Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend (7 page)

Chapter
Eleven: A Lizard Gets Milked!

The final piece of the jigsaw slips into place. I’ve been spiked. A good mate of mine, Old Mr Reliable has stitched me right up.

This
fella is normally the ‘go to guy’ of the gang. Got a problem? No worries he will sort you out. Well he’s properly sorted me out this time, slipping me some dodgy pill that has knocked me out, leaving me at the mercy of the mob.

That’s
how I’ve woken up tied to a bed in a brothel in Amsterdam early Saturday morning, on my stag do and I am pantsing it.

I
wonder what they’ve got in store for me. I’m going to find out pretty soon as the door is opening wider and wider.

The
fear has gripped me now. I’m convinced this is going to end badly, when in walks Kristall. I’d recognise her anywhere, the crazy blond hair and shapely bod are unmistakeable.

‘Mharmharmm?’
I try to shout as I’ve still got the gag shoved in my gob.

She
looks incredible. On her feet are the highest pair of stiletto’s I have ever seen. Is it even possible to walk in them? Well obviously as she is now sauntering sexily towards the bed.

Kristall
is wearing stockings and suspenders with the tiniest pair of panties ever invented and a push up bra. What an amazing body. Is this the worst that the lads can do? Bring it on!

‘Hwfmmahhh!’
I mumble again. She walks up to the bed saying ‘What have we got here? Have you been a naughty boy? I must discipline you.’

It’s
then I notice what she is carrying and start to panic. In one hand she has a leather riding crop and in the other, well as the old joke goes, I pray it’s her thermos flask and she’s about to pour me out a nice cuppa. Some hope.

The
vibrator looks like a coppers truncheon, it is ‘kin massive. Shove that up someone’s back door and you could tickle their tonsils with it quite easily. No thank you. Why does it need to be so big? I don’t want to find out, that’s for sure. Not my scene but each to their own.

She
whacks the crop down across my thighs hard. A band of pain burns through to my brain in an instant. That hurt. I look down and can see big red welts already appearing on my legs.

‘Fwwoooarrr!!!’
I yell, looking pleadingly at her, begging with my eyes not to be hit again.

‘You
want some more, you maggot?’ and again thwacks me hard across the legs. Tears spring up in my eyes. How can anyone find this a turn on? Stop it.

She
looks down on me and smiles a strange smile that isn’t exactly reassuring, but does reach over to remove the gimp mask and gag ball, which she throws on the floor.

I
draw in a deep breath, ‘Kristall what the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I
can be whoever you want me to be honey, so Crystal it is’, she replies.

‘Not
Crystal; Kristall with a K, an I and two L’s. We met earlier today and spent an afternoon watching rotten porno films together in that museum before having dinner together. Don’t you remember?’

‘Sweet
thing, don’t you just know how to show a girl a good time? Look I’ll spell it out for you just once. I’m in charge here. You are here to be disciplined so no more talking or it’s punishment time,’ she holds up her hands and laughs like she is going to enjoy this a lot more than I am.

‘Welcome
to the house of pain!’ I look again at the dildo she has. It is so long you could rod the blocked up drains with it to dislodge the shitty nappies that your simpleton of a neighbour keeps flushing down her toilet.

I
decide to keep quiet. I stare at this woman again and realise with horror that she looks absolutely nothing like my mate Kristall and I am in some pretty deep plop here for sure.

She
climbs onto the bed and straddles my chest. Reaching up she undoes her bra and throws it over her shoulder. She has a great top set and her nipples look like two puppy dogs noses.

Leaning
forward she brushes them across my lips and face. More of this and less of the whipping with the crop please. Happy days! She’s all over me like a cheap suit.

Then
she moves back down my body and sits between my legs. She reaches up and pulls my shorts down a little way. My little soldier is standing to attention, helmet ready for polishing.

She
grabs hold of my shaft like she’s got a cows udder that needs a damn good milking. Not to put too fine a point on it but if she carries on like this, she will soon see some white fluid appearing. Not milk, but fair to say you could call it man cream.

Tugging
away on my turgid todger, she starts screaming about all the filthy stuff she is going to do to me soon. She’s touching herself up and making all sorts of pretty unconvincing fuck noises, really putting on a show.

Throwing
her head and titties about like she’s having the best orgasm she’s ever had, even though I’m tied up and can do nothing to her, even if I wanted to.

I
guess that she just wants it all over with so she can bugger off home, same as any wage slave really. It is a big old turn on though, must admit and it seems like she has been pulling on my cock for ages when the inevitable happens.

Readers,
you are all big boys and girls so you don’t need me to paint you a picture of what happened next.

So
please select your favourite description from the following:

TOP
TEN EUPHEMISMS FOR EJACULATION

1]
My chicken has been choked.

2]
My one eyed spitting womb ferret has spat.

3]
My load has been blown.

4]
My lizard has been milked.

5]
My monkey has been spanked.

6]
My weasel has been greased.

7]
My python has been siphoned.

8]
My bishop has been bashed.

9]
My bolt has been shot.

10]
My pelvic cream cannon has been fired.

So
there I am tied to a bed, my undercarriage hanging out when a door opens in the mirrored wall and the lads (obviously minus the recently incarcerated Amnesty who has missed the show) all come bowling out from a side room in hysterics.

The
mirror was one-way glass and they’ve all been in there watching me like a very, very, crap peep show. No one would pay good money to see that performance. ‘Captain Premature’ isn’t exactly one of the titles you can rent from your local video shop of smut is it?

The
boys are bent double with laughter, ‘We’ve seen your fuck face!’ is one of the kinder remarks. My favourite though was the classic line ‘Look at the two-pump chump!’

One
of them suddenly takes charge of the situation.

‘Right
untie this poor excuse of a man and for fucks sake cover up his smeggy little worm. Then you can all get lost. We’ve paid for an hour of this good ladies time and by my watch we, I mean I, have at least 59 minutes to pull some shapes in her. So come on, bugger off!’ he bellows already fishing around in his wallet for a condom and taking his clothes off. He jumps on top of the poor woman like he’s never had sex before in his life (this may be the case actually).

He’s
a single guy so no harm done. Rules are rules! Every hole is a goal and all that. He wants to get conkers deep.

I
finally get released from the scarves that had secured me to the bed and we all troop out. As I’m leaving I look back into the room and notice the gimp mask, gag, handcuffs and my watch lying on the floor. Fantastic news! Try explaining to the ‘soon to be breadknife’ that you lost your over-priced timepiece in a knocking shop. Good luck. One wedding pretty swiftly cancelled would inevitably be on the cards.

I
creep back in to retrieve my kit and already Mr Shag Nasty is ‘up to his nuts in guts.’ He is really going for it. Happily pumping away like a steam engine. Foreplay to him must be shouting ‘brace yourself I’m coming in’ OR ‘part your kidneys here I come!’

He’s
on top of her and all I can see is his BOLAB going like a blur (Back Of Leg And Bollocks). He is getting stuck in right up to the makers name plate and I’m sure he was trying to push his back wheels in as well. I avert my eyes in double quick time.

I
grab the stuff off the floor and run back out trying to forget the horrendous sight I had just witnessed.

Take
my word for it your mate’s hairy conkers jiggling about is not something you want to ever see. I dart out the door pronto wishing I could un-remember the last few minutes of my life as I spark up an oily rag.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 1…..142 TO GO……I JUST LOVE A POST COITAL SMOKE!!!!

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: ZIP-O-LA

Chapter Twelve: Cardinal Charlie Chunder Comes A-Knocking

I am in a deep, deep trouble. My face is flushed and sweaty although I am freezing cold. My skin has a yellowish jaundiced tint which can’t be a good thing. My heartbeat is erratic one minute it is racing then it slows right down. The room spins crazily like being on a super-fast Waltzer ride at the local crappy fun fair.

My
chest feels tight and after hitting the ciggies way too hard all day I am breathing like Darth Vader. A rattling breath in is followed by the rasping escape of a stinking cloud of beer fumes. The Force is certainly not strong in this one, oh no, I am lagging and badly.

I
need some fresh air so I stagger out of the bar reeling from side to side like a sailor on a ship in a Force Nine gale. I am a total mess.

It’s
almost sun up on Saturday morning in Amsterdam and I am, not to put too fine a point on it, ruined. Falling out into the street I gulp the clean oxygen deep into my lungs, desperately trying to sober up. I have been overindulging on the piss all day and there is now more alcohol than blood flowing through my veins.

I
just can’t take the pace and my body is telling me to put the brakes on. Desist! Stop! Cease! You are fucked mate! My liver screams at me. It is so soaked in alcohol that if you put a match to it you would get an instant liver flambé.

I
wander off down the road to get away from the drinking hole we are in, knowing that if I am spotted outside I will be dragged back in by the wild boys and be made to drink even more. It’s time for a sharp exit.

Wandering
down some side streets and alleyways I haven’t got a clue where I am, just glad of the respite. The night is warm, dry and I start to feel a tiny bit better. As I turn a corner I see an amazing sight: The Rijksmuseum lit up in all its glory.

All
that architecture stuff seems well poncey to me. How people get in such a big froth about bricks and mortar is well beyond me but there is something about this building that is absolutely stunning. Looking up at the huge towers and the shadows cast all over this vast building really takes my breath away.

Suddenly
I can hear a choir singing which is really strange as I am nowhere near a church. Their voices are incredible and they must be Dutch as I can’t understand a word of it. But then I realise that it’s far too late for any God-botherers to be up at this time of night and I wonder where it is coming from. Listening to the harmonies makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. This lot have the voices of angels.

I
feel amazing. There seems to be a golden glow of light around me like I’m starring in a Ready Break TV advert from the 1970’s. I then see a vision of my future. It is as if there is a glitch in The Matrix or a tear in the space/time continuum or something as I get to see myself years ahead.

In
the dream my wife and I are walking through a field of lush green grass. There are tall trees in the distance that we are casually striding towards. The sun is shining and it’s one of those days that make you feel glad to be alive. We’re holding hands with a little boy who we are swinging between us. We shout ‘One Two Three’ and then swing him up into the air. I look down at my son who has spikey blonde hair and the most incredible icy blue eyes.

He
is giggling and screaming out ‘Again! Again!’ I am overcome with happiness. In this vision my lad is about five years old and he stares up at me and says four words that melt my heart ‘I love you Daddy.’ I reply ‘I love you too son.’

I
glance over at my Mrs who is also grinning from ear to ear. The three of us are then walking on laughing together.

Then
there’s a loud popping sound that ends the vision, the weird glow and the singing all at once like a television going off in a power cut. I am utterly convinced that I had just had a sneaky peek at an event that was years in my future. I am overwhelmed and overjoyed.

This
is my Fortean Times moment. I have never seen a ghost or a UFO in real life (I would love to) but I know that this vision was the real deal, a glimpse of what will be.

Seeing
my future son has filled my soul with goodness. I’m not going to be the fuck up I thought I would become, I will have something worth living for, a family and a happy one at that. I’m going to have someone to be proud of and look after so I’ll have to knock my drinking and immature ways…it’s a good intention that will never happen but just for those few seconds I actually fool myself into believing I will do. These are the typical delusions of a drunken man.

I
feel a huge lurch in my stomach. I am going to be a father one day, I know it. It doesn’t scare me at all; I can’t wait to meet my son. Looking up at the stars I see the moon which is shining as brightly as a ravers glow stick. I stare at it dumbstruck for far too long as my head starts spinning again. I get a watery taste of bile in the back of my throat and know that Charlie Chunder has come a knocking.

Suddenly
without warning I vomit hard and fast. A column of sick comes racing out my north and south (mouth) covering my shirt, jeans and shoes. I am bringing up litres of spew, far more than seems humanly possible to hold in your gut sack.

All
the greasy, fatty, crap food I’ve consumed to soak up the gallons of alcoholic fluids over the last twenty four hours now covers me and on the floor there is a multicoloured pavement pizza the size and depth of the kid’s pool at the local swimming baths. I am in a right state.

My
eyes are streaming with tears, my beak is running with snot and I am battling to draw breath. I calm down and try to relax. I can’t have anything left to bring up I think, just as I projectile vomit up what looks suspiciously like half a lung or part of my gall bladder.

I
hurl up a load of rancid stomach lining which splatters all up my shoes and stinks worse than a baboon’s chocolate starfish. The spew just won’t stop coming, I am doing a superb impression of that possessed chick in The Exorcist but without the mucky crucifix stuff.

If
I don’t stop soon I am going to turn my intestines inside out and maybe lose a tooth with the force of ralfing my guts up so hard. Finally the sick switch turns to the ‘off position’ and I reel away from the huge humming lake of hurl I have made.

Still
it will give the birds and local foxes something to dine out on. Don’t say I don’t do anything for our animal friends!

I
decide to get back to the hotel for some well-earned R & R. Sparking up an oily rag as I’d rather have breath stinking of fag smoke than the gutsy smell of vom, I wander off down the road. My jeans are stuck to my legs by the warm thick sick and as I walk they unleash a vile stench which almost sets me off again but I get through it.

All
I have to look forward to now is the hangover from hell in the morning which is just a few short hours away. I’m going to wake up with a splitting head and a mouth as dry as the bottom of a budgerigar’s cage, complete with cuttlefish and a manky bit of millet, but hey, what the fuck.

As
they say, if you can’t do the time then don’t do the crime…

I
wobble around the streets for half hour or so and I have no idea where else I have been but somehow I’ve ended up back in my room of doom at Kebab Heights.

Obviously
the ‘beer scooter’ got me home in one piece yet again. I lay down on my filthy, stinking bed.

Despite
the stimulants I have necked, sleep is now almost upon me. My last thought of the night is what my brother & I used to say to each other when we were kids at bedtime: ‘Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.’

Some
hope of that in this filthy dive, my bed is crawling with the nippy little flesh-eating bastards.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 1…..AS A POST VOMIT BREATH FRESHENER…..141 TO GO.

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: WITH MY HUMONGOUS UPCHUCK THIS IS A NEGATIVE AMOUNT OF ALCOHOL!