Article 9535 of alt.humor.best-of-usenet:
Subject: [uk.adverts.personals] Re: My nae is svetlana,I`m intelligent,preety and I`m seek a man
Date: 28 Feb 1998 18:37:39 GMT
From: "Sebastian Crowley" 

On Tue, 27 Jan 1998 14:36:06 +0100, in uk.adverts.personals "Sebastian
Crowley"  wrote:

SJ wrote:
>
>Simon Wilkinson wrote:
>
>> 
>> I have had two girls in a bed twice in my life...it was heaven......the
>> rest of my life has been utter garbage....but i think i got a good deal
>> 
>
>You've just confessed that to six different newsgroups, Simon. But don't
>worry, I'm sure your secret is safe with "vegas.personals.fsm"....
>
>Can I be nosey, Simon, and ask how your menages came about? Were they
>pre-planned or spontaneous?


It was a cold and wet December night, but I was hot. Hot for action.
I'm not talking brawling around in bars beating the living daylights
out of any guy who so much as looked in my direction, I'm talking the
other kind of action. I'm talking dirty. I'm talking "sex" kind of
hot. I'm talking no-strings adult fun.

I'd been tailing this broad for about a week and a half. She was a
babe. Legs from the ankle right up to where they stopped, at the hip.
These were serious hips. They read Shakespeare for fun. If they
weren't curvy, then Ghandi wasn't a little guy with glasses. And if
Ghandi was a little guy with glasses, then those glasses were steamed
up. I think it had something to do with the fact that it was
impossible to take your eyes off this girl's tits. And if you weren't
looking at her tits, you were looking at her ass. And those hips. And
her legs. I nearly got a good clear look at her face, but I was
tailing her, and my eyes were occupied. Not that kind of tailing her.
That would come later. With her friend. About six times. So I'd been
following her around for about a week and a half, trying to get wise
to her moves, find out where she lived, drank, ate, took a dump, all
the kinds of things a guy like me needed to know about a girl like
her.

So after the twelve-month restraining order had expired, I started
following her again. But this time I was smart. I realised that if she
saw me I'd be back in the pen, back in the can, being taken up the ass
by Mickey "Too Dangerous To Stand Next To On The Subway" McViolent. I
didn't want that to happen. I was still learning how to walk straight
again, and got the feeling that if I turned up in the C Block john so
soon after last time, Big Mickey McV would think we were made for each
other and try and offer me his ring. Not that kind of ring. A golden
ring; an engagement ring. The kind of ring you get which says "I LOVE
YOU, WE WERE MADE FOR EACH OTHER, I WANT TO PUMP GALLONS OF SEMEN UP
YOUR ASS". Nobody went near Mickey McV's ring. His other ring. Mostly
because they were bent forward over the can, and couldn't reach it.
Besides, his ass was a lump of muscle that could have split you in
half. But I'm digressing. So I started tailing her again. Not that
kind of tailing. The other kind. That would come later. With her
friend. The blonde one.

I got myself a disguise. From the mailman. He didn't exactly give it
to me, I kind of stole it. Not that kind of "give it to me". Well,
maybe I borrowed it. He wasn't using it anymore. By the time I'd
realised it was him, the mailman, and not Mickey McV, who was still in
the pen -- but how was I supposed to know that? -- he was already
dead. He hit the floor like a turd falling from ... a really big
height. A kindof thumpy, splashing sound. That was his milkshake. So I
took his uniform. Got it dry-cleaned and the holes darned. It looked
as good as new. Those Chinese places are amazing. I had my disguise,
and I started following her again.

By the time I'd earned parole I was using tampax. Don't ask what for.
Mickey McV was long gone. He joined a Convent, found his calling.
Gerald "Oh Shit" LamBada was into me by this time, and into me a big
way. All the way down. Sometimes I could damn near taste the guy.
Sometimes I had to taste the guy, no option. But I got out and started
tailing this broad again. I don't need to tell you that it wasn't that
kind of tailing. So I was following her again.

Turns out she was married with three kids, all teenagers. When I'd
first spotted her she was a Freshman in College. I knew I had to be
really, really careful this time. I went to a Theatre supply place off
Broadway and rented a costume. A Clown's costume. I figured, that was
me. A clown. Chasing this broad, this married broad, with three really
cute daughters. If it wasn't illegal, I would have switched my tail to
the daughters. One of the daughters. Maybe all of them, just to be
sure. But I figured the kids were too old to get Mom to hire me for
one of their birthday parties. If I wanted to taste their cakes, I was
going to have to do it on my own time. Dressed as a clown. Hopefully
undressed. The prospects were getting bleaker of ever wearing my
birthday suit in anything but all-male company again, but I thought,
"Hey. I'm a man. This is what men do."

Turns out the Clown costume was a bad idea. Too conspicuous. I nearly
got my ass kicked back to the pen for busting my parole, but the board
took kindly on me when I refused to sit down. I couldn't sit down. I
would have swallowed the chair.

I got another costume. Street cleaner. I followed her around for a
week, found out where she lived, ate, drank, took a dump. The side of
the bed she slept in. Her husbands favourite position ("Fat Monkey
Squealing, Happy Chicken Ironing Shirt Eating Skinned Banana
Upside-Down"). Her favourite position ("whatever"). Her eldest
daughter's favourite position ("Plug The Monkey"). Her youngest
daughters favourite position ("Two Monkeys, Both Girls"). Her other
daughter's favourite position ("Monkey Eat Confessional Banana,
Skinned, Swallow Whole, Sing In Choir"). I found out more than I
needed to know. What I needed to know, was this: If I got her drunk
enough, would she sit on my face?

This happy families deal was getting me down. I knew there was no way
I could ever compete. So I went to a bar, ordered a beer, switched to
a scotch, then switched back to the beer, and back to the scotch,
until the barman looked at me in a way that reminded me of Mickey McV,
so I bought the bar, the whole thing. Tables, chairs, waitresses --
what a bunch of waitresses -- and I was in business.

A few days later, the door opened. It was December. A December night.
Cold. Wet. Dreary. And I was hot. The air conditioning was dead. I
shot it accidentally, I thought it was the mailman. And in walked the
babe, the broad, the one I'd been tailing all these years and still
hadn't managed to tail. She was looking good, real good, for a woman
of her age. She ordered a beer. Ordered a scotch. I nearly sold her
the bar. She settled on a scotch. She looked at me, kind of quizzical.
She knew who I was.

    "Hey, barkeep," she said. She was talking to me. I was the
barkeep. I owned the bar, I kept the bar. I was the barkeep. "Don't I
know you from someplace?"
    "Maybe you do, maybe you don't," I said, replying to what she'd
just said. That's how conversation works. Somebody says something, you
say something back. And try and make sure that it has something to do
with what they just said, or else they'll look at you kind of funny.
"I'm just a barkeep, beautiful."
    "You're not just a barkeep," she said, with that kind of look
which says, "I'm going to say something else". I kept my mouth shut
and waited. "You're the guy that I had sent to the pen for following
me around."
    "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not," I said, although we both knew that I
was.
    "Whatever." She took a slug of the scotch. "You still have the
hots for me?"
    "Maybe I do, maybe I don't," I said. That sentence construction
was getting kind of annoying by now. I resolved to change it with my
next sentence.
    "It wouldn't surprise me if you didn't, you know," she said, kind
of sad. "My husband is fucking the girl next door. She's eighteen.
Tits that point to heaven. Mine point to the floor."
    I looked. they did.
    "You look beautiful to me," I said. She did. I hadn't had sex for
... a long time. Not, guy-girl sex, as opposed to guy-guy's asshole
sex. Any broad would look good to me. But that's not the point. She
was still a good looking broad, gravity or no gravity. Her husband was
such a jerk. I told her so. "You're husband's such a jerk," I said,
"All that Fat Monkey Squealing, Happy Chicken Ironing Shirt Eating
Skinned Banana Upside-Down shit. Gets on my nerves."
    "You and me both," she said, smiling. "He doesn't love me anymore,
anyhow. He just uses me every so often when the neighbour's away.
We're getting divorced. He's marrying her. She's best friends with my
youngest daughter."
    "Whoa, that girl gets around. And I don't mean your daughter."
    "I'm kinda lonely," she said.
    "Most everybody is, doll-face."
    "I'm kinda hot."
    "That's the air conditioning. I thought it was the mailman."
    "You ever thought about doing it with me? You know, having sex?"
    I knew what she meant the first time. God, I knew. I dropped a
glass. It smashed. The base didn't reach the floor. It sat on the end
of my pecker which was pecking up at the crotch of my pants.
    "Once or twice," I said.
    "Let's go do it."
    "I have to keep bar."
    "I don't care."
    "I care. This place is my bread and butter."
    "Get him to look after it," she said, looking at the other
barkeep, the one I'd bought the bar off and was still employing, the
one who hadn't lifted a glass in forever. "We could go upstairs."
    "Upstairs is a pizza joint. Better if we go back to my place."

    We left. Got into a cab. The cabdriver was a girl. Blonde chick
with short hair. Mid-twenties. Cute. Real cute. Small. She was sitting
on telephone directories.

    "Where you guys headed?"

    I told her. She drove. She was kind of talkative. Turns out that
the two broads used to know each other for a while. My broad used to
teach kids to drive. The cabdriver flunked eight times.

    By the time we got to my apartment we'd been on the road eight
hours. I lived six blocks down from the bar. The cabdriver girl said
she knew short-cut. I said "You *have* a short-cut," I told her.
"There is no short-cut." It was a straight road. By the time we got to
my place we were all good buddies and my broad was off the boil. So
invited the cabby in, too, and ordered a pizza. Mexican. Hot. We ate
the pizza.

    It was nearly six a.m.; the girls were beat. So was I. I took the
couch. they took the bed. After all these years of dreaming of getting
that broad into my bed, there she was. And more than that, there she
was in my bed with another broad. It was heaven, except that I was on
the couch.

    I got up the next morning, took them coffee. They were both still
there, in bed. Only they were eating each other. Eating each other
like the pizza we'd all shared last night, except the pizza we'd all
shared was Mexican. There was no tuna in that box.

    It was a bad pun. I put the pun down and stepped away from the
pun. Nothing to see here, move along, move along.

    Later, they came downstairs. Well, they walked down the stairs.
Both of them had big grins on their faces. Turns out the broad was a
lesbian. Both of them were lesbians. They dig each other. Dug tunnels.
Stopped for lunch, all sweaty from the toil. She didn't know it. Now
she did. And she was hot. The air-conditioning. Same thing.

    "I have to thank you," said the broad. "Without out you ... I ...
With you, it would have been just another sweat soaked hard
heterosexual fuck, rewarding in its own way but ultimately
unsatisfying. But if it hadn't been for you ... we ... us ... we would
never have found each other."

    I smiled. Life sucked. The broad didn't. My wrist was aching and
my balls were sore. I'd been beaten off life's track again.

    "Whatever, funny-face," I said. "Let me just ask you one thing.
Name the first kid after me."
    "We will," she said. They left. They didn't ask me my name, so I
know she was lying.

    Anyway. There's this other broad. Works in a shoe store.

    THE END

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