Reader’s Wives, Henry the Hoover and Misconstrued Love for Darkie the Dug.

I had a lot of fun writing my debut novel Bobby’s Boy. Several novels later, looking back at this debut makes me want to go back and re-write some sections with the new skills I’ve learned in the course of writing my other books. so far, I’ve resisted the urge, preferring to leave this very basic, heartfelt and raw book the way it is. It reflects my hometown of Bellshill best in its current form. Over the years I’ve been told several times by friends that I should read this chapter out at book events. So far I haven’t found the balls.

The following excerpt is from Chapter 9 of Bobby’s Boy by Mark Wilson. Copyright Paddy’s Daddy Publishing and Mark Wilson 2012.

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Alec was in the passenger seat in the front of James’ light blue Austin Maxi, a car older than Tom was by some years. Alec had his head turned around to talk to Tom, asking him questions about the tour. Tom was currently in the vast rear, seatbelt-less chair, trying in vain to identify the interesting array of human-smelling aromas wafting up from the back seat. He’d heard that in a Maxi, the back seat could be folded backwards while the front seats could be reclined, forming a vast bed of sorts. He shuddered to think of the unholy creation that could have been conceived or the fluid that had potentially been spilled on the tan and taupe seats by James and whatever poor woman he’d duped into letting him fumble with her.

As he rolled down the window, supplying himself with a blast of much needed fresh Scottish air, he replied to Alec, “Aye, there’ll be all sorts Uncle Alec.”

James snorted. “Fuckin’ right there will, keep yer fuckin’ hawn oan yer fuckin’ wallet wee man. There’ll be fuckin’ darkies and poofs everywhere fae whit I’ve heard.”

Tom rolled his eyes, and exchanged glances with Alec, punctuated with a shake of the head to convey that they agreed. James was indeed a wanker. Neither said so though, which was unusual in Uncle Alec’s case, but both knew what a moody fucker that James was and were unwilling to risk getting turfed out his car and miss the flight while he sped off in a huff. It might be a piece of shit, smelling quite possibly of spunk, quite probably of shite, and absolutely certainly of pish, but it was the only transport that they had. Dried and crusted bodily fluids and all.

James had completely misunderstood the conversation that Alec and Tom had been conducting about meeting the huge variety of people he would encounter on the trip. He had interpreted their musings and excitement for Tom’s adventures as worries about which big darkie, or poofy-bastard, Chinky, Paki or tranny he’d be accosted by, having his arse virginity, money and/or clothes liberated from him.

James couldn’t help his attitude. He hadn’t really moved on from the gullible wee laddie he’d always been on account of his limited ambition and intelligence. Christ, he’d never left a ten mile radius of Bellshill, and never would.  “Don’t see the point, everything ah need right here.”

Which was fair enough; there’s something to be said for being easily pleased and content with your lot in life. There was no real harm in the boy, so long as he wasn’t allowed to operate heavy machinery, or left in charge of animals. As daft as James was though, he wasn’t a patch on his younger brother, Sean.

“Aye, the best feeling you’ll remember from this trip is the blessed relief of having ten inches of some big darkie’s dick pulled oot yer arse, after he’s used you to wank in.” Alec and Tom ignored him and continued their animated conversations, with the odd, “Aye, right enough Jim,” thrown in to keep the mutated cunt happy and driving in the correct direction.

Young Sean had become a legend several years back when, as a fifteen year old, he had allowed his hormone-driven animal urges to supersede what little common sense he possessed. The story Tom had heard suggested that on a long walk home from a local football match, Sean had made a lucky double discovery. The first was a scuddy mag. Unusually for such a find, its pages were intact, almost in mint condition, with only the centre-fold stuck together by a stubborn mortar of someone’s gene-juice. It was only a week past its publication too.

Such a lucky soul would handle it gently like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls. Take it home and secrete it away in a custom designed album, filled to overflowing with scraps of vag and tit scavenged over the years from parks, lay-bys and ditches. The more creative types would fashion a Franken-slag creation from pieces of various women, matching skin-tone, shading, tit and bush to create their wanking masterpiece. Lovingly he’d christen her with a jet of sperm, the end product of a record-breaking ten second wank in tribute to his goddess.

The second prize presented itself as opportunity and means. When Sean arrived home, porn mag tucked in his jacket, he’d discovered that the house was completely empty save for the family’s jet black mongrel, Darkie. This was a golden wanking opportunity for any lucky teenage boy who unexpectedly finds himself with free porn in his hands. His pecker soon found its way to those same hands.

At some stage during the masturbation session, some internal demon turned Sean’s gaze away from the lovely, buxom Mary in the ‘Readers’ Wives’ section of his Escort magazine. Sean liked those big mumsy-housewife types; they reminded him of that matron from the Carry On films. Rather than staying the course with big Mary, Sean’s eyes were drawn towards the Henry Hoover propped in the corner of the room. Sean’s brain, like any other teenage boy’s, flashed with the possibility of a potential hole to fill. Normally sense prevails in these moments and the masturbator turns his attention back to the matter at hand. Not so for Sean.

He shuffled over, pants and trousers at his ankles, plugged in Henry, removed the brush attachment, and dragged Henry’s grinning face and hose over to Mary, who was still waiting for his load. As Sean inserted himself into Henry’s plastic, makeshift vagina, he sighed as the tight tube’s suction caught his member.

Ooya, I’ve been missing out here! Right Mary hen, let’s have ye.

This thought flashed for about a second, then was replaced with a darker, more urgent one. When Sean began the return stroke, moving out of the sucking tube, a valve mechanism designed to prevent hairballs and such from escaping slipped into place. No panic. He switched off the hoover, removing the suction, and gave a gentle tug. Unfortunately, his manoeuvre served to further fix the valve, locking it around his blood-filled penis, trapping both the blood and his now painful appendage.

Sean had reputedly searched the house for lubricants, trying a surprisingly wide variety of soaps and detergents, crèmes and ketchups, fabric softeners and lotions, pureed fruit and dairy products. No joy. After visiting every room, trailing the limp and now entirely unappealing Henry in his wake, Sean was ready to give up and call for help from someone when, upon spotting the dozing Darkie mid-yawn, a thought occurred to him.

Tom heard the rest of the story from James, who relayed the tale with gusto and tears of laughter a few days afterwards. The whole family had arrived home together by a happy coincidence that meant that two cars had arrived simultaneously.

Tom’s Aunty Sheena had been pleased to see that James, his brother Peter and two sisters had timed their arrival in James’ Maxi perfectly to help her into the house with her many bags of shopping from the boot of her VW Polo. As the laughing family entered their cosy living room, it was obvious that a fire was blazing. With the coal-fuelled blaze spreading its welcoming warmth throughout the large room they rubbed the cold from their hands as they entered. That fire was the only happy thing that they saw.

The family crashed into the living room, in the usual tornado of activity that always accompanies large families, and were welcomed with an entirely unexpected vista. Sean, lost in deep, pained concentration, was lying on his back in the centre of the room, pants and trousers around his ankles, tugging at the end of Henry’s tube. From his demeanour he was in obvious pain. However, the transfixed family mistook his twisted expression for one of ecstasy. An easy mistake to make under the circumstances as, in his desperation to free his bulging bell-end, Sean had smeared a handful of Darkie’s food around the circumference of the hose and was shouting at the dog, “Lick it ya cunt, don’t fuckin’ bite,” all the while holding the back of the puzzled canine’s head, as they entered the room.

Everyone was stunned for about three seconds, at which time Aunty Sheena had sprung into action, wielding an unopened bottle of Kia-Ora (orange and mango) from her bag. She attacked her perverted son, striking him in time with the words,

“Ya… filthy… durty… wee… bastard, ma… poor… wee… dug.”

It had apparently taken all four of the siblings to drag her off Sean who, during a tear-filled explanation, had impressed upon them his innocence of bestiality.

“I might try tae shag the hoover but ah widnae shag Darkie. He’s only got three legs.”

As they cut the end of the tube from Henry and from Sean respectively, Aunty Sheena scowled at the curled up boy. “You’ll be fuckin’ paying for that.”

Eventually his brother had taken him over to Monklands Hospital to get the (rather expensive as it turned out) tube removed.

James had selected a wee inadequate towel to cover Sean’s crotch for the journey. It was just small enough to let the hoover component stick out. As they left the living room, Darkie happily finished his meal from the floor under the gaze of Mary. Surveying the scene from her page, her eyes seemed to say, “I’ve seen it aw noo,” while casually opening her labia with her right hand.

 

End of Excerpt

You can purchase Bobby’s Boy along with Mark’s other books at Amazon UK

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