Putting the Fire Out

I received my discharge papers from the British Army. I had served just a few weeks over the minimum time for the maximum pension. I'd joined up as the lowest of the low; I had worked diligently and was now medically retired on a major's pension. I wasn't going to starve. I'd never married; I never even got close. I'm very happy in my own company, so I decided to rent out my house and go on a world tour.

First stop, the good old US of A. I had a few friends in the states, so I got out my address book, went online, and bought a nice big motorbike, a Honda Valkyrie Rune, to tour on. Sorry American bike fans, I wanted a bike, not a two-wheeled tractor, and had it delivered to the airport hotel. I then intended to spend a year looking at the USA from the inside out. It took a long time to track her down. Some bikers ask me, Why a Rune? I answer, Why not? If you know, you know.

I had the time of my life. I'm a rock'n'roll boy at heart. I visited Sun Records and Gracelands in Memphis. I travelled Route 6. I just stood on Rampart Street in New Orleans and breathed. Then I just looked up guys I'd come across in the army. I thought I was having the time of my life. I confirmed my beliefs that folks the world over were mostly nice people. However, here in the USA, just like everywhere else in the world, there were a very small minority of people, both male and female, black, white, sky-blue-pink with yellow dots on. They were born with a terrible genetic disorder that reversed the positions of their brains and their rectums. To be honest, that genetic disorder is repeated the world over. I didn't know it yet, but I was going to meet an entire family with this affiliation.

One day, I was looking up an English buddy who had married an American girl and settled in the Chesapeake Bay Area. On the way there, I pulled into an American roadside diner for my lunch. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. The food looked good, the decor was right up my street, and the woman serving had just fallen out of one of my better sexual fantasies. She had big, firm boobs, big bums, a tight waist, long legs, green eyes, and long red hair. Yeah, so I'm a perv; it's genetic; I caught it from my dad.

She was strutting around the place like she owned it. Wearing heels that could kill, a tight skirt, and a tighter sweater I later found out that, despite what one or two others thought, she did own the place. Maybe that's why there was a neon sign outside telling the world it was "Sandy's Diner."

How come Americans can sell good, excellent-value food from these places and us Brits get absolute crap and pay through the nose for it at our roadside service stations?

"I got fresh biscuits just out of the oven, honey." My walking, talking, sexual fantasy said to me

"Biscuits for breakfast?" I asked, "You don't get biscuits for breakfast where I come from."

I got the huge, sexy smile again. "You ain't where you come from, honey. You're sitting in my little piece of West Virginia, and we all eat biscuits for breakfast, along with sausage gravy and eggs. You're a big man, honey; you want three eggs with that`?"

"Can I get bacon as well?"

"You sure can, honey; you sure can!"

It turned out that breakfast biscuits aren't what I call biscuits. These are something else. Something I am now pretty much addicted to, along with sausage gravy. They are a bit like savoury scones: flaky, filling, and delicious; in my opinion, as a breakfast filler, they beat toast hands down.

The walls were covered with old Rock'n'Roll posters; there was a Wurlitzer Jukebox and a little dance floor. After I ordered my food and coffee, I went over to the jukebox. My walking wet dream went to get my coffee and start my bacon cooking.

It wasn't a Wurlitzer; it was a replica. A modern replica that played MP3 files and it had thousands available There was a problem: no coin slot. My very tasty, thirty-something fantasy lady came from behind the bar to help me.

I realised I was sadly mistaken about having the time of my life over the last nine months. The time of my life looked into my eyes and said, "Hi honey, I'm Sandy; you look like you need a little help."

"All I can get", I replied. "How do I pay? There is no coin slot."

She gave me a huge smile. "Honey, you don't pay a red cent; it's free! But if you play some good old rock 'n' roll, the new house rule says you have to dance with the owner."

"How long has the new house rule been in place", I asked her.

"Oh, 'bout five minutes," she replied.

The best song to jive to, I know of, is by an old barrel house pianist called Champion Jack Dupree; it's called Shakin Momma For You; however, it is as rare as rocking horse shit. Ooh, Lordy Lord, God bless America, I thought. It was on the juke box.

Sandy had that beautiful southern drawl. "How do ya' all know this one English man?"

"Well, sugarlump, the name is Benny; I'm not English, I'm Welsh, and this is played every night in every Rock'n'Roll club in Britain!"

"Is that short for Benjamin?"

"My dad would have given you a spanking; he will be turning in his grave! It's short for Bennett. He named me after one of the greatest Welsh rugby players of all time, Phill Bennett."

"You will have to take me home so I can apologise to him and get my spanking." She giggled I very nearly came in my pants!

For some reason, she was a little nervous and hadn't listened to me properly; my turn in his grave comment went right over her head. I figured she was as hot for me as I was for her. "Sandy, I would have loved to introduce you to my dad; meeting you would have made his day".

I was getting the come-on from this woman, but when I looked at her hand, she was wearing both wedding and engagement rings.

"Put that on again and dance with me," she asked. Then she added a plaintive little, Please?

"Won't your husband object to that?"

"I'm afraid not," she sighed. "He passed two years ago!"

"Ooh, I'm so sorry," I said. "God, I feel like an idiot".

"Please don't; you weren't to know. It's these, isn't it". She caresed her wedding rings. "I shouldn't even wear them. He would have divorced me!" Then she burst into tears.

Tears ran down her face. Some women, the really elegant ones, can rip your heart out with a single tear on her cheek. Sandy just looked heartbroken. There wasn't a single tear; there were pints of them mixed with mascara and other female war pain. She bawled, just like my three-year-old baby sister had years ago when a bee stung her on her bum; no mascara for three-year-old Annie, of course. My dad hugged her until she stopped crying. Annie, my sister, says to this day that it was her best childhood memory. I hugged Sandy. She says to this day that this was the first time I hugged her; it's her best adult memory.

"I'm sorry," she wailed. "He was the only person in the world who ever loved me, and I was no good to him". Then a remarkable thing happened. I opened my arms, and she almost jumped into them for that hug. We were holding on to each other and trying to kiss the lips off each other's faces. I have to say it's my best memories as well.

Half an hour later, Sandy was in tears again. The difference was that we were now in her bedroom, and the restaurant was locked up. We hadn't made love; it couldn't be called that. It was primal mating. I had fucked her brutally; she screamed "harder" and I did.

I hadn't really liked what I had done. Fucking like that was not what I was about. She looked at me like I had horns and a tail.

I was calling myself a stupid, nasty bastard for what I had done to her. This could have been so much more for both of us, and who knows, it could have lasted. I was just about to get dressed and try to apologise for being a complete bastard, try to tell her I do have feelings, then fuck off out of her life when she hit me with a punch so far under the belt I thought it would break my dodgy knee cap.

"Please don't leave." Then she really cheated and started crying again. This was the crying they do to drive the barbed hook right into your heart. Head held high with tears gently running from the corners of her almond-shaped eyes and down over her cheeks. How is it that when women cry like this, they always manage to drip their tears on something that will emphasise the little wet dots?" They clearly spell out that this bastard has hurt her again.

"I thought you would want me to be a thousand miles away after what I did to you."

"I can't help it; I'm not who I was; the cork is out of the bottle, and it won't go back in".

She started crying again. "Now I'm just a cheep nasty whore, a slut, a cunt to be used then thrown aside."

"Well, if you want me to stay, you can cut that shit out right now. On the other hand, babe, I never did get that dance you promised me. In the immortal words of Big Joe Turner, get out of that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans, I'm hungry mi duck."

As Sandy made to get out of bed, I grabbed her hand and pulled her back. "Not just yet, girl". I sincerely hope you don't think you're going to get away with just one dirty fuck. When I make love to my woman, it aint a five miniute job.

I loved her expressions. She went through everything from crying to shock to a demure inspection of the back of her hands. I ended up with a little shy smile that opened my heart. Then she burst into tears again. I held her hand, then wiped the tears from her eyes. I still held her hand.

"Are you going to let me go?" she asked.

"Nope, I don't think I am! I think I need to keep you very close.

"Oohhh," after at least ten seconds, she continued, "why are you holding me?"

"Don't you want me to hold you? At the moment, I don't think I want to ever let you go."

"If you hold me in the kitchen, I could cook you something to eat."

"What I want to eat ain't in the kitchen, and it doesn't need cooking, Sandy. But first, I want you to tell me what's wrong."

"Nothings wrong"

"Bollocks, girl, so you always bawl your eyes out every five minutes of your waking day, do you?"

"You don't want me, Benny; I'm not nice."

"Here's a bit of news, girl. I'm not nice either; lots of people will tell you I'm a very nasty bastard. But you don't cry because you think I'm a nice man."

"I'm a slut."

I laughed. "No, no, no, love, we are doing news; I just bedded you within an hour of meeting you. I know you're a slut. I chuckled. We just fucked; we haven't had our first date, and I don't know your full name. Yeah, I suppose that could be classified as a little slutty. But, babe, you need to know that for a man like me, slut is good. You're not a slut love; you're what we call in the valleys a right mucky bitch; well, I'm a mucky bastard; and we, my love, are very well matched." I don't want a woman who thinks her pussy is for pissing out. I want a slut; the only thing that changes from this day on is that you're a one-man slut--my slut, mine alone. If you don't want me anymore, you can end our relationship any time you want; just don't dare as much as let anyone kiss your slutty mouth unless you have told me it's over.

OK, I'll tell you what I'm like, then you can kick me to the curb and go see your buddy." Sandy began her long story. She was a bit of a bad girl; even in high school, she was considered an easy lay. In college, she set all the wrong records. "I was the collage bike", she whispered to me. Then she met Clive. Clive knew who she was and watched her. He cared for her, picked her up when she fell, and she fell often. Clive never stopped picking her up.

Clive was a bit of an anomaly. He was one of four boys. The other three were real oxygen thieves. There was not an ounce of work ethic between them. The youngest, Marshall, set the low bar, and trust me on this, the bar was so low that snakes had difficulty getting under it. Not one of the four brothers had the same father. The truth was, Doreen, Clive's mom, didn't know for sure who two of the fathers were. When Sandy came home from college, even if she wanted to, she couldn't even mount a campaign to become the official town bike. Doreen held that title and wasn't letting it go.

One fine day, Sandy said it was the best day of her life, and Clive proposed to her. She had a good, long, stern word with herself about her past and agreed to become engaged. Everyone and their brother told Clive he was making a huge mistake, but Sandy proved them wrong. She remained faithful for three years, and in the third year of their engagement, Clive proposed again. This time Sandy said yes.

Two years later, they had their first rugrat. Sandy told me she was beautiful; it was her first lie to me! When I saw the first photos of Crystal, she looked like every other newborn baby. Like a washed-up old boxer who should have retired five years and a hundred rounds earlier. Photos of her three months later were treasured family album fillers; they depicted a very pretty little baby girl. At three years old, she was showing every sign imaginable of becoming a real heartbreaker, just like her momma.

Two years after that, they had a second daughter, Imogene. Pictures of Imie growing up are hard to separate from the photos of Crystal at the same age. Sex with Clive was OK. It wasn't like when she was dating three guys from the defensive line at the same time. Clive rang Sandy's bell once or twice a week. Sandy took care of the rest of her needs with her fingers and easily managed her itch.

Clive was a good provider. The kids were well looked after; they were doing well at school, and then he was promoted at work. Bonuses rolled in. The poor guy was coming home from work at nine o'clock. Weekday sex became a memory, and Sandy managed her itch with Duracells in her rabbit.

Clive's hard work started to pay off, and big bonuses rolled in. They upsized their home, and Sandy got a Lexus to shop and take the kids to school in. They had swanky holidays. Clive was working Saturdays to keep up at work. Sandy still managed her itch, but only just; she bought herself a hitachi wand that ran off the mains.

-------

It was time for me to fill Sandy in about my family. My mom and dad were desperately in love with each other. Dad's advice to me on the subject of marital harmony has always been the same. Keep them well-shagged and poorly-shod. Mum, however, always said dad would never begrudge a penny spent on keeping herself looking good for him, and whenever he bought her an extravagant present, it was nearly always a pair of sexy shoes, or skimpies, a bit of Valley's slang for sexy underwear. My mother is a mucky bitch--a proper mucky bitch!

One day, when he was a little bit drunk at my eldest sister Megan's wedding, my dad, Llyn Price, repeated this to his new son-in-law: his well-shagged and poorly-shod advice on marriage. Mum explained, "I could never take the pill; it made me poorly. Look at my Bennett; he is a mirror image of his dad, including the bits between his legs. My Llyn used to burst condoms on a weekly basis. That is why you have six brothers and sisters." She went on, "Well shagged and poorly shod!" The truth of the first bit, there can be no doubt. The second bit has not one ounce of truth in it. I told Sandy she was just like my mom, and I'd been looking for her all of my life. I had given Sandy the sanitised brief history of my family.

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My dad died too soon. He died in one of the last fatal accidents in the Welsh coal mining industry. He was only 45 years old. Within four months, my mom had moved my dad's divorced best friend, Tommy James, into her bed. The truth is, my mom could not do without good, hard, regular fucking.

Mom told me over the phone that Tommy was courting her, but I found out it was just a bit more than stepping out dancing when I came home on leave.

My mom liked my dad to take her. I know they played rape fantasies; my mom, bless her, is a screamer. We kids were brought up at a very young age, knowing what our mom and dad got up to behind closed doors. My dad was very good at making Mom scream. It came as no surprise to any of us that after he died Mom found someone to be intimate with.

When I came home on a weekend pass, Mrs. Lewis, my mom's longtime neighbour, tried to talk to me about something. I didn't have a clue what; I just wanted to give my mom a big hug. Dad had only been gone six months, and we were all still shocked by his passing. I walked straight through the unlocked door. That was normal. I remember being surprised when Dad produced the key and locked it when we went to Barry Island for the first holiday. It was the first time in years it had bbeen locked.

My elder sister Meg was married and long gone; my other sister Annie was now a student nurse, living in nurse's quarters in Birmingham. My three brothers were all married and had lives and homes of their own. So as I was on my way to drop my bag in the girl's bedroom, I heard the unmistakable sound of a big hand on flesh. I also heard my mom begging him to stop. If I'd been a second later, I'd probably have heard her scream, "And put your cock in my quim and fuck me senseless.

I wasn't a second slower; I had poor old Tommy by the throat and my mom screaming at me not to hurt him. I put the poor fucker down; he looked terrified, and I felt a complete twat. "Be a good lad, mab", said my mom. Go get a pint of milk, and I'll make us all some ham sandwiches for tea. She was wearing a corset, suspenders, and black stockings. Her knickers were lying on the floor, and poor old Tommy's erection had done a runner. Like I said, mom liked to get her needs sorted with some gusto. I couldn't get out of the house quick enough.

Mrs. Lewis was still outside. "Are you OK, Benny? she asked. I'd been Benny to her since she helped the district nurse deliver me.

"I think so, Mrs. Lewis," I said. Err, I need to go get some milk for tea."

"I think that's a very good idea, Benny." Mrs. Lewis gave me a little pat on my arm.

There's a shop on the corner of our street, but I decided to get my bike out and go the five miles to our nearest Tesco store. I could walk to the shop, buy milk, and get home again before I got my bike out of the garage, but a trip to Tesco for half an hour sounded better. When I was walking into the shop, my phone pinged. It was a text from my mam. It just said, I'm sorry you saw that. Get some butter, mab.

Cariad

Mam.

For the Yanks and the English reading this, mab is what a Welsh mam calls her son. Cariad is love, and I think I can leave y'all to guess, mam.

When I got home, Tommy had evaporated. I guess I scared the poor fucker to death. I'm a big fucker, and he is an old retired collier with a bad back and a touch of black lung. Hopefully, for my mother's sake, not enough to kill him soon. I bet the poor bugger coughs in the morning, though. Mam set about slicing the loaf she made that morning and the never-ending ham joint that lives in her kitchen fridge and making a small mountain of Welsh cakes. God, I love my mam's Welsh cakes.

I walked five doors up the road to Tommy's house and fetched him back to Mam's after I had apologised very politely. Mrs. Lewis smiled at us both as we walked back up Mam's front garden path. Tommy looked very apprehensive, but I was so happy that my mom had found herself a nice bloke that I even let Tommy have the last Welsh cake. We went down the welfare after, and we bought each other enough Double Dragon to float a battleship. Mam got a bit pissed as well. Mind you, a couple of large G&Ts will do that for her any day of the week. PS: The Miner's Welfare is a working man's club, a left-over from the coal industry; most Welsh mining villages have one.

My mother knows without doubt that she is a sinner. She knows, with similar conviction, that my dad was a sinner too. In my family's world, some sins are easy to live with and forgive. For my mom, dressing up to get my old man's motor running was hardly a sin at all. Turning that motor off before it ran out of fuel would have been unthinkable. In short, and very bluntly, my mom loved my old man's cock almost as much as she loved the man himself.