Online Briefing

I imagined such a bloke on the bed in front of me, facing away with his dirty jeans hitched down and his strong, hairy arse level with my face. His large, plump balls would be dangling down between his muscular thighs and his cock... well... I wasn't too bothered about what his cock would be doing.

I inhaled again from the coarse-smelling rear hem of the boxer briefs. When he'd said he was 'whiffy' he was certainly true to his word.

I imagined I was rimming this bloke as he squatted on my bed, pushing my face between the moist, skunky cheeks of his backside, homing in on the dank, heady opening within. His cleft would be teeming with his wiry hair, feeling coarse and clammy on my nose and bristling against my tongue as I reached out towards his hot, slimy ring.

I stroked my foreskin back and forth, trying to rouse my cock into life but found it curiously unwilling to co-operate.

This just wasn't working for me. It wasn't even fractionally as exciting as I'd expected it to be.

It was titillating to have another man's underwear, his most secret scents, in front of me, but for masturbatory stimulation it had turned out to be deeply unfulfilling. I just couldn't imagine this was an actual person on the bed with me.

In spite of what I'd previously thought about it simply being the smell of another guy which I found arousing, there clearly had to be, in my mind at least, a real and authentic man who was producing the smells for me to be able to fantasize about. I simply didn't know enough about 'Gavin' or whatever his name really was to feel genuinely stimulated by this.

I had at the back of my mind that I had in front of me the underwear of some sweaty old fat bloke who was masquerading under a false identity to give guys like me their cheap (or not so cheap) kicks.

Farmergavin89 could easily be some old weirdo selling off his dirty laundry. Which made me some slightly younger weirdo buying it up to sniff at.

I wondered which of us was the weirder weirdo.

I heard Jake on the stairs and quickly stashed my disobliging member back into my fly and shoved the underwear back into the packet. These were too grim to even make it to the laundry pile but would be hidden away at the bottom of the outside wheelie-bin.

"What are you doing in there?" Jake called in.

"Just trying on these pants I bought from e-Bay," I replied, more breathlessly than I would have liked.

I heard an 'ugh' sound from my son as he made his way to his bedroom.

===

The next day when I got home, Jake was dabbing at the carpet in the hallway with some kitchen roll.

He greeted me with a scowl and a curt, "That cat needs putting down."

Sometimes it was like I was still married to his mother.

"Good afternoon to you too, Jake," I said, taking off my jacket and hanging it up. "What did the cat do?"

"He shat on the carpet," he said. "It was disgusting. Just what I want to find when I get home."

Tipple – our ginger cat – was very old. Linda and I had bought him as a kitten before Jake was even born; that's how ancient he was.

"He nearly got it all over a couple of parcels you got in the post," Jake went on. "He did it right next to them."

I suddenly realised that the cat must have sniffed at the odoriferous packets I'd received in the post and got confused about where he was. He must have thought the bawdy smells around the hallway mat meant it was his litter tray.

"He needs putting down," Jake repeated.

"Steady on, Jake," I said. I was rather fond of the old, grumpy cat and was loathe to take him on his final journey to see the vet because of a mistake that wasn't even his own fault. "He just must have got a bit confused."

Jake finished rubbing at the carpet and stood up. "You said when he started having accidents in the house, the most humane thing to do would be to have him put to sleep."

I had said that. I'd said senile cats get distressed about making a mess where they shouldn't and that it would be cruel to go on making them live like that.

"Maybe... er... he smelled something that made him think this was his litter tray," I suggested.

"There was only the post," Jake argued. "A couple of letters and those two parcels for you. Just that e-Bay stuff you were going on about last week. What could have made him think it was his litter tray?"

I shrugged, feeling myself blush. How many more of these wretched parcels were on the way? Was there any way to cancel your orders through e-Bay?

"Maybe it was something we brought in on our shoes, Jake... I don't know. I just think we need to give him at least one more chance."

Poor old sod: his life hanging in the balance over a couple of dirty pairs of skivvies bought on some misguided impulse by his owner.

"He's starting to look a bit scabby," Jake insisted. "And he's got a whiff to him. I could smell it upstairs last night."

He walked into the kitchen and bunged the wodge of kitchen roll into the bin. I followed him through, undoing the top button of my shirt and loosening my tie.

"I hope you're not going to have this attitude about me when I'm getting a bit scabby and have a whiff to me."

Jake grinned over at me. "If those are the warning signs, dad, I might as well get you booked a flight to Switzerland now... one way!"

I smiled at him.

"Seriously, though, Jake," I went on, "I think Tipple needs at least one more chance. He might have just been having a bad day. We all have them."

I certainly did.

Jake nodded. "Well, I'm not cleaning his mess up next time."

"That's fair enough."

I glanced over at the packages which Jake had put on the table. I thought I could detect their odour from where I was standing, but I'm sure that couldn't possibly have been true.

They needed to go in the bin. Unopened, just binned. Right to the bottom.

After that, I'd have to find a way to stop the other ones coming. Perhaps tell the Royal Mail we'd moved house.

"Aren't you going to open them?" Jake asked, grabbing a bottle of coke out of the fridge.

"They're not... er... suitable," I said.

He swallowed a couple of mouthfuls from the bottle. "How do you know?"

I shrugged. "They were all much of a muchness when I ordered them. Same brand, different colours. The ones I looked at last night just weren't... er... up to the job."

"So why did you order so many?"

"They were cheap," I lied. If only: I could have bought half a dozen bottles of very nice Scotch with the money I'd frittered away.

How many more were due to come? There was that bloke who'd claimed he was an athlete, then the one who'd apparently been in the marines. And I'd ordered at least a couple of pairs from the guy who said he'd just come back from –

"What are we having for tea?" Jake asked, his priorities shifting momentarily to more pertinent matters.

I looked in the cupboard. "I dunno... something with pasta, maybe?"

He nodded and walked over to the parcels on the table, eyeing them up. "It seems a waste to throw them away. Do you think I would like them?"

"No," I snapped way too quickly. "I mean... er... you're a lot fussier than I am."

"What style are they?"

Jesus – he was going to be opening the bloody things next. God knows what he'd find smeared all over them.

"Old man style," I said. "The waistband would be high enough to reach your nipples."

He grinned. "Oh right. So why did you order them, then?"

"Er..." I floundered, struggling for an answer. "They looked totally different in the photos."

He chuckled. "Well, that's e-Bay for you..."

After gulping down the last of his coke, he went on, "So why did they send them all in separate packages? Surely it would have been cheaper for them to send them –"

"Look, Jake," I cut in. "As fascinating as it is to talk about pants with you, could we maybe move on to a different conversation?"

He looked over at me and grinned, appreciating the dig.

I grabbed the two packets and stuffed them, unopened, into the bin. The remaining deliveries would be joining them.

"I think we'll just forget all about those. Write them off as an error of judgement."

I'd have to phone the Royal Mail first thing in the morning. Have all post diverted to my work address. On second thoughts, maybe that would bring even more problems.

I'd see if I could hire a private mailbox to have things delivered to. For maybe a month or two. At least until the supply of briefs had abated and the poor old cat had been given a reprieve.

===

Next story: Pantomime Cow

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