Thomson Cook Summer Sun
|THOMAS COOK SUMMER SUN 2004|
Masturbation. So easy tae learn, yet so hard tae master.
Which is precisely why, at four o’clock oan a grey, drab December eftirnoon in Glesga, ah’m lying oan ma bed with ma curtains shut, ma boaxers doon, and several sheets ae trusty Safeway Savers two-ply toilet paper within easy reach. Aye. Preparation is ayeis key tae successful masturbation. That and a couple ae generous squirts ae intensive nourishment Neutrogena hand-cream.
If truth be telt, ah shouldnae really even be at hame. Ah should be sleeping up the back ae a lecture theatre whilst some boring fart drones oan aboot Power Engineering ur Fluid Mechanics, ur whitever the fuck it is that ma university course timetable dictates. But where would the sense be in that? Nane whitsoever, which is why ah’m here and no there - here, lying oan ma bed wi ma jooks doon and ma cock in the palm ae ma han, generating ma ain electricity and creating ma ain viscous fluids, as ah indulge in the enjoyable, wan-handed monogamy ae the single man.
Today is perfect conditions fir a wank tae. It’s soft underfoot, dry ootside, and the tenement block is empty, ma flatmate, the wummin that lives across the hallway and the Asian that lives in the flat below, aw oot at thir respective places ae employment. Ronnie shooting price guns in a local frozen food supermarket, Miss Philippa Hunter-Smyth clinching high-power business deals and Ranjay Gupta fae doonstairs oot working in the local corner shoap selling tins ae beans in Arabic writing tae unsuspecting students fir seventy pence. So, thir’s no chance ae Ronnie walking in and catching me wi ma cock oot in ma han, nae chance ae the wummin opposite hearing the systematic banging ae ma heid-board against her wall, and nae chance ae the Hamilton Academical below hearing the squeek ae ma bed shuffling across the floor during ma heated throes ae passion. Aye, perfect conditions indeed. It’s an opportunity ah’ve grabbed with baith hans. Ur wan at least.
Ma other han meanwhile, flicks deliberately through the pages ae the Thomas Cook Summer Sun 2004 travel brochure. Only it isnae a summer fortnight all-inclusive package in foreign climes ah’m looking fir, not Spain, Portugal, Greece ur any ae those other much-sought-eftir European holiday destinations flown to by thoosands each year. Naw. It’s a destination much closer tae hame ah’m seeking.
Vinegar strokes.
Ah often find masel turning tae mass media during ma hunt fir a satisfactory orgasm. Newspapers and magazines maist frequently, television and cinema close behind, and radio bringing up the rear. When ah’m giving it tae Sarah Cox up her rear.
Take today fir example. Awready, the sweaty excesses ae two wanking sessions ur congealing under ma foreskin, the first, a somewhat hurried gam aff the toapless blonde staying at the Marina Palace resort in Malaga, Spain. Ah mean, personally ah’ve nivir met the lassie, nor even been tae mainland Spain. But if she’s guid enough fir page 64 ae the glossy Thomas Cook Summer Sun 2004 brochure, she’s certainly guid enough fir sooking ma beef.
Later, eftir a light luncheon ae macaroni pie and a chicken and mushroom slice fae Greigs the Bakers, ah turned tae the newspapers tae assist me in ma second wank, a rather exhausting, ten-meenit vagina monologue wi the murdered prostitute oan page seven ae that omnipresent Glesga scum tabloid, the Daily Record.
And noo, at twenty-five meenits past three oan an increasingly dark and overcast December eftirnoon, as ah peel back ma foreskin fir ma jerry helmets third ooting ae the day, ah find masel turning tae television.
This time it’s Carol Voderman, the erstwhile, Oxford-educated co-host ae Coontdoon. Ur rather, Carol Voderman, the erstwhile, Oxford-educated co-host of Coontdoon, kneeling naked oan aw fours wi her sphincter winking up at me. And why fucking not! Ah mean, huving jist successfully worked oot the seven letter anagram well afore either ae the speccy gadge contestants, sliding ma cock baw-deep intae her anal passage seems by far the maist fitting way fir me tae celebrate ma conundrum glory. Or so wan would think.
Unfortunately however, things urnae quite working oot atween me and Carol. Naw, ah’m no nearer vinegar strokes thun ah wis eftir the depressing incident earlier in the week when ah naively attempted tae huv sexual intercourse wi a pan of warm, recently cooked, al-dente pasta.
Essentially, it’s Carol’s fault. Aw aye, the tired, jaded, dark-rings-roon-her-eyes number-cruncher is definitely tae blame fir me no being able tae shoot ma duff up her backside. She’s been the same fir days, naw, weeks. Aw silent and moody, like she’s no sleeping properly.
Initially, ah’d jist pit it doon tae her monthly visitor. But no, as November came and went, the rings goat darker, the silences and bad moods on Coontdoon goat longer. Then ah knew sumthin mair sinister wis afoot. Fir a while ah even hud masel suspecting she wis hitting her menopause, till ah realised that working wi that safety-razor sharp-witted dobber Richard Whitely must surely ae driven her tae the flushing vasomotors donkeys years ago. So noo ah’m left wi two theories. Theory Wan: she’s goat herself another wan ae they younger men ye sometimes see hinging aff her airm in sunday paper photaes ae her oan red-carpets at award ceremonies and film premieres. Ur Theory Two: she’s lying awake at night, ooer wan hell ae a math’s proablum.
It’s been ooer two weeks since ah wrote ma letter tae Points ae View fir clarification oan the matter, and still ah’m waiting fir a fucking response. Too be honest I huv lost faith in hearing back from them, just as I huv lost faith in that wittering baboon Richard Whitely ever saying anything interesting or amusing. But either way, she better sort hersel oot. And soon. Ah mean personally, ah don’t care whether this means she hus tae buy hersel a better calculator ur stoap staying up aw night riding toy-boys. Aw ah know is, she better fucking do it pronto. Because, although it might no be affecting her performance at pitting up vowels and consonants, it’s affecting her performance at bringing me tae the boil oan weekday eftirnoons, in a manner that only wan other television celebrity has done previously . . .
Cat fucking Deeley.
Ugh. Even jist saying that scabrous whores name makes ma dick break oot in a limp, cauld sweat. Tae stoap the rot, ah hurriedly turn ma attentions affae Coontdoon and back oantae the Daily Record ah accidentally firgoat tae pay fir in Fags and Mags earlier in the day. Ah flick the pages and scan the headlines hopefully, but little catches ma third eye. Aye, it’s the usual scum-tabloid shite: badly written, cat-up-tree journalism penned by lazy nationalistic wankers.
Page Four. “Hooker Slain with Bottle”. Aye, a nasty attack indeed, some Anderson Train Station whore bleeding tae death eftir an unhappy punter rammed a broken boattil ae ginger up her fanny. Mind you, it’s hardly a serious crime. Fanny-bashing dis eftir aw only get ye five hunner points in Grand Theft Auto 3. And, as usual, the cunts at the Daily Retard huv omitted the important facts, i.e. whether the murderer hud the decency tae leave the blue lid ahind oan the boattil so the prossies faimily could get the twenty pee back aff the boattil tae pay fir a decent funeral send-aff.
Page Five. “Boy loses finger in freak pedalo incident.” Page Six. A full page Comet advert. Shite. Page Seven. Mair adverts, mair shite.
Ah reach the sports section quickly, withoot hide nor hair ae masturbatable journalism. All in all, it’s thirty two pence worth ae fucking shite. Well, fir those that paid fir it at least.
Mind you, it comes as no real surprise. In recent years, the incompetent fuckers at 1 Central Quay huv done a sterling joab ae nivir managing tae find anything remotely newsworthy tae write aboot. Still. Ah’ve goat tae gie the cunts a microscopic sliver ae credit, thuv at least hud the common decency tae fit a few grainy photaes ae Jordan wearing a tight toap intae thir forty odd pages ae shite. Ah flick back quickly, tae try tae resuscitate ma cock, it currently being in mortal danger ae shrinking up so much it inverts cause ae the previous brief encounter wi Cat Deeley and her recalcitrant lopsided tits. Ah yes. Page Three. The delectable, Katie Price.
Ah’ve wank ooer Jordan a loat, tae the extent ah often noo wonder whether a real shag affae her could even be as enjoyable. In all honesty, and meaning no disrespect tae the lassie, ah very much doubt that her fanny would come anywhere near tae living up tae the high standard ae expectations the palm ae ma left han hud set it. Still, she disnae let me doon oan this occasion . . .
Ma cock hardens quickly, ah coax it back tae life wi deviant thoughts ae rubbing baby lotion ooer her orbal, counterfeit tits. Obviously ah’d prefer her wean wisnae in the photaes wi her, it’s fir this very reason that ah pull ma Thomas Cook travel brochure closer tae hand, so’s when ah get near tae vinegar strokes in the not-too-distant ah’m no shooting ma wad ooer a three month old half-cast bairn like a catholic fucking priest.
Jist then, ah catch sign ae ma watch and ma heart sinks. Fuck. It’s ten past fucking four. Ah’d better get a move oan as Ronaldo feenishes his shift at four, he could be hame any meenit, give ur take the anorexic likelihood ae a First Glesga bus running oan time.
Ah quickly squirt some mair hand-cream oan ma left paw and crack oan. Aye, this isnae the time nor place fir tantric wanking. Concentrate Alan, concentrate.
And ah do. Admirably.
Ah’m up through the gears quickly, and soon intae a pleasant steady rhythm, as fleshy images ae naked wummin speed through ma fertile imagination in rapid succession. First ah’m pumping ma fist up Jordan, ma han that far up that ah’m gonnae huv tae phone 999 and file a missing persons report oan it if ah’m no careful. Then Heidi Klum. and then the wan wi the guid tits fae Atomic Kitten.
Jordan’s fanny afore she hud her wean. Denise Van Outen strumming herself like a lead guitarist. Anna Friel wi bigger tits. Anna Friel wi Jordan’s tits. Aye this is mental Viagra. Ah cin feel damp patches ae sweat forming oan ma back. Aye. Anna Friel cin do that tae a man.
Mind you. Even wi Anna in ma heid, ah’m really huving tae dig deep. At this stage aw the proceedings, ah’m feeling little closer tae vinegar strokage thun ah would be in a foursome wi ma auld dear, Cat Deeley and that black bird wi the daytime talk show oan the telly wi the nostrils ye could pothole in. Specially since ah bet that fucking Cat Deeley’s fanny looks like a wan-eyed Japanese pensioner wi cataracts.
The proablum faced, like oan so many days third wanks, is ah’m awready pure spunked oot fae the two sessions earlier in the day. It’s a safe bet that any wean spawn wi the pitiful levels ae duff currently hiding deep in ma bawbags would be born withoot airms and legs, and possibly withoot even a fucking heid.
Nevertheless, ah press oan. Ma stroke quickens, as Jennifer Love Hewitt takes aff her pants and starts sniffing thum. That page three lassie Jarmelia pished eftir a night in Chinewhites. The lassie wi the big lips fae All Saints. Jennifer Anniston wi smaller earlobes. Monica joining in.
The flapping and slapping ae ma foreskin gets louder, and ah find masel wincing as ma banjo string twinges. Immediately ah slow back doon. It’s an occupational hazard ah’m well acquainted wi, but it is only Wednesday so ah huv tae be careful. The last fucking hing ah need is ma cock red-raw, scabbed and unusable. No wi two whole days ae the working mans week left tae go.
As Natalie Imbruglia kneels doon, the risk ae injury is instantly firgotten, and ah’m soon wondering whit aw the fuss wis aboot in the first place as the lassie fae Hollyoaks wi the nice eyes but the nose ye could accidentally slam a door oan starts tae help Natalie oot. Soon it’s a feeding frenzy roon ma cock, thir heids baith gawn up and doon like chuckie egg munching triangles, thir tongues flicking up ma shaft tae great visual, and mair importantly, sensory effect.
But much as ah’m enjoying the pleasure ae thir company, ah huv tae push thum baith aside as the dial-a-bride oriental that works in the takeaway restaurant oan Dumbarton Road bends over and asks me tae send ma cock in oan an exploratory mission tae discover new erogenous zones in deepest China.
Aye, sorry Natalie, but she’s goat no bad tits fir a kitchen sink. Certainly not the usual currant ur raisin beesting nips ye get oan the slope wummin fae ooer that neck ae the woods, even if her fanny dis look a bit like a badly sealed Cornish Pastie. But as ma Poontang long-time lover arches back by the grip ah’ve goat oan her pony-tail, ma cock slides up her banana fritter a bit too quickly and easily, suggesting a high-fibre diet, but low-fibre morals.
A quick glance at ma watch tells me it’s twenty five past four. Ah’ve been wanking fir almost thirty meenits. Aye, wummin would call that stamina, but ah call it a fucking hindrance.
Concentrate Alan, concentrate.
And ah do. Images rush quicker and quicker through ma heid. First Christina Aguilera naked. Then the blonde twins ootae Funhoose. It’s a blur eftir that, ae Lorraine Kelly eftir a few tubs ae Slimfast milkshakes, Gail Porter pre-sag and Carol Smilie bent ooer a washing machine in the kitchen ae wan ae those hooses she’s jist redecorated badly. Ma heart’s fleeing fae the exertions, ma heid pure pounding in a way that could soon threaten twenty-twenty vision. Fortunately, this isnae likely tae happen. Kylie Minogue hus jist sat oan ma face. It’s dark and ah cannae see anything as ah feel aroon her fanny, looking fir a clitoris. Ah’m huving tae hunt up and doon fir it, pure searching, feeling like that Anneka Rice ootae Treasurehunt, only withoot the helicopter.
Aye, Anneka Rice ootae Treasurehunt in her younger days. Charlene fae Texas. Heather wi the weather only naked. The Thomas Cook lassie gamming me, oan her knees faster thun a muslim in Ramadan, a mooth like a Dyson, a throat like a giraffe. Pounding Miss Philippa Hunter-Smyth fae across the hall, her fanny bone clicking fae ma thrusts, snail trail running doon baith her legs, mediocre tits spinning quickly anti-clockwise.
Gail Porter again. Thumping aff the flair when ah finally work oot how tae undo the catch oan her Ravenscraig-girder reinforced under-wired bra. Ah flick through the channels oan ma telly in search ae nudity and scenes ae a sexual nature, sumthin unsuitable fir small children but ideally fucking viewing fir me. Buts thirs nuthin oan so ah switch back tae Carol Voderman oan all fours eftir a guid nights sleep. And Alicia Keys pink bits. And Rachel Stevens, gawn doon like a burst lilo.
Ma breath spasms and ma cock stairts tae twitch uncontrollably. Aye, ah’m very nearly at vinegar, but ah cin tell by the look oan Rachel fae S-Club’s face that her sarcophagus isnae a swallower, so ah push her oaf ma cock and let Jordan, whose awready acquired the taste, tickle her tonsils oan ma cock.
Jordan. Deep throat. Lying oan her back wi her feet ahind her ears. Ma fist up her ah ah Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Bisto! A spidery umbilical cord ae duff fires oot ae the end ae ma knob ooer the tiled roof ae the three star Mediterranean Palace in Marbella.
Fucks sake.
Ah’m seeing stars and close tae blacking oot, so ah lie back in ma bed whilst ah get ma breath back.
Aye, that wis a magic wank
pure beano
fan-fucking-tastic . . .
BANG.
. . . velvet.
Ah sit up frantically, baith eyes in a bulge. Fuck. Wis that the front . . .
─ “Dempsy? DEMPSY?”
. . . door. FUCK. It’s Ronnie. Ronnie’s FUCKING hame.
Fortunately fir me, the cunt goes tae the living room first. Even wi that detour, ah’ve only jist done the toap button ae ma jeans up when the cunt sticks his frowning coupon roon the door.
─ “Why didn’t ye fucking answer, ya cunt?” he scowls, eyeing me suspiciously.
Ah’m not sure if it’s a rhetoric question ur no, but wi ma heid in a post-wank-spin, and ma hands and voice still shaking, ah opt fir a vow ae silence.
─ “You coming doon the Stag tae watch the fitba?” he sais.
─ “Aye”, ah mumble back, shifting uncomfortably as ah feel spunk soaking intae ma pubes and boaxers. Ah stand up and follae him gingerly through intae the living room, ma heart slowing doon tae a race.
