I have often noticed a curious disparity between the women that writers, particularly amateur writers like me, write about, and the ones I see in the street. It could be that I live in the wrong part of the world, although I very much doubt that, but compared with the literary fantasies that grace the pages of adult literature, at least that which I read on SOL, the ladies I see can only be described as dogs. But they're not, of course, each and every one of them is a warm and vibrant human being, and they all have something going for them. They are simply not drop dead gorgeous; they're not models, or film stars. Well, okay, one or two are, and there just have to be one or two that you wouldn't be able to manage, don't there? My point is that very few women look like film or television stars, and when it comes down to it, those women who are the stars really don't look like that when they are scrubbed clean of the motley and their hair is hanging just like nature intended. Or like they just got up in a hurry.
Let's have some examples: Tess Daly, co-presenter with Sir Bruce of Strictly Come Dancing. Fancy her? She's in her forties – an old lady according to the SOL standards, and believe me when she's in her sweats taking the kids to school she looks it. Then there was the girl who worked in the shop I bought my smart phone from. Sara was it? I can't remember. Blonde? Well no she wasn't. Early twenties, bleached and heavily made up, I won't go into her life story but me being me I got quite a lot of it, but my greatest wish was to get her in a shower and give her a good scrub. I might have shagged her after that, but for heaven's sake, don't you want to know what you're sticking your private parts into? Well I sure as hell do, and an impression of womanhood by Max Factor or Maybeline doesn't cut it for me. Not, let's be honest, that there was a snowball in hell's chance that I'd have got into her knickers, I mean, in the middle of Dorchester Cornmarket? Get real.
Then there are the ones who may look good, but have nothing worth mentioning between their ears, and believe me I've been in that situation, it's embarrassing, you have to be able to have some sort of conversation, you can't shag all the time. Oh sorry, some of you do seem to be able to. There are also the ones with chips on their shoulders for whatever reason, some because they can't control their eating, or maybe because they don't have cocks. I'm happy with fat ones, thin ones or really anyones, but fer chrissakes, there are limits.
But joking aside, most girls and women are just average people. And so are blokes, and I am one of those; middle aged, lecherous, average looking, bespectacled, bearded, thinning on top, you get the picture. But I'm always on the lookout, same as the rest of you, and if a female of any age smiles at me I'm ready to get up and running. Hot to trot.
So there I was, standing in front of the counter in the bakers shop contemplating which cake would really light up my day when a female voice said:
"Hello, Mr Smith, how are you settling in?
I turned, my ever ready smile lighting up at the sound of a female voice, to see probably, no certainly, the only young lady that I was acquainted with in this town. And to say I barely knew her would be an understatement, she was one of the girls from the estate agents through whom we had purchased our new property.
I guess I'd better go back to the beginning, it seems to be a logical place to start. Then we'll go on through the middle until we get to the present, we can't go further than that.
In the beginning ... no, too biblical. Okay, it all started when Her Loveliness and I got rather fed up with our lives and ... no even that isn't right. It really started when HL's step mother died, from natural causes, and I have to tell you that nothing works other than natural causes, and I will include blunt instruments and sharp ones in that, because we tried sticking pins in effigies and doing incantations and all sorts of things like that, but no, nothing worked, and the old bitch died in her own good time of ... natural causes. Even then she managed to thwart us, because all we got was the house, all the contents went to the bitch's avaricious daughters along with any cash. Sorry, did that sound a bit harsh? Not to me. Oh yes, the thwarting, well the housing market was so depressed it took us ages to get rid of the old pile, but eventually we did. With a few hundred thousand smackeroonies burning a hole in our bank account it didn't take long to find our own Shangri La, Mon Repose or whatever.
We had in fact moved quite a long way from our original home, and that was why we knew no one. It was also a fact that all the estate agents, with the exception of one, had tried to sell us anything within our price range, and not listened to what we actually wanted. This one agent, and particularly this one young lady, gave us several properties to look at all of which would have fitted the list we gave them, except ... Several were associated with horses. Now, don't get me wrong here, I don't dislike horses, but then I don't particularly like them either; dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle? Yes, probably, but they are smelly, messy buggers too, and the big problem is that they are either kept in conditions which are almost military in their precision, painted, polished and cleaned to a fault, or they are kept in conditions that are, as the estate agent finally put it, shite, and that's the way these were. Chewed up pasture, old baths for water, old oil drums and bits of wood for jumps, white tape everywhere so the silly buggers don't run into barbed wire, and stables that are the equivalent of Dickensian slums for people. We will not mention the middens. And since they were all intending to live 'next door' on part of the original holding, pleasant as they were, it was an uninviting prospect. Mind you it wouldn't do for me to live next door to the other type either.
We did find our little slice of paradise, everything fitted as we wanted, we had a little bit of land, a nice big barn for me, and a smaller building that would suit for HL's business. Although she is disabled, having had a couple of major illnesses, she likes to keep busy and contribute to the household which is just fine. Due to her illnesses we haven't had a physical relationship for some years, but an internet connection helps take care of that.
So we had settled in nicely which is why I could truthfully reply:
"Yes, thank you, everything is just as we wanted..." my brain was working overtime for a second, "settled in perfectly Ruth."
It was, of course, the name that I had been searching for, she had had it on one of those pin on things that everyone seems to have nowadays, all part of trying to give a personal service, and I had used it whilst we were in the office. At the use of her name she did something which I have seen women do on many occasions and which I can only describe as a 'ripple' or perhaps a shiver of pleasure. I had also noted that the girls in the office had a uniform, not very obvious and indeed HL didn't notice, but a pale apricot coloured cardigan over a white blouse with a grey skirt. It was a nice touch I thought, and the reason why I was able to say:
"It's your day off?"
"Yes," she replied. "We have to work the weekends so we take time off during the week. We take it in turns and agree between ourselves who has what. Anyway, how did you know?"
"You're in mufti."
"Mufti, sorry, old army slang for anything other than your uniform."
"You were in the army?"
"Yes, Royal Engineers for a spell."
"You seem to have done a lot of things from what I remember you saying, but I wouldn't have put you down as a soldier."
"Well, you change as you get older, and I never did like shaving. You've seen Dick Strawbridge on TV?"
She nodded. "Yes, does all those experiments and things."
"Does he look like an ex-soldier?"
This time she giggled. "Yeah, he looks like the one in the old poster, you know, England need you."
Well, you can't win 'em all.
At this point the girl behind the counter asked if she could help.
"Have you any suggestions as to which cake would be best," I asked Ruth.
Again the giggle. "You got to be joking! With my figure even looking at a cake isn't a good idea."
And I supposed she was right. Ruth was, I estimated about twenty, certainly not pretty, and somewhat, shall we say, cuddly. The sort of girl of whom people rather unkindly say, 'But she's got a nice personality.' But that said it was quite apparent that not only did she have a nice personality, but she was well dressed, albeit in the latest fashion which didn't entirely suit her, but to be honest doesn't suit many girls. I selected a couple of cakes and then turned back to her.
"If I were to buy you a cup of coffee you could tell me all about the area. I take it you've lived here a while."
"All my life," she replied. "And coffee would be very nice."
I settled for the cakes and we repaired to, you could guess because they are everywhere, the local Costa Coffee shop. We chatted for about half an hour or so and then we parted.
"I'll buy coffee next time," she told me, and I replied that I would look forward to it. I didn't make a definite commitment as to time and date, it seemed to me that given the difference in our ages, she was, after all young enough to be my daughter, it might be a little too much like a date, and whilst I enjoyed her company I didn't want to frighten her off. We parted outside with a wave.
I was in town the next week when I saw her again. I was fairly sure that she had seen me, but she didn't seem to recognise me. Oh well, I thought, maybe I was a bit strong. But I didn't think so. It was that week when we found a lady from the village to come and help with the housekeeping for a few hours a week. Fortyish, petite, almost elfin, she was a real find, seemed to be hard working, competent and ... easy on the eye. So my thoughts of lechery were transferred to her. Nothing would happen of course, but ... imagination will keep you going. She seemed quite flirtatious when HL was out of sight but I'm not sure whether that helped or not.
I was in town the following week on market day, and chatting to a cheese maker, I use the term cheese maker loosely because I didn't believe a word he said when he told me he made all the cheeses on his stall, when I was aware of a body arriving alongside me and a hand slipping around my arm.
I looked down as she said. "Hi Roger, can I buy you that coffee now?"
She kept her hand around my arm as she guided me to an independent coffee shop called 'Perk of the Town', sat me down and got two coffees. I'm not sure why coffee shop owners use the word 'perk' in their names, no one has percolated coffee since I was a boy and I'll bet half the young things getting their caffeine fix had no idea what it meant. Come to think of it a lot of them drink the stuff with all the goodness taken out. What's the point of that?
"I thought you weren't talking to me," I said when she sat down with two coffees.
"Why ever not?"
I explained that I had seen her last week and she hadn't seemed to recognise me.
"Oh, lot on my mind I expect, I'm always like that, best left alone to work it out. I do have a bit of a problem though, but I expect I'll solve it."
I asked her what it was, provided I wasn't prying too much, of course, and she explained that she had her own house, granny had left it to her, and she needed new kitchen taps, the old ones were dripping and not looking very nice and she'd like a set of those ceramic disc ones, you know the ones that only have a quarter turn. I averred that I did.
"But," she said, "getting a plumber around here is like ... well they are few and far between and we don't have any Polish ones. And they charge like wounded bulls!"
"I expect I could do that for you, if you would like," I told her.
"Could you? That would be wonderful. Do you want to come and look at it?"
I told her that I would.
"Fantastic! Finish your coffee, I'll just send a text a moment." And she fiddled with her mobile for a few seconds as only the young can.
"Come on," she said when she was finished, "it's not far."
Indeed it wasn't. A couple of streets brought us to a row of detached Victorian villas, all looking prim and proper. They were set back from the road by perhaps twenty feet and the one we approached had a couple of steps up to a front path with black and white tiles laid in a chequer pattern. We entered a neatly painted timber and glass porch where she fished a key out from under a flower pot and opened the front door. The hall was long and fairly narrow until it passed the front room where it widened out for the staircase, passed the next room and then up a couple of steps into the kitchen, all in all a typical Victorian floor plan. The hall was neatly and quite recently decorated, but the kitchen, whilst spotless, had obviously been in use for some years.
"I want to rip it out and replace it, but it all takes money doesn't it? New taps would make life a bit nicer."
She was right about the taps, definitely in need of replacement. I opened the doors under the sink unit. Ruth was on her knees immediately pulling stuff out. If you think you'd be amazed at what people keep under their kitchen sinks just pop down and have a look under yours. Right. Once it was all clear I sat on the floor with my back to the cupboard, then leant back and negotiated my head around the waste trap.
"Would you have a torch?"
A moment later one was put in my hand. I looked up. When the kitchen had been fitted new copper pipes had been led from the old steel pipes to the taps. Easiest way would be to cut them and use a couple of flexible connectors with service valves built in. No problem. I slithered out and sat up.
"When would you like me to do it?"
"Are you sure you want to do it? Would next wednesday be all right? What about the taps?"
"We could go and get some now, if you like," I said, laughing at her enthusiasm. "We can go to the plumbers' merchants on the other side of town."
We spent another hour together, selecting taps and getting the connectors and then I dropped her off in town where she leant across and kissed me, and then I headed home on, as they say, winged feet.
I walked in the door to the tail end of a conversation between HL and Joan, our fast becoming domestic essential. Joan was concluding something about her daughters who were, apparently, a bit of a handful, their father having no interest whatsoever. After she had left HL filled me in some more. Apparently her father had quite literally waved a shotgun when she fell pregnant but she and her husband had basically been estranged all their married life.
"How on earth can someone live like that?" I wondered.
"I've no idea," HL replied. "It must be awful. At least he's never beaten her, but you'd hardly describe it as a marriage would you?"
"I should think not."
Now, you might be wondering, but apart from the fact that our marriage didn't have a 'physical' side due to her ill health, Her Loveliness and I still had a close and loving relationship. But if I were to have a 'little bit on the side' and she didn't know about it, she wouldn't worry about it. In fact I've sometimes wondered if she thought that no other woman would want me. Come to think of it I've wondered that myself on occasion. What would she think of my dalliance with a twenty year old? Probably laugh.
The next wednesday I arrived at Ruth's around ten and when the door opened I was greeted with a kiss. Don't get me wrong here, it was just a kiss, not a full blooded snog or anything like that, but it bit more than you'd expect from your daughter. I hope. She'd already cleared out the cupboard and got enough water for coffee. I had to get into the roof to turn off the feed to the hot water and then drain that, then I turned off the main and laid back under the sink, pipe cutter in hand. Ruth was standing alongside me as she did something on the worktop, and as I went down she stepped over me. My eye naturally followed a shapely leg up until it met with the other one. At which point I could have sworn she had no knickers on. But it was only the merest glimpse. Had I seen what I thought or not? As I started to cut my mind was on what I might, or might not, have seen, and naturally the old todger woke up. I was looking intently up at what I was doing when I felt something brush against the little fellow. In surprise I sat up. As you will have surmised, there wasn't room for me to do this and consequently I bashed my head on the waste trap. Obviously the pain this caused clouded my judgment and I immediately jerked backwards hitting my head on the pipes behind me as I did so.
I laid there and groaned for a moment
"Are you all right? I heard a groan."
"Yes, fine, I think I'm imagining things, but not to worry."
There was a giggle. "I'll leave you alone then."
And she left the kitchen.
Three quarters of an hour later it was all done. I demonstrated the taps, showed her there were no leaks and tidied up.
"Now," she said, "I think a reward is in order."
She reached up and drew me into a kiss. This was no chaste might be daughterly type kiss, this was the real McCoy, a full blooded tongue duelling job. And this time when I felt a hand on my todger I knew exactly what it was. No imagination.
"Sorry about earlier," she said when we broke for air, "but I want this."
And so saying her hand dived inside my zip, extracted the stiff bit and proceeded to lead me up the stairs by it. And I don't know any bloke who would try breaking away from a girl who has a grasp on his most important part. Even if he wanted to.
I shall draw a veil over the next hour or so, yes, I did say an hour, I know you youngsters only take a few minutes, but we older guys like to take our time. Especially when we don't get to do it too often. All I shall say is that she did assure me she was 'safe', and I wasn't mistaken; the minx didn't have any knickers on.
After that, over the next three months or so, I saw her once or twice a week. She did have some odd mood swings and the odd memory lapse, but at my age you get used to that and I guessed she must have a busy life beyond me. I don't want you to get the idea that I just popped round for a shag; we went out on trips here and there and I helped her choose things for the house. We looked at kitchens for when she could finally afford to have the job done and things like that.
I have to admit that there was also a growing attraction to Joan although we hadn't got beyond some very suggestive flirtation. So all in all I was quite the happy bunny, the move had turned out well for us both, HL was doing very well which made her happy. Result. There was one small cloud on the horizon, but it didn't seem to be likely to affect us very much. Joan had come in one morning obviously upset. Now, she really had become a treasure to us so anything that upset her was bound to have some effect. HL sat her down with a cup of tea and obtained the information that both Joan's daughters had announced that they were pregnant. That didn't seem too bad, but the problem turned out to be that neither were married and they wouldn't tell their mother who did the dirty deeds. With Joan's background you could understand why she was upset, and the more so because her husband really didn't give a damn.
"He just said he was glad the little bitches were out of his hair and they shouldn't bring their screaming little bastards into his house," she told us tearfully.
It was a couple of days later that I visited Ruth. We had our usual session in her bedroom and had come down to the kitchen where she made coffee. I was by this time fully dressed but she was still, shall we say, in dishabille. She was wearing a rather fetching pegnoir that I had given her and was looking quite tasty. There was a nightdress that went with it which she hadn't put on, and to all intents and purposes she was naked, but to anyone's eye's she looked like she had just got up from her lover's bed, which indeed she had. Well, her bed, but you know what I mean – JBF, just been fucked.
We were sitting at the kitchen table when there came the sound of a key in the front door, and as it shut a voice called out:
The colour had drained out of Ruth's face, she was in fact as white as the proverbial sheet.
"Oh shee-it," she muttered. "That's fucked it!"
I had a fancy that the voice had been familiar and this was confirmed a moment later when Joan entered kitchen. What on earth was she doing here; and what was she going to make of me being here?
"Louise! What is going on." She exclaimed. "Who ... oh!"
I had been sitting with my back largely towards the door and as I turned she recognised me. Well obviously. But Louise? Was this Ruth's second name? And what was Joan doing here?
"Mother! What are you doing here?"
Well that answered that one.
"I appear to have come to interrupt my daughter and her lover. Where's Ruth?"
Hang on a minute here. Who is Louise? I've been calling this girl Ruth for months. And if Joan had pregnant daughters, how many daughters did she have? This girl said she was all right so she couldn't be pregnant. Could she? I think my gob must have been hanging open. Joan obviously recovered quicker than me.
"Close your mouth Roger, you'll catch flies. Now, Louise, where is Ruth?"
"Upstairs." Muttered umm ... Louise.
Joan went to the foot of the stairs and yelled for Ruth to get down here NOW!
There were footsteps on the stairs and a moment later Joan came back into the kitchen followed by ... Ruth.
Hold on, there are two of them.
A twin! Fuck me! Oh yes, they had. Or should that be fucked with me? Probably.