How many people are lucky enough to be off on a bright Tuesday in November he thought to himself as he crested the ridge and got his first glimpse of the wild Atlantic stretched out as far as the eye could see. He had been edging over a mountain pass just below the cloud line when all of a sudden the most panoramic view of ocean, cliff and sky appeared. His breath caught for just a second as he took in the magnificence that lay before him.

"This is what eagles must feel like," he whispered to himself as he took in the Islands in the distance, white lines of waves so tiny, breaking on the sliver of golden shores miles below. The patchwork of fields sweeping up the valley buttressing the dark grey cliffs of limestone sweeping past his van and into the clouds above.

The battered VW camper puttered happily down the four in one incline, snaking its way about boulders and waterfalls in graceful loops, dropping away dramatically until the road vanished into the tree line. Once the distraction of Gods personal view was removed the surfer felt his foot press the accelerator with eager impatience. The hidden cove he had been sworn to secrecy over was within his grasp. Pristine un-ridden waves waiting to be carved up under the fins of his surfboard. Each second seemed a hour, every foot a mile as he inched closer to the surfers dream, a personal paradise of perfect breaking waves hidden from the rest of the world, reserved only for him.

At last descending out of the clouds along a Bohereen he was forced to park nearly a mile from the beach. For those not from Ireland - a road is called a Boher, a path where two cows can pass while coming in opposite directions, a Bohereene is where there is only room for one cow. The road leading to the secret beach was a Bohereene for sure. Branches and briar's scraped both sides of the small VW camper for a long time, in the end even this petered out. The surfer was forced to pull his trendy unit to a stop in a paddock, making the last part of the journey on foot across sand dunes and pebble beach.

At last he stood on the promised land, looking out over huge glassy waves forced to die a virgin death upon  the un-relenting shore without ever knowing the caress of a surfers fin, such a finish was a travesty for a wave as perfect as these. Zipping himself into his rubber cocoon the surfer had his first twinge of doubt. From here the waves looked substantial which he knew would be magnified many fold when he got out in the grip of them. The question was not could he ride them but could he get past them. Wrapping the Velcro cuff about his leg he sprinted into the ice cold of the winter Atlantic swell. His board skimmed the surface of the foaming white water with ease,  soon he was powering out into the oncoming waves with powerful strokes. Each swell lined up but pausing before breaking just long enough to let the lone surfer pass before plunging to its death on the sloping banks of sand rising to greet them.

Stroke after stroke the surfer felt himself make progress against the massive swell.  Soon the feel of the water changed, the colour darkened from foam flecked grey to dark brooding green. The surfer could feel the chill of the deep under his board he had paddled far enough. Sitting up he began watching for the set to carry him back from whence he came. Wave after wave marched on him, but none broke, after what seemed like minutes he began to feel something strange. He waves were getting smaller not bigger, at last he turned and searched for the beach but it was gone, as were the field where the camper had been parked, the only land in sight was the upper reaches of the hills he had so carefully navigated earlier. At once he knew he was in the grip of a rip.

Despite his experience he did just what he should not do, the surfer turned and paddled franticly for the shore. Each stroke sapping vital strength, each minute the flow of water was carrying him further from land. The ocean had discarded all the heat it gathered from the warmth of the sun baked soil, it was cold as the grave, so very cold. Layers of protective rubber could not stop the fingers of icy water probing his skin robbing the surfer of his most precious resource - heat. Soon the shakes began, gathering speed and strength they rippled through his body, running from shoulders to feet, racking his body in agony but the fear was overriding and he battled on. It did not take long for the spasms to subside and the most amazing thing to begin, acceptance.

Lying on the board, cold and dying the surfer understood what was coming, accepting it without question or fear. All he ever considered important slipped away, euphoria engulfed him with warming hands. He slipped from his board resting in the undulating bed that was the great ocean. From the depths the shadows condensed forming shapes and bodies, they danced too him from the seat of King Neptune welcoming him into their kingdom. Without fear or sadness the surfer surrendered, pulling the Velcro clasp from his leg with the last remaining strength in his fingers, he accepted the final embrace of his one true home for now and for ever.

This is it!  I am so sick of dating losers.  It is time to draw up a plan of action.  I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and it seems to me the only way it's going to work is if I make a list…will sleep on it…night!

Feb. 28

Here’s the list:  What I want in a husband ~

1.  Must have sense of humor

2.  Rich enough to keep me in style ~ we’ll figure this one out as we go

3.  Over six feet tall

4.  Intelligent

5.  Good looking in a Superman kind of way ~ glasses okay

6.  Wants at least four kids

7.  If I think of anything else I’ll add it

March 17

Oh, my word ~ it’s been weeks since I put anything down!  But diary,  I am really too busy to ~ No cross that out ~ I am too tired from being too busy to sit down and write anything.  This semester is busy and with working all day and classes all night and that dang car that I’ve got to park so it goes forward ~ well enough.  I’m off to bed…maybe tomorrow night BUT don’t count your lines on it!

March 18

Ha,ha - faked you out!  I’m here and home right after class too.  The guys I usually go and have coffee with all cried off tonight.  It’s been fun getting to know them.  There is one guy that is absolutely gorgeous! NO! No way am I interested!  Too rich {haha - not that way} for my palate.  Can you just imagine me going to dinner with him and everyone whispers as we go by ~ “Whatever does HE see in HER?”  Nope, I want a guy that isn’t better looking than me!  

Yawn - beddie bye ~ six a.m. comes sooner than I like.

March 23

I did warn you - I just cannot be faithful when it comes to seeing you every night but I just had to let you know tonight I went out with one of the guys from the ‘round table’ ~ he’s interesting, has scads of money, fits most of my list BUT there wasn’t a spark of interest  -  not at least on my part.  

Everything and I mean everything was about him and I can just see what that would be like after marriage if it's like that before getting hitched.  No, Joe, will have to go on without me in his life.  Alas, I cannot be there for him.

March 27

That RAT JOE!  He’s engaged!  How dare he date me when he’s got a fianc’ee!  Not a mere GIRLFRIEND ~ noooo ~ a FIANC’EE!  How did I find out???!!  The RAT met her for coffee  and brought her over and introduced her to all of us at the ’round table’ - that’s what we call it at the ha! very appropriate ~ RATskeller on campus!  OHHHHH I am SO MAD!!!  Talk later.

April 10

Went out with another one of the guys.  Went to Canoe Place In!  The first time for me there - big band, dancing and the food was fantastic!  

I usually pick at my food but Hal said he wasn’t leaving until I ate!  Imagine that!  He had dessert while I finished up and the food was very much to my liking... I did say that didn't I?  He even was willing to wait for me to have dessert but I was really full and no way was I going to eat and have him stare at the fork going into my mouth.   

When we reached my house, my heel caught on that blasted board that needs fixing and I fell right off the porch into his arms.  He smells soooooo good!!

Then quick as a rabbit, he had me in a lip lock…  ooohhh…so sweet!  

And, AND…   We have a date tomorrow night SO DON’T COUNT on me saying anything to YOU tomorrow night..

I’ll make it up to you..MAYBE!

April 14

Not seeing Hal tonight - both of us have to get our taxes done.  DRAT!  Not only do I hate doing these blasted taxes but this is the first night without Hal.  

I do think he’s going to be the one.  He’s a Clark Kent, Buddy Holly type…ummm..really smart but so amusing.  He makes me laugh.  

The only thing I don’t like is his car.  It’s an MG sports car {So what’s not to like? you ask.}  It eats my clothes!  The passenger door sticks and Hal’s always having to lean over and slam it and when I get out {I can’t find the 'snagger' place, either!} it grabs and rips my dress or skirt.  Good thing I know how to mend but it’s a pain in the you know where.

April 20

We’ve got a big date planned for this weekend.  Going over on ‘The Island’ - got to get to the ferry on time and we’re going to stay for a weekend party with some of the crew from college and their girlfriends.  One of the guys has a big house over there.  

Never done anything like this before.  I’m a little scared of what I think will happen but this really is the next step, hopefully in the right direction.  We’ll see.

April 27

Well, I’ve got to say that went well!  The party was lots of fun - some of the girls were nice, some not so nice but I knew most of the guys and they went all out to make the weekend special for each one of us.  

Hal and I got to spend the first night together.  He was as pleased as I was and since we’ve been seeing one another every night except that one before tax day, it seemed natural to end up in the same bedroom.   

There was some talk about us going back on Saturday but we agreed we’d like to stick around and do some more exploring around the Island AND the bedroom.

I was too pooped to write anything last night as you must have guessed!

By the way, he smells really good with or without his clothes.  {giggle}

April 28  


April 29

Wow!  But the stick shift is a really big problem!

April 30


May 1

Figured I’d let you know it’s still WOW! We’re talking about getting married in September.  Neither of us want a big wedding.  Don’t know which church though ~` maybe a Justice of the Peace…We’ll see.

May 2

Wow!!!   But that stick shift is still a problem!!

May 3

Can only be faithful to one and diary, I’m sorry to tell you:  “It’s not you!”  Tell you what though ~ I'll let you know if anything changes!

May 10


May 11

Went to the doctor today.

May 13

Speaking of rabbits - it died!

May 14

September’s out - June’s in!

May 15

Hal say’s he wants to wait until he turns 22 to get married.  His birthday is the second of June, so it's not that far off.

May 16

My stomach is all in knots.  We’re going to talk to his mom tomorrow night.  Hal says let her tell his dad - It’ll be easier.  Easier for Hal, at any rate.

May 17

Oh Boy!  Told his mom.  More later.

May 18

Hal’s mom is really nice.  The only thing is she wants us to get married in church and she wants it at her church.  

That’s fine with me.  

I’ve not been to church since they transferred Father Francis for talking too much about Jesus and His miracles.  Stuffy old crowd.  “Not in our day” they said.  'Old Farts!' is what I say.

May 19

Got an appointment with the preacher tomorrow night to set up the marriage time.

May 20

The Preacher wanted us to go through counseling before we got married but changed his mind and set the first Sunday in June after Hal told him I was pregnant.

May 27

Hal told me to go get the rings for the wedding.  He’s got a paper due at the end of the week.  Besides he said, he’s paying for the Honeymoon.  Said to pick out what I like and he’ll like it.  

Decided on the gold with the beading on the edge.  The salesmen said it takes years for the beading to wear off so I'll take the chance on getting them and hope his word is true.

June 5

Everything is ready for tomorrow except me!  My stomach is all upset and it’s not the baby.  I really like Hal but do I love him?  He says everything will be fine but he hasn’t told me he loves me either.  

I’m still a teenager!  What was I thinking?  Oh yeah!  Sex is good!  That’s what I was thinking!  Oh crap!

June 6

I can’t believe this!  My car is dead in the water - well the yard - but it’s going to be going on a deep six dive when I get back from the honeymoon!  And my brother who's supposed to ‘give me away’ - where is he????  I’m going to be late for the ceremony!!!!  

My brother’s friend just called - my brother’s drunk and won’t be walking me down the aisle.  GREAT!!!  But typical! Should have known better than to count on him.

Called Hal!  Thank God!  He’s on his way to pick me and my grandmother up for the ceremony.  Geesh!  How many women walk into church on the arm of their husband to be?  With their grandmother in the car?  My aunt is meeting us at the church; at least Grandma will get to go home with her.  

Hal said his brother will walk me down the aisle.  Which brother?  Oh, right.  The tall one!  Guess then it’s a good thing I got three inch heels on.  

Hal’s parents are having a reception for us at their place before we take off for the Adirondacks.   

Hal’s bringing his mom’s veil - that’s my old and borrowed.  My suit is the new thing and the skirt and jacket are powder blue.  Hal said I should get a white dress but I didn’t feel right about that.  

He’s here!  He’s here!!!  Got to go!  See you when I see you!

March 30, 2011

Well diary - all I can say is… sorry.  I know it’s been a long time - actually a life time - wow is right! - almost 47 years.  Still don’t have much time to sit and think and write.  Just have kept moving.  

Want to know why Hal asked me out?  I was a bet in Economics class.  The guys apparently called me “The Ice Maiden” and set a bet on who would thaw me out.  Guess Hal won!

Three sons alive and lost another one before he was born.  Grandchildren and ‘adopted grandkids’ with kids of their own making us great grandparents.  How did we get old so fast?

Saw the United States seven times over - except for Mississippi - kept falling asleep at the border. Did get to see a lot of Canada.   Didn’t get to see Ireland either…that’s one of Hal’s dreams.  Don’t know if that will ever happen now.  

Sometimes he knows me; sometimes he doesn’t.  When he doesn’t know me, he talks to me about me.  Thank God, so far, it’s all been good stuff he’s told me about me.  May be a blessing for him, that he doesn’t remember the rough and tumble days and only remembers the happy tumbles we had and once in awhile still have.  

Well diary - you’ve been caught up.  We still have some living to do - I can’t promise you I’ll be back but then you knew that when we started this journey.  

Got to go! Hal’s calling me!  Bye-bye!

  “If you’re gonna hitch-hike to London then you need to make sure you have somewhere to stay before the sun sets…it’s a strange place after dark!” Mike was always full of good advice. I knew he was because of how many times I had ignored him, suffered the consequences and lived to tell the tale.

With these words fast becoming my mantra I was about to start the hunt for somewhere cheap to stay.

Why was I in London? I am not sure; I suppose I felt the pull of the bright lights, as do many country boys.

What did I hope to achieve? A new start, sex, excitement, a life!

How was I going to make that happen? I had heard that Buskers (street musicians) made heaps of money in London. I was a talented Trumpet player, and modest too!

So here I was, early afternoon on a street corner in London, trying to make 50 quid before it became time to go look for lodgings.

So far I had 5 pounds and some assorted change, most of which looked foreign currency to me…not the best of starts but I figured people would be more generous after lunch.

Things sort of improved; a couple of Korean girls with “Hello Kitty” backpacks and pom-poms on their heads gave me a box of small cakes, “Choco Pie” they were called, quite tasty too!

Financially though, I was still well short of my 50 pound target by the time the commuter rush started. People were in too much of a hurry to get home to want to throw change in my Trumpet case.

I ended up with 25 pounds, not heaps but hopefully enough get me a room for the night in the cheap end of town.

The sun was showing signs of weakness as gravity tugged it inexorably downwards, towards the horizon. It was time to find a bed.

I knew there was no point in looking for a room in the centre of the city as it would be prohibitively expensive.

Mike had recommended a part of town that was cheaper so I hopped on a 97 bus to Neil Street.

Neil Street looked like somewhere you could shoot a Zombie movie without any props or makeup…if things got worse after sundown then I really did need to get my arse into gear!

One feature of Neil Street was that it was comprised mainly of old, run-down hotels. Stone built, grimy, ill-maintained and with sweaty, fat dudes, watching cheap Televisions on reception duties.

The shadow were lengthening, I decided to risk a pound of my earnings on a big bag of fish and chips so I wouldn’t have to leave my room (assuming I found one) after sundown in search of a feed.

The first “hotel” I tried was full.

“Why would a nice lad like you want to stay here?” the sweaty receptionist asked.

“I need somewhere cheap to stay while I look for work.”

The receptionist looked at me as if I had just told him I was Elvis and had come to save the world. He spat into his wastepaper basket, took a long drag of his cigarette and laughed to himself.

“Good luck on both counts mate, but if you get desperate, I might have someone evicted or they might get stabbed later on, you could get a room then.” He laughed until his cigarette dumped ash on his belly.

I thanked him and left in a hurry.

I made my way down the street to continue my mission. Of the hotels I actually dared to set foot in, the story was the same.

The sun was just above the black silhouettes of the hotels. The air grew chilly, the light decided that discretion was the better part of valour where Neil Street was concerned and started to beat its retreat from the grimy man-made canyon between the hotels.

Lights came on in the street and passing buses, which accentuated the impending twilight. I had to find a room.

Scruffy people of indeterminate gender approached me, their hands out begging. “Spare a pound for a cup of tea guvnor?”

I ignored them all, unsure about what dangers a response might expose me to. I received some choice language for my efforts. “Ponce!” “Snob” “Ooh Mr-Lah de-dah, excuse me!”

I wanted to go to the toilet, I wanted to hide in a corner and I wanted scream…I also wanted a door between me and the rest of Neil Street.

The last hotel I tried offered a glimmer of hope.

“Try round the corner at the Mission House” said the unsavoury blob of lard behind the desk he waved in the general direction of Stoddard Avenue with a fork that had a chunk of Jellied Eel impaled on it.

“Ok” I tried to stem the panic in my voice. I wanted to curl up behind his desk and become invisible but I had to brave the twilight streets, hopefully for the last time.

The Mission was a 4 storey stone building that had once been a place for Sailors to stay when on shore leave as their ships were unloaded at Canary Warf.  Latterly it had become the last-stop shop for people who needed to be off the streets by sundown. Not forgetting the people who were too depraved or sick for the “better” class of hotel in Neil Street.

Entering the musty lobby I nearly tripped over a man, slumped on the floor, reeking of methylated spirits.

Behind the desk sat a skinny, sickly looking man who must have chain-smoked since he was eight years old and probably last had a bath around the same time.

“My name is Tim and I would like a room please.”

The man took his cigarette out of his mouth, coughed and hacked to the point I considered calling an ambulance, bashed himself in the chest like a one-handed Heimlich manoeuvre, drew in a deep breath and turned his attention to me.

“Rooms is five pound a night, in advance” he wheezed “Dorms is three quid and a bath is 50 pence, all in advance.” He collapsed in a coughing fit.

“You have a room?” I replied, bright with hope.

“Who the fuck wants to stay ‘ere?” he lit another cigarette from the one in his hand, his rheumy eyes fixed me with a stare that unnerved me.

“I’ll take it” Like I had a choice, it was dark outside and I was too scared to leave this haven of…relative safety I suppose you might call it…if you were deranged enough.

The skinny man took my money, tossed me a key and gave me directions to a room on the third floor.

As I trudged up the stairs a prostitute, well past her use-by date accosted me.

“Ooh, you like a nice young man, all alone are ya me darlin’ need some company do yer?”

She was a revolting specimen, how anyone could be desperate enough to pay to have sex with her was beyond my understanding.

She stroked my cheek and in a blast of halitosis set out her terms and conditions, “Blow job for a cup of tea and a pie, feel my tits for a beer while I pull yer todger and you can fuck me for a fiver…I don’t take it up the arse though.” I pushed past her nearly retching.

Some things you hear will forever echo and haunt you, no matter how long you live!

“Some people don’t know a good thing when they see one.” She sounded hurt, I felt sick.

Marching steadfastly down the murky corridor, dust, rotting carpets and an all-pervading smell of mildew I put on a brave face, told myself that this was just a first step. Tomorrow I would find a better busking spot and upgrade my lodgings.

Room 309, the warped and peeling door promised sanctuary, safety and privacy. I could fall apart once I was inside, away from those who might prey upon the vulnerable.

The key turned, the lock clicked, the door creaked open. I fumbled for the light switch, the lights came on, I got a 240 volt shock into the bargain.

A dim, almost liquid, orange light filled the room from the fly-specked 40 watt bulb. I took in my surroundings gulping in dismay.

The room was tiny, it was filthy. Not just a bit grubby but manifestly, irredeemably disgusting.

The waste bin overflowed with used condoms and tissues that were stained with a substance I cared not to identify. The floor was littered with takeaway wrappers and drifts of poop from rodents.

Wallpaper, hanging from the cracked and blown plaster walls hinted at a long forgotten period of semi-respectability and then there was the bed…

I am still having nightmares about the bed.

Have you ever seen one of those TV programmes about sanitation officers? Did you see the one where somebody had died in their bed and nobody noticed for a month?

I would rather have slept in that bed…with the corpse, than put any part of me on its mattress.

At least the cheap, plastic garden chair was non-porous, so presented less of a bio-hazard.

Sitting in the chair I put my head in my hands and wept. I wept with fatigue, disappointment and fear.

To my horror I woke up in the middle of the night, lying on the disgusting bed but what was worse were the screams of anguish from the corridor. A female was on the pointy end of a beating, she begged for mercy to no avail.

Thumps, thuds, curses and wails filled me with dread.

“You cunt, I’ll fuckin’ slit your throat from ear to ear you slag!” a male voice.

“It weren’t me, I never talk to no cops not never!” she pleaded with him.

There was an ominous silence, then I heard the man speak but couldn’t make out the words as he had spoken in a low tone, as if speaking in her ear.

“No!” it was a fear-laden hoarse whisper “no, not that, oh god no please!!! Not that!”

I couldn’t take any more.

Grabbing my trumpet case I bounded out of bed, whipped open the door and smacked a large male form over the head with it as he bent down over the struggling form of the woman in distress.

The man crumpled to the floor, out cold.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” the woman yelled at me from the floor, her face a pulped mess.

“He was hurting you” hers wasn’t the sort of response I was expecting.

“Don’t you hit my boyfriend you cunt!” she threw a bottle at my head which missed me and smashed on the door next to mine.

The door opened, an angry man in an Army greatcoat, wearing a black bobble hat looked at the three of us each in turn.

“Who’s this fucking ponce?” he glared at me “think you’re something special do ya sunshine?”

“No, I thought he was going to kill her” my voice trembled, my knees started shaking.

“What the fuck has it got to do with you Mr fuckin’ smarty pants?” the man was in the corridor and I could see other doors opening.

“You need a lesson in manners you ponce!” he advanced towards me with no good intentions. As I backed away with hands raised in supplication, I was grabbed from behind by the woman, who by this time was back on her feet.

The man advanced towards me as doors all down the corridor started to open, the occupants of the rooms spilling out into the corridor yelling obscenities.

A flash of a knife blade, I knew this was bad.

Hoping the woman was still a bit dazed I stamped hard on her instep and jabbed my elbow into her ribs whilst giving her backwards head-butt into the bargain.

This gave me a small window of escape, I took the opportunity to turn and run for the stairs. Behind me the commotion increased but I dare not turn and look, I ran down the stairs three at a time, passing the prostitute again as she returned from her nightly excursion into the underbelly of London’s sexual depravity.

“In a hurry love?” in my current state I felt like she was a kind and loving beacon in a bad, bad place. Bounding past her, the contents of the third level of hell at my back I headed out into the mean streets.

I was hoping to outrun the mob but my laces came undone on my left shoe, tripping me up and sending me sprawling on the pavement.

“Get the cunt, string the ponce up!” they were closing fast.

I kicked my left shoe off, setting off running again with an awkward, lopsided gait. Hanging a left onto Neil Street I saw a police car.

“Help me, help!!” yelling in the window did no good, they just seemed to write me off as some random weirdo.

The mob rounded the corner, I was doomed but an idea struck me, I kicked the mirror off the side door of the police car yelling “Fuck the pigs!” as I did so.

With the boarding house mob about to surround me a policeman leapt out of the car, slammed me to the ground and arrested me in full view of my would-be assailants who cheered and whooped.

Handcuffed and unceremoniously dumped into the back of the police car I began to relax a little.

As we drove down the ramp into the underground entrance of the brightly lit police station I began to feel safe once more.

As the cell door clanged shut and the keys rattled in the lock I lay back and stared at the ceiling. Exhaling a long breath I closed my eyes, resolving to leave London as soon after my court appearance as was possible.

East, West, Home’s best….

   It started as a conversation on Facebook with someone I considered a friend but had never met in real life, as so often happens these days.

“Oh I don’t know about Twitter, doesn’t it turn you gay and make all your pets die?” I had been avoiding “Tweeting” for like, ever.

Yasmin replied “No silly, of course it won’t…you have to get into the 21st Century of you want to get famous for being famous”.

“Hmmmm, if you say it’s Ok then I’ll open an account…but God help you if you’re lying to me…I still haven’t got over what happened when my ex-girlfriend made me open a Tumblr account.”

“Oh yes, LOL, I saw those pics…must say…you look good in a dress” I could feel her smirk right across seven times zones and a hemisphere.

“Fuck you ;-0” I used the emoticon to make sure she knew it was “jokes”.

“Fuck you too, now get tweeting!”

“Lol, I gotta go, the dogs are scratching at the door” They really were, my three Red Setters were house trained but I had to keep up my end of the Pavlovian transaction.

I signed off from facebook and let the dogs out into the cool evening air. Somewhere in the bush at the front of the house an Owl was hooting, the occasional unseen and unidentified large furry thing crashed around amongst the trees and bushes off to the left of the house.

Scamp, Tramp and Champ raced about in the gloom, after a hard day’s lazing around in the shade, drooling and sleeping, they had energy to burn. I smoked the day’s last cigarette as I sat on a log and downloaded the Twitter App onto my phone.

The act of downloading an App made me shudder, I felt violated as the 21st Century crept into my life despite my best efforts at keeping it away.

Presently the dogs returned to me and we made our way down the gravel path, between the roses, into the warm glow of the lounge. I fed the dogs and retired early to bed with my laptop, a glass of red wine and started Tweeting.

“This is @TimG signing in to twitter OMG I have nothing to say!”

Not an auspicious start but as I, selected people to follow and tracked down a few friends who were old hands at tweeting, the replies started to appear.

“@YasminGoodHeart Lol TimG, when have you ever been lost for words?”

And so it went, long into the night until I began to tire of speaking but still saying nothing. The experience was as vacuous as I had suspected it would be. The upside was that my name and profile were getting out there and that meant I might get my career out of the doldrums.

I woke late and went to give the dogs their breakfast but they had other priorities, crapping on the lawn for one!

As the front door opened they barged out as if someone had let slip the dogs of war. The three of them headed across the dew-laden grass, a thrashing mass of red fur and wagging tails…they spied a squirrel and all thoughts of crapping on the lawn were put on hold.

Laughing, I turned back into the wood-panelled kitchen to make my morning toast and coffee.

Off in the distance I heard a terrible commotion and assumed the dogs had bailed the squirrel up in a tree. Ignoring it I turned on the radio to catch the morning news.

“Residents of Comely-in-the marsh are being advised to stay indoors and upstairs if possible, following the escape of a male Lion from Comely Grange Wildlife Park last night”.

Coffee hit the fireplace as I spat it out in surprise, locked the front door and ran upstairs to call the dogs…the wildlife park was only two miles from my house!

Leaning out of the upstairs bedroom window I called the dogs “Scamp! Tramp! Champ!!!”

I whistled and made a racket with their favourite squeaky toys.


I tried the spare bedroom as it was nearer where I had heard the commotion coming from.

“Scaaaamp!!! Traaaamp!! Chaaamp!!! Where the FUCK are you????”

“ROOOOAAAAARRRRRRRR!!!!!” My blood froze, the unearthly noise was unmistakable.

Straining over the window ledge I caught a glimpse of something large, sandy coloured fur, huge feet. I struggled to get back inside the room, ran into the main bedroom and took in an appalling sight on the front lawn.

This huge Lion, blood staining his mane, was dragging the limp carcass of one of my dogs.

 My world fell apart but it wasn’t the time to be sad. I got mad, very mad, so mad that I ran to the gun cabinet, grabbed my 3 inch choke shotgun and loaded it with what my brother would have called “a typical anti-zombie round” there were some big fuck-off lumps of lead in there.

Angry beyond all reason I went back to the window and yelled at the Lion “Hey mother fucker, eat leaden death you bastard!!”

The Lion turned towards me with a malevolent expression on his face; I took aim and pulled the trigger.

I had the choke adjusted for maximum harm and the recoil nearly took me off my feet. When the smoke cleared I saw a wounded and very pissed off Lion shaking its head as if to clear the daze from a good left hook. The Lion trotted towards the house and barged at the front door.

“Crash!” Fuck me sideways, it was in the house!

Grabbing more shotgun shells and a skinning knife for good measure, I barricaded the bedroom door with the chest of drawers but didn’t feel it would do anything except slow him down a bit, hopefully enough to give me time to shoot the beast fully in the chest with some very large shot.

A noise outside distracted me, it was Champ and Scamp! Bloody but unbowed they came charging across the lawn, barking like the Valkyries were on their tails.

“No boys; don’t come home RUN!!” I yelled at the top of my voice while keeping half an eye on the bedroom door, expecting a big sandy paw to come crashing through it at any minute.

They either didn’t hear or didn’t care. Those brave boys headed straight for the broken front door with revenge in their hearts.

The Lion must have heard them and turned to face his attackers, both sides met in a clash of fur, blood, barking and general violence.

“Go on boys! Have the fucker!” I cheered them on while hoping that my initial hit with the shotgun had weakened the Lion somewhat.

My optimism didn’t last long.

Champ and Scamp were gutsy fighters and they went straight for the neck, Champ on the Lion’s back and Scamp in between his legs but it was an uneven struggle.

Once the Lion had got his bearings in the melee he lashed out at Scamp breaking his neck with one swipe. Arching and twirling, like a dog chasing his own tail, the Lion flicked Champ off his back and onto the lawn.

He pressed home the attack and clamped his massive jaws around the poor dog’s windpipe.

This gave me an opening, while the Lion waited for Champ to expire I took aim and let fly with both barrels. This time I really did get knocked off my feet, both barrels, full choke and a huge load in the shells is a lot to cope with when you are in a panic situation.

Back on my feet again, I looked out onto the lawn and saw a trail of blood leading to the front door. Champ was dead and the bastard Lion was still on my case.

I sat on the bed, facing the door with the shotgun, loaded, on my lap. I considered phoning the police but thought it best to stay focussed as I was expecting the Lion to come charging up the stairs at any minute.

He didn’t disappoint, after a few minutes of knocking things over in the lounge and kitchen he caught my scent and came lumbering up the stairs.

I could tell from his laboured breathing and irregular footfall that he was wounded. I didn’t get to see where my second shot had got him but I know my aim, he took a fair packet of lead in the side and he would be hurting.

He wasn’t dead though and as he climbed the stairs I became acutely aware that my next shot would have to be the coup de grace or I was history... it wouldn’t be a swift end, most likely it would be a horrible and grisly death.

Putting such thoughts to the back of my mind, I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer and got ready to meet my fate.

Oddly enough, knowing that potential death was the thickness of a door away made me feel very calm… If this was it then I was ready.

A curious snuffling and scratching came from the landing at the top of the stairs. He knew where I was and now it all depended on whether he had the strength left to take down the flimsy, hardboard door.

I cocked the shotgun, I had 3 shells in the magazine and I could fire the two in the breech both at once. I wondered if I would have the time to fire them singly and if this would give me a better chance at killing the beast.

The answer was soon upon us both.

Time stood still, the clock ticked,  the world around me slipped out of focus as adrenaline gave me tunnel vision.

“Crash!” The Lion still had the energy to break down the door. He looked at me through the hole he had made, he was breathing heavily and soaked with blood. For a split second we eyeballed each other, trying to get the measure of the opponent.

Autopilot took over; I stood up, took a couple of paces toward the door yelling “Diiiiiiieeeeee!!!” and virtually rammed the gun down his throat.

“Boom!” I pulled only one trigger and the shot blew out the base of his skull. The Lion sagged and I fired again, right into his left eye…”Boom!”

The recoil sprained my wrist knocking me off balance. I staggered back from the doorway.

Through the haze of smoke I saw a big hole in the door and no Lion.

I sank to the floor in a heap.

In the distance I heard sirens, they were heading my way.


Two days later I was recovering from the ordeal. The house looked like shit, blood, shotgun blasts, broken furniture and smashed doors. I decided I needed help to put it all back straight again and dialled “Hire a Hubby”.

The “Hubby” arrived the next day and started cleaning up the place. Over the next few days we got on really well together but I kept finding myself looking at his strong, tanned legs. He was wearing rather short, shorts and when he moved or bent down in such a way as to reveal the softer, less tanned upper reaches of his thighs I felt urges that I had never felt before…and got a huge erection into the bargain.

One the night of the second day I lay in bed, naked, hugely erect and full of lust for the “Hubby”. I resisted the urge to masturbate because I enjoyed the surging feelings of lust and it took my mind off the dreadful fate that befell my poor dogs.

Thursday was the last day of “Hubby’s” hire. He turned up with a new front door and as I helped him hang it I wondered if the waves of sexual excitement I was feeling were tangible.

“You’ve done an amazing job of that front door” I told him.

“I’m pretty good with back doors too…if you get my drift” he fixed me with a look that was both quizzical and inviting.

“Mine could do with a good lube” I found myself saying.

We raced upstairs, leaving a trail of clothes behind us.

“It’s my first time” I told him, “until yesterday I was a straight guy.”

He ran his hand down my quivering belly and grasped my cock.

“That makes it all the more fun” he leant towards me and kissed me passionately.

After an afternoon of searingly exciting sex I lay naked in my bed with my phone in my hand. As I replayed in my mind the moment when he parted my legs and, facing me as per the missionary position, entered me.

The memory of it nearly made me come. It was so exciting, being lifted up, feeling his hot, hard member parting my anus and gently, slowly pushing the walls of my arse apart and sliding inside me.

I recalled how I felt round beneath me and grabbed his manhood, easing him into me as I relaxed and then shot my load across my belly. I felt him shuddering inside me as he lost all control and filled me with his spunk.

Suddenly I remembered a recent conversation with Yasmin and sent her a Tweet.

“@YasminGoodHeart. Lol. Seems I was right about Twitter. Missing the dogs badly but something new is filling the hole in my life right now ;-)”

Be careful what you say boys and girls; you never know when it might come back and bite you on the arse.


By Don Abdul


Strikingly handsome hunk, Stanford Jordan appears to be shy and reserved.  The reality of his demeanor is somewhat different, however.  Considering that he is one of only three black employees in a predominantly white, privately-owned company, he thought it wise to heed the advice of well-wishers by keeping his distance from the feline prowlers who flirted with him at every opportunity. 

Stan had only been in the company for a couple of months when rumors started making the rounds about how well-endowed he was in the nether region.  Wendy from HR had claimed her best friend had met Stan at some night club way back in college and ended up in his bed.  Regardless of the veracity of Wendy’s claim, within days all the resident flirts were scheming to snare him into their beds.  The immediate problem was the twenty-eight year old, hunk’s reserved disposition.  The ladies, nevertheless, found encouragement in the hint of mischief that tempered his sexy brown eyes.

Despite his obvious indifference to the seductive antics of his female colleagues, his reputation as a hard-to-get prize catch reached quite high up the corporate ladder.  Unbeknownst to Stan, somewhere in the labyrinth of offices, an intricate web of seduction was being spun just for him.




Earlier that day, Peggy had clicked on the send icon on her email window, and with that click, she crossed the point of no return in her audacious scheme to satisfy her lusty desire for her intriguing junior colleague.  Her concentration on the revenue projections report she had been reading was interrupted by a firm knock on her office door.  Looking at her desk clock, she smiled, it was precisely 3:30 p.m.

Mmmm!  A stickler for time, she thought, impressed by his prompt arrival.

Peggy Munroe sat back in her chair and watched Stan walk into her office carrying a folder of spreadsheets and other documents she had requested in her email.  She noticed how his intelligent brown eyes scanned her neatly arranged desk briefly, and then gave her spacious corner office a once over.  He was impressed, taking it all in calmly whilst shaking her proffered hand, greeting her with a friendly smile.

Big sexy hands too.  Mmmm!  Peggy’s thoughts were beginning to stray from the subject of work; it was all she could do to stop herself from lingering on the handshake.  She savored the warmth of his big hand which wrapped her soft feminine one in an embrace that left her warming up inside already.

“Please take a seat,” she said composing herself, waving him to a visitor’s seat on the other side of her tempered glass and steel desk.  To distract herself from his potent charms, she smiled before asking him if he had the spreadsheet she had requested.  When he answered in the affirmative, she suggested they get right down to business. 

She pored through the figures and made notes and comments while he studied his own copy of the same document.  They paused a few times to discuss various matters that arose, and then carried right on working through it until they’d lost track of time.

Peggy was sneaking peeks at him even while she scrutinized the papers she was working on.  She reveled in his chocolate complexion, his strong jaw line, his confident handsome face.  Seeing him up close for the first time, she tried to put his shy work demeanor into perspective.  She thought it was paradoxical that a man with such charisma could be shy.  Getting hot as her eyes came to rest on his full sensuous lips, she was overcome by a near painful urge to kiss him—would have done it too being the impulsive slut that she was.  However, her secretary hadn’t left for the day yet, and her office door was merely shut, not locked. 

Picking up her intercom, she told her secretary she was free to leave anytime she was ready—that she would be working late.  A few minutes later, there was a knock on her door, and her secretary popped her head through the open crack to tell Peggy she was leaving.

Pushing back her chair, Peggy stood and went around her desk towards the door.  Sensing the pressure of Stan’s eyes on her slinky body, she took her time, making each raunchy step count.  Shutting the door behind her secretary, she then excused herself for a bathroom break.  She caught him still checking her out when she opened the door to her private en suite bathroom at the rear of the office.  On her way back from the bathroom, she swayed her wide hips for Stan’s benefit but was disappointed when she realized he hadn’t been looking her way.  He appeared to be lost in his private thoughts.

“So how are you getting on?  Have you seen anything I should know about?” she asked purely to attract his attention.  When he still didn’t look her way, she decided to up the ante.  She walked right up to him and then perched at the edge of her own desk a mere foot away from him.  Her long sexy legs were tantalizingly crossed, and her short skirt rode up a few inches higher, baring her silken thigh.  “Ughm!” she cleared her throat.  When he turned around startled by her presence by his side, she smiled with a naughty twinkle in her eyes.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“Oh, pardon me.  I uh…was far away…”  His voice trailed off as he checked her out. 

Peggy felt warm inside as his eyes zeroed in on her hard pointy nipples poking tantalizingly at the front of her blouse.  Somewhere at the back of Peggy’s mind, she wondered if he had noticed that she had gotten rid of her bra when she had gone into the bathroom earlier.  She supposed he might think she was a slut.  The mere thought excited her greatly. 

“Let’s take a break, shall we?  Do you fancy a drink?” she asked.

“Ah…yes.  That would be very nice thank you.”

Peggy was pleased with herself; her web of seduction seemed set to deliver as planned.  His mechanical response to her offer of a drink hadn’t been lost on her; she felt flattered by his furtive stares at her arresting cleavage.  Smiling mischievously, she recalled how she had deliberately undone an extra button of her blouse to afford him a great view of her unfettered breasts.

The slut inside her was growing impatient.  Getting off the edge of the desk, she gestured towards the couch located to the right hand side of the office with a wave of her hand.  “Go on over to the couch and relax while I fetch the drinks.”

“You’re very kind,” Stan said as he picked up a folder then made his way over to the couch.  Peggy noted the folder he had picked up and was amused that he would still pretend to be more interested in work.  She saw through his polite smile as he tried to conceal his surprise, curiosity, and pleasure behind a mask of an unruffled expression. 

The process of pursuing her desire; actually being the hunter was turning out to be even more thrilling with this handsome chocolate stud.  Walking over to the wet bar, she smiled, analyzing the situation further as she turned over the bare facts in her mind—the quiet strength in his sexy brown eyes, his confident smile, and the firm grip of his big warm hands.  She figured he was just being cautious and wasn’t in any way intimidated by her. 

Well, I suppose it would be wise for him to be sure of what I’m up to before making any move.  After all, if I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t want to be slapped with a sexual harassment charge and most certainly not by the heiress to the throne.

Bemused by her own attempt at arm-chair psychology, she smiled as she took a bottle of Champagne from the fridge and picked up a couple of fluted glasses.  Then she went over to join Stan at the couch.

The surprise on his face was priceless as he watched her approach with a magnum of Crystal.  Setting down the glasses and without further ado, she popped the bottle open and filled them.  Stan stood up, accepting the flute of bubbly she handed him.

When he stretched his hand across the low coffee table between them to accept the drink, the sight of his thick, long, manly fingers triggered a whirlwind of dirty thoughts in her head.  Oh my god, it must be true what they say about the correlation between the size of a man’s fingers and that of his package.  Peggy once again found herself helplessly sucked into the vortex of his sexy reserved charms.

Her previous encounters with Stan had all either been too brief or attended by the presence of others.  Now that she had him to herself, she couldn’t control her curiosity any longer.  The size of his package was the stuff of legend around the building.  The slut deep inside of Peggy was determined to finally separate fact from rumor about the handsome hard-bodied ebony man. 

Oh but you’ve been dying to fuck him ever since you first laid eyes on him, her inner slut chided.

Still lost in her dirty thoughts, she heard his deep manly voice from a distance.  “I’m sorry did you say something?” she asked, desperately trying to conceal her racing pulse and heated desire.  It was no mean feat; she was all tingly and moist down south.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of the champagne, if I may ask?”  Stan’s brows were slightly furrowed in obvious curiosity; a hint of naughtiness in his eyes made Peggy a little giddy with lust.  Fearing he might have been able to decipher her very naughty thoughts and almost stuttering, she lowered her gaze once again before responding to his question.

“Oh...um…  To us!” she said in her best sultry voice, reluctantly tearing her gaze from his crotch whilst raising her glass in toast.

“Hear, hear!” Stan responded to her toast, clinking his glass to hers.  Their eyes met, and this time she was surprised he did not lower his gaze.  Instead, he gave her a knowing smile which made her feel busted.  In the visual equivalent of a Freudian slip, her eyes once again traveled to his crotch.  This time, though, she could swear the swollen protrusion had grown considerably larger than the last time she’d looked.

His pants were stretched tightly over the way-above-average bulge between his legs.  She looked back up at his face, and he was smiling mischievously at her.  Gone was the shyness, even though he remained calm and restrained in his overtures.

Her plan of seduction had been to sneak up on him, make it appear things had happened spontaneously—she had her doubts about how far that plan would have gone at first but later tweaked it until she was fairly confident it would work perfectly.  Now in the middle of her play, she had been busted, and her quarry seemed intent on teasing her.

To continue reading the story, buy a copy of the book from any of the following:

Amazon Link:

Barnes and Noble Link:

Are link:

Smashwords Link:

Kobo Link:
by: Horny Devil Publishing

Waking up was always the worst part, wondering, not if it was cold but rather how cold it would be.

I could feel my nose, pinched and frozen and that was my reality. Another bitch of a day with sod all fun and even less hope. If I got out of bed the rest of me would be pinched and frozen, in addition to filthy and undernourished.

I had not been in a good state since Summer, she had captured my heart, lifted me up and cast me into the pit of despair. Leaving me with no job, no money and a bitter taste in my mouth.

Let’s take that trip down memory lane, to last August (its December now) and one of those warm summer days when time stands still, the heat makes the air yellow and heavy. Nobody complains.

I was 23, working at an auto shop and because of my junior status I got all the shitty jobs…well, the old guys thought they were shitty but I loved being on breakdown callout.

Actually having a job at that time and in that part of the country was a blessing indeed. Jobs were scarce and there was always someone trying to bid for yours.

Breakdowns meant variety and travel, ingenious roadside fixes and the occasional hot MILF in distress to leer at while I changed her tyre.

The old guys liked their routine; they could service the same model of car every day and revel in it. All it did for me was made me realise that Roger Daltry had a point when he sang “Hope I die before I get old”…

So, with all this perfect weather and impending boredom I was hoping for some breakdowns.

The call came mid-morning and I gladly handed over the service I was in the middle of to one of the old guys. I headed out to the coast.

My brief was that a hippy chick called Summer, who lived and travelled in a converted panel truck, had fried her transmission.  My Job was to evaluate, quote and repair.

The truck was parked at a place the locals called “Crusty Corner” because that is where the itinerant truck-dwellers, “Crusties” would park up when passing through our county.

It was rare for us to be called out as many of the Crusties where pretty handy with the spanners but for some reason there was only the one truck at Crusty Corner this week.

Bouncing down the dirt road in my tow-truck, I wondered what I would find. Some of the Crusty Trucks were ancient old Albions or Bedfords, which meant fixing them was old-school. Improvisation being the mother of invention in most cases.

I soon spotted the truck, marooned in an idyllic grassy clearing, with views out over the sand dunes to the sea. It was an old Bedford, hand painted dark blue with stars and moons arranged in constellations and galaxies all over the sides.

I walked round the back of the truck to the sunlit seaward side and stopped dead in my tracks. I nearly swallowed my tongue at the ethereal beauty before me.

Summer must have been about my age, she had Elfin features, like Liv Tyler but with bobbed blonde hair.

She had the kinda body that made women hate her and men fall instantly in lust.

Small firm breasts, a flat belly and strong legs, all wrapped in a cotton print dress that hugged her form as tight as any red-blooded male would do if he got the chance.

Summer smiled and my heart stopped beating for a while, I struggled to speak.

“Hi, I’m your breakdown dude.” the effort made me sweat.

“And does my breakdown dude have a name?” she smiled.

I tried not to faint or come in my pants.

“Tim.” I could feel my voice breaking with tension and so kept my sentences short.

“Tea?” Summer indicated a picnic table with a delicate, floral china tea set all ready for the occasion.

I nodded in the affirmative while swallowing hard, trying to unparalyse my larynx.

“Tea is the best way to start any transaction, it allows people to get to know each other and properly communicate before any work starts, don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes.” I replied, regaining the power of speech but as yet unable to take my eyes off her lithe body and the gentle ways in which her tight dress transformed whenever she moved.

“You don’t say much do you Breakdown Dude?” It wasn’t an accusation, more of an amused rhetorical question.

“Errr…sorry.” I shook my head to break my gaze from her strong legs that were suddenly revealed as she sat down on the green and white striped folding chair beside the picnic table.

“Yeah, um, I do talk but I’m not used to…hmmm, err, look, err, tea…I don’t usually get tea in nice cups.” I was gibbering like a fuckwit.

“Poor thing…cake?” Summer poured the tea and produced a carrot cake from under the redundant tea-cosy, which looked like it had once spent time on the late, great Bob Marley’s head.

“Yes please.” I was regaining some semblance of composure now and was able to take the offered cup and saucer without spilling it.

This gave me the confidence to converse.

“Have you lived in a truck for very long?” I bet she got asked that a lot but I couldn’t think of anything else to say except for “I love you, have my babies” and didn’t think the latter to be appropriate under the circumstances.

“Four years, I bought it after my parents died and have lived on the road ever since…I feel adrift in the world since they passed, being on the move keeps me busy and stops me thinking about it.”

I felt myself welling up. Her story made me want to take her in my arms and protect her from all the ills of the world.

“Truck been reliable?” I was on safer ground now.

“Never misses a beat but recently it’s been jumping out of gear and now the gear lever won’t move.” She gave a little girly pout that had me reaching for a handkerchief and a bucket of sympathy.

We chatted about life on the road, trucks and freedom, hippy fairs and the continued threat to our existence from the New World Order (whatever that is).

Tea and cake consumed, I crawled under the truck with my flashlight and spanners to make my diagnosis.

It didn’t take me very long to realise the seriousness of the problem…

“Bad news I’m afraid, the selectors are buggered, IF you could get new ones they would be expensive and it’s a total strip down on this type of transmission to fit them.”

This made me realise how a Doctor must feel when giving a message of no hope to a patient.

“How much?” Her beautiful, full lips were starting to quiver.

“Couple of grand, give or take, plus a tow to the workshop…Take a good few days once the parts were in.”

This made her cry and I felt such a heel.

Summer sat down as if poleaxed and sobbed as her world came apart at the seams.

It was hard to watch and I sat in the shade of the Bedford wondering if there was any way in which I could help her.

Suddenly a revelation hit me; I rolled out from under the truck like my arse was on fire.

“I know! I know what we can do!” I was very excited because the solution meant I would have to spend some time in her company and right now, that was everything to me.

I explained to Summer that I could declare the truck beyond repair and get it off our books at work. Then I could take it apart at the weekend and quite possibly fix the selector mechanism with some judicious welding and grinding.

It would take weeks of off-duty work but it was a cheap solution and I never could resist a damsel in distress.

She went for it, declaring that she would plot up for the summer at Crusty Corner and continue her travels once the truck was fixed.

The three weeks that it took to fix the problem were the best of my life.

Sitting down by the sea working my magic on her ancient transmission, talking about life, the universe and our dreams, we bonded.

My dreams were filled with her, my waking hours were filled with her and every day, after work, I would drive down to Crusty Corner and work on the truck.

Finally it was all fixed and the transmission was ready to fit back in. The weather packed in big time that weekend but with visions of heroism in my head I stuck at it. Lying on my back in an ever deepening puddle as dark clouds dumped rain on the coast like Noah was still a ship-builder.

In the midst of this discomfort a flame was kept burning in my heart by the sight of Summer, bending down under the truck to hand me cups of tea and tofu salad sandwiches at regular intervals.

Finally, on the Saturday evening I emerged from my foxhole of filth, bedraggled, oily and exhausted.

I called up to Summer, who had been in the driver’s seat moving the gear lever to my instructions so I could set up the linkages.

“Start her up and try first and reverse.”

It worked!!! The thing was fixed!!!

Summer jumped down from the cab and hugged me. She kissed me full on the lips and squeaked with delight. When she let go I just slumped into a sodden picnic chair, spent and soaking.

I woke up some time later, warm, dry, and naked with a straining erection. I was in bed with Summer, lying on my back. What had woken me was her soft hands stroking my dick.

“Oh, you’re back with us then.” she gave me a wicked grin, lifted the duvet and licked her way down my belly to my man muscle.

I felt her tongue slide up the shaft.  I winced with pleasure, her full lips sucked the end of my cock into her mouth and she buried me in her throat.

Fuck it was good, I stole a glance under the covers as she deep-throated me.

Her right hand cupped my balls and she squeezed gently…that was enough, I shot my load down her throat and she swallowed greedily.

I fell asleep again.

Sunday morning, I woke up, alone in her bed. Summer was packing the truck as if to leave.

“Hey you!” it was a cheery welcome back to the world and I could have died from happiness.

“What are your plans?” she gave me a look as if there was a right answer I should give. The sun shone onto her face and she glowed like a cherub.

“Same old grind I suppose.” which was true, work beckoned.

“You have choices you know.” she looked down and smirked.

“How so?” I was never very quick on the uptake.

“You could travel…with me…in this truck.” again the look.

“Really?” I was fully awake now.

She just smiled and handed me a vegemite sandwich.

Lost in thought, I chewed on the sandwich.

“I’ll do it! I’ll pack in work, sell the car and do it.” That was the turning point, fuck security, this was love!

Summer smiled again and all the evil in the world vanished.

I went home and packed furiously; I withdrew all my money from the bank then went to see the boss.

Walking up the wooden stairs to his office, which overlooked the workshop, I took in the crumbling whitewashed walls, inhaled the smell of oil and tyres and thought “I’ll be glad to be away from all this.”

The boss asked if I was sure, he said he could replace me within the hour and that he thought I was making a mistake. He also said that I was young and he wouldn’t stand in the way of love and dreams, in fact, he wished he had the balls to do it.

“This is your last chance to change your mind Tim, no going back now.” His hand was on the phone.

“It’s fine, I’m doing this, I have to.”

As I turned and left his office I heard him speaking on the phone.

“Charlie? Yes, Brad here, still need a job?”

With a new sense of lightness and freedom I drove to Crusty Corner and loaded all my worldly possessions onto Summer’s truck. Money, tools, clothes, the lot!

“I’ll be back in the morning, John is buying my car and he gets paid as soon as he gets to work, I’ll cycle down.”

“Great!” Summer smiled and gave me a warm hug.

I kissed her and got back into the car.

“I love you Summer, I really, totally love you.” I called through the open car window as I drove off.

The next morning I was over at the supermarket where John worked by half past eight. I collected the money, jumped on my pushbike and rode off towards Crusty Corner and my new future as fast as I could go.

Breathless I crested the rise just before where the truck was parked and…there was no truck!!!

Summer was gone!

In disbelief I sat down on the damp grass and just stared at the spot where she had been parked for the majority of the summer. I was numb.

I must have sat there for two hours before I could think what to do. I looked about for her tyre tracks and saw that they lead back out the way I had come. The tracks were full of water from the rain that had fallen in the night.

“Bitch!” she had done a runner! Fucked off with all my money and possessions and left me looking a complete idiot.

I flew into a rage, kicking my bicycle into a buckled mess and walked slowly home…except I no longer had a home…

I have always run from situations my entire life. For various reasons, I have never allowed very many people to get too close to me. One person that has managed to sneak through my walls was Tammy. Tammy and I have been close friends for 10 years and we agreed to meet for dinner to celebrate our anniversary. I check my watch, she is 15 minutes late, and I am growing nervous.

As I start on my second margarita, I notice him sitting at a table across the room. He has dark, thick hair hanging down past his collar and a very neatly trimmed goatee. His face is strong, chiseled, and brooding. I find myself trying to determine just how tall he is when I realize that I am staring rudely. He sits at his table and very seductively runs his finger around the rim of his glass. Losing myself in a daydream, I imagine what it would be like to have that very finger teasing my nipples. Suddenly, he raises his head and I am staring into a pair of the darkest, sexiest eyes that I have ever seen. He holds my gaze in his and slowly begins to smile at me as if he is reading my mind. The heat in my face becomes unbearable and I look down at my hands to break eye contact. I look at my watch again and realize Tammy is an hour late.

Assuming she isn't going to show, I grab my purse and attempt to stand to leave when I feel a presence physically near. When I refuse to look up, he takes that same finger and puts it under my chin, raising my face to his. His eyes lock onto mine and I can't look away. He has me mesmerized and I feel helpless. Feeling his finger trailing down my neck to my collar bone, my body starts shivering. He bends down and whispers in my ear "Tammy isn't coming." Shocked at what I just heard, I stare into his eyes as he breathes in my ear and on my neck making me lose all control. Even though I find myself allowing him to take my hand and lead me out the door, I keep wondering how he knows Tammy!! As I argue with myself, I can't believe I am letting him do this. He gives me that look and I can't deny him anything. There is a sleek black limo idling in the parking lot and we approach it. He opens the door and ushers me into the back whispering instructions to the driver. When he slides in next to me, I know I shouldn't stay in the car but I can't bring myself to leave. Finally, I ask him how he knows Tammy.

As he removes my jacket slowly, he tells me that he has known Tammy for a very long time and that he owed her a favor. She had asked him to meet me for dinner as her gift to me for our 10 year friendship. The removal of my jacket leaves me feeling vulnerable as he runs his fingers slowly up and down my arms. I am astounded that I am allowing all of this to happen but I realize he has a compelling power over me. He continues to lightly stroke my arms in a very slow and methodical rhythm. As he keeps nuzzling my neck, I find that I am having difficulty breathing and my body temperature is steadily climbing. Unable to think clearly, let alone carry on a conversation, I ask him "Why?" He stares into my eyes smiling and responds "Because I can!" Moving his face from my neck and lightly teasing my lips with his tongue, he strokes back and forth, demanding that I open for him. He slips his tongue past my lips and presses hard against mine. Our tongues continue to dance as our breathing becomes faster. A moan slips from my lips and I hear a low growl from him. He breaks the kiss and draws his lips down my neck and onto my arms as his finger slightly grazes my breasts. I feel the heat between my legs and know that I am losing control of every ounce of common sense that I have. I pull away and look into his dark, brooding eyes and ask him what he wants of me. As he continues to tease my skin with his fingers, he says "I watched you as you waited for Tammy and came to the conclusion that I had to have you.

Touching you now, I love how your skin is as soft as silk, your lips plump and begging to be kissed. Your body calls to me as my fingers caress every inch of you. You will be mine.....YOU ARE MINE! I will take all of you before this night is over and you will not say NO." With that, he begins to unzip my dress as he kisses and licks my neck. I thread my fingers through his hair and pull him closer without any thought of refusing him. All thoughts of self-preservation are dismissed in my head and I pull myself closer against his body, demanding more from his mouth and hands. I frantically begin to unbutton his shirt to get to his chest as he cups my breasts in his hands thumbing my nipples into peaks. Before I know what is happening, my dress is gone and he has removed my bra and panties. I rip his shirt off his shoulders and gaze at the most perfect male chest that I have ever seen. I run my fingers down his chest playing with his nipples and onto his abdomen. He just continues to keep my eyes locked into his as I reach the belt in his slacks. He smiles and says "Go ahead, Baby.....free what is yours." Making quick work of the buckle, I unzip his slacks, reach in and take hold of his thick, twitching cock. He briefly closes his eyes and then removes the rest of his clothing. My heart is racing and the aroma of my desire is strong in the back of the limo. Placing his hands on my thighs, he spreads my legs wide enough to fit comfortably between them. "You are amazingly sexy and hot. I am going to taste what you are offering to me before I fuck you right here and now."

Finding that I am becoming embarrassed when he gazes at my pussy, I close my eyes to hide. His voice is commanding as he says "NO!!! Open your eyes and your body to me. This is the part of you I want to drink in." He kisses each thigh as he slowly, so very slowly, kisses his way up to the heart of my pussy. He takes a deep breath and his eyes become darker as if they can see straight into my soul. His tongue grazes over my slit and dips in straight into my core. "You are so damn wet for me. You must want me here and here and here" as he licks his way to my clit, "And oh Baby, especially here!" His tongue teases my clit without mercy and I grab his head, pulling him closer into me. I can't stop the continuous moan that keeps building from within me. His tongue never stops swirling, circling, and grinding into my clit and I don't want him to stop. I hear him growl and laugh as he slips two fingers into my pussy reaching the very spot he is after. "Mine, you are mine and I control your desire for me. Shall I make you cum? Would you like that?" I can't talk but only give out a very frustrated moan. He continues his assault with his tongue and I am building all over again. As I begin to buck against his face, my whole body shatters as I fall over the edge sending the most exquisite shock wave throughout my body.

He growls as I continue to come down to ground level and says "My turn, Baby. My turn to fuck what is mine." He flips me over the back of the seat and strokes his fingers in my pussy. "You are so hot, so wet and I am going to make you wetter." He takes his thick cock and places it at my entrance just deep enough to make me aware he is inside. He doesn't move but bends over my back to whisper in my ear "Say it. What do you want?" "I want you inside of me" I cry out. "No, Baby, that's not how you tell me. You tell me what you want me to do." I moan and try to back into him to press him deeper but he holds me still beneath him. "Huh uh, Little One. You will tell me the words I want to hear from your lips." I finally realize what he wants and I beg him "Please, please fuck me now!" "Yes, Baby, because you asked so nicely, I will!" and he begins to thrust deep into my core as he grips my ass in his hands. Time begins to slow and all I am aware of is his thrusting and rocking into me. He tells me he wants me to cum with him but I don't think I have it left in me. He reaches one of his hands over my stomach and down to my clit, circling and teasing it. I begin to feel the pressure building again and I begin to fuck him back, moving with his rhythm. He growls in my ear breathing down my neck and we both crash over the edge of that abyss of pleasure. My scream is drowned out by his roar into the air. He wraps me tightly in his arms and rolls me over on top of him while staying inside of me. He continues to nuzzle my neck and rubs my body until I fall asleep in his arms.

When I wake, I find that I am wrapped up tight in a soft velvety blanket. He is sitting next to me, watching me closely and completely dressed in his clothes. The limo stops in front of a massive stone three story house surrounded by luscious gardens and statues of various wolves in different poses. I ask him where we are and he stares into my eyes and says "We are home, my love." Puzzled, I turn and look to the huge stone porch and at the top of the stairs I see Tammy smiling and waving to me. And just as suddenly, he is helping me from the car as I take his hand that he offers. Once again I turn to the porch to look for Tammy and watch as she turns and literally disappears. I look to him for answers and he growls "MINE!"

I know I’m a writer.   I know because everything I see is a work in progress.  My muse is relentless in driving me to write.  That hot guy who helped me load my groceries into the car?  Wrote a story about him…it was steamy.  In those few moments, he was a god in bed…  Poor man, I almost feel sorry for him, he will never know.

An innocent phrase overheard, a picture on a billboard, or just a random thought, any of those can become a story.   I’m absolutely sure I’m not alone in this.  All writer’s experience this to varying degrees.  I, have an extremely vivid imagination, embarrassingly so sometimes.

People who know me don’t even bother to ask anymore when I start to scribble on a napkin at a restaurant. They have even gotten past rolling their eyes at each other knowingly.  Personally, I think they don’t want to piss me off or they may wind up in one of my books!  Only I know if they already have or not…

So you can imagine my surprise when I sat down at my laptop, gathered my notes, and began to write… and after the first few paragraphs, I realized the story was about me!  Oh dear lord, how could I expose myself like this??  The graphic details of an epic, deviant, bondage, love scene!!!  Well wait a minute…who will know what part is real and what part is imagination?  Better yet… who will know it’s me… no one.  Even now, dear reader, you might be asking, I wonder which book she’s talking about?   Maybe there isn’t one… not to confuse you, but this whole paragraph may well be just my muse trying to embarrass me.

I daydream of dystopian worlds, magical places, werewolves and elves; it’s a very mad chaotic place between my ears where my muse dwells.  Thankfully, she always hands me a fairly happy ending to the stories.  I will let her have her way with me for now.  When the stories turn dark, in a bad way, or deals with dying, I will worry.

So to that end, this has given me an idea (what a surprise!)…a story where the writer has no control over what is written, doesn’t remember writing it, and discovers only after its published in their name that it is about a very secret part of their life.

“What book?”  She asked.

“Why the one just published last week, silly!” her friend answered.

“It’s you that’s silly!  I haven’t published anything in months!”

“Well…Here it is.”

She picked up the book, scanning the picture, title, and author.  The picture was a depiction of a woman trying to kill another woman with a knife.  The title of the book was, To Kill Her Softly, the author’s name was hers.

“Well, I should take this home and read it then.  I have an idea what it’s about though.  Are there any reviews on it?”

“Oh yes!  It’s one of your best!  Who else would have thought to write a story about an author so distraught with her muse, that in an effort to silence her, she kills herself?”

That’s it, I’m killing the bitch!  She storms out the door.

Generic Post
George S Geisinger

Here it is early evening, when I'm just getting started on a new blog post. That patriotic post I've just registered on my own blog was way too much of my own opinion to put on someone else's blog, by my way of reckoning. What I'd like to do is write under a thousand words again, and post it on that site that only takes flash stories.
Or, if I get too long winded, I'll put it up on Yezall Strongheart's blog, just for the heck of it. Therefore, this blog needs to be generic enough that I can post it on any blog I can get into. I'm going to have a little fun writing something here that's a little bit more carefully innocuous than usual. Or so I thought.
That's a nice word, innocuous.
How do you like that word?
I won't insult your intelligence by defining it for you. I'm going to assume you are in possession of a dictionary around your house, if you find yourself at too much of at a loss as to how to interpret some of my language in this writing, or in any of my attempts to wax philosophical whilst I write away on my text editor.
I've come upon my vast vocabulary in the English Language honestly enough. My parents and grandparents were all avid readers, with better than average educations, and I must say, I learned more about the English Language at home, that I ever learned in school.
Mother's education was as an English teacher, and my father's stilted language never once lost me, in the process of understanding anything the man ever said, whether his vocabulary was obscure or direct, I was always proficient at comprehending my own father's meanings well enough.
I've always doubted whether my understanding or interpretation of my father's pompous language, was something that my very survival might have easily been derived from, or, if I ever got lost in my father's specific meanings of the things he said to me, whenever he said something and I was there to hear him say it, I always understood his meaning.
Mother always said that my Dad habitually used the biggest words to say everything, and it was always getting him in trouble with the back woods people he was trying to preach his sermons to on Sunday mornings. It was always because he had been a voracious reader, and possessed a extensive vocabulary, replete with options for the most obscure words to use in the English Language.
Dad was an unsuccessful Methodist Minister, who got moved around every single year, when I was little, to give him yet one more opportunity to prove himself to be a competent minister of God, in the SW Pennsylvania Conference of the Methodist Church.
Nonetheless, Dad was summarily discharged from his job with the church. He was always talking over the tops of the heads of his parishioners, Mother said. I think she was making excuses for my Father's incompetence, just because she was his wife, and the mother of his children.
Mother was always saying that Dad's vocabulary was well over the heads of all or his back woods parishioners, who could not understand his way of putting things in his pulpit, which was what cost my Dad his affiliation with the Methodist Church, in the first place.
But Dad was never a theologian; he was always a philosopher. He always ran his church services over at least fifteen minutes, to get across all of his pearls of wisdom, which I think people didn't like. I think Mother was in denial about Dad not being unqualified to be a minister of God for any kind of a church.
Anyway, it was Mother's rationale for Dad getting fired from having been an ineffective Methodist Pastor of a long series of assignments to a number of Methodist Churches, which turned out to be a devastating fact for my Dad to have to live with, as an individual and a self-imposed minister of God.
He was found to be incompetent.
He went back to school and earned himself a Masters and a PhD, which was all a waste of time, because the man refused to get a job with his PhD, in spite of the fact that we all knew he got job offers in the mails from several colleges and universities, to become a professor in their school.
The old man never would respond to any of the job offers he got. He just chose to desert us, and took off for the beaches of Florida, to sun himself, I suppose, while he left a family of four teenage children and a wife to starve in a small, coal mining town in SW Pennsylvania.
And I said I was going to write innocuously! More like writing another poison pen letter to my late father, is what this reality show of mine has turned out to be, whether I intended to write this way or not. I'll never tell. I should come up with more ten cent words to augment this paper, like my late father would have done.
He was definitely a pompous bastard, I'll give him that.
In some way, I think this is all a cheap shot at my father, now that he's dead and gone. He is not here to defend himself against my endless list of accusations and indictments of his misdemeanor during and after he disabled Mother, by attacking and breaking one of her arms, and leaving us all with nothing to live on in a small, coal mining town, to fend for ourselves in our impressionable adolescence.
Mother always had a Bachelor's and a teacher's certificate, from before she got married. But she always said she didn't really enjoy teaching, and didn't care to pursue it any further. Aunt Vi, whom we all moved in with after Dad deserted us, was a mathematical genius, who worked on some of the first government computers the world had ever known, back in the 1950's and the 1960's.
She had a Masters Degree in mathematics from Stanford University, of all places. Aunt Vi was a mathematical genius, and understood things about me that I never understood about myself. I kept forgetting that Aunt Vi always told me, that I should never try to sell anything, because I never had the constitution of a salesman.
My sister eventually achieved a Masters Degree in deaf education, and learned sign language, as well as everything else she needed to know about how to educate the deaf. But there were no jobs in her field, when she moved in with and married a college professor in Oregon, who was local to the university that had granted her, her Masters.
My sister has always been the most successful of the four of us siblings, who works for an agency, as a professional case manager in the mental health field, which encompasses the majority of her professional experience, up until the present moment, and her husband's son, and the son's family, sound like a revelation to my sister, as she cannot have any children of her own.
Aunt Vi and her Masters in Mathematics, had a wonderful time with the Federal Government computers, back when one computer took up a whole room, when each cell was occupied by a vacuum tube. She earned her a good living there, and what Mother needed after Dad left for Florida, was a job. The Proving Ground that employed Aunt Vi, was versatile enough to employ Mother as well.
My two brothers and I all managed to eventually be awarded Associates Degrees, the oldest becoming an EMT, and subsequently a Paramedic, in addition to being an Electronics Tech for the Navy for sixteen years, as well as doing something or other for the Air Force for about four years there.
He still works telemetry in a local hospital setting, though he is, technically, old enough to retire. His wife secretly tells me that my brother is being held by his employment, by the strength of her will, because of none other reason than doing his job at one of the local hospitals, that otherwise the poor man is a couch potato.
I've been an insatiable reader, and a voracious devourer of books, for several years, until I finally became a person who could write as insatiably and voraciously as I once read classic fiction and philosophy. Recently, I've become a prolific, self-published author of autobiographical stories, and a little bit of fiction writing mixed in, every now and then.
As my one of my fellow Indie authors has commented, I've become my own reality show, to find myself writing an awful lot about my own life, and the lives around me, to be a spokesperson for a Lost Generation, as I've begun to think of My Generation, which is the Baby Boomer's of this country.
I became a prolific author, because of my otherwise unfortunate happenstance that I accidentally overdosed myself on my psych meds on a regular basis, and during the span of six to eight weeks, I was rendered virtually incapable of speech, at least twice in recent times.
Eventually I became especially gregarious and verbose, struggling to write down every thought and word that comes to me, which makes my speech quite stilted and long winded, to a fault I'm afraid. I'm not any less of a philosopher and propound-er of nonsense than my father ever was.
But, at least I've made some attempt at not becoming a father of schizophrenic children that I never could have supported anymore than my father ever could. I had a great state of a very healthy libido, by the same token that I'm to understand that was my father's state of being was when he was young, as well.
But my Father had this very wealthy family who pressured my Mother into marrying him, to “fix” my father from some kind of malady, which was known by his parents to be whatever my father's “condition” was after WWII. That was 1946, when my parents finally got married, I think, and Dad didn't go through a breakdown until 1950.
My parents were friends in their own childhood, and used to play with each other when they were small. I've been given to understand that my father was a very thoughtful, very kind man, who eventually took on a role of harsh disciplinarian, to which he could not apply any measure of reason or moderation.
Nonetheless, my grandparents knew something of my Father's “condition” before he and Mother were ever married, and in those days it was a wife's duty to submit herself to her husband's will as much as he demanded her to obey him.
Dad's concept of being obeyed was way over the top, and he was still being a bully with me, when I was a full grown adult, because I obviously disobeyed him. When he was giving me a ride to the airport, to fly back to mother, after I was grown, my father tried his best to start something with me from behind the wheel of his car, at sixty MPH.
Mother fell for all of that old fashioned nonsense. She owed it to her husband to obey him, and submit to him, whether he was reasonable or rational, or not. Her marriage vows were more sacred to my mother than the safety and security of her own children were.
What she found out was that her two sons and her unborn child, (me), were all threatened by my Father's untimely, and irrationally violent nervous breakdown, until she had to pray for our safety when I was still a bun in the oven, as far as my Mother was concerned.
She told me about the whole ordeal when I was an adult, myself.
Happily, my father never took the lives of any of us, the way I always thought he would do, when I was growing up in his house. Dad liked to whip us all, and used us all as his personal whipping post, to be his inspired, aberrant children, to be expected to obey him, regardless of the fact that my Father never wanted anything worthy of being obeyed anyway, as far as I was concerned.
But, notwithstanding the beatings, my Father's bark was much worse than his bite, and the man finally proved himself to be a very well educated, coward and bully, who liked to pick on his own little children and his devoted wife, who would do, mostly, whatever the hell his irrational will was, anyway.
We, his children, were all subjected to suffering, more or less, from the schizophrenic gene which Dad had in his parental gene pool, until all of us got sick with the schizophrenia, at least as much as to be noticeable to the people around us as Dad's illness was.
We are all four of us a bunch of fruitcakes, to become some kind of schizophrenic mirror image of our father, in one way or another. My grandfather was a brilliant and responsible man, who made a singular contribution to the war effort, in WWII, which is another story.
But my paternal grandmother's side of the family was the culprit, who all had the reputation of having “skeletons in her closet,” of people in her family, who were mentally ill, like my father was known to be, to pass it on to all the rest of us, as Dad's kids.
Fortunately for all of us, Dad and Mother both had some money in their families, such that we have all got a modest amount to be relied upon to be utilized for our care, now that Reaganomics has slammed the door shut on all the Federal social programs; nonetheless, we are all somewhat taken care of.
The heavy oak paneled door was firmly closed, its shiny brass latch securely locked; until she had taken her eyes off it for a moment. She had turned away from the door to return the broom to its cupboard when a gust of wind blew a shower of rustling variegated yellow, orange, brown and red detritus at her back and into the hallway yet again. She turned and stared in open mouthed disbelief at the wide open door, helplessly watched the swirling leaves scatter across the floor of the poorly lit hallway. The single naked filament bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered uncertainly, as if it too were a victim of the autumnal gusts playing with the leaves. It had taken her ten minutes to sweep up the litter of the garden from the Italian marble tiles, push it over the granite doorstep and onto the grey flagstones of the yard. Closing the door against the wind with some difficulty, she had pushed it snugly back into its frame. It was heavy, she had locked it securely, yet now the open doorway gaped at her as if in mocking mimicry of her own daunted disbelief.

With the hallway floor cleared again, the door thumped shut again, its latch clunking as it fell heavily back in place. She pressed her palms flat against the smooth surface of the polished wood, listened to the sound of the wind outside, barely audible, its howl muffled and subdued to a distant groan. The flickering lamp painted dancers on the walls, all in black, capes flying like the wings of bats. There was a smell of damp, of moss and leaf mould and of decay, her nostrils flared at the affront. She tested the latch gain. Once again the door was secure, but when she turned away an icy leaf laden gust wrapped her skirt around the backs of her legs like footless stockings. The chill spreading up her spine had nothing to do with the arctic blast. 
“I don’t think we are going to find much shelter here, Jenny.” He had slipped the haversack from his back and held it one handed, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness and illuminating the cold grey stone walls of the ruined manse. The blue tinged beam had found only inky blackness where once had been a ceiling and a roof.
His companion, blonde hair pulled tightly back, purple knitted bobble hat pulled down over bright blue eyes, chuckled through unpainted lips. She was already rummaging through her own un-shouldered burden, dragging out a sleeping bag and looking around what must have once been a hallway. The Italian marble slabs under her feet were cracked and broken, many were missing. Sparse clumps of long dry grass sprouted between those that remained like dry and brittle hair on the wasted skin of a desiccated corpse. She shook her head in mock disappointment. “Somehow I knew this wasn’t going to be a surprise five star hotel.”  A sudden gust of wind threw a shower of autumn leaves into the air, into her face. She spluttered leaves from her mouth, waving her hands around like a demented windmill. When he had finished laughing, when she had finished pouting, they hugged. He kissed the end of her upturned nose and smiled into her eyes. “This passageway is like a wind tunnel, I’ll see if that door will shut.” He nodded to indicate behind her. She turned to look.    
But there was no door hanging there to shut, even its hinges had long gone. The frame was crumbling, varnish long flaked away. They watched in fascinated silence as the translucent figure of a woman, dressed like a maid, frantically swept at nothing through the empty doorway.…

For the other side of Dan, and more stories like this follow this link.  http://www.amazon.com/Ian-George/e/B0087DTR6K/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1