Entertaining At Large Ch 12

George's interlude

Zigindere suggested the idea of shorter chapters featuring other characters some time ago. Thanks for that. George has been around since chapter one. He has no redeeming features at all so if you find yourself feeling slightly nauseous after reading this one I'd give the series a miss. There are tangential references to other people who appear in the series. Some of them are really quite nice. Just lousy judges of character, but then aren't we all when we've had a few. Comments, suggestions and support welcomed as usual and thanks to those who have. (But be warned. Zig chipped in with this perfectly reasonable idea a couple of months ago, but after percolating it in my head, the below happened.)

*****

What I need is a shag. A shag and a pint. No. What I need is a shag and a few pints and a decent plate of fish and chips. Is that too much to ask? No it bloody isn't. Time was you could get a shag, a pint or two and a bag of fish and chips - with scraps - and still have change from a quid. And that'd be paying for her as well. In those days girls didn't open their purses if they were going to open their legs. You knew where you were back then. Bloke buys the first round. Naturally. Finish those. Another? If she says "yes please" and hands you the glass you knew you were in. It was like a code. Couple more, few laughs. Stick your hand on her leg, try to get up her skirt and ask her if she fancies fish and chips, Chinese if she was a posh bird. "Let's take these back to mine, it's cold out". Next thing, music on, lights down, maybe a joint or even some candles. Job's a good 'un. Everyone knew where they were.

If she reached for her bag and wanted to pay you'd know you were in for a long night. Listening. She'd want to sound off about her husband or her last boyfriend. How he didn't understand her. Whatever. I blame that German Gear, Gleer, Grear whatever her bloody name is. Not even a Kraut as far as I remember. New Zealand, Australia, one of those places she was from. Always getting her tits out in those magazines lads brought back from London. Spouting on about orgasms. I thought she said "organisms" first thing. Thought girls were sticking motors up their twats or summat. You had to laugh. I mean, who calls their daughter German? What kind of name's that? And who talks about books when they're out on a date? Films, music, what you watched on the telly last night, who's shagging who, or have you heard the latest joke. I mean, rules is rules. Bloody books.

Wednesday night down at the Crown. Here we are again. Not much chance of a shag tonight. Mostly usuals in. All of them taking the piss about the new paint job. Pink. Pink for fucks sake. Forty years I've been coming in here. Forty years, man and boy. Ten as a customer and thirty as the boss. Jack'll be spinning in his grave. Last thing he said to me. Last thing. "Don't change the décor". "No, Jack," says I, "I give you my word". And I meant it. Dead a month later. Emphysema. Be all those fags he smoked. Thirty years and not changed a thing. Still got the same old plates on the high shelves. Still see the burn marks in the carpet from when smoking was allowed. Only changed the juke box when the old one blew up. Night of Stan's stag do. Best man threw up over it while old Stan was out back fucking the stripper. Last pub in town with a juke box. A juke box and Friday night strippers. And now the place is going to be pink. Pink.

My own stupid fault, of course. Shouldn't have shagged Susan. Not without asking her properly. But what's a bloke to do? New Year's Eve. Only went in to the Snug to see if she wanted a drink and there she was. Arse in the air, giving some skinny lad a blow job. I knew she was up for it. I mean, her twat was almost winking at me. All wet and sticky. Lovely. I just couldn't help myself. Wanted her from the first time she came in. And when you've got a cock the size of mine it's dangerous to keep your hard-on cooped up inside your kecks. Doctor said so. Something like. She might be in later. After football. Football. She's a one off that one. Plays goalie for the lads, likes a proper pint and the best stripper I've seen for years. You can't help but like her.

Mandy's reaction was a bit of a straightener though. Never seen her so mad. Thought for a minute she might even walk out on me. I mean, I knew she liked her. Her and the girls too. But it's not like it was a first. For either of us. There's not many of the old-timers in here she hasn't had at one time and another. And she's knocking off that Mr J like they were both sixteen again. And I mean, she knows I've screwed just about every stripper who's ever worked here. I mean, you've got to haven't you? Time was they looked on it as part of the job. Knocking off the landlord. Or at least a hand job - both hands in my case.

Just like when I first started coming down here, sneaking in to watch the old girls get 'em off. Once Jack got tired of slinging me out that is. What was I fifteen? Sixteen? Maybe even a bit younger. Anyway, in those days, things were different. The lasses who stripped were different. Married most of them. Girls whose husbands had walked out and left them with the kids; or spent all the money on booze. Problems with the social, bills running up, needed a bit of fast cash. Old Jack was a persuasive bugger. Sit them on the end of the bar on that old padded stool with the arms. Whatever happened to that? Feed 'em G&Ts whilst they watched on a Friday.

"Ooh I couldn't, Jack. I just couldn't". "Course you could, love, everyone's nervous at first and you've got a lovely figure, shame not to show it off". Then give 'em another drink while they thought about it for a bit. Old sod had this six inch platform under the bar. Meant he could see down punters' blouses without them noticing he was looking. Few of the older customers, those who sat up at the bar, they'd chip in too. "You performing darling? No? That's a pity, you look gorgeous. Let me buy you a drink anyway". Bit of flirting, few risqué jokes, remind 'em what it was like to be single. Then Jack would move in. "Tell you what, why don't I book you in for a spot on Sunday dinner time? Just to get you started. They're a much quieter crowd. They'll love you".

Was true as well. Fridays, everyone was out looking to get the weekend started. Younger lads for the most part. Get pissed, start a fight, shout at a bird getting her tits out; "fat slapper" was a chat up line in those days. Sunday's was a different crowd. Mum would start the dinner whilst dad read about randy vicars in the News of the World. Pop into the kitchen to put it on the top shelf when he'd checked his football coupon. So the kids couldn't get it. "I'm just out for a pint, love. Be back at one?" Down the Crown to watch a couple of lasses strip and have a good laugh with your mates. "Don't get many of those to the pound", "If my missus had legs like yours I'd never leave the house". Bit of banter always helped the new ones relax. That and the triple gins Jack gave 'em before sending them on.

Dad'd be back dead on one. Meat and two veg, bit of pudding, then send the kids out to the park with a few coppers for ice cream. Parents would be upstairs banging like rabbits before the front door slammed. It was a service to the community. That's what Jack told the girls anyway. They'd come off stage feeling like Marilyn Monroe and high as a kite. The first-timers wouldn't have other pubs to go to and Jack would ask them to stick around to help him lock up. Kids are at mum's, so why not? Doors at the Crown shut bang on two - good old licensing laws - and he'd have them on their backs getting a good rogering by quarter past. Stands to reason. They weren't getting any now the old bloke had pushed off and women have their needs just like men. Says so in a Cosmopolitan I read last time I was down the dentists.

Couple of weeks later Jack would slip them a pound note or two and ask if they'd mind being extra nice to a regular. "Wife died a few months back and he'd feeling a bit down". Soon she'd be putting on "special shows" after a lock in. Mandy told me she once shagged ten blokes in just over an hour at one of those. Walking bow legged with spunk running down the inside of her tights when she left, she said. But more than enough cash to pay the rent for a month. Most of the girls would drift off after a few months. A lot of them hooked up with customers. Older blokes, own houses, steady jobs, not too many demands in the bedroom department, you'd be surprised.

Some of them went on the circuit. There was a circuit in those days. About twenty pubs between this town and the next, then there was the working men's clubs and the rugby clubs, stag nights at the Masonic lodge. Oh yes, a girl could make a good living as a stripper back then. A few ended up on the game. They made even more. But they all left their numbers in Jack's little black book. He could always find a last minute replacement if someone let him down. Good old Jack. They always remembered who gave them their start.

Different today, of course. Different altogether. Girls do it 'cos they like it. Get off on it while they're doing it. Not so much the young ones, not in here that is. Young girl wants to make a few bob, she'll go to one of those lap dancing places. Pay her way through college or whatever. There's some, of course, like our Tracey, she'd do it for free. Gets it from her mum I suppose. She's in the Ladies giving that young lad who came in with JD a seeing to right now. Randy little cow. And Scarlett, flashing her knickers while she beats the other lads at pool, she's much the same.

No, the girls that do well down here are just that little bit older, more self-confident. Willing to show off a bit. Wouldn't put up with a fat businessman running his dick up and down their bums however good the money, but don't mind showing off their tits and arses for the more down-to-earth mob we get in here. That's why a good landlord'll always ask, politely like, if a prospect fancies giving it a go. That girl who's just been up at the bar with her bloke, thought she was a possible. Purple blouse undone far too low. Could see everything from Jack's perch. Knockers like melons and a see-through bra. Lovely. Said no, of course. Always do first time. That's why you've got to keep at it. He didn't mind. In the old days he'd have taken a swing at me, just for the show like. It's what a man did. Protecting his woman. Now, a lot of them are real chuffed watching their bird getting naked in front of their mates. Looked like he was right up for it. I'll have another word later if I get the chance.

Hello, she's in. Looking all sweaty, but still a stunner. Taking the piss out of her team. Up to something with our Tracey by the looks of things. Bit of banter. She's a whizz with words as well. Always makes me laugh. Like that in a woman. But what's the giving up drinking all about? Should be a law against it. And those layabouts she hangs around with - I suppose I'd better get used to calling them the pub's football team, god help us - still drinking lager. Bloody fizzy foreign muck. Back then, if someone asked for a lager you'd automatically reach for a half-pint glass. Ask them if she wanted lime or blackcurrant with it. No bloody wonder I have to clean the Gents daily. Goes through 'em like a dose of salts.

Susan I could shag. Not that she'd let me. Not tonight anyway. Looks like Tracey's got more of a chance than me. People don't understand the difference between fucking and shagging. I blame the education system. Too many tests, doesn't leave the nippers enough time for hanging around in the bogs sharing fags and talking shit like we did. Fucking is what you do most of the time. Mary and me, we fuck. She comes in of a Tuesday, does a shift behind the bar, come closing we both sort of look at each other than go back to the Snug and have it away. Regular as clockwork. She's even stopped wearing knickers to work. Nice drink afterwards, bit of a chat about the kids then it's "see you next week" and she's off. Nice lass.

Shagging's a different thing altogether. There's that rush when you both know what's going to happen. Sometimes it's at the start of the night and you both let it build. Sometimes it's almost instant. But whatever. It always ends with the pair of you tearing off your clothes. You can't wait to stuff her and she's itching for your cock. Hardly ever get your kit off before you're at it. Can't beat a good shag. I mean, fucking's alright don't get me wrong. Mandy and me fuck all the time.

And she's the only one I make love to. Twice, maybe three times a year. It sort of comes over you. You find yourself thinking about how much you like her, what she's done for you and all. Starts with snogging and stroking. We used to have a bath together before we both put on a bit of weight. Both putting fresh sheets on the bed together. Very nice. Fucking, that's like your egg and chips for tea on a Thursday. Making love, that's your posh meal with a bottle of wine. Sort of thing you can pick up at Marks and Spencer's for a tenner. Shagging's a bag of chips behind the bus shelter type of grub. Hot, fast and leaves you feeling greasy. Wouldn't want it all the time, but when you do, it's the only thing that'll hit the spot. Knock out.

Were times I could shag two or three times a day. More. Three or four times a week now, top whack. Comes with age, I suppose. Not like that when I started. While ago now, must be over forty years. They say you always remember your first. I can't for the life of me. That long summer, hottest on record - again, parks were full of office girls sunbathing in their bras and knickers at dinner time. Sitting in fountains getting all wet and see-through. My cock was hanging out of my shorts half the time. I didn't know what to do with it.

Me and Stan had cycled over to that place on the other side of town to see what talent was on offer when we found the netball team. Stan was older than me. Reckoned he'd been with loads of birds. Bollocks of course, but I wasn't to know. Said we should go and see if anyone was using the tennis courts. Said you could see everything when they bent over. Were only lads playing when we got there so we wandered around a bit and, bingo.

There were about eight of them all in those pleated skirts and thick navy knickers. Sarge was it called? Surge, can't remember. Wonder if they still make them. Haven't seen a lass wearing a pair for years. Tight white shirts with something embroidered over one of their tits. One team wore sashes, I remember. What a sight. Bouncing boobs and tight round arses. Jumping about, bending over. It was like a dirty film. Well, what I imagined a dirty film would be like. It was still years until videos were invented. They were loads older than us but that didn't stop Stan. He's straight over giving it the old gab.

"Good shot", "Nice move", "Show us your tits" all that sort of thing. I could tell some of them were pissed off with him, but a few were giggling away and giving him the old eye. He was not a bad looking lad Stan. Bit of a state now, too right, but that's two marriages and too much beer for you. Suppose he might say the same thing about me. Anyway, the game finishes and by this time Stan's right up against the fence still giving it the old chat. Me, I'm back behind the bushes. Got a hard-on so big it's come out of the top of my shorts and is almost touching my chest. In those days shorts were short. Only kind your mum could buy.

"Where you off to?" "OK if we tag along". "Come on show us your tits". Stan's being all man-of-the-world. I'm just waiting for them to go so I can sneak out and get home for a little relief with one of dad's magazines. Anyway, about half of them bugger off. The rest sort of trail over to Stan and start flirting back. Think they're safe with the chain links between them. I couldn't hear was was being said, but I could see it was getting saucy. One of them lifted up her skirt, I almost came in my shirt when another pulled up her top. She had an industrial weight bra on like, but still. Then they notice me.

"Come on over, we won't bite", "Ahh, he's shy", "Don't make us come and get you". I just shake my head and get redder and redder. Stan's giving me the evil eye and telling me to get over there quick. In the end they send him over to get me. "Don't fuck around we're in here". He has to drag me out. Me now just about purple and both arms folded across my middle trying to hide my cock. One on the end notices first, she nudges her friend and soon they're all staring, elbowing each other with their hands over their mouths and giggling so loud it's almost a shriek.

Eventually they say they've got to go. I'm relieved. I haven't dared to say a word. I just want to get out of there. Stan's got other ideas. Spins them a tale about can we come with and get a drink before the long ride home. There's a bit of a conference - lasses did that a lot in those days - then we get the OK "but no funny business". It was a long walk. Me and Stan are pushing our bikes, but he's got his arm round the waist of the pretty one. Keeps letting it slip to her arse, she hits him, they walk along separate-like for a bit, then his hand's back and the whole thing starts over. Me I just stare at the ground as I walk behind the other three. They're all laughing and looking round at me every few yards. I almost made a run for it.

We get back to a house, poshest I've ever been in. Semi-detached, garden front and back. Lass's mum and dad are both out. She reads us the riot act about not making a mess. Stan disappears with his girl almost straight away. Leaves me with the other three. The whole room's quiet. I sit on the biggest sofa I've ever seen holding my squash with both hands, bending over - I'm still hard as a rock. The three girls are just looking at each other, then looking at me, then giggling and then it all goes quiet again. I'm thinking "what would Stan say?". I try "nice house". That just sets them off giggling again.

Then one of them - she was probably the oldest - comes and sits next to me. I can feel her leg touching mine so I jiggle across to give her some room. She just follows me and soon I'm stuck against the arm with her pressing against me. I can feel my cock-head dribbling and hope it doesn't mark my T-shirt. "Will you show it us?" That sets off the loudest giggles yet. I can see the other two's knickers as they fall back in the chairs they're in. The one next to me puts her hand on my knee. "Come on, I'll show you mine". Next thing she's up in front of me, pants down round her plimsolls, holding up the front of this little navy skirt. I can see everything. She'd got little red curls I remember and there was a little drop of something at the top of her slit. I thought she was peeing herself. That quietened the other two down.

"Come on, you've seen mine. We had a deal". She dropped her skirt and bent over and grabbed the top of my shorts. I tried to stop her, but the fattest one came over and joined in. I could feel her tits pressing on my face as she prised my hands loose. Next thing I remember my shorts and pants are down and she's pulled up my shirt. The room goes completely silent. The fat one says "bloody hell" and gets told off for using bad language by the others. It's clear they've all seen cocks before. They start making snide comments about lads called things like Simon and Toby. I just sit there - god knows what colour I was by then - trying to get my shorts back up. Every time I reach for them one of the lasses stops me.

"Can we touch it?" That starts another round of giggling, but the one who's back next to me, the one who started it all, just reaches out and grabs me without so much as a by-your-leave. She starts wanking me off and I come in about three seconds. It shoots right up in the air before falling onto one of the cushions. The one whose house it is is shrieking and bawling about how her mum'll kill her and the the stain'll never come out. The fat one gets a cloth and some water and they all start rubbing at the cushion to get rid of my cum. By the time they'd finished I'd got my shorts back up and my cock stowed away. The one whose house it was made us all go. Stan was not happy. But when we went to get on our bikes the fat one came over to say they were playing again the next day.