Love. Thy. Neighbour.....

I think I overdid it at the weekend……

I think I have pneumonia.  And I’ve needed an injection for some time…..

Satur-day has me cocooned like a sloth in a coma. 

Satur-night has me trussed up like a lidl turkey.  Fun time cranky.

turkey porn

It takes me three-and-a-half hours to get to mrs mac’s party in seven sisters.  At victoria I economise on time. 

Vodka.  Check. 

Toilet - upstairs to the wetherspoons, where although the amenities are ‘free’, they come at the price of a trough of pissed random wankers, who choose to spend their Saturday night in a pub.  In a station. 

Whooping girls cram into the prefab cubicles.  It stinks. 

As I hurriedly depart, a young man intercepts me.  His eyes are like glass kaleidoscopes.  He knows me.  He is twenty one.  Oh noooo! 

He boy-handles me and tries to jibe his way into my party.  Not likely son, I need a bit more man this time…..

Armed with my beloved bottle of vodka and not much else, I am more than ready for a drink when I arrive. 

Mrs mac greets me, and the party is moving.  It’s fun, jostling, warm, upbeat.  Food adorns itself over tables and various partygoers ogle me; the couple I met in india on their honeymoon.  The dutch architect. 

I sit with them, but not for long, as I hunt for a sportsman’s booze-fix. 

Someone in the kitchen is cracking open a good bottle of champagne.  I thrust my plastic glass under his face and demand he top me up.

‘But, you have water?’  I shake my head defiantly.  ‘Vodka?’ *nod* ‘You want to mix vodka with good champagne?  It’ll go straight to your head!’

Yes sir, you get the idea.  Now fill me up.

As a near-teetotaller, (ahem), it goes straight to my sex-starved brain.  As I chat to astoundingly intelligent, charismatic successfuls, I find myself focussing on their mouths, because to me their eyes are swimming around their faces. 

As I dribble and goon, I realise I need a remedy for this poison.  I’d better not try and stay still any longer, for I’m starting to swagger like I’m back on board the Wibbley Wobbley….

What’s the best way to remedy an arseholed maniac blogger?  DANCE!  Godiva, DANCE!

And when I dance, the world dances with me.  An eager opponent joins me, a cute Italian girl.  Soon we are swinging each other about the room, skidding through men’s legs, inventing crab-like robotic manoeuvres.  She’s a match alright, and it gets dangerous. 

As we swing each other around, she takes her legs off the floor, and elevated, literally is flying around my head. 

Well strong though I may be, superhuman I am not.

So I drop her.  And fling her across the wood-panelled floor; for a split second I hear sirens wailing in my head.  The booze miraculously softens her limbs and she rises.  No one has heard from her since….

I over-enthuse at the kooks, and manically search for a suitor to smarm it out with.  I pick on a small, smiley man and he obliges.  Turns out he is a top TV executive. 

I rip the piss out of his programme, then conduct the most unsuccessful pitch of my life, for my blogumentary.  Not even convincing myself; he thinks it’s the worst idea since they tried to turn ketchup green.

Mrs mac has explained to everyone that I have a blog.  And by the end of the night I have a queue of people waiting for my blog cards. 

Already completely gagging for it, the liquor has fuelled my licker, and by three the music has faded, and I only have one track on my mind.  A track stuck on delirious repeat.  I blindly turn to a conscript and exclaim, “All we need now is some men!”

And by godiva magic, three young stooges enter on cue: a rough n ready farmer’s boy, Boris Johnson, and a computer game. 

Having already been knocked back in should-be humiliating fashion by the dutch architect (“I am going home…ALONE!!”) three more knockbacks won’t touch the sides… 

And she advances.

First I try for the farmer.  He is a bit rugged but very sweet and sexy.  Apart from his thoroughly unappealing manner.  And his girlfriend. 

Moving on I lay no blame - I wouldn’t wish lady g on heat upon anyone……

Who’s next?  I’m drunk, but no woman could ever be drunk enough to try and pull Boris Johnson.

But no!  The party is drawing to a close and my pants are still firmly encased in my leopard-print tights.  Bugger!  Who else is there? 

The computer game.  That’s who.  Who, it turns out, is also mrs mac’s kind and trusting neighbour. The consequence of their harmony; a mad rabid randy blogger to service.

I instruct him to dance before me.  I imagine he’ll be awkward and shit, but he gives it a good go.  ‘Up for the sport are you?’  I scheme.  It is late, and mrs mac is having her carpet laid in the morning.  We get shooed along.

It’s the last chance saloon.  With no prethought, like a desperate donkey galloping up to a fence to head butt it, I announce to computer game that I am going home with him.  And where is home?  No need for the taxi fare.  Just a sneaky trot up the stairs……

Poor neighbour.  There’s something to be said for a man who’ll take godiva on when she’s emblazoned with alcohol and pent up with sexual frustration. 

The neighbour isn’t so sure he wants to take me on.  His two friends are staying over…. 

‘You’ve got your own room haven’t you?’  I desperately pant. 

He’s not entirely sure this is a good idea.  I zone into his psyche – he’s not completely blown me out……

Pac man gets a crafty look in his eye.  ‘Let’s go for a cigarette’, he says.  So off we go into the courtyard - his courtyard, and get off.  Just like prince said we should.  It’s good, it’s natural.  Oh my god, it’s going to happen.

No sign of a cigarette, but all fingers pointing to a certain cigar ….

And hallelujah and glory be, godiva needs it.  Mission tenuously secured, I trot back into the party and announce to mrs mac that I’m going home with her neighbour.  ‘I think that’s a good idea’, says she.  She’s having her carpet laid in the morning…..

When you haven’t had sex for ages your worst fear is that when you finally do it could be rubbish. 

I pray it won’t be duff – bad sex when you’ve been waiting impatiently is worse than no sex at all, and I can’t take the risk.

So home we go, and back at the ranch we stick on The Big Lebowski.  And all four of us pass out. 

Forty minutes later we awake, startled and dribbling.  It’s bed time.  Time for the big event…. 

We enter his boudoir.  He’s got the same mac as me.  He’s got a bed.  I’ve got no clothes on and he’s got a penis.  Eureka!

And we do it.  By god, we do it.  We just get stuck in.  Before we know it we are tangled up like tetris, slotting together in symmetrical harmony.  Mouths all over without awkward motion, fucking in disorientated bliss.

The vodka does the talking as I twiddle with computer game’s knob and perform my own strenuous action adventure.  And I’m winning.  And the game won’t be over till I’m done. 

And I couldn’t care who he is or what he looks like.  Which is a good job, as it’s dark and I have no recollection of how I got here.

And talking of good jobs, in the morning it’s double helpings, and not just leftovers neither.  No one likes a sloppy bucket.

And it’s frank bed-talk.  Because there’s nothing to lose, just a few more filthy moans to gain. 

Not believing my fucking luck, I am stunned by our success.  I tell him so.  He tells me so. 

Always a sucker for a gatecrasher, of all the treats on the talent table I end up fucking with the neighbour. 

And on the way home from a drunken night with a farmer and Boris Johnson, he has ended up fucking the neighbour’s friend. 

Unbelievable.  Like the fact that he has to go to work on a Sunday.

He turns on the slightly sheepish ‘fuck-off-out-of-my-house’ routine, and on going to peck me on the cheek I clamp my mouth firmly over his for a last taste of that gold-blend paradise. 

I still can’t really decipher what he looks like, squinting through my delirious bleary eyes.  So before I leave, I confirm a few simple facts for confession: 

1.  he is several years my junior

2.  he has the same name as one of my younger siblings 3.  I am the oldest woman he has ever fucked. 

I like a statistic.

Bumbling down the corridor I have no idea of the way back to mrs mac’s.  When I finally find her, she is cheerily ripping up underlay.

‘The party didn’t start until you got here’, she tells me chirpily and factually. 

Nooooooooooooooo - too kind! (memories of swinging the Italian round my head not yet resurfacing). 

She asks if me and tetris exchanged numbers.  I wave my hand about dismissively, “numbers, email addresses, blogs, websites…..”  What meaning has this information after I have split every cell into multiple orgasm? 

I do hope the poor dear can walk…..and that he enjoys his six-pack in a few days.

Will I see him again?  Asks mrs mac.  Well……if I was passing.  Not that I’d recognise his face.  It would be more like seeing him for the first time, in fact.  I’m not keen on first dates, or conversation.  Though I might recognise his cock…..

“He’s good looking”, says mrs mac, “though….” (she searches for the right description), “a bit like a ten-year-old”. 

Whoops I did it again…..

On the way home, walking through the crazed streets of seven sisters, there’s a man shouting about god through a loud-haler. 

A woman in flamboyant dress is handing out leaflets and god-bless-yous.  She gives a flyer to the person in front of me, but freezes when she sees me, (or smells me -more probably).  Her and jesus are not keen on saving me, my post coital ear-to-ear triumphant grin not being mistaken for a sunbeam. 

I have to ask her for a fucking flyer. 

On the tube I look at it.  It says,

‘No matter how good you have been or how wicked you may be, you are a sinner in god’s sight’. 

Yes, I am good.  Yes, I am wicked.  And though I may well be a sinner in god’s sight, in godiva’s sight I’m a winner.  Thank god for creating computer games.

And no one does it better; be it matthew, mark, luke or fucking john, when I rampantly demonstrate with ultimate passion, ‘Love Thy Neighbour’.

And the leaflet tells me,

‘REALISE, the Lord Jesus Christ died on the cross of Calvary to purchase salvation for you through the shedding of his own precious blood’.

Well yes, the lord may have purchased salvation in, let’s face it, a somewhat pompous, exaggerated, overpriced manner. 

But why ‘purchase’, when the best salvation in life comes from that which is free….