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If you were hoping to read a new story I am sorry. I haven’t actually written one. In fact I haven’t written anything new for ages but I have looked through all the odds and ends I have left over with a view to making something useful out of them.

The trouble is they’re all rubbish! Dross and crap which wouldn’t even make a good fire let alone a reasonably sensible story for anyone else to read. That’s probably the reason why they weren’t part of a story originally, why they’re still unused, unread and all jumbled together in a folder marked “Grot”.

Here is a typical example of what I mean:

…….skinny body jerked and wriggled when I touched her, my fingers, immediately slippery with her juices, slipping into her slot as if they belonged there. Oh she was so……

You see? No bloody use for anything is it!

………………

I haven’t actually made love to Marjory for what must be almost two years. I don’t think I fancy her any more and I am damned sure she doesn’t fancy me. Occasionally I look at her and wonder what I ever saw in her. Sometimes I don’t bother to look at her at all.

The trouble is she got herself a lover some time ago. A man she worked with, predictably. It was to spite me when she found out I had a lover already. That was probably also the reason she pushed my fish tank down the stairs. That act of treason killed all the fish, smashed a huge hole in the kitchen wall and made the whole place stink like a cran of over ripe halibut. Not to mention flooding the lounge and part of the kitchen. Cost me the earth to get it all cleaned up it did! The professional disposal of half inch plate glass covered in green slime, crumbled plaster and dead guppies does not come cheap!

But then nothing worthwhile comes cheap does it?

Except perhaps for Julie. Julie is both cheap and cheerful. Always. Regardless of the weather, the political situation, time of the month, regardless of everything.

Julie doesn’t live very far away. In fact she lives right across the street. I go to her when I want any sort of sex. Any sort because Julie will do anything for me and has a dirty mind to go with it. We even get on quite well together most of the time, I suppose it is because I don’t expect anything from her and she doesn’t expect anything from me. Apart from all the usual and unusual things to do with sex that is.

She is amused by my folder market “Grot” and tells me constantly how to make a series of good stories from the odds and ends she has found in it.

“This part here for instance” she will say. She points to a couple of paragraphs on the screen, several lines of what if I recall correctly began more as a rant or a doodle than anything else.

“Potentially an interesting character there” she tells me.

The potential character is an imaginary manga figure, a female with an impressive cleavage, narrow hips and a large sword.

“Don’t think so” I say.

Julie laughs and turns to one of our favourite porn sites which we view together.

Marjory and I have never watched porn together, in fact when I suggested it to her once she told me she was disgusted by the whole idea. Subjective and objective were not terms she wanted to talk about when she was so much into her knitting.

I wonder what she does when she is with her lover. What they do together I mean. Her attitude being what it is I find it difficult to believe to go so far as actually having a fuck. She’d be shocked by Julie’s attitude I know she would. If they ever met I mean. Oh yes it has come close sometimes! Accidentally I hasten to add. Not planned.

Julie wears the most alluring underclothes, much of it bought specially for me. Marjory on the other hand has kept the same stiff cotton bras and sensible plain cotton knickers for years. She’s even repaired some of them with a special thread.

And so on.

Opposites then, women at either end of an interestingly long scale but both ordinary women underneath.

They do have some things in common however, me aside as one of the men in the lives, there is my work which interests them. My writing in all it’s various forms and exaggerations.

That is why and how they have both looked at the file entitled “Grot”.

“Why don’t you do something with James the First?” Marjory asked.

I had to think hard for a moment before I knew what she was asking about.

“He dies!” I tell her “From AIDS or radiation sickness or something”

And, just like Julie, Marjory laughs.

So when someone’s skinny body jerks and wriggles when I touch it and my fingers, immediately become slippery with her juices, for instance I do sometimes wonder if my heart is really into this writing lark. Because when it comes down to it, down to the nitty-gritty naked sex on the floor kind of thing I find my mind wandering off into other, more colourful dimensions.

“Grot” is the safety valve for all this of course. A massively unfillable file where, once in there an item, idea or whatever never gets thrown away. It has categories, or did have at one time. The walls between them are by now in some disarray. There are, after all, only so many ways to write the word ‘fuck’.

Grot is also a reference book and a kind of diary I suppose, in its own disjointed way. A file of bits and pieces only very loosely associated.

Here is a typical example of what I mean:

“March third nineteen ninety eight. Made love to Anne Beale and her boyfriend at their house warming party”

That entry might have gone on to become a best seller, an eight hundred and thirty page novel with jealousy, road rage and cuckolding all mixed together as one.

Might have but it didn’t.

Because Anne Beale got pregnant unexpectedly and her boyfriend blamed me. In return she blamed him for not telling her he was bisexual right at the start of their relationship. Meanwhile I got some funny sores from someone else which I introduced to both of them as a present. Grotesque and disgusting? You could say that!

But then, continuing in the diary theme we look at August nineteen ninety nine where the entry ready “hotel pardus budapest”

Wait! I recently had a card from her, from the girl I met while I was on holiday there. Her name was Unga or Hunger, something like that and she had, as I recall, the most amazing breasts. They turned what would otherwise have been a scant paragraph into a page and a half in a ten point font. Hunger, Unger or whatever she was but afterwards I flew home and consigned all the words to the file marked “Grot”

Alright it had been a good session while it lasted but what Hunger for me she undoubtedly did for everyone.

“Rooms one ‘undred an’ one to one ninety sree!” she informed me with a slight lisp. “I services zem all dutifully”

And so she did.

Which didn’t stop me putting her in the file marked “Grot”

Its only a very small section of a huge, stand alone hard drive after all.

………………

Poor old Marjory! I haven’t actually made love to her for what must be almost two years. I don’t think I fancy her any more and I am damned sure she doesn’t fancy me. Occasionally I look at her and wonder what I ever saw in her. Sometimes I don’t bother…...

The trouble was you see she got herself a lover who is younger than me. He thinks he is in with a chance but I know better. He’ll not get her BMW nor mine either, in fact he won’t even have his company car for much longer if he’s not careful.

Do you know, one of the supervisors caught the pair of them having a quickie in the stock cupboard. Their respective managers gave them written warnings. I had to laugh when she came home and told me.

“Fucking woman is only jealous!” Marjory said, utterly outraged by the whole scenario. Neither of them had been anything like naked when they were caught and the worst of it was it was during their lunch period. “It was our time, not theirs” Marjory declared “Had it not been such a cold day we’d have done it in the park!”

Well it’s funny isn’t it? Funny how things happen sometimes. Julie and I often go for a screw in the park, though not the same one as Marjory and whatshisname; that’s too far away. We were seen by the park-keeper once who told us he wouldn’t report us so long as we allowed him to watch.

Its all here in the file marked “Grot”. Every single corny word of it.

It was very kind of the park-keeper to let us use his hut after that, especially on wet days or when Julie is feeling particularly randy. It means we don’t get too wet and the park-keeper gets a much needed fuck himself. He’s a retired man who lost his wife to cancer a while ago and who now has a bit of a chip on his shoulder. Had, I should say because a couple of sessions with Julie soon ridded him of it. Generous she is, to both him and me!

………………

Those a just a few examples of the stuff in the folder but, being almost a gigabyte in size there is obviously much more to it than that. Like April third nineteen ninety six for instance. God’s wheelbarrows! Ninety six was a good year! “May and Sandy” the entry reads “Lodgers from uni but have no money for rent”

They were scrubbers not students in their first year, supposed to be sharing a room in my house they were. I say supposed to be because it wasn’t so long before they were sharing my bed. The one with me in it I mean. Oh it was ages before I’d met either Julie or Marjory and life for me was bright and rosy.

With May and Sandy it grew brighter and rosier at an alarming pace, in leaps and bounds in fact, though I’ll admit they were mostly leaps in between my sheets. And for the first time in my life I discovered my limitations, both sexual and patience wise I mean.

I haven’t actually heard from either girl since they left uni but I have had some threatening letters from the father of one of them. Luckily he lives in Australia otherwise he might be in a position to cause me more trouble than he did.

It was Sandy’s father who contacted me, via the universities mail redirection facility originally and from that latter I got the distinct impression he was not a very likeable man. Trouble is I suppose, like so many Australians he was descended from a deported criminal, a multiple murderer evidently. I mean that to be in no way a reflection on Australia generally, merely on some individuals and Sandy’s father in particular. There is no way I can take the blame for the fall in the shares of Broken Hill Mining, the rabbit population of New South Wales or the slackness of the elastic in his daughter’s knickers, all of which his original letter specifically implied. Those charges are ridiculous in the extreme and, if it ever came to the crunch I would deny them utterly.

Or like the entry for November the first two thousand and eight in which I recorded the sorry saga of Paul who thought he was in love with me.

Immaturity and a mummy fixation did little for Paul’s ego and even less for his physical needs. He was a submissive fellow and I made no secret of the fact that I wanted to exploit his leanings. Call me a disgusting old creep if you like but the truth is he wanted, asked for even, exactly everything that he ultimately obtained from me. So much so that he became dependent, that is to say addicted to me, my ways, stiff prick and what I did with it.

Now you might think it’d be fantastic to have a fawning, submissive male servant and maybe it would be, for a little while. Sadly the novelty palls sooner than you’d think

.

Paul’s mother threw him out when she discovered he was homosexual. I got the blame for that of course. I’m sure someone will manage to blame the sinking of the Lusitania on me someday. He was homeless and frightened so I took him in, gave him a bath and a hug and a bed to sleep in.

Silly me!

There is a limit to the number of times one man can shag another in any one day. Even in any one week. Initially perhaps it might be two or three, with a couple of blowjobs in between. Per day that is, and you are already thinking ‘lovely! lovely!’ Okay. But that amount of shagging takes a lot of sustaining, even if you are young and fit and healthy. You dry up, shrink, get tired and bored very quickly and he gets sore and broody and wanting reassurances and some indication of security.

We were going nowhere fast when we had our first nasty argument, one which predictably ended in tears. His not mine; I was too angry, but it was the beginning of the end for Paul and me. I was missing pussy and tits but he was simply missing his mummy and at the end of his howling the silly cunt told me he loved me.

No I didn’t laugh, I didn’t do anything for several minutes except try my best to stop my heart sinking right into my boots. It wasn’t love he was feeling it was somewhere to kip and someone to feed him and give him a wank.

I put a hundred quid into his bank account and took him to the railway station. He’d a sister in The Smoke, south of the river and I told him it’d be a good idea if he went to see her.

Still not enough to make a decent story is it? Him with a sore arse and me with a sore prick and skid marks on my new towels. I didn’t even wave goodbye when the train left. There was no point in prolonging the agony.

Thankfully, although I did miss his tight little bottom for a while, I never heard from him again. Something with big tits and an open pussy wandered into my life soon after that.

And so you see there are lots of reasons why I haven’t written anything new for a while. The file marked “Grot” is opened daily and each time I add, or subtract another little bit.

She bends now, does Julie, leans into her masturbate while I grin at her expressions. The PC is on; its always on and the keyboard is ready for the words of my script.

All of them going into the file marked “Grot”

Don’t hold your breath but, one day maybe, who knows, one day I might make a proper story out of some of it.

© Aahlu Midsummer 2011.

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