Wednesday, 24 August 2011


I usually love torrential rain, watching those droplets smash against concrete and wood. To me, it is as if some higher power has decided to give the city a new lick of paint, saturating it in this new shade.
It’s that or I love the feeling of being completely drenched, head to toe. Not that level of wet you get with our usual rain, but full on to the bone wet.
It’s odd, and as I write this hard to describe why I love being that soaked. Maybe it is the freedom it gives you, you’re soaked, no point trying to escape the rain, just enjoy.
Again, maybe it is that freedom we experienced as children coming back in a small way. Making a mess of ourselves with no regard for appearance or how we’d appear to others.
Honestly I just like the rain.
But I am detracting.
I ducked in to the nearest building I could find to give myself a breather from the torrents. I left not so much as water logged footprints but a snails trail of water behind me, if needed I could be used as a temporary floor cleaner.
I find myself in our local library, a recently remodelled but still drab affair hidden from the publics view. As I enter the building it appears that I am the only hub of noise, the squelching of my feet echoing like thunder. Rather than being greeted with the stereotypical hundred foot stare you’d expect in this situation, in fact no one even batted an eyelid.
I motioned over to a table by myself and threw my coat off, it landing with a defining slop against the chair. Drying off is not exactly an easy feat when the place you are trying to dry off in is colder than outside, I’m actually impressed to be fair.
I scope out the rest of the library to see who I am interrupting, the noise I have made so far must have disturbed a couple of people. As I watched my coat drip on the floor, only one person caught my eye.
She was sat at an adjacent table to myself and surrounded by what looked like a mountain of books and notepads.
A student possibly?
Maybe a book worm with nothing better to do?
To be honest it was not my concern, but it gave me something pretty to look at as I waited out the storm. The constant pat pat patter of water running off my jacket mirrored my heart as I flicked glances of interest in her direction.
I’m still soaked though, and not getting any dryer. Next to go are my shoes and socks, not an easy feat to perform while trying to be quiet. Shuffling under the table to keep away from prying eyes I set about for my task.
But that is left aside very quickly as my attention is drawn much further a field. My book worm eye candy’s lower half is now for my inspection, and it is a sight I am happy to linger on. She is wearing a skirt, resting high up on her chair. Socks are pulled high up her legs, dry, she’s been here a while it seems.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I continue with my gawping gaze. Her legs rest ever so slightly apart, relaxed as she studies. Their gap teases me, only casting a shadow up her milky thighs to an area I’d love to see. I keep my eyes on her legs as I roll off my socks, imagining what it would be like to do that to her.
Only after I remove my second sock do I look up a little, seeing the person again that I have been eyeing up this time. Her gaze is locked on me, her book still held firmly in her hands. What surprises me though is that she does not look angry, in fact it seems she has a little smirk to her face. I’m a little stunned, that’s not the reaction I would have expected as I was sneaking a peek.
She returns her eyes to her book, her attention taken away from me. I allow myself one more peek then return to my attempts to dry.
It's not exactly the easiest thing to do, drying yourself at a desk so I make my move to another area. Hiding out in the back right up against the oversized books I made sure the coast was clear before undressing further.
You'd think I would be a little more concerned about someone coming round the corner and seeing me, but if you've read my blog so far, being conservative is not one of my strong points. Not that someone seeing me was on my mind, by the amount of dust in this corner it doesn't look like anyone has been around here in months.
I spy a spare radiator and begin to throw clothes over it, speed up the process. It's not exactly the most thrilling of events so I flick through the books as I strip. It was only as I leafed through the third book on the Spanish Civil War that I see a movement a couple of rows down from me.
I was a flicker at first, but the closer I looked I could see the shape of a person. To my immediate and happy surprise I was seeing the nerdy little lass I had my eye on, putting away some of the mountains of books she has piled around her.
I don't know why but rather than give her the look up and down I do this to her book piles. Weird I know but I am kind of interested, it's like a small taster of her mind. Sadly all that I could gleam from her collection of books on 'Northern Hemisphere Weeds' and 'Collected Aerosol Calculations' is that.....
..she must be a super villain.
I drag my eyes higher to find, to my surprise that she is looking directly at me. No hiding behind a book this time, she couldn't be more obvious. There is a slight pause as I wonder what I should do, I mean after all this is technically indecent exposure.
She however, takes the bull by the horns so to speak.
A little look down and a small nod, a tiny movement which speaks on so many levels is all I needed. She turns to face me, crossing her arms as she watches me very slowly undo the buttons to my shirt. I watch as her eyes gently drop from mine to my chest, a small smirk again appearing.
As my hands lower to undo more buttons so do hers, following mine down. I watch as her fingers drift over her breasts, a slight bite lip as she touches where her nipples are. I can feel my own skin warm as I watch her feel herself, her hands moving slowly mimicking mine.

Read the rest of this story in: 
'Sex Games' by Mouna Lott and T.H.Rusty
Out October 2011

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

A long time ago.

I once had sex with a girl who had really dark veins.
A weird thing to say, let alone think, but she really did.
I just couldn't stop looking at them, crossing all over her body. They looked like a map of the London Underground.
Let's just say I spent the night trying to get to Paddington and but ending up at Kings Cross. If you get my drift......

If you don't, then I mean anal.

Tuesday, 16 August 2011


This post is about hipsters.
Yes, hipsters.
Now come on don't look at me like that.
Don't worry though this isn't about how stupid they look or what goes through their mind when they act the way they do, that's for another....Geneva conference I think.
No this one is based on a rather unfortunate night out for myself, such is how many of these stories go. But from what I do wrong perhaps you can do right?
Or rightly fuck up I don't know, in whatever case you might get a good tale yourself! But I am straying from the point, which is...
I can't tell the bloody difference between girl and guy hipsters.
You can see where this is going.
I was out with a couple of fine fellows (aka two of my mates) and was talked into going to some 'unplugged' gig at a club that looked like it was painted by accident. Not exactly my usual haunt but I have always pushed myself to try new things. Besides, they promised plenty of booze and girls of questionable morals.
Good job guys.
Before we've even entered the club I'm beset with the fog of cigarettes, my first indication of the hipster. There they are, standing around talking about inane crap, tiny hats on their heads. To be honest they could be discussing current events or the classification of black holes, but I just can't believe it.
We push past quickly, avoiding eye contact, you can never be too sure with them. It was slightly hypnotic going through them all, a sea of grey ironic T-shirts and sprayed on jeans, not a big sea mind you, they're all stick thin.
We force ourselves in to the club to get to the bar. Much like outside we are greeted to a sea of of people claiming to be unique yet looking exactly the same.
(Take THAT social commentary!)
Cutting through to the bar my friends divert to have a look at the selection of musical talent for the night. I'll admit that it's not my cup of tea, as long as the music is good and in the background I honestly don't mind. They look like the kind of musicians who will be playing some absent minded song about how love never finds them even though they could get any girl in here without trying.
I go to my usual place, the bar, and wait for them. With no stools I perch, which I prefer to do anyway. It takes a minute to find the barman and longer still to actually get a drink, so I use the time wisely.
Letting my eyes wander around the bar it difficult to get a good look at people. My gaze sets on a lass to my right, like myself perched on the bar. Much like the rest of the people here she is in those skinny jeans, sprayed on possibly. Her tight ass keeps rolling around as she talks to her friends, beer bottle delicately poised in her hand.
She is wearing (as they all are) a very oversized shirt with some weird saying only she thinks (but everyone else) gets. It doesn't bother me though, as long as they are happy thinking we don't get it. Her arms are also covered in tattoos, not of any particular style or design, more like someone passed out in kindergarten and was drawn all over. I could probably spend all night figuring them out.
I can't figure out her hair though. It's shaved in one part, long in another, a line shaved here, spiky there. It might be bleached, I'm not sure, it's bloody confusing. Her friends notice me checking her out and make sly nods to her, indicating my approval.

Read the rest of this story in:
'Sex Games' by Mouna Lott and T.H.Rusty
Out October 2011