Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Foreigner “I Want To Know What Love Is”
 Electric Six “Danger! High Voltage”
 Dr. Dre “Let Me Ride (Instrumental)”
 Philip Bailey & Phil Collins “Easy Lover”
 Daryl Hall & John Oates “Maneater”
 The Police “Roxanne”
 Windy Milla “Hypnotic Love Affair”
 Mud “Tiger Feet”
 Wizzard “See My Baby Jive”
 Evanescence “Bring Me To Life”
 Taylor Dayne “Tell it to My Heart”
 Berlin “Take My Breath Away”
Recently I posted a piece by the name of Four Failed Auditions & A Rogue Tampon and, it would be fair to say, a fair few eyebrows were at full mast. It would also be reasonable to suggest that it was the last word that sparked the most discussion. Whatever had possessed me? Was I about to scale the depths of bad taste even deeper than was customary? Had I forgotten to take my daily meds or was this simply a period piece? Actually, I just decided to take an affectionate glance back at four instances from around the time of my sexual awakening and it covered just some of the mischief I used to get up to as a fresh-faced student of love. I kept my readership guessing until Girl #4 about the whole tampon thing as nothing pleases me more than to progressively lower the tone before BLAMMO! However, I was not quite prepared for how popular this memoir would become and still felt like I had more in the tank as I may have found it mostly unrewarding finding love, but it wasn’t through any lack of looking.
Anyhoots, it was always my intention to dig myself back into the trenches at a later date as this topic was just too ripe for the picking. Long story short, here we are Grueheads, and I’m about to proudly present you the elusive Girl #5. The previous quartet had to be content with splitting the word count four ways but I’m quietly confident that their successor warrants that extra wedge of prose and center stage to boot. She’d like that as Girl #5 was more than comfortable under the spotlight and all is about to be revealed both figuratively and quite literally. In life we come across many shrinking violets and the lady you’re about to meet sure ain’t one of them. Besides, how many females can do this shit without doing themselves an injury?
Looks like a cinch right? Does it fuck! First off it requires tremendous lower body strength, not to mention a great deal of balance and composure. Perhaps you also noticed that her wardrobe consists of six-inch stilettos and absolutely bugger all else. It’s one thing to grease up the pole when wearing more layers of clothing than a vagrant granny, but another entirely slipping and sliding up and down said vertical beam suggestively without so much as a flimsy length of cheese wire to uphold your dignity. I’d only gone and bagged myself a professional and this couldn’t have come at a more critical point in my stuttering sexual safari. For now, I shall leave Girl #5 dangling tantalizingly from her pole and supply us a dash of back story for some welcome perspective. Fret not young lady as we shall be back for you in no time. Until then, hang tight sweet cheeks as you’re polishing it up marvellously.
Let’s make this quick shall we? You see, Girl #5 is more Harold than Maude if you get my drift, and I wouldn’t like to fall foul of her scissor kick. I’m sure you all know me well enough by now to be aware that my first sexual conquest was the Battle of The Bulge and for all the worst reasons. I overthought things, failed miserably, and contracted a rather abominable case of what Wile E. Coyote would refer to as Coitus-Neurosis. Basically, I swore blind that my dick was defective, and bi-weekly flirtations with LSD did nothing to settle my pre-match jitters. As a result, I managed to hold onto my virginity well over ten-years longer than I would have liked and carried my chastity around with me like travel luggage. Things were getting desperate as my father’s final wish had been for me to grant him with a grandson and I was running out of time to achieve the seemingly impossible with a jousting pugil that would come off a sorry second to sugar paper. Def Con 5? You betcha! Is there a Def Con 6? If so then its siren was now sounding.
I had to think quick and the problem with fast thinking is that you don’t always balance up the pros and cons of your decision beforehand. Being quite the old-fashioned English gentleman, I traditionally opted for cute fluffy kittens as I liked the way they giggled when I tickled their tummies. However, I was sick to the hind paws of attempting to nail Arlene from Garfield and failing miserably. This time I wanted me some Trixie from Top Cat and we all knew what she got up to behind that Hepatitis-riddled dumpster. In order to obtain myself this alley cat, I would be required to venture into the most treacherous estate in a 30-mile radius. Think Compton, then subtract all lowriders and replace with Mark III Ford Escorts, and you should be in the right ghetto. Felmores was, quite simply, a hell hole to a good-natured country chap like myself and I was about to be dropped off behind enemy lines with a duff musket. Ever heard the term kamikaze Grueheads?
You’re damn right I was trepidatious when this voracious vixen was introduced to me for the first time courtesy of a matchmaking friend. Actually, he just presented me a face shot, revealed that she wished to meet me, and naturally I accepted the challenge. Having been single for the past couple of months, I was well primed to step back onto the carousal, and she was certainly easy on the eye. It’s funny how a photo can lie. As I rode into Felmores on my thoroughbred stallion like Mr. Darcy, hoping to claim my very own Elizabeth Bennet, I soaked in my immediate surroundings and the penny began to drop.
Where were the penny farthings? Who do they sub-contract to pick up their street trash? Why does the air smell of Girl Scout Cookies and not the macaroon variety either? I take no pride from prejudice, so never judge a book by its cover. However, when presented with a whole library of literature, each as moth-eaten as the next, it’s hard not to skip to conclusion. Put plainly, I was fairly assured I was about to die horribly and be discarded in a dark alley, where I would remain for six weeks before the scent of my gradual decomposition overpowered the weed.
I think that’s everything Girl #5 so, if you don’t mind dislodging yourself from your alloy grind pole for a second, I have some Grueheads who would really like to meet you. If you’re expecting Girl #5 to cover up in the name of human decency, then good luck with that, as we will get to in due course. For now, please allow me to paint you a picture. I stepped towards the front door a mere bundle of nerve endings and my initial observation was that this place may not actually be the Ritz. As I attempted to ring the busted doorbell and opted for a timid knock instead, I heard a female voice bellow out from inside the house and prayed it wasn’t my date. “Oi! Get the fucking door will ya? Fuck sake! Lazy fucking slag!” doesn’t suggest the most tranquil of harems and I took comfort from the smallest of mercies as the door swung open and the mouthpiece in question belonged to her alcoholic mother. I’d never been so reassured to meet an alcoholic mother although that relief didn’t last long, believe me.
It was pretty crystal that mom was inebriated but my attention swiftly returned to Girl #5 as I was pleased to discover that the photo didn’t lie after all. Hot was what she was, hot and spicy like a vindaloo, and just as likely to result in shitting through the eye of a needle. While her photo was upfront about her likeness, it felt like it was holding something back from me, something that could soon prove a deal-breaker. However, I have never been one for applying reason, when it is far more fun to bolt in with both guns blazing and have myself a bar-brawl with an inebriated M.I.L.F. Girl #5 was a feast for the eyes although decidedly short on the batter front. That is to say that she was wearing just three items of clothing. One was her two-piece lingerie as, she may have been up for it, but even alley cats are required to tempt you with a little leg before revealing their ass flower. The second was a satin nightgown which hung teasingly from her slight but tight curves. Finally we had the kind of fluffy Lady Marmalade slippers that strip clubs have literally dozens of in their lost and found. Evidently Girl #5 wasn’t one for leaving shit to the imagination. One false move and I may well have ascertained what she had for brunch.
I took my seat on the shabby armchair feeling a mixture of first-date nerves, excitement, and blind terror. As already sussed, mom was stinking drunk, and this was apparently a nightly ritual since her last victim had, in her words, “fucked off!” Now there are three kinds of drunk as far as I can gather. First we have the so pissed they may well choke on their vomit during the night drunk, the angry as all hell and ludicrously touchy drunk, and the happy-go-lucky Bob’s yer uncle strain of drunk. Mercifully, tonight she was the lattermost and my relief was palpable. Let’s not get it twisted, within five minutes she had wrapped a python round my throat, and five later she had a kitchen knife pressed against my windpipe. But only to mimic how she reacted to the news she had been dumped and with no intention of harming. That said, after two bottles of Jack Daniels, there is such a thing as the old whoopsie moment and I half expected to hear the fretful words “Quick slag, run and get a fucking band-aid will ‘ya?”
One of my proudest skills is the ability to adapt to different people and situations on the move and this served me well as we got on rather famously by all accounts. Moreover, Girl #5 was also refreshingly candid, and the pair shared a surprisingly sweet chemistry, albeit only ever being a solitary whiskey swig from World War III. All three of us were now beginning to kick back a little and Girl #5 decided it was the perfect time for me to take a closer inspection of her undergarments. I may be shy but I seldom decline the proposal of an unexpected eyeful so I agreed to her terms. She opened that nightrobe like a drill sergeant opens the barrack drapes at 5am and encouraged my bulging peepers to fill their sockets to overflowing with my brand new mental screen saver for the forseeable. I shit you not, Girl #5 was put together by a team of experts. Granted, they ran out of materials by the time they anointed her breasts, but I’ll take ’em any way they come and have never been fussy in this area. As far as I could see, and I could see a fair old vista, everything was tickety boo and I was more than happy to engage in any facilitated flirting.
It was now fifteen minutes since my arrival and I still hadn’t a clue where I was taking her for our first date. I guess the clue was in the attire she was wearing but naïve old me just figured she hadn’t gotten ready yet. In fact she was far more ready than I had ever entertained, just not for a nice moonlit stroll. She then informed me of my mission, should I choose to accept it, and I was pretty much going to accept anything that didn’t involve being fisted by a domestic gibbon. We were to adjourn upstairs and remain there until dawn, until which time as we were rudely awakened my dear old mom retching up bile in the sink. Up until the vomit part, it sounded doable. However, in the back of my mind, I pondered whether or not this was the kind of girl I could take home to meet my own mother. Girl #5 came 100% filter free and wasn’t particularly hot on mincing her words. I believe her final sweetener was “you’re going to get fucked” or words to that effect. I think she knew only too well that she had me at hello.
With some apprehension, given my lack of sexual prowess, I ventured upstairs in her fragrant slipstream and instantly something felt out-of-sorts. I couldn’t place my finger on what exactly, but this was a different layout to any I had seen before. Curiouser than George, I allowed my fair lady to lead me directly into her den of iniquity, and still couldn’t shake the peculiarity. After sitting me down on her single bed and removing items one and three of her clothing, it was time to get down to business and my throat began to feel decidedly parched. Girl #5 was more Bengal tiger than Persian kitten so failure to measure up to her grand expectations of the nastiest sex she could extract from my penis would invariably end with one particularly waspish pussy and moments later, as I waddled out into these mean streets with denims at my ankles, a drive-by shooting. There was little I could do but request that she close the door to buy us some privacy and me a few precious seconds to set my mental GPS home. It was then that my worst fears were realized. Doors were what was missing. There was not a single occupied set of hinges outside of my primary entry point and it wasn’t because they were in the midst of decorating either.
Girl #5 instantly picked up on my befuddlement with regards to the complete lack of anything whatsoever endorsing privacy and wasted no time in speaking of the elephant in the room. Given that this was a female household, other than the dozens of retired hell’s angels that feigned interest in her mother just to catch her twenty-five-year-old daughter taking a piss, such boundaries were not encouraged in the slightest. I was truly taken aback but ever so faintly aroused, given that I’m a shameless exhibitionist at heart. Thus I continued to grin and bear it, while she took her place on the podium alongside me. I could barely gasp a breath such was the anticipation and mounting consternation. Was this about to be the train wreck I fully expected or perhaps I could finally spark those plugs now that things were clearly creeping into freaky territory.
Girl #5 prowled me using first eyes, then fingertips, and finally tongue as she proceeded to mark her territory. While sizing me up with her lustful gaze, another pussy was growling its intent a few inches south and, if sounds alone could kill, then it was probably a good time to screw my eyes shut as this feline was famished. The early exchanges went exceedingly well as I had no problem with the passionate embrace part and was still looking like a stud at this point. However, as she reached into my jockeys to retrieve a handful of flaccid mutton, the word dud seemed more apt.
It wasn’t that I didn’t find her attractive, more that sheer panic isn’t the finest stimulant for one’s languishing libido. I was all but ready to make my apologies, make off like Zorro, dodge some bullets, and lock myself into a fallout shelter for the next calendar month. So I was hugely relieved to hear what she had to say next. As a matter of fact, I have arranged a little re-enactment.
“I’m really sorry. I have confidence issues. There’s nothing wrong with me. Just get anxious”
“Don’t sweat it. I’ll soon have you cured”
“I like the sound of that”
“Good because I know just how to get those pistons firing. Leave it to me, I like a challenge”
“How do you propose we start?”
“One second lover. Lemme just spit out this bubble gum and I’ll give you a clue”
It was on. Boy was it on. Hot diggity damn it was on. Grueheads? It was fucking on! I was about to have my cherry plucked by a true professional and allow me to enlighten you as to the elasticity of Girl #5. You remember the whole pole dance angle? Well this frisky Fräulein had her some moves, and then some more. What started as ballet at the tender age of six soon turned a little more street and, while she struggled to make it as a respectable dancer, her services were always welcome elsewhere. Let me pose you a question? Can you stretch your leg behind your head? I can barely get my arm up there to wash my hair so I’m out. To Girl #5, this trick was simple bread and butter, and every last lustrous limb was as limber as the last. Needless to say, she knew her way around a cock, I gathered that one while wiping my boots on the doormat. But could she perform a miracle?
Anyhoots, with bubble gum now relinquished on the bed frame, and an oral proposal unmistakably on the table, those cherry red lips pouted and headed off to solidify a fast melting lollipop. Given that the act of sex had me at sixes and sevens, can you imagine my stance on blow jobs? At least in 69 position, both parties are made to work for their groans. Here I was left alone topside with my thoughts and we already know how they liked to meddle. I held out little hope of Girl #5 emerging triumphant and even began to reach for my coat. Then something truly magnificent occurred. As if by sheer necromancy, my member began to stir. Nay it danced to this salacious siren’s song without a solitary second suspicion. Ladies and gentlemen, she had achieved the almost impossible and the flag was now flying proudly, thanks to the most astonishing lip service in the history of mankind. Lips, tongue, teeth – all three played their part and I was fairly assured those dense cheek dimples weren’t there a moment ago either. To this day, I have no idea how she mastered this so, but I was in no mind to complain as she looked up at me with those big brown eyes and said the following words “now ram it into my tight little asshole you filthy little boy”.
What a pickle I was in. This would involve assuming a modicum of control and I was more than content playing submissive in this particular transaction. However, one stiff prick is one stiff prick more than I would ordinarily have at this point, so I bent her over the divan, glanced over at her full-length mirror, recalled how Patrick Bateman did it, and provided her head-board with a thorough pounding. I was cured! Not only that but I really hit the ground running to boot and could even claim to be something of a natural at the whole sex gig when riding a wild stallion such as she. Granted, self-doubt still crept in at around the six and a half-minute mark but, by that time, I was Daddy Rich. Besides, practice makes perfect right? Indeed it did as she took me under her wing and showed me many ropes that would previously have left burns. By the end of our first week together, I was borderline proficient at no less than three moves. Doggy style was a doddle, missionary just about manageable, and being ridden like Seabiscuit never failed to drum up some sexual business.
We actually got on pretty well for the most part; although she was a feisty one for darned sure. What I found most refreshing was that what you saw was precisely what you got with Girl #5. She was nothing if not brutally honest and, despite my poor mother ageing a full decade on first introduction, even she respected her inability not to say things how she saw them. In mom’s words she was “a little rough around the edges” and I couldn’t argue against that observation. But she had a frankness about her which I desperately needed at that time in my life after stalling my engines habitually for longer than any man would care to remember. Girl #5 became my work-in-progress and I became hers too, thus we hit it off fairly spectacularly right up until the end of the second week.
Remember the alcoholic mother? Well she wasn’t always so hearts and flowers and full-blown war was never too far away from breaking out. In addition, Girl #5 felt she had every right to be the center of my universe and, while not refusing that I visit my friends for a night off, pummelled me with photos of her in all sorts of compromising positions to lure me back to the cavern. It all began to get a little intense and her ballsy demeanor was now starting to grate ever so slightly so I bided my time until a rare moment alone and entered one-way crisis talks. Could I see myself ever marrying this woman, creating our fucked-up offspring, then growing old alongside her?
Hell no! I could see myself slamming her ovaries for a good six months but, beyond that, all I could forecast was therapy. This had to end and she made no secret of the way that she felt about me so no easy rides were permitted from hereon in. The problem with a carousel that moves with the velocity of Girl #5 is that getting off is always going to prove something of a bitch. My only wish was for the earth to separate beneath my feet and swallow me whole or her if it preferred. I wasn’t fussy. Either way, one of us had to go. That someone was Girl #5.
It took the best part of two weeks to pluck up the courage to deposit this white trash back in its trailer and, just as fully expected, she took the bad news hard. This isn’t to suggest that she held a kitchen knife up to my gullet (although I did provide mommy dearest an extraordinarily wide berth after breaking the news), but she let me know, in terms of absolutely no uncertainly, that I had broken her heart. This is the last thing I’d ever intended and I felt positively wretched for being such a love rat, but I consoled myself with her next brash statement.
“You see this pussy? You’re never going to find another one like this for as long as you live pal”. Seemed mighty presumptuous considering I possessed cable. Okay, have a nice life, ta-ta now. Actually, we managed to stay friends for a couple of years afterwards before eventually drifting apart as is inevitably the case in such circumstances. Quite a sad tale when you think about it but I just remembered something which will soon have us feeling far less melancholic. I feel aggrieved ending on a bum note so how’s about this for a sign off? Picture the scene one last time Grueheads as this one still tickles my fickle pickle to this very day.
We’d been dating for around five days or so and I turned up on her doorstep feeling both spritely and enthused as we had planned a big night out on the town, our very first rendezvous not spent on our backs. Her mother answered the door in the normal state of stupor and informed me that Girl #5 was not yet ready for our planned excursion. It is customary for a prince to sit patiently downstairs while waiting for his princess to emerge atop the stairwell, basked in white light and looking like a vision of beauty. Not in this house. She decided it would be a good time to learn a little more about the man stepping out with her angelic daughter and it was looking like time for “the talk”. That said, I’m not altogether convinced that it should start with the following poser: “do you like a shaved pussy or are you more into something a little more primal?” Judging by the fact that she asked me this while standing no more than an inch from my frozen face and waxing your bikini line can be a perilous affair after a skinful of liquor, I was guessing mom leaned more towards the latter. I’m pretty sure I gulped.
Mercifully, before I could be forced into providing her an answer, Girl #5 called out from her boudoir in the normal sweet and innocent manner. “Who the fuck is it mom?” was swiftly followed by “who’d you fucking think? It’s yer fella ain’t it!” and I had miraculously been saved by the bell. However, what transpired next will forever qualify as one of my all-time did my eyes just deceive me moments and I still swear blind I took a knock to the head on my way up those stairs. Mother led me upstairs to my princess, staggering as was commonplace, and presented me my date. One would expect to open the door to see their belle applying last-minute lip gloss in the mirror but there was no fucking door and Girl #5 hadn’t quite got that far yet.
Instead, she was sat on her bed, completely naked, and with legs wide open, while she blow dried her hair. What really made this surreal was that I was the only one who appeared even the faintest bit shocked or embarrassed. Mother and daughter then engaged in a two-minute conversation, during which time her close-shaved pussy never once retreated into shadow. Only in this madhouse could that be deemed as normal.
You think that’s bad? I just remembered another gem and I promise this is the last. A few days later, after a decent workout at Girl #5’s not altogether personal gym, we decided to rejuvenate our hard bodies with a nice warm bubble bath together. This was a pleasurable experience right up until the moment that I started to feel my skin rapidly ageing. As I climbed out to retrieve a towel, there mom was at the doorway, gathering reconnaissance on what I was sticking inside her daughter night after night. Feelings were mixed here as, from the waist up, I was mortified to be caught with my pants nowhere to be found. Regrettably, the lower half was claiming to have hit pay dirt. While that Egyptian towel did a pretty much bang up job of obscuring my assets, there can be no concealing a boner. I believe the words “not bad” were her last before nonchalantly trundling back downstairs, leaving me not quite sure whether to feel aroused or nauseated. For the record, the former won out.
Right, that’s your lot Grueheads, you now know more about Girl #5 than any man outside of a 30-mile radius of Felmores. Should she ever read this affectionate homage, then a sincere thank you is in order for popping the cork. You may not have been the dream girl I had anticipated, but you remained true to your word about your healing powers and, for that reason alone, you’ll always be something of a personal Jesus to me. Okay, maybe Jezebel.
Featuring the glorious artwork of Matt Dixon. Click any image to visit his site.