by Denham Forrest
My thanks go to PapaGus and Deryk for their assistance in preparing this story for posting.
Clarification: Mufti = out of uniform or dressed in civilian clothes. Sort = a female of the species, usually (but not always) a rather good looking one.
There's an old adage in the British armed forces; "Never volunteer for anything!" Maybe it's a good rule to follow, maybe it isn't? You have to concede that the Para's, Commandos and SAS, have all found themselves where the shit was flying particularly thickly over the years. Oh yeah there's some kudos to be gained by being able to wear a particular tie in later life, but that assumes that you're still going to be left with a life to lead.
No, I wasn't in the forces. Not that I'm adverse to the principle of fighting for my country. I just don't trust the buggers who run the bloody place. Honestly there's not a one of them I'd give the time of day to, once they get themselves elected to that private "you scratch my back" club, known to the world as The British Houses of Parliament. Honestly I don't trust a one of them, no matter what party they belong to, once they've joined that exclusive club.
Anyway I'm wandering off the subject before I get started, let's get back to the question; should one volunteer? Or maybe I should be asking, should one allow oneself to get roped in, so to speak?
That's a question I really should have asked myself, when I heard the words
"Look fella's I need a volunteer to escort my cousin Jenny to the wedding!"
Billie had announced as, as a collective group, we staggered from the last nightclub in town to the taxi rank.
It wasn't particularly late, but we'd done the rounds and been ejected from every available drinking establishment in town. It was then time to get back to ... Bugger I can't recall who's flat we stashed the reserves at that night. But I had known that a stripper had been booked for later.
"What about you Simon? Are you gonna do the honours for your ol' mate?" Billie Biddle my soon to be fettered, extremely intoxicated, comrade asked. "She's one good looking bit of stuff mate, I promisssh ya!"
Now, had I been sober, I probably would have used an iota of common sense and refused Bill's request outright. Or at least, been able to come up with some unlikely excuse for turning him down.
You see, Billie had already spoken one untruth; I really wasn't his old mate. Actually we'd got to that stage in our lives hardly ever speaking to each other. And then only when we'd been forced to. Billie Biddle was one of the guys, the same as I was, but no one could mistake us for close friends. We were just two guys from opposite ends of the spectrum who happened to hang around with the same group of ... All right, if you want the definitive description, Piss Artists!
Every Friday night we'd be found at one or other of the town's drinking holes, doing our best to empty the cellars. Actually at one time or another we'd visit them all, twice every weekend; but let's not make things complicated before I need to explain why. Often, when we'd worn our welcome out in one, we'd be requested to move on to a second, and so on. None of the pubs and clubs ever banned us because we never did any damage. We just ... well we pissed a lot of people off! Anyway I'm kinda wandering off the subject here.
Now, if Bill lied about him and me being good buddies, then it stands to reason that he was also going to lie about this Jenny bird being a tasty piece of stuff. That is a logical conclusion, but logicality finds no place in inebriated calculations. Therefore, instead of asking Billie why this Jenny bird had not been able to find a date for herself, seven days before a wedding that had been planned for well over half a year, I found myself replying.
"Sure thing, Billie boy; you just tell me where an' when to pick the sort up!"
That's all I can recall really. Well, I was pretty well stewed by that time of the evening -- more than pretty well stewed actually, Billie had been paying all night -- and other things kinda took precedence with the few brain cells I still had working. Like, "Who the hell was that stripper?" But I'll get to her in a minute.
When we got back to whoever's flat it was that we spent at least some of the rest of the night in. -- I don't know; I have no recollection of getting home at all that night. -- Not one, but two rather tasty looking strippers turned up, along with a Giant Haystacks look-alike type minder. Quite put a damper on some of the guys' nefarious plans for the evening, that did; or so I'm told.
I was way past though thoughts of that kind, figuring that I was only just going to manage to stay awake long enough for the main event.
Actually it turned out that one of the strippers, not only made sure I was awake for the main event, she made damn sure I'd never forget it (or her) either. But as I just said, "I'll get to her shortly."
After getting a quick glimpse of the two shapely women as they entered the flat, I saw no more of them until they came out of the bedroom they'd used as a changing room to get ready do that thing they do.
In the meantime, I'd ensconced myself in a large armchair, handily positioned in the perfect position to get a good view of the main attraction, and complete with one tinny on the go, and a couple of others -- still sealed -- pushed down the side of the cushion as reloads.
The first girl to come out, was of mixed race. I figured three parts Anglo Saxon, to one (probably) Afro-Caribbean; but that's just an inebriated guess. And unusually she fixed me, not Billie, with those hypnotic almost black eyes of hers as she ... well, danced I suppose you'd call it. For some inexplicable reason, I also appeared to be her chosen target for all of her discarded garments, that -- for an equally inexplicable reason – she threw at me. I absentmindedly folded them on my lap as I watched her gyrate around the room.
Much to everyone's dismay -- including Billie's -- she gave him but a cursory lap-dance at the end of her act.
There were a few vocal objections from the boys, but the site of Giant Haystacks rising himself to his full height, and the immanent arrival of the second stripper, soon put an end to them.
There was no mistaking the fact that the second bird came from Eastern Europe and she was built like the proverbial brick ... Yeah well, all the right bits stuck out in all the right places. Boy, the first girl had one killer of a figure on her, but that Russian tart made Jordan look like a prepubescent schoolgirl.
We were all so engrossed in the Russian birds routine, that even I (for a long time) failed to realise that the first dancer -- still dressed in only her birthday suit -- had perched herself on the arm of the chair I was sitting in. As the Russian girl got near the end of her act, she began to give Billie a lap dance he'll never forget in a hurry. Well, I gathered she did from what I got to see. The last I got to see, she was sat astride Billie's legs grinding her breasts into his face.
I couldn't see anymore because, quite suddenly the first dancer had slipped from the arm of my chair and was suddenly perched on my lap. Not only that, but her arms were around my neck and her tongue was doing its best to locate my tonsils.
Alright yeah, I'm not backward in coming forward, so I'll admit I took the opportunity and enjoyed a quick snog and a gentle grope. Who can blame me? What man in his right sense wouldn't, and if you remember, I wasn't in full control of my faculties anyway. Hey, that's my story and I'm bloody-well sticking to it!
God alone knows how long the clinch lasted. Until the music stopped at least, and probably a damned sight longer. Then, as suddenly as she had pounced upon me, the young lady disentangled herself and stood up.
"My my, Simon you're just as good as you ever were. What a shame we've got another booking for later. See ya!" she said, and then she was gone.
Now it ain't everyday of the week that an extraordinary good looking -- and naked -- female, with an unbelievable beautiful figure, snogs me like that girl did that night. And just to make life confusing, one whom I did not recognise. But who, not only appeared to know exactly who I was, but lead me to believe that I had the pleasure of at least snogging her, sometime in the past.
The logical next step was to find out who she was, and possibly take her home and ... yeah well, had she not hinted that a liaison was in the offing? Well, she had to my ears!
But there I had big a problem; I was no longer capable of free movement. I was so pissed by that time, that I was incapable of standing up, even though I wanted to. I
f I had managed to get to my feet, then I was well aware that there was little (if any) chance of me making it to that bedroom door, before I attained a permanent horizontal position on the floor somewhere; for rest of the night anyway.
Yes, my mind did want to know who that stripper was, and in all honesty, I'd still like to know. But I'd moved on into the realms of alcoholic stupor very quickly after the second stripper left the room.
I have no recollection of getting home that Saturday morning, or may be it was the afternoon. Although, I do recall being sober enough to make it down to the local for a spot of "hair of the dog" sometime during the Saturday evening. Yeah well, I don't remember getting there or back home again, but I do remember the bar tab stuffed under my nose by the govner when I popped in there later in the week.
But that's really unimportant - what is, is that I was roused from my bed at the unbelievable hour (for me) of eleven o'clock on the Sunday morning. B...