So Hold Me Mom In Your Long Arms...In Your Military Arms

When I was 16 I started bucking this gagging-for-it 41-year-old mad 'un. She was bottle blonde and called Jude. She was a friend of my mother’s from her PTA days and she introduced the two of us (my mother) over a game of Buckaroo.

Apt.

I think it was the mechanical jerking of that bucking plastic donkey or whatever it was got me so turned on to begin with. As the game went on Dirty Jude started playing footsie with me, inching her little foot up the inside of my leg straight up to my cock. That foot of hers had a great dexterity and could even grip things; probably with the same strength as a baby monkey.

Dirty Jude’d had no babies and as a result of this her skin, especially round her torso, was smooth and firm and her tits were round pert classics. I liked to put one of them in each hand close my eyes and imagine I were carrying two baldy midgets under each arm.

This pink smooth stretch of MILF converged at her bald round cunt. It rose from the valley of her stomach like a Mayan temple on a faraway hill and was a source of fascination and pleasure for me.

The thing I really dug Dirty Jude for most of all though was her giving me an education. The most appreciated lesson was in how to give and receive anal.

She used to say – You want to come in through the VIP entrance tonight, lover? – in her cracked and ruptured girlie falsetto. Then she rolled onto her stomach and spread her cosy little arse cheeks apart while I poured Baby Oil all round her opening which were like a soft spongy crater in appearance.

While this were her most appreciated lesson, her most cherished trick was her big shaking, squirting climaxes. Her ejaculate would fire out of her like a fireman’s hose. She would wriggle in my arms like she were in a seizure and flap her tongue about. I liked to hold her in the middle and squeeze hard, like I were getting toothpaste outta a tube.
Yeah: Dirty Jude.

It was over Christmas ma reminded me of her. We were sitting over a reasonable Christmas Lunch, all the usual things there, turkey like fucking plasterboard trying to swallow it (or it could’ve been my nerves) and she says:
- remember that dirty auld hoor Dirty Jude? –
- yes, - I said – remember you give her a thick ear when Micheesha told you what we’d been doin’ together?
- Wish I’d’ve given her a thick head. You’re a dirty pig, Danny. Goin’ with a hoor like that, older than your mummy.
- What about cousin Uganda (cousin I haven’t mentioned before. A gaming success – make of that what you will). He married one 14 years older. He married her. And he’s rich as fuck. He got trapped, dear. I was desperate for a fuck, 16 and all. Which makes him he fool in my eyes and me just…
- Don’t talk about your libido in front of your mummy. C’mon now, play the game!

Later Micheesha came in. Sat all night making eyes at me but didn’t say anything because Mother was sitting there.

When mother started to nod off she said: - That auld hoor Dirty Jude, - out of the blue - but really a culmination of her annual Christmas Night eyebrow plucking ‘settling of an old score’ in her militaristic brain.
- Dirty Jew! – exclaimed Micheesha. – Don’t be anti-Semitic. Its Christmas!
- Christmas is when its nearly ok to be anti-Semitic. – I said while watching gentle Jesus on the tele getting all his presents from the magi.

Forgive Everybody And Remember

I ran out of all my money today at the same time I realised my motor had been sitting up there in that multi-storey car park in town for so many weeks (two), probably encased in ice and snow like some modern art resemblance and now it would probably never start again.

So I yet again returned to Micheesha’s looking my money. And if she didn’t have it, the slippery little poisoned eel, I would wreak a vengeance.

I had to go into town to get a bus to her’s. On the way to the bus I nearly went on my hoop twice on real slippery shiny patches of ice, - made so slippery thus dangerous by the fact they were the result of leaking gutters from the buildings all around, dripping all manner of shite and sewerage down onto the footpath to collect in big pools to then freeze in the -10 climate today.

3 old women went down like they’d been shot by Nazi sharpshooters on D-Day. Straight onto their backs. The first two were attended to quickly and graciously by passersby. And in those cases I would’ve done my bit there if it were required. The last old doll I saw falling though, she cracked her head on a jutting out brick from a building. Cracked her head like an Easter Egg and blood poured out everywhere and I being so mortified couldn’t even make believe it were syrup pouring out of like a Cadbury’s Crème Egg (and it were red instead of white anyway).

So I crossed the street and turned the corner, and was glad to find the bus to Micheesha’s was just about to take off. I was glad because if I’d’ve stopped to help the old doll I would’ve missed it. So it was a good thing I ignored her and a sort of inverted evil fate that allowed me to continue my mission.

Again at Micheesha’s the bitch stands there, shoulders flexed. Entry blocked, shoulders deep, upper half bouncing slowly from side to side off either side of the doorframe like a speedometer in flux.
- where’s my money, cunt.
- I don’t have it. I only have what I have. And you can’t take it off me! It’s Christmas!
- I’m gettin my fuckin dough today. I’ve no food for me nor the cat. I can’t get my motor outta the fuckin multi-storey in town. I’m fucked Micheesha.
- dunno how you’re fucked, Danny, cos I’m nat givin em out mate. As in I don’t give a fuck. Nat one. And I saw you comin’ up the path and I called Stupid Peter (her ‘partner’) and his brothers. So I suppose in that case you are fucked, Danny. And you will be by them!
In response to this sisterly petulance I kicked her right in the hoof (the vagina) and went booting into her house. Before I could get to the living room she grabbed my ankle (she were on the floor winded at this point) and pulled at my trouser leg imploringly.
- Please, Danny. What are you doing? – she wheezed. - Please don’t. Think of the kids! Here, - she wheezed some more while getting to her feet and handing me a tub of green face paint. – rub this on your face and put this woolly hat on and your eyes are all glassy and red so that’s good and go in there and tell em you’re The Grinch and you’re here to steal their prezzies cos I know that’s what you’re going to do ain’t it? but more than that: you wanna keep the FANTASY of Christmas alive for em Danny, don’t ye?
- I’m gonna steal em and sell em, yeah. Cos I gotta you silly bitch. But yeh to the other thing, too.
- right then, - she whispered, forlornly.

So I went in there and stamped all over the toys and dogshit and scared the kids half-to-death.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh, - I went.
They squealed.
- I’m The Grinch, yahh! Yahh! And I’ve come to take all your prezzies from under the tree cos you’re good-for-nothing mother ain’t paid her drug debts so now she can’t pay Santa for your toys. So I’m the Grinch and I gotta take them.
- No! – they screamed. – No! Please Don’t!

But I did and that’s all there was to it.

And later at home after another nice warm & tingly act of onanism it finally dawned on me that always, without fail, after I pull one out, I like to listen to a good tune. So I thought I’d create a Facebook page called ‘wank:tune’ then realised I couldn’t cos I don’t have an account.

Happy x-mas to one and all!

And here’s that tune I heard, one of empowerment and defiance, my gift from me to you:

Words And Pictures Simply Can't Describe...

It was a very wet day. The air was wet when I finally emerged onto the street late this afternoon having spent the last 48 hours in hibernation, eating Pot Noodles and snorting a lot of base (but not so much that I seriously depleted my profit margin).

I had also bought two quick little white mice from the nearby pet shop to let Boke the Cat chase round the house.

The little bastard was starving and was so very ruthless in his hungry pursuit of the first mouse. The second, cleverer mouse, went and hid under the big, imposing dark-wood chest of drawers my granny give me and stayed there. But the first mouse? He ran.

From the kitchen I could hear an almighty clattering calamity occurring, and I reckoned the stupid mouse were crawling across the ceiling, his sharp little claws dug into the paint, him hanging on for dear life. Boke meanwhile leaping and bouncing and leaping off every surface in an effort to get high enough to swat the courageous little thing from his safe perch.

Whatever happened, Boke the Cat proudly, and with not a little weary dignity, returned into the living room carrying the limp dead mouse. With great relish he sat eating it in front of the electric fire and when he was done he licked his lips and rolled all over the floor. I noticed as he came past me, strutting officially like he were in a procession of returning war heroes, the face of the captured mouse had this frozen, petrified look about it. Teeth bared, eyes wide, whiskers arched and stiff.

Anyway, I sat watching Boke eat his dinner and I gained a little emotional succour from it. It made me feel horny as a matter of fact: watching him split that mouse, arse to tit, and eating its innards out. It felt like hardcore cunnilingus. I got my dick out and had a wank to it.

Afterwards Boke boked up some of what he ate. He walked ahead of it a little and started scraping the carpet in a backward motion, flicking his paws backward like he were in his litter tray and he were trying to cover it up. I don’t know why cats do this. All the time, if they’ve had an accident, they always think they’re in their litter tray and try and cover it up. They’re stupid that way. When he turned to look at me, to see if I’d seen what he just did, I saw myself reflected in his eye, his fiery yellow eye, my reflection held there like a prehistoric bug in amber.

Words & Pictures simply can’t describe...

I waited till it got dark till I went over to my Sis Micheesha’s house in Sydenham. Round there I could see on the walls the old S.W.T (Sydenham Wine Team) graffiti had reappeared here and there.

I didn’t know what to make of this. At their height in the 80’s/90’s they were mysterious to me. A punk Freemasonry in my eyes. Turns out they were Glentoran supporters all along, but legend had it they carried revolvers and drank cheap port wine upstairs in the McDonalds in town.

I was still ruminating on this when Micheesha came to the door, standing there barring me from getting in her house.
- I haven’t sold none yet, - she said with balls of dry white spittle collected at the corners of her mouth.
- That’s no fuckin good, Micheesha, - I said.
- I know. But there’s no one – I mean.
- Gimmie it straight you fuckin wapped out, fucked up head melter. You’ve fuckin put half of it up your nose haven’t ye?
- no I haven’t. I swear. I promise you. I’ll have all your dough come Saturday. Promise!
- Micheesha, I’m gonna burn down this house, with you, your kids, your dogs, that fuckin halfwit boyfriend –
- Partner!
- That fuckin’ chip sniffer boyfriend, that fuckin gormless ginger walking cheese puff, I stabbed him he’d probably bleed Fanta, ginger cunt. All you. Dead. Burnt to death.
- I’ve got something I can give you. Probably tide you over?
- Better be money?
- I could tell you where Kimba is...

So she were in this park on the Ormeau Road, with all these other hippy cult looking types, all mental deficients by the looks of it.

Then I saw her. She were playing catch with this totally gorgeous looking bloke. She were wearing some sort of facemask similar to Paul Gascoigne’s when he went to Lazio, which was probably to do with the reconstructive surgery she were getting on her melted off face that I caused when I shoved her headfirst into her granny’s fire.

But that boy she were playing catch with were the bees’ knees. An Adonis. This song I thought I’d play when I got home. Then I nearly cried. But I didn’t. Cos I’m a man.

Trying To Make A Pound Out Of 15p

When I arrived home I could’ve nearly cried when I realised that change I dropped at the foot of the Moses’ tramp was all that was between me and the grave, save for bad fortune.

I raided my cupboards looking for something I could throw together for my dinner, but all I could finds, behind an empty box of Weetabix, was a half-a-tube of Jaffa Cakes. I forlornly returned to my living room and sat eating them and watching the news on the tele while trying to feed little corners to Boke the Cat, who turned his nose up at them.

Well then the little cunt could starve. And this situation just wouldn’t do.

So I had to make a pound out of 15p, as a variation on the song, and in order to get this done I went cap in hand to Bosco’s to buy some of his base.

- Danny Pongo, with his tail between his legs. Never thought I’d see the day, - said Bosco, laughing at me.
- Have the cops been here looking for me, Bosco? I asked.
- No. But don’t think I’ll be lying for you when they do show up. I’ll have you on possession with intent to supply if you tell them about me making it up here. Consider it the touts’ M.A.D, or Mutually Assured Destruction.
- I know what M.A.D means, Bosco, - wishing I could do a bit of mutually assured destruction on his hole, then by effect mine, but only so it meant fucking the little cunt up.
- How much you want?
- an ounce.
- on strap?
- yes. Gonna sell it with a 5er mark-up on a 10ers worth. Gotta get some coin together.
- I hear ye, - said the little weasel, casting himself in his own little hard-luck story.

I reckoned My Sis’ Micheesha would take most of it off my hands and the rest I’d sell on in little wraps here and there.

Micheesha’s house as usual was a fucking tip. Dogs’ shit in various sizes, shapes and colours sat like islands amidst a sea of kids’ toys. There was not an inch of carpet you could see.
- Micheesha, fuckin dogs’ shite’ll make your kids go blind if they touch it, - I warned.
- I’m getting a woman in to clean the day, Danny, fuckin’ drap it! What you wan’ anyway?
- Need to shift a bit of base. You interested?
- aye. Show us...

Micheesha’s a very thorough and particular little bitch and has not a crumb of trust for me, Danny Pongo, her little brother. So we racked up a couple of lines me and her so she could test it, and for the following hour and a half I’d to sit and listen to her list a number of grievances she held against every one of her exes, (not a modest number, men and women): the beatings, the rough anals, the thieving, the drug addicts, the alcos, - a compiling of miseries heaped upon miseries reamed off with an autistic’s fastidious attention to memory and a poet’s vividness, all her own terrible memorial from then till now.

After I got fed up with her talking I made my excuses and left, and she hit me with it at the door.
- I’ll get that sold this week. You hold out till then till I get you the dough?
- fuckin’ hell, Micheesha! No! I’m flat broke. Gimmie a score, and I’ll be back for the rest on Wednesday.
- don’t have a fuckin’ score, Danny!
- oh yeah? Well what were you gonna pay the fuckin’ cleaner with then? – I said, snatching her bag of the hall table.
- gimme that back you dirty wee cunt, - she said chasing me down her front path as I turned her purse over in the garden.
- there we go. 20 quid, - I said taking it from the pile of paper and coins. See you Wednesday.
- what am I gonna pay the cleaner with?! Danny? Danny! – she yelled as I walked away.

I See Her Face Everywhere I Go, On The Street, Even At The Picture Show

Today I drove round Belfast looking for Kimba. I was not going to put it off any longer. My search for her would know no bounds. My love for her no limits.

I put this song on the stereo to keep me romantic:

After an hour or two, the lyrics quoted above in the title inspired me to go catch a movie. Five minutes into the trailers I fell asleep. I can’t even remember what the flick was called.

Later I sat and smoked a joint in my car, having parked up in the multi-storey by the Inn’s Shops. After that I went for a dander around. Went in and out of various shops I thought Kimba would go, like Liberty Blue, or Fresh Garbage, which was easy-walking as they were only round the corner from each other.

In these places I scowled with true bitterness and hatred right in the direction of Christmas shoppers. I thought, how am I going to get my shopping done? With no money? But then, I thought, the only person I’ve to get for is mother, and she’ll only want a Coronation Street 50 Years commemorative plate, what’ll only cost a few bob off a market stall. This fact, these two facts combined, made me feel very sad.

I ended my search for her in the Primark on Royal Avenue. As well as looking for her I also wanted to check on the price of perfume so I could buy some to give to her for Christmas if she ever did turn up before then.

After a fruitless search I went and stood under the heater at the entrance of the store, right between the automatic doors, letting the rushing comforting blast of warm cover me like a waterfall of treacle. My eyes closed and I momentarily felt myself dissipating in a sea of nirvana. The pangs of acute destitution I felt when I found the perfumes in Primark (trashy budget store), even the cheapest of them, were beyond my budget, seemed to me to have been experienced in a previous lifetime.

However, all good things must come to an end, and what brought me out of this state of bliss was a creeping and noxious attack on the senses from below. That sense being the sense of smell.

For from below crept the smell of the unwashed, or never wiped. Shite-in trousers and terror sweats, the odours of which, along with other, unidentifiable ones, mixed and swirled in the updraft of the heater.

I opened my eyes immediately and looked down. A tramp sat, his legs all rubbery and mangled looking, not two feet away mumbling for change. His face had the texture of dry, cracked turf, his eyes were blue and watery in the cold and he had a bushy poofed out Moses beard.

I could feel my lunch rising so I tore my hands, tense with disgust, from my pockets to cover my nose. In the process of doing this, wouldn’t you know it? all my change flies out too and bounces all over the pavement in front of the poor tramp. He didn’t even have to chase it, which was lucky cos his legs were the in the shape of tangly spaghetti and I doubt he would’ve even been capable.
As he watched all this clattering silver and copper jumping and bouncing before him like tiny leaping fish his lovely blue eyes shone and his Moses beard pulsated.

And what was I to do? And the fucking Salvos were across the street as well keeping an eye. One I’m sure was the minister, who was no doubt going to use the what of what I did next for the basis of his sermon on Sunday.

I wished I could’ve done something. Something cool (not something violent, too much of that recently). Converted them all to atheism with the wave of my hand then using telekinesis levitate Moses the Tramp before their very eyes, leaving them rightly confused.

But I didn’t. I did nothing. Just looked at Moses, looked at the Salvo’s. Give a weak finger to who I thought was the Minister (fuck him for suppressing Free Will), and ended up having to walk home as I’d no change now to pay to get the car outta the multi-storey.

On the way back I hoped I’d be hit by a bus and killed and that the news of my accident and how it came to be would get back to the Minister. But that didn’t happen, and I feel more glad for that than not.

People Take My Advice: If You Love Someone, Don't Think Twice

I came and the little Christian girl’s head ceased to bob, almost instinctively, and instantaneously I felt great guilt and an immense personal revelation dawned:

I couldn’t live without my Kimba, melted off face and all.

I sat and listened to this track, sitting by the record player weeping and stroking scabey, smelly Boke the Cat, who lay all curled up on my lap.

After I cum in the Christian girl’s mouth (whose name was Cleo) I give her my copy off Physical Graffiti (for her trouble) and told her to fuck off.

I decided I needed to get out of the house and so went off in my car slowly, zigzagging up the icy ungritted street I live on knocking wing mirrors off the other cars as I went.

I was headed toward the Lower Ormeau to the Rose & Crown pub to see if my pal Sweeney was there cos really I was sick of the other two (Bogdan &Bosco) finally and enough.

Having parked my car in the entrance of the local library, as I was afraid to take my motor any further down the particular street it was on as it looked even shinier and icier than my own street, I made my way gingerly along then to the Rose & Crown, making sure not to slip.

I was pleased to find Sweeney was in the pub then with his sister Gertie, who was on the G&T’s by the look of things. I snuck up behind him and did that tap-one-shoulder-loom-over-the-other-shoulder swticheroo and frightened the giddy cunt then when he turned to see it was me standing there.

So I joined Gertie and him for a drink and ended up sitting there all afternoon with them crying into my drink and telling them how lovely and sweet Kimba was. Gertie sweetly and tenderly stroked my leg and I played with her hair and twiddled her dangly Pat Butcher earrings.


Sweeny, who doesn’t like talk about emotions and stuff, tried to change the subject and talk about his war against the Scientologists. I humoured him for a bit then got bored and decided to instead listen to Gertie talk about how complicated William Burroughs is and how reading his books is like trying to do a Rubik’s Cube blind.

She was very scatty, Gertie. She somehow got onto how the other night she’d a dream her head were stuck in a toilet bowl for what seemed like years with only her nose above water so she could breathe.

After what seemed like years, as I’ve said, the face of Julian Simmons appeared above her. He give one of his sinister camp-paedophile grins then he turned and his fat, pale ginger arse planted itself down just inches from her face, blocking out all the light like an eclipse, and he proceeded to shit all over her, in her mouth and everything.

I asked her what she thought it meant and she said she didn’t know.

After a while it got obvious that she’d’ve bucked me, Gertie, but I still pined so hard for Kimba that I didn’t think I’d be up to it.

All I had was this song running through my head on a loop:

So I put it on on the jukebox and walked outta there.

I'm Not Terrific But I'm Competent

As I was getting sick of Bosco’s obsessing over his ‘Bosco Base’ speed I decided to risk going back to mine to see if I’d any post like my bi-monthly porn subscription for example.

On the way up Tate’s Avenue the snow began to fall heavily and above in the sky I could see, through the slowly drifting graceful flakes arranged thick as television static, the headlights of an aeroplane shining through the squall.

I stuck my thumb in the air, hoping to flag it down, and I reminded me of this track:

Glad of the snow when I got to my street as I thought it might camouflage me from any pigs I nevertheless shuffled along ever on-the-lookout for phlorescent jackets, but then began to worry when I chanced upon the possibility the sneaky bastards might go undercover this time.

Next door the kids had built a large snowman which I didn’t notice at first but when I did it made me jump. It was a grotesque thing in its resemblance to a thalidomide humanoid and by the fact there was a slim possibility that there might be a pig inside it waiting to pounce.

I got in the house and was glad and calmed to find my porno had arrived.

I turned the heat on and got myself all snuggled up in bed with my porno. Then the fucking door is rapped. My boner shrivelled up so quick and actually I think retracted a little into my body so afraid was I all of a sudden.

I crawled on my hands and knees into the front room where I keep my ironing board and very stealthy like sneaked a look out the window at my car, the driver’s side window to be precise, to see in the reflection who it was.

What it looked like, my caller, was a girl, indeterminate age, blonde. Couldn’t rate her ass under her big heavy duffel coat, nor her tits as I could only see her from behind.

And completely forgetting they might have sent a sow round undercover (my dick getting the better of me again) I threw on a dressing gown and went down the stairs to answer it to her.

She were around 16. Lovely rosy cheeks, pinched by the cold, reasonable tits, even under the duffel coat, and hips round and plentiful like a rising sun.
- Hi.
- Hi.
- Did you know its 22 days till we celebrate the birth of our Lord and saviour Jesus Christ?
- I was vaguely aware yes. I’ll have plenty of time till get him a card, won’t I? But with the Post Office and the state of it, you never know.
- Oh hahaha, very funny. You’re a very funny man...Well anyway, its Jesus’ birthday soon, and the younger members of the local Methodist are canvassing the area seeing if people around the ages of 16-35 –
- That’s me, - I nearly lied.
- Yes well, if you’d be interested then in joining us some Saturday evening in the church hall for some fun & fellowship?
At this I look my cock out and let it hang there like a poached armadillo.
- You know the only fun and fellowship you can have without no beer and drugs? I said, squeezing it to hardness, - this kind, - said I, nodding down at my now capacity length 6 and a half inches.

The girl’s eyes big as saucers and protruding out of her lovely sweet teenage face roughly pushed me back into the hall, threw her clipboard at Boke the Cat, who ran upstairs, got down on her knees and ate it greedily. Wet, smooth and deep.

I thought to myself, I don’t want to cum in this grotty hall of mine, so I led her by the hair into the living room, over to the curtains, pulled them, then put this one on the turntable and blasted it. To. Fuck: