James was sat in front of a computer screen gazing vacantly at a brightly coloured excel database that contained a multitude of mesmerising figures that meant nothing. It was Monday morning and he was hung over, tired, and vaguely depressed. But aside from the usual Monday morning blues, he was also worried. The situation with his live-in girlfriend was becoming impossible and something needed to be done.

     Seven years they’d been together, him and Becky, after being introduced by mutual friends at an end of term Uni disco. He still remembered the tune that was playing when he first saw her, Why Does it Always Rain on me by Travis. ‘Whatever happened to the mutual friends?’ he thought vacantly. Then he wondered if he was to blame for their current problems. It was true he hadn’t been putting much effort into the relationship and taking it for granted, but then in some ways, so had Becky. He gave his ever-increasing paunch a friendly pat and ran a hand through his thinning thatch. James was thirty, but felt and looked much older

     It was the job of course, ‘Ninety percent sedentary,’ he told himself. He was an Executive Officer at the Department of Education. He wondered why he was doing such a lame job after gaining a 2:1 at Oxford, but deep down he knew why. Despite the fact it was probably the most banal job known to man, it was easy. All he had to do was turn up everyday. Then he thought about Becky’s job, Policy Services Officer for a public sector housing group, not as easy as his, but still easy. They both earned less than thirty grand a year, but with a combined income they managed to get by quite comfortably.       
   
     While he pretended to read a few emails James thought about the ultimatum Becky had given him that very morning. It wasn’t working, she said, and she wanted him to leave. Becky had made the same ultimatum several times, usually after he’d been down the boozer with the boys and come home demanding sex, but this was the first time she’d issued one in the cold light of early morn.

     James blamed most of the troubles on the dog, a birthday present from her friend Emma, a King Charles spaniel that Becky had christened Gordon. James hated the thing from day one. There was hardly enough room in the flat for a goldfish, let alone a dog, and all the fucker did was stink the place out and shit everywhere.

     And when James really thought about it, Gordon’s appearance had coincided with the difficulties in their relationship.  Not long after the dog arrived Becky had insisted that they do all their own chores separately, a small act that had instantly pissed him off. A few weeks later she went off sex. James didn’t mind doing his own cooking and washing, but what was the point of living with a bird, and putting up with all her feminine foibles, if he didn’t even get a shag?

       Then he thought about Becky’s recent sickness. She’d been off work for several weeks suffering from a stress-related illness.  When he asked her about it, she said he wouldn’t understand and then shut him out completely. James reckoned it was all to do with her boring job. In her youth Becky had been a relatively high achiever, but as soon as she left Uni it had all gone downhill. In fact the only time she’d been happy since Uni was when she took time off to study for a Masters Degree. But having a Master’s Degree in Housing and Regeneration had turned out to be as useless as her Degree in English Literature, a demoralising outcome.

     Then James wondered if she’d been seeing someone else, taking time off to conduct an illicit affair, maybe even shagging in their bed! He didn’t think so, because there wasn’t a shred of evidence, but it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. At lunch, with these worrying thoughts swirling around his mind, James decided to go and have a couple of hairs of the dog.
    After his third Nelson Mandela in the Yorkshire Grey, James became convinced that Becky was having an affair and was determined to have it out with her. That afternoon he was due to attend a three-hour meeting on Change Transformation, but he couldn’t face the ordeal, those same voices droning, those idiotic power point presentations, and the utter pointlessness of it all.

     On his return to the office he popped a couple of extra strong mints and decided to pull a sickie. He told his Line-Manager he was suffering from a migraine, an excuse he used every now and again in an emergency, and although she shot him a very suspicious look, he was allowed to go home.

     Two hours later James found himself standing outside his own apartment consumed with doubts. The buzz from the three pints of Stella had all but worn off, and suddenly checking up on his girlfriend seemed like a very bad idea. If he waited till later, Becky was sure to have calmed down, and the morning ultimatum was sure to have been forgotten, just like all the others.

     Then James heard a noise that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was the sound of a woman groaning and it came from inside the flat. Shaking with fear and anger James crept round the back of the apartment and peered through a gap in the bedroom curtain.

     The scene that confronted him literally blew his mind. Jesus Christ! His girlfriend was lying naked, spread eagled across the double bed they had bought in Ikea, playing with herself. James could see Becky was very wet and this turned him on, and immediately a massive boner began pushing against the restraint of his chinos.

     But none of this is what made James’s neck hairs stand on end. He shook his head, blinked his eyes, and looked again. In Becky’s mouth was a small pinkish slimy thing, which was attached to the furry body of Gordon! The dog’s tail was wagging furiously and if it was possible for a dog to sigh contentedly, he was.

    James felt a surge of jealousy and an urge to smash through the window and knock the shit out of the liberty-taking canine overwhelmed him, but he stopped himself just in time. What was he thinking of? Had it come to this, jealous of Gordon?

     Not knowing what to do next James continued watching the scene, voyeur style. Holy shit! Now Becky was re-positioning herself. She straddled Gordon and began lowering herself onto him. James unzipped his pants and the biggest boner he’d ever experienced pinged out. He slowly wanked himself as Becky’s cunt slid onto Gordon’s tiny pink penis until it met fur.

     As his blood pressure rose and his nerves began vibrating James wondered how Becky could get satisfaction from such a small cock, for his was at least two times the size. Moments later Becky began groaning in ecstasy, Gordon made some strange whines, and then James’s girlfriend of seven years slid off the animal and collapsed trembling onto the bed.

     James could see some dog cum dripping from Becky’s moist pussy and then he exploded himself, splattering the window with the most amount of spunk he’d ever produced. Fuck, he thought, as he stuffed his cum-splattered cock inside his pants and zipped up, ‘That was intense!’ Then he headed off to the nearest pub to analyse the freaky episode, contemplate his next move, and get very, very, drunk.
  
  

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It was 4.00am on Sunday morning and I was drunk. I was inside a small Kings Cross gaming room playing the pokies. With my first ten dollars the machine paid out, one hundred and fifty smackeroonies, which was mine to spend how I wanted? After collecting my winnings from a sleepy-faced teller an association of thoughts made me think of getting a brass. Yes, that’s what I needed, a sexual experience without any emotional ties to celebrate my good fortune.
     I staggered towards William Street. It was late now, not so many people around, just the aimless and the hardcore and those with nowhere else to go. Most of the hookers had gone home for the night.  Then I saw one, an Asian girl, strutting her stuff in the shadows, head held high. I approached.
       “Looking for a lady?” asked a husky voice.
“How much?”
“Fifty.”
I nodded.
The prostitute looked me up and down, “Okay, young boy, you follow me.”
Again I clocked the husky voice, but nothing untoward registered in mind, and I followed like a lost puppy.
      The brass took me to a smart looking block of private flats at the bottom of Bayswater road. Moments later we were inside a dimly lit apartment. The girl asked if I would like a drink. So far the business of paying for sex had been a civilised affair. I sat back in my chair and relaxed,
“Got any beers?”
      The woman pulled a face and tottered to a small kitsch mini-bar, which stood in one corner of the room, “No beer. That stuff make you fat!”
I noticed for the first time how strong her accent was, very south-east Asian, possibly Thai or Filipino, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly. She probably hadn’t lived in Australia for that long, I mused somewhat absentminded.
“You like Gin & Tonic?”
“Fine with me.”
     Once the brass had fixed the drinks, we sat and made small talk. It was the usual intros. Where are you from, what do you do? As we chatted I gave her the once over. She was tall for a slope and skinny, with a small bum and big breasts. She was wearing layers of foundation, plenty of mascara, lipstick, eyeliner, etc. In fact everything about her was slightly exaggerated.
 When my drink was half-finished the girl picked it up,
“We go bedroom now.”
    Once in the boudoir the girl undressed, revealing black suspenders, bra and knickers. Class, I thought as I dropped my jeans and cast off my tee-shirt. I sat down on the bed and the brass knelt in front of me and went straight to work. I was still fairly drunk, and despite an effective technique, I knew the girl would have to work hard to earn her fifty dollars.
     At one point I slipped a hand inside the prostie’s bra and gave one of her breasts a firm squeeze. The breast was solid like it was made out of cement, but I kept on squeezing. The girl stopped sucking and flipped her bra off. The breasts popped out and didn’t move, stone tits, a plastic surgery job without a doubt.  I leaned over and sucked on a nipple, but it felt weird, like sucking an ice-cream cone or something.
      After a while of the breast feeling and cock-sucking business I decided to be more assertive. I slid a hand down to the suspenders and slid a finger inside. Suddenly the brass jumped up, causing her hair to slide to one side, a wig,
“You wan full sex?” She gasped.
What a stupid question, “Yeah.”
“You sure wan full sex with girl like me?”
Another stupid question, “Yeah.”
      With that the brass produced a condom and expertly slid it onto my cock. Then she rolled onto her back, slid her knickers off, and opened her legs. I looked at what was in front of me and suddenly felt like an actor in some x-rated scene from an obscure B-Movie. In a scene like this I would look directly into a camera and say something like, “Well, what would you do folks?”
     In front of me was a small, limp, pathetic looking cock, shrunken balls and shaved pubic area. Before I could react the brass grabbed my cock and stuck it straight up her arse. She/he was already lubed up and it slipped all the way in, and despite some lingering reservations I soon hit a steady and sure rhythm.  As I did the small withered cock gradually spurred into action and rose to the occasion. At one point I grabbed it and gave it a tug. Strangely, it wasn’t a turn off.  I’d never had sex with a transsexual before, never even contemplated it, but life firsts are life firsts no matter how bizarre. Ah well, in for a penny in for a pound,’ I sighed as I pumped away.
     After I came, grunting and collapsing onto a bed of cement tits, the transsexual straddled me and finished off by hand. This move somewhat disgusted me, but I’d always wondered what it must feel like to receive a face load of cum, and it wasn’t long before I found out. I closed my mouth because despite everything I didn’t fancy swallowing any man juice, and moments later a splatter of warm sticky substance frosted my face. Immediately afterwards I was repulsed by the whole kinky episode. I rushed into the bathroom and splashed water all over my face, found a dressing gown, and wiped most of the shit onto that.  Then I returned to the bedroom and re-dressed in world record time.
        The transsexual lay on the bed murmuring something about how wonderful it had all been, and for a split-second I thought about committing murder in cold blood. It could be done quite easily, I ruminated, but instead I just left without saying goodbye.

As we sat inside her gloomy apartment Lady Bird regaled me with tales from the distant past. She talked of long forgotten parties, balls, functions, and unremembered social events. She had never married and there were no children, too busy for all that she said, but she had taken plenty of lovers, all dead now of course. And she had travelled the world several times over, one of the jet set, the privileged few that never have to do a days work in their entire life.

    I sat there drinking my beers and listening. I didn’t talk about myself and Lady Bird never asked. She was only interested in talking about a life that was nearly over, and I was more than happy to listen. Might help with my poetry, I ruminated, as I listened to events that occurred many decades ago.

     At some point during this trip down memory lane Lady Bird produced a photo album and asked me to sit next to her. There were hundreds of photos, weddings, family get together, pictures of her in her youth,

“Wasn’t I a stunner?” She asked after I’d seen some photos of her in a swimsuit.

I had to admit she was, long glossy blonde hair, glamorous smile, and a comely figure. I began wishing that somehow we could go back in time and she would be twenty-one again and I could fuck her, right there and then, “I would’ve steamed in back in the day.”

      Lady Bird made some strange clucking sounds, “Forget it my boy, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.  I only took the crème de la crème of society, Lords, Ambassadors, Dukes, Captains of Industry.”

Cheeky fucker, I thought, although it was most undoubtedly true.

Then Lady Bird licked her lips and gave me what can only be described as the sauciest of old woman looks, “But you might be in with a chance now my boy!”

With those words I nearly spurted a whole mouthful of beer over Lady Bird’s expensive looking photo album. ‘Might be in with a chance now?’ This old hag was taking things beyond the limit.

     Noticing my shocked expression Lady Bird stood up and began doing a creaky jig right in front of me. I clapped my hands and urged her on as she leaned back her ancient head and let a loud, long, wheezy, cackle. Drunk with whiskey she was able to execute some nimble moves and lose twenty years in the process. Then she raised her night dress high above her knees and flashed a pair of septuagenarian thighs at me,

      “I may be old boy, but my pins are in still good shape, wouldn’t you say?”

I blushed bright red with embarrassment, but had to admit that for her age they weren’t bad at all, the skin was slightly saggy, but in truth I’d seen worse legs on a twenty-year old. Then I shielded my eyes with my hand,

“Lady Bird, please lower your dress.”

The old hag dropped her filthy night dress, “Thought as much, a faggot,” she hissed caustically.

“Easy.”

    After that jaw-dropping incident the old bat got me to fix another whiskey and soda and light a cigarette for her. Then she ordered me to sit down,

“Listen boy, I want to ask you something.”

I sat there wondering what was coming next, sipping my beer thoughtfully, but saying nothing.

Lady Bird remained silent, eyeing me up somewhat scarily. Then she dropped the mother of all bombshells, a devastating request guaranteed to make your hair stand on end,

“I want you to fuck me.”

      Blimey, this was a turn up for the books, “Pardon?”

“Yes my dear, I’m getting old and I want one last fuck before I die?”

Double blimey, fuck a gran, now there was an interesting innovation, but fucked if I was ganna do it, “Lady Bird, please, you’re embarrassing me!”

Lady Bird pointed her cigarette holder at me accusingly, “What if the roles were reversed?”

“What?”
“If I was you and you were me?”
“That’s nuts!”
“What’s nuts about it? I want one last sexual experience before I depart this life, I’d say that was completely sane.”
     I had to admit it, it was totally logical, “But you’re not going to die, you’ve got years left, a decade at least.”

Lady Bird let out a series of rasping, bloodcurdling wheezes, “Bull dust, I’m on my last legs, now will ya or won’t ya?”
“I can’t!”
“Two grand says you can.”
“What?”
Lady Bird eyeballed me with steely-eyed determination; obviously her mind was well and truly made up, “Two grand, cash!”

Jesus Christ. What the fuck had I got myself into? But two grand was a lot of money and I only had to shag an old lady to get it, holy shit, “Are you serious?”

“Never been more serious in my life boy!”

Now this was a great dilemma, one not to be dismissed offhand. Two grand cash, I could do a lot with two grand, take Juanita on that often promised holiday for example. But could I physically do it, could I actually stick my cock into that decrepit pussy and pump away? I rubbed my chin, it was something to contemplate anyway, “Er, give me some time to think about it.”

     Lady Bird’s blues eyes sparkled like any ocean on any sunny day and she rubbed her hands together, “Yee- ha, that’s the sprit, I knew you wouldn’t let me down, you’ve got balls boy, I knew that straight off. Now, take a long as you need because I’m not going anywhere, and remember it will be our little secret!”

I glanced at my watch, it was three-thirty, and I was trembling with drink and amazement, “Look I’d better get back, it’s getting late.”

Lady Bird nodded like a wise old sage, “Okay, but fix me one more whiskey and soda before you leave!”

As I fixed the drink I raised my eyebrows and gave Lady Bird an imaginary salute, for let it be known here and now, that old hag was hardcore to the bone!