And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s come on to me. The last time, as I recall, was in a real ale pub in the middle of nowhere. He was a Geordie Elvis, rather rotund, with an accent that certainly added a quirk.
The London boys were down, and their mouths still thought they could drink eighteen pints of old stinker, but their bowels thought otherwise. At regular intervals the makeshift dance floor would fill with a sulphurous stench too vintageous to bear.
I pointed this out to Geordie Elvis, who shouted down the microphone in true whayayman:
‘som wons fockin pomped! Eeeeeeeergh, who’s pomped?!’
Very alluring I’m sure, but I was incestuously paired up with my friend’s brother so escaped his greasy charms, and will never know the wonder of him.
So to the new Elvis. It all started with my new year's resolution. Simply. More. Sex.
Reviewing this past year it has not been a convincingly successful run, and last year scraped by the acceptable mark. So however, whatever, whenever, it’s got to be the rule. I ain’t getting any younger and I can’t disappear into my squirrel’s nest forever.
Hence Elvis number two.
Unaffectionately referred to as ‘the Belgian’ in circles who know my pain. All the reassurance in the world cannot hide the fact that I am physically repulsed by his European torso. Small pinky nipples nestled in auburn fur. Love handles to match.
Not his fault! I hear you cry. But now my problem.
He comes to my flat on exactly the same day we convened last year. Except last year we had some fresh magic and a party at Dave Gilmore’s kids house to fuel the fire. And an imminent escape to India where I could shake off any shudders.
Although recovered from the tremors of G-ma, I have a cold and am feeling less than horny. It is nice to see him, but all night I keep my distance. And glug down as much red and spliff as I can muster. He goes to Tescos and buys war-food and drooping tulips and I am reminded of the town from which we were spawned.
But I know I’ve got to do it.
He’s spent the best part of 2009 touring in Italy with an Elvis tribute show and he’s gone all pelvis. Talking about his seventeen year-old cousin who’ll be ready soon……………….ignoring the fact he’s already past it. And some story about an Argentinean woman from the internet who wanted to go to the Ivy, and that curious Thai prostitute he met at the station. Now this is a 'nice' guy, but I’m starting to find him a tad sinister. What’s Elvis gonna do when I turn out the light? (And have no fear that it will be dark).
There is no more idle chat or wine left, so we go to bed. We haven’t even touched, and I’m seriously worried about the absence of my animal instincts.
We lay down. He looks at me with a wry smile and says, 'Merry Christmas', then launches! Aaaah! It’s Elvis! Hunka hunka burnin love! How'm I gonna deal with this one? I close my eyes, that’s a start. And I frantically rifle through the folders of my back catalogue – who can I pretend he is??
And of course, I manage. Until I hungrily climb upon this Belgian hound dog to strut my stuff.
In a delirious flu-ridden cock-ophany of lust I lose all of my senses. And then I look down at him and he has displays a look of utter disdain.
“I said........stop!” He says with incredulous disbelief.
Whoops! Was that in the bit where I stopped using my ears and eyes? What had I done? Was it truly as awful as his words?
I had just got going, but now it was definitely time to get gone. I had done what I had set out to do, but it was fourteen pumps short of a success.
In the morning it was porridge and polite goodbyes. And I haven’t heard from him since.
Now what is that I'm always forgetting about not crossing bridges?
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment