgent. Dave did admit to me once that, by this stage in his historic erotica writing, he had begun to run a little dry.

The fixation with illicit rumpo within the confines of religious buildings that was eventually to prove his downfall was evident in the only gay erotic novel he wrote, charting the nightly trysts between two extremely flexible and open minded residents of a Silent Trappist Monastery.

Called The Love That Dare Not Speak It’s Name, it’s pretty much like Brokeback Mountain, but with monks, and less dialogue (it’s all about body language, the book’s jacket says). Dave hasn’t spoken to Annie Proulx since her short story came out. He’s tetchy about the details, but he thinks she ripped him off. It’s a shame, they were really good friends, and he did her roof for mates’ rates.

Probably his most challenging period was when he got into hyper-realism. Fantasy Towers tried to dissuade him from following this route, knowing, I suppose, that what their readers really wanted was fantasy. But Dave is an obstinate man and, when the creative urge is upon him, cannot be knocked off his path. So I thought I might give you a sample of writing from this, his most difficult erotic book: The Married Sex Life of Robert and Claire.

To set the scene, Robert and Claire, have just got home after a meal out for their fifteenth wedding anniversary.

“Well the food was nice, at least,” said Claire with a sigh, stepping out of her high heels and massaging her feet. She made a mental note to buy a new pumice stone.

“One hundred and twenty fucking quid,” said Robert, hiccupping. “And that dessert was only a chocolate fucking pudding. It was a piece of piss; even you could have made it. Just because that twat’s on the telly. He wasn’t even doing the cooking, the fuckwit.”

Robert walked to the downstairs toilet, knocking their wedding photo askew as he bumped into the wall. With a sigh he began to empty his bladder.

“Christ, I’ve been dying for this since we got in that cab,” he shouted. “Hey, pretty lucky to find an unlicensed one, eh love? Saved us a tenner at least.”

“Do you think you could please shut the door when you’re using the toilet,” said Claire. “And don’t go all over the seat,” she shouted, adding “for fuck’s sake” under her breath.

“I never go over the seat,” Robert replied, wiping the seat with some toilet roll.

Robert flushed the cistern and swayed out of the toilet and back into the hallway. Claire sighed to herself. He was drunk again. The meal wouldn’t even have been so expensive if he hadn’t ordered that second bottle, not to mention the dessert wine. Still, at least the kids didn’t have to see him like this. She’d packed them off to her mum’s.

“Bloody hell, fifteen years,” said Robert putting his hands on Claire’s tits. “Where’s it all gone, eh?”

“I don’t know,” said Claire wondering whether Robert thought she was enjoying his attentions.

“Right, then,” he said, “I suppose we should, you know, nip upstairs, given the kids are away. Make like it’s fifteen years ago, eh love?”

Claire couldn’t remember if she’d even enjoyed it fifteen years ago. Nonetheless, she took the stairs ahead of him.

In the bedroom Robert struggled out of his trousers and stood before her, in his shirt, underpants and socks. She let her dress slide to the floor, took off her tights and bra, and slipped between the sheets. Robert pulled the bedclothes back, naked now, and clambered on to the bed as she parted her legs in tired resignation, shut her eyes and waited.

Nothing happened.

“Oh,” said Robert.

Claire opened her eyes. Robert was looking ruefully down at his cock, which was flaccid.

“I don’t know…” he started to make an excuse…

“Just forget it, don’t worry,” said Claire.

“I’m so tired and stuff, and work’s really stressful,” Robert said.

“You’re drunk,” said Claire, flatly.

“I could, er, I could use my mouth, I mean I could go…”

“Please, Robert, shut up,” said Claire, “you’re embarrassing me.”

“Or maybe you could, y’know, kiss it. That might wake it up a bit…”

“Get off!” said Claire.

Robert rolled to the side of Claire, and she turned her back to him.

“I don’t know why, for once, we couldn’t just have a romantic night together,” She began. “Dan takes Juliette away for a weekend once a month. I’m not asking for that, I’m just asking, for once, that we have dinner out and some kind of attempt at romance. But no, not even on our fucking anniversary. Don’t you care, Robert? Don’t you care? Robert…”

But Robert was asleep.

In the early hours of the morning he awoke with an erection so powerful it almost hurt. His head was full of hot, scattered images, fragments of dreams he’d been having. He was horny as hell, that was all he could think about. He rolled over and whispered to his wife:

“Claire, are you awake love?” he gave her shoulder a shake. “Claire, are you awake? I’m really bloody horny. Can we have sex now?”

Claire was awake, but she pretended to be asleep. There was no way, there was just no way. When another shake got no response, Robert sighed and turned over. Suddenly he remembered one of the dreams he’d been having, about the young girl who worked in his office. God she was so gorgeous. So young, so... so unspoiled. Without him willing it, his hand found its way down to his cock.

It didn’t take long. He let out an almost inaudible moan. Breathing in it felt as if he inhaled no oxygen; only despair.

Claire shuddered.

Well, there you go, readers, I told you it was challenging. I for one struggled to see the titillation in it. But Dave was convinced that he’d started a new movement in erotic fiction and was not to be dissuaded. Then, as soon as it had come, it was gone, and he was back to more familiar output, with some utter filth based on the Swiss Family Robinson.

The thing that always used to make me smile about Dave’s books, the ones that had the actual fantasy stuff in them, was that they were all read by people who thought they were written by an aristocratic woman. In fact, of course, they were written by a 16 stone roofer from West London. Dave told me that this was more or less the norm, and that most female writers of erotic fiction are, in fact, men.

Now I’m not suggesting Ellie is a sixteen stone man, I don’t doubt her femininity for a moment. No, no. But it does get you thinking, doesn’t it.

Anyways, once again, welcome to all my friends and Ellie: Keep it up!

Peace

ND

A nice day for a white wedding

What I'm about to tell you is amazing.

As long term readers will recall, back in May my estranged girlfriend Gill managed to get herself pregnant. It was an startling development to say the least. Now, I know that people have been getting pregnant for years, so I suppose it wasn't that starlting really, but the startling part was that the baby was not mine, but was (is) in fact that of my good friend Dave the roofer.

Dave is a simple man with simple pleasures. Chelsea FC, booze, birds and roofing. Simple he may be, but he is the salt of the earth and when Gill announced her pregnancy Dave did the decent thing and offered to support Gill financially.

He'd just come into money, thanks to the death of his uncle Dave in Canada and had inheritated the family roofing business under the proviso that he would have to move out to Edmonton, Alberta!

Well readers, with Xmas fast approaching, Gill is now five months pregnant. It seems as though Dave the roofer's paternal instincts have come to the fore. He called me up last night after Chelsea had beaten Atletico Madrid 4-0.

"ear Baz," he said, "You know what? Tonight is the best night of my life."
"Easy Dave," I said, "you've not even made it to the knock-out stages yet."
"No Baz mate," he said, "Not for the first time, you misunderstand."

What Dave then went on to tell me, just about blew my socks off. It seems Dave and Gill have been spending quite a bit of time together of late, I suppose what with me starting my new job and contemplating turning gay like Dan, I hadn't really noticed how close Dave and Gill had become.

On Wednesday night, at Stamford Bridge, Dave the roofer proposed to Gill and she accepted! FUCKING HELL, Gill doesn't even like football.

It doesn't stop there readers, because Dave the roofer was calling me up to ask me to be his best man. Y'know, initially I did think it would be a bit weird being the best man at my best friend and ex-girlfriend's wedding, but then Dave told me he had booked us tickets to fly out to Las Vegas this weekend!

How cool is that? What a top geezer. Dave and Gill are only going to get married by an Elvis impersonator. I tell you what, only in America.

Dave told me that he just thought 'why not'. Well, you know, when I'm sitting on the sofa playing Pro Evo, I sometimes think to myself, 'shall I have another Cobra?' then I think 'why not?' Sometimes, when I'm having a nice cup of tea, I think 'should I have a Chocolate Hobnob?' then I think 'why not?'

What I don't do is get my best friend's ex up the duff, then secretly plan a wedding in Las Vegas. I dunno, maybe I should be more spontaneous, maybe I should live a bit more by the seat of my pants in the spur of the moment.

I really think maybe Dave should have been more thoughtful though, I mean, I've only got 24 hours or so to write a best man speech. Dave knows damn well I'm a perfectionist. So while him and Gill are enoying the movies and Dave's enjoying the free booze, I'll be fretting over my lines. I guess sitting here moaning about it isn't going to help!

Anyway, sorry to moan, I got a bit distracted there, the really amazing thing is, I saw Charlie Boorman today!!!!!!!!! He was trying to get hold of someone on the mobile while standing at a petrol station.

Arguably not as amazing as the story I saw on the news about an ice skating Russian circus bear that went postal and killed its trainer. I never knew bears could ice skate. But they can. As can Apes.

Actually, having watched the YouTube videos, linked above, of animals ice skating, my sympathies certainly go out to the bear. Although, the sympathy doesn't really count for much, since the Russian authorities shot the bear dead.

Speaking of shooting things dead, I'd like to shoot Nick Griffen, leader of the BNP, dead. He's on Question Time tonight. I know that he was elected and everything (by a million or so people apparently), but I can't help thinking he's an absolute cunt.

I dunno, maybe I'm being unfair, perhaps he's nice to grannies (white ones) and does a lot of work for charities (although probably not Oxfam). But even so, he's the leader of a political movement that should be outlawed.

I'm all for outlawing stuff that's bad. The G comes along and outlaws stuff willie-nillie. Talking on a mobile phone while driving a car has been outlawed, riding a bicycle whilst under the influence of alcohol has been outlawed, smoking canabis, outlawed, polygamy, outlawed, driving 35 mph in a built up area, outlawed, carrying a bottle of water through security at an airport, outlawed. The list goes on and on.

Surely it would make much more sense to repeal all of the above and outlaw the BNP?

Anyhoo, I guess I'd better make a start on that speech.

I'm off to Vegas tomorrow, see you next Tuesday.

Barry
x

Never again...

I've got a stonking hangover today. I don't know why I do it to be honest? Gill always said I was a borderline alcoholic, I certainly don't feel like a drink right now, so I guess that means I can't be an alkie, they don't just like a drink, they need a drink. Actually, now I've said that, I reckon a little one just to take the edge off things might help.

Gill's been at the forefront of my mind recently readers, I've not really had the time to be thinking of old friends, not since I started the new job, but she's nearly three months gone! Wow, how time flies eh?

I was really pleased then when my my old friend Dave, the roofer, texted me and asked me I fancied a drink up, "for old times sake", he'll never get the hang of apostrophes. God only knows what kind of father he'll make! I was so glad he got in touch, becasue I wanted to tell him all about how I've totally landed on my feet with the new job.

When I met up with him he wasn't wearing his beloved John Terry Chelsea shirt, he reckons Terry is going to do the off, some bloke he knows who works at Marcos restaurant told him. He called Terry a "fucking Judas", which is Dave's staple insult for an footballer who has moved clubs. Dave was wearing what looked like an American football shirt with Gretzky 99 on the back. Which I thought was weird, because Dave can't stand Americans.

The last time I'd spoken with Gill, just before I started my new job, she'd told me that Dave the roofer had presented her with £10k and promised £1k per month indefinitely for the upkeep of the child that she had decided to selfishly keep. Now, the way I figured it, Dave must have gotten himself into some murky roofing scams to come up with that sort of money, either that or it was an out and out lie by Gill just to belittle me. But it turns out that Dave's rich uncle Dave from Edmonton passed on a few months ago and left him with a bag of cash and one or two properties. It's easy to be generous when you're rich isn't it?

Dave, the roofer, had always talked about his rich uncle Dave from Edmonton. But I never even met him. Seems Dave's father and his brother (Dave - Dave's uncle) had set up a roofing business in the late 70s, then much like Adolf Dassler and Rudolph Dassler founders of the sporting goods giants Adidas and Puma, the two brothers had an almighty argument and went their separate ways.

Dave's father handed down the Chelsea roofing business to Dave, meanwhile Dave's uncle Dave moved to Edmonton and started afresh. Now, I thought that meant he'd moved to Edmonton, Enfield in North London, but actually he'd moved to Edmonton, Alberta in Canada!

That's quite the rift. Anyway, Dave told me all this over a pint or eight in the Imperial on the King's Road. Seems Dave has spent the last few weeks over in Canada. Dave reckons his uncle never married out there, and in his last will and testament he left Dave his entire estate, under the proviso that Dave moves out to Edmonton to run the business!!

Dave wasn't going to do it, out of loyalty to his father, but then when Gill came along and ruined everything, he thought it would make financial sense. Plus, Dave's dad said to him that it'd be all right, he'd take care of things in Chelsea and anyway Dave has had enough of living in London, "cos of all the immigrants". I pointed out that when Dave moves to Canada to take over the Edmonton roofing business, he'll be in immigrant himself. But I don't think he quite understood.

We had quite an emotional night, as you can well imagine, it will be terrible to see the back of Dave. We've had such a journey together. Get this though, he's asked me to be the Godfather of his unborn child! I said I wasn't sure that Gill would be keen, but he just winked at me and said he has certain ways of talking her around to his way of thinking, then he did this thing with his tongue in his cheek and said "she loves it Bazzler." Well, I felt a bit sick to be honest, but we'd had a few sherberts and so I let it wash over me.

The thing is readers, I'm not sure that I should accept Dave's invitation to be his child's Godfather. As regular readers will know, I've been taking in-depth looks at religion and it's made me appreciate the finer points of the need for spirituality, that said what if Gill and Dave decide the back the wrong horse at the font? I'm not sure if I could live with myself if I stood up in an anglican church and promised to God that I'd look after Dave and Gill's child, if God forbid, anything should happen to them, only to then discover at a later date that it's not the anglican God that I should have been making promises to, but the Catholic God or worse still the Jewish God, now I've done some reading around the subject and I can catagorically say that you wouldn't want to fuck with the God of the Old Testament, he'd rain down bad on yo ass.

Imagine, you're dead right, and then you find out that actually you should have paid attention to the Jehovah's Witnesses who knocked on your door the previous weekend and now you're doomed to wander the Earth in limbo like an unseen zombie in that film with Rickey Gervais. The thing is, at least you've made your choice, as it were, I might well have been rude the doorstepping God botherers, but it was my choice, and that's my right as a human being. It's called FREE WILL, duuuuuuuuh! But If I stand up at a font in the wrong type of church and make a load of promises, won't that just anger the correct God?! And then I've pretty much condemed Dave and Gill's child to a lifetime of blasphemy and an eternity in the fiery pit of the hell of whichever God I've gone and inadvertedly pissed off.

It would be hipocrisy, and no one could accuse me of being an hippocrates. Least of all Dave the bloody roofer, who, when all's said and done, decided to bang my recently ex'd girlfriend, bring a bastard child into the world and then bugger off to the other side of the world.

I might suggest that we work on signing Dave junior up to a selection of some of key religions right from the get go, just in case.

Anyway, I'm off to take a dump now.

Peace out

Barry
x

U TW@!

Woke up to the sound of my phone alerting me to the fact that I'd received a text message. After yesterday's bombshell news that Gill's knocked up with another man's baby, I did what any man in my situation would have done. Well, not an Islam or a top sportsman on the eve of a big competition, or indeed a sensible taxi driver who was about to start his shift, or Roger (apparently - although I doubt that, he probably just stays off the booze so he can manipulate Mum (both emotionally and physically - GOD I NOW FEEL SICK)).

I had a can of Cobra.

Then another and another. Before not too long I'd guzzled through the mobile phone safety barrier of about six cans of Cobra. It was sitting on the table, looking up at me, taunting me. I swear readers, I was beyond help. I picked it and sent Dave a text.

"Wetting the baby's head?" I texted.
"WTF U talkin abt Baz?"
"Won't be showing people down the Imperial pictures of Gill naked now will you? More likely to be junior."
"Serious. WTF U talkin abt Baz?"
"In fact, there'll be no more Imperial for you. No more going to the Bridge. No more bunking up with barmaids. But you can bunk up with your best pal's ex-girl as much as you like."
"Been drinkin" he asked.
"I've had a few Dave. I'm celebrating not having to look after a baby."
"UR saying wot I think UR sayin?"
"Nice one DAD!"
"If UR lyin 2me, ur ded"
"In the words of Charles and Eddie, Would I lie to you?"
"TWIT*."
"Game over."
"TWIT*."
"I'm ending this, not you."
"TWIT*."
Enjoy the Cup Final."
"TWIT*."

I thought I'd leave it at that, sometimes you've got to be the bigger man. I'm not sure what the message was on my phone this morning. Wasn't from Dave though, it was from Gill. Think I'll open it later.

Yours in News

Barry - young, free and single (again!)

ps. Dave was actually calling me a twat, but I thought I'd better change it to twit in case any of my younger readers are easily influenced.

pps. even though Dave the roofer is die hard Chelsea, I really do hope they win today, because I know Mess will be watching!

The sins of the father

I have had a day of highs and lows readers, but mostly lows. There’s no easy way to explain this to you, so I’ll just come right out with it.

Gill has managed to get herself pregnant. Good, bloody Christ, she’s up the duff. I can’t believe it, readers. I just can’t believe it.

Suddenly it all clicks into place. The other day, when we met at the moon under water? She wasn’t late because she had to be somewhere else; she was “Late” with a capital ‘L’. Late as in her moontime had not been forthcoming. In the family way. Tubbed. Up the bloody stick. The text message she sent me? “Positive?” that was the test result, not some cryptic allusion to her mood.

Obviously I found out because I caved in and called her. I asked her if she had calmed down but before she could answer, I heard her retch and then be sick. So then I asked her if she’d had a big night the night before, out with some bloke or something and then she was very rude to me.

She said: “No you insufferable little twat of a man. I’m fucking pregnant!”

I guess it must be the hormones.

You can imagine my response, readers, because it was the response that any decent man of my circumstance would have come up with, I’m sure. That’s to say, I was thinking in no uncertain terms that I am in no way ready to assume the responsibilities of fatherhood. I was panicking. I mean, it’s not like we’re even in a relationship. We’ve split up, and just because we had some drunken tuppenny bloody bunk-up in the UK’s premier location for exceptional short break experiences in a forest location – I can’t even be certain she was awake for all of it, for Christ’s sake – doesn’t mean that we can skip hand in hand into the soft-focus sunset of parenthood. Shit.

So I played it cool. I said: “Wow, so how do you feel about that?”

And she said: “I feel fucking terrible you spindly, cosseted bloody cretin.”

I had visions of the church, the aisle, Mum sitting in the front row and Gill standing there, a life of sleepless nights and nappies stretching out before me. I was about to offer some trademark Newsdesk placatory words when she hit me with the sledgehammer blow.

“And before you ask, don’t worry,” she said. “I’m certain it can’t be yours.” She was sick again, and then she said. “I think it must be Dave’s”

I got this horrible feeling in my stomach, like it was looping the loop and then I started to feel sick myself. I felt sad and angry. So I had a bit of a shout.

“Dave the bloody roofer?” I said. “Jesus Christ, Dave the roofer and my sort-of girlfriend are having a baby together. I thought we were working things out. I thought after Center Parcs things were getting back together. And now you’re having a baby with Dave the bloody roofer? He can barely fucking well write. What kind of father’s he going to be, eh? He’s a borderline alcoholic, bigoted, sexist moron. He’s got every Clarkson DVD that’s been issued. Even the foreign imports, the ones from Australia. The last book he read was a novel based on the TV series Spender, and it was written by Jimmy Nail!! He’s my best friend, for crying out loud.”

And then she put the phone down.

Well, I can tell you, readers, I didn’t know where I was. I wanted to phone Mum, but I didn’t want to tell her about Gill and Dave. So I just did what Buddhists are supposed to do in these situations: I sat down and had a think. And do you know what? It didn’t seem that bad, after a while. I actually started to feel relieved.

I’m a young man in the prime of my life. I’m a creative guy. And you know what they say about the pram in the hallway being the enemy of creativity.

I started to feel sorry for them both. It’s silly in this day and age to have unprotected sex, and they should have been more responsible. Now they’re going to have to live with this problem. Certainly, I realised that I wouldn’t be able to be with Gill after this. I can’t bring up Dave’s child, I just can’t. And I think it takes strength to be that brutally honest about something like this.

Anyway, I think it’s high time I had a beer. Newsdesk out, people.

Come on Liverpool

I've had a few cans of Cobra today readers I got up late and with a handover and that, but I've had a dfew more and a few chooce words on the phone with gill and I I'll tell you what I dont reaaly care what you think right now, I'm not taking it

as regular readers will know I'vem a Notts forest fam , bnit tonight I'm going to be supporting a dfiffering tesm that plat sin red!!

Not News desk united,. I'm going to eb suportuing LIVERPOOOL - COME ON YOU REDS!!!

Note becasue I admire the club's rich European heritage and not becasue I admire their never say die attitude and not becasue the fans anthem You'll Never Walk Aline never fails to bring a lump to my throat,

I'm supportiung Liverpool tonight bcasue I fucking hate Chelsea. I hate their money and their fakery and Didier Drogba diving all over the place, but miost of all I hat their fans

especaily their fans called Dave. And especially the Daves that earn their livung by fleecing old ladies out of their life savings by scaring them half to death that their rooves need re-tiling, and off those roofing Daves, the ones I hate are the ones that sleep with their friend's ex-girlfriends' called Gill

So, for all your Chelsea-loving Judas scumbag Daves out there, COME ON YOU REDS!!! COME ON YOU REDS!!! COME ON YOU REDS!!!!

now then, I think it's time for another Cobra before the game kicks off