bother her. Money never discriminates. We went upstairs and into my room. I saw the racing form guides I had been working on earlier strewn over my bed. I suggested to Karen we adjourn to another bedroom for my horizontal folk-dancing lesson.
I placed an AC/DC CD in the player on my table, cranked up the volume, and then we went into my parents’ bedroom. I knew Karen found my finely honed athletic body an attraction as when I undid the belt of my trousers, and my stomach hit the floor twice, before bouncing back into place, her face went pale and she was lost for words. I was a sight to behold. I briefly explained to her that once I’d had big chest muscles, but my Workitis illness had made them slump to my stomach. Her face still stayed pale.
Karen never found any words until I removed my shirt. As she looked, she declared loudly, ‘Look at your man boobs; you’ve got bigger tits than me!’
We climbed into the bed of magical times, and I told Karen of my fitness regime. My two calf raises each morning on my left leg is what makes a body like mine I pointed out. Yep, I thought, as I tried to find my penis for her, Karen was one lucky woman to have me for an hour. I had read the day before in one of my magazines that sometimes the man should pleasure the woman. I think Karen was most flattered when I asked her where her G-spot was.
The look of shock on her face told me this could be the first time a man had taken the time to consider her pleasure.
She hesitantly answered, ‘I’m not sure; maybe I didn’t bring it.’
Karen, who by now was helping me to locate my penis, was most grateful when I reassured her it was OK, she could bring her G-spot with her the next time I called up the agency and they selected her to visit me. The tears of happiness that welled up in her eyes signalled to me how much I had come to mean to her in a short time. A few moments later, we both gave up trying to find my penis and Karen reached into her bag and handed me a strap-on.
In a hurry to have me, Karen from the agency said, ‘Stand up, look in the fucking mirror, lean backwards, find your dick, put it in the plastic and let’s stop mucking around here; I’m a busy girl.’
I did as instructed. Some women like to take charge in the bedroom. It gives them power I’ve heard.
Karen whispered, ‘Hurry, be nice and quick,’ confirming my earlier suspicions. She was smitten with the big fellow.
My parents arrived home suddenly. I didn’t hear the car. AC/DC music was still reverberating throughout the house.
Karen was also moaning in my ear, ‘Please, please, never mention this to anyone, ever!’
Both my parents mistook my choice in music for the noise a cat makes when its tail has been jammed in a door. Given we didn’t own a cat made their assumption puzzling to me. They rushed upstairs to rescue the cat we didn’t have and caught me in the act – the unfinished act. For a moment, I thought things were going well. They stood, just stood, and looked at us; both appeared gobsmacked as the blood drained from their faces.
Father broke the icy silence first. ‘Way to go, my boy! That’s how to pray, the good old missionary position. I hope you’ve got someone underneath your stomach!’
I’m not sure what upset Mother the most. Catching me doing the deed, catching me doing it in their bed, or Father seemingly granting his approval for the activity I had now began to pursue with great haste, in the hope that I could finish before Mother fully recovered from her shock. I knew she was going to over-react to a situation which could be sorted with good manners, diplomacy and another couple of minutes (for my sake). But, I should have known none of this would be forthcoming.
My plea of ‘Can you come back later? I haven’t quite finished’, went unheeded and merely served to make Mother hysterical.
There is nothing worse to a man in his mid-fifties than the sound of his mother becoming hysterical whilst he’s trying to finish shagging a twenty-one-year-old prostitute named Karen. It’s off-putting, and to be honest, rude. I think Karen was most upset by the proceedings.
Mother moaned, ‘We came home for my Bible. I forgot it! What do I find? I find this disgusting, vile, inappropriate filth happening. You don’t even use your own room, and you’re on my side of the bed, you filthy little heathen man!’
‘Mother,’ I said. ‘Lighten up, grab your Bible and go back to church. I’m nearly done here. I’ll tidy up afterwards.’
Mother wailed, ‘Why, why, why? In my house, why do you resort to lust? God forbids lust! The minister warned us last week about lust; it’s sinful.’
In desperation I argued, ‘I had a vision God wanted me to share the love – that’s what I’m doing.’
Whilst Mother and I conversed by way of the spoken word most loudly, Father kneeled on the floor beside the bed, not to ask God for my forgiveness, but to gain a better look at Karen, under the guise of asking her what footy team she supported. Mother grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket and sent him flying backwards.
‘Pick yourself up, man,’ Mother hollered to Father. ‘Pick yourself up and beat him with the ironing board (who keeps one of them in their bedroom?), the heathen sex maniac he is.’
Father grabbed the ironing board and commenced pounding my body as I yelled, ‘She has a twin sister!’
‘Really?’ replied Father.
He stopped beating me and put down the ironing board.
Karen decided whilst two was OK, three’s a crowd, and four’s a big crowd. She therefore decided to withdraw from further participation in my horizontal folk-dancing lesson, by crawling out from underneath me. She grabbed her clothes, complimented Mother on her Sunday dress, and made her getaway by the time-honoured way of the bolt.
No such bolt for me. Mother yelled at my father to keep pounding as she fell on her knees and prayed for the sin of my deeds not to be held against her.
Karen yelled as she ran out the front door, ‘Don’t you ever call me again! You lot are loopy! Plus, I have two sisters, we’re triplets.’
What is it with women who play hard to get?
I yelled after her, ‘Wait for me! I want to come with you.’
Karen hollered back, ‘As if I’d ever get off with a fat prick like you!’
‘Give me back my money!’ I hollered.
Father said, ‘I’ll chase after her – for your money.’
Mother said, ‘No you won’t. You will stay here and continue to beat his body, otherwise you’ll be restricted to nookie-nookie on your birthday, and Christmas Day only.’
Father looked at me in one of those father-to-son ways as if to say, ‘Sorry son, but if I only get laid twice a year, I’ll end up complaining like the Whinging Aunt from Whining Hill,’ and he commenced the pounding again.
Mother, now leaning over me and attempting to push the iron, in its entirety, into my mouth, began to quote scripture on why having sex out of wedlock is for sinners.
Spitting out the iron, I yelled, ‘Sex out-of-wedlock must be allowed! Look at Adam and Eve. They never married and they had kids!’
‘They would have been married!’ Mother declared.
‘Who married them? There were no other people on the Earth. On the sixth day God only made those two. It says so in the Bible,’ I replied.
For a moment, I thought I might have won the round on a technicality, as Mother stopped with the iron and the scripture.
But, she was just catching her breath as she stretched out her free arm, and attempted to place one end of the iron cord into a power point.
She yelled, ‘God must have married them in the Garden of Eden!’
‘Rubbish!’ I replied. ‘Show me where God is in their wedding photos?’