I Saw It in the Stars

Its English English.

There is no burned bitch, a bastard does get a slight singing.

if you comment anonymously, Bear in mind I reserve the right to think you're a cunt.

I'm dyslexic, I do want to learn so be nice and I won't call you a cunt.

In the immortal words of Dr John Cooper Clarke, I don't wanna be nice

if the above offends, do one i aint even started yet.

if your still here I hope you enjoy.

I saw it in the stars.

You need a bit of imagination to see the star constellations as they are depicted. Take Pegasus, for instance, the winged horse! Four stars gives you a box that's allegedly a horse's body? Two stubby forelegs, and one of them at a funny angle; no hind legs at all, and whoever envisioned a pair of great, strong wings had a much more active mind's eye than the rest of us mere mortals.

I'm fascinated by the stars, planets, moons, pulsars, nebulae, and anything I can focus my massive 12-incher on. I have a 12-inch Dobsonian reflector telescope; my other twelve incher only appear in my wildest dreams; it's really bang on six when it's at its best. Me, two of my former girlfriends, and my wife have measured it. I've measured its circumference around the shaft, around my bell end, and the major and minor axes of both my testicles, and I have attempted to calculate its weight. I may be a bit obsessed.

I am equally obsessed with my astronomy and have been from an early age. Since school, I have been more concerned with planets, moons, and asteroids. The thing that interests me most of all, are the nebula, more than any other thing. Apart from my own biology, and only a certain part of my biology at that.

The night I saw the foretelling of my wife's unfaithfulness, I was just beginning to get to grips with my new toy. I had just completed my long-term project. I had built a gizmo that went by the descriptive name of a twelve-inch Dobsonian reflector telescope. I made everything, apart from the mirrors and lenses. They were salvaged from a telescope that had been damaged and then discarded by Aberystwyth University.

I started out the same way as 95% of all astronomers. First lesson, the plough points the way to Polaris, the pole star, the indicator of true north. From Polaris, it's easy if you are shown how, to find Cassiopeia. Cassiopeia is a goddess identified by Ptolemy, a Greek astronomer. He obviously had far too much free time on his hands and used that free time to identify and map 48 constellations. He also had a very vivid imagination, a consolation you or I would probably call "wonky W," which he named after the Greek goddess Cassiopeia, Cassiopeia being a vision of unrivalled beauty. That day, for the first time, I saw in my mind's eye a woman who, at least to my eyes, was that image of unrivalled beauty and she looked like my missus.

Orion is quite possibly the easiest-recognised constellation in the northern hemisphere. Orion the Hunter, another of Ptolemy's 48. He is complete with his ever-faithful dog, Sirius, his hunting bow, a belt and his sword hanging from that belt. Average Joe, if he knows anything about stars, knows this sword is made up of three stars in a line hanging from the bit of Orion that makes him instantly recognisable to the twelve-year-old kids studying in their science teacher's astronomy class.

Now, dear reader, you need to understand that Mr. Smith was a very real science teacher; he was my science teacher when I was 12. After his first lesson on the stars, I was a convert. I was hooked. The thing that hooked me was Orion's sword, and particularly the central star. It isn't a star at all; it's a nebula. A nursery for baby stars.

To be truthful, it wasn't the pictures on the classroom walls, it wasn't the books; it was the grainy Super 8 film Mr. Smith had made himself of this nebula, The Orion Nebula. It was this that prodded me along to a meeting of the local astronomical society held at our school, in Mr. Smith's science lab, and on the outside lunch benches.

Mr. Smith, as I still called him at the meetings, sensed my enthusiasm and set his own telescope up for me to view this magical, for me anyway, phenomenon.

It stood to reason that thirty-three years later, as I was commissioning my own scope, the first thing I would view was the Orion Nebula. Other than organised visits to observatories, this was the largest telescope I had ever viewed from and was far and away the biggest I had ever used to look at what I specifically wanted to look at. With the selection of my various primary lenses and deep space camera, I could view and photograph the whole nebula and take very good photos of it's individual components.

The scope did something that surprised me; for the first time in over thirty years of stargazing, I was seeing the fantasy images of the galaxies. Draco, the dragon was first; it was odd really; I had expected to see flame! There was none; in my mental picture, his head was turned away, but his snake-like body and leathery wings were outstretched, holding him in his eternal glide.

I tore the arse out of it that first night. I ended my observations when my poor, ignored wife came out of the house and into the garden dressed in the clothes God gave her. She demanded I spend a little time exploring her heavenly body. Those were her words, and I have to say, lucky me, she does have a heavenly body and I do love exploring it. In truth much more than I love exploring the heavens. There have only been two things that I have ever argued about with my wife; both arguments have been about children, or rather a lack of them.

I want kids, we both did, I am not too hung up on the variety; either boy or girl would have done for me, but quite simply, Kay cannot conceive. At first, we thought the fault lay with me. My mom thought so. I had a very bad case of mumps when I was a kid. When I recovered, our family doctor, an alcoholic Scotsman called Davison, told her it was very unlikely I could ever give her any grandchildren. Poor mom was distraught; she had problems delivering me. Consequently, I was the only fruit of my dear dad's loins.

Kay and I hit a very big bump in the road; she wanted a baby, Really wanted a baby. It didn't look as though I was man enough to do the job. After six months of crying, snot, and tears, I went for a ride on my motorcycle. My ride lasted for five months, and to be honest, I only came home for the start of the rugby season. I thought it was a certainty that I was coming home to a divorce as well.

Kay wanted kids every bit as much as I did, maybe more. She had found herself a new sperm donor, a guy called Andy Corewell, I knew him well, much too well. He played rugby for the same team as me. He was never a friend; he was a slick, greasy bastard who was not above hitting on any woman at all. Married or single, engaged or just dating--nine or ninety if it had a pussy it was good enough for Corewell. That wasn't me; that was as far as you can get from me and still be considered human. I didn't think he was, but biological science said Corewell was human.

My old man took me to the boozer, and over a beer or ten, he told me a woman who is broody is not the woman she was. Logic and common sense go right out the window. Kay knew Corewell was a predator; she knew he was married and had kids. I think having kids and a working and proven baby-maker was the one and only real attraction for her. She had jumped into bed with Corewell within hours of me leaving. She went into this situation thinking I would turn up at the hospital, hold her hand while the midwife did her thing, slap the baby's arse and stick it on her tit. I'd then sign the birth certificate and be a doting Daddy to her baby.

Yup she had baby blues so bad she thought this would happen. I love this mad bitch with every ounce of my being. Maybe it would if we had explored every other avenue first. Dad told me that my mom encouraged this stupidity. Broody by association? What the fuck makes women tick? It ain't the same stuff that makes me tick. My dad had only just started talking to Mom again. He said to me, I nearly left the soft bitch; if you ever get a grip on understanding them, son, worry like fuck boy. You will undoubtedly have gone mad.

However, come back I did. My rugby club kicks off its rugby season with a game against our local nemesis, Barnslingham. It's down on the fixture list as a friendly. Friendly, my arse! It's unarmed warfare. In the fourteen years I have played in that fixture, the game has been abandoned by the referee five times. After numerous individuals were sent off, me included twice, not in the same game though, there were not enough men left on the field to finish the game.

However, in the common spirit of rugby football, all hostile intent is forgotten at the final whistle. Immediately after the final whistle, we have our first social event of the season. Historically, it's the annual Donfield Rugby Union Club Vicars and Tarts Dance. Male or female, young or old, ugly or sensational. If you don't get your leg over in either the changing rooms or the wet orgy in the communal bath, you haven't got a pulse.

I still had a sore bum from being in almost constant contact with my motorcycle saddle for five months. I didn't have a date; that wasn't a problem. The pubs and nightclubs in Donfield were empty. Tommy, our treasurer, had hit on an unrivalled money-making scheme. All ladies, the term ladies, here being used in its loosest possible sense, entered free.

Men, well, if you were a playing member, all you had to do was buy Tommy a pint and hand over a fiver for a team member ticket. If you were not a playing member or one of Tommy's best friends' entry cost fifty quid. Bear in mind that it was the only game in town. Pubs and nightclubs didn't open their doors that night no one was about Donfield was a ghost town; you got the cheapest booze in town, and you were absolutely guaranteed a hot, wet pussy or two. Beer was cheap if all the best pussy was taken, beer goggles were cheap to acquire due to the very reasonable bar prices.

Out of nowhere, Kay dropped onto my knees, hung her arms around my neck, then, for half an hour, bawled her head off. She ran floods of tears and mascara down my neck and then blew her snotty nose on my shirt. She was pissed--drunk pissed, not angry pissed. She was nearly out of her mind, and as drunk as I've ever seen her. When we woke together the next morning, I realised she had done something I had heard of but had never seen, she drank herself sober. OK, not totally sober, but sober enough to know I was fucking the ever-loving shit out of her. I had drunk enough to retard my ejaculation but not my erection. For me, it was the most unsatisfactory sex I have ever had. Kay rolled from one orgasm into the next seamlessly. She didn't remember too much of it, but she was walking like a circus clown for three days after.

The one thing she did remember was that I proposed to her as I mounted her in my best friend's spare bed. That bed cost me; it cost me my freedom. I've never regretted that. It also cost me the price of a new bed; we destroyed it; that night we fucked it to death; it was splinters rags and wire. We dragged the mattress off the busted framework and onto the floor so I could continue banging her.

On occasions these days I find her quietly having a blub; you know the snot and tears thing. I usually find her and my mom destroying a bottle or two of cheap pink fizzy wine. Neither will admit it to me or dad; they want a baby. Or rather, they want Kay to have a baby.

We talked about adopting; apparently, that won't do. It would be for a second kid. It's just another bit of womanly psychology I'll never understand. I know though I don't need to understand, I need to step up and do something.

I could have stretched out the punishment, made her suffer a bit but why? She blows me and swallows at the drop of a hat. I can have her arse whenever I want; I like and want it frequently. She even gives me glorious, oily titty wanks without me asking.

I'm pretty sure there are no nerve endings in the valley of the dead, dry sperm. So that's just for me, isn't it? There can be no direct pleasure in her getting me off in between her tits. She went wrong on me for a while; we weren't married. To be truthful, when we started out, I hadn't been expecting exclusivity and we never had that talk.

I played rugby and cricket until, at thirty years old, I tore my rotator cuff on the cricket field. It just would not heal correctly. So, I became an official boring old fart. A dyed in the wool Saturday bar fly. I drank, but seldom too much. I stood on the touch line, took the piss to the best of my ability, and drank a few more at the bar after the game. I enthusiastically joined the "The older I get, the faster I was club."

Kay and I still went to dances, I could still throw her all over the dance floor, she loves it. Fuck, I love to jive with her almost as much as I love fucking her. We still made love, and when I was making love, I am gentle and supremely considerate with her. However, once a month, just to show we still have it, I fuck the ever-loving shit out of her. Kay likes a bit of controlled abuse. I like it too. We both know its play. Recently, it has evolved into sessions involving a bit of bondage with a bit of spanking thrown in. I never thought I could enjoy doing that but tanning her arse with the palm of my hand until a moment before I force her to use the safe word, then fucking the shit out of her when she cannot move a muscle, it's exhilarating. I can usually get three screaming orgasms out of her and then give her what she calls one of her rolling climaxes. When that happens, it gets messy; she squirts; it looks like pints sometimes, but it is not. She will just clock out for a minute or two. The lights go out, and she stares blankly. There is no response. It scared the shit out of me the first time it happened. Now I just hold on to her until she comes back to earth. The bondage is always done with 9-mm oiled hemp rope. It doesn't burn her; it's cheap, and I just cut her out of it with bandage shears. When she comes around, I'm holding her from behind and the rope is in the bag we keep it in. One hand cupping a tit, the other cupping her dribbling pussy.

In the morning, we will typically go to a nearby Premier Inn. We just have a leisurely breakfast there. Then, depending on the season, we either spend the day with friends at either the rugby or cricket club. One day, one of the younger girls admonished her for walking funny. Kay replied rather loudly that it was last night's bedroom gymnastics that resulted in the funny walk. The poor girl said, Why do you let him get away with that? Kay shot back. He is getting away with nothing! He must do me again every night or he is punished.

Miriam, another teacher, and Kay's best girlfriend teach at the same school. She took the opportunity and butted in. She looked over at the girl and said you would have to forgive her. The poor woman is delirious. All that's true is that it happens six nights a week; her old man shags her into unconsciousness. That's why she sells cosmetics as a sideline. That way she can afford to put enough lotion on her puss to stop it from getting sore and cracking all the way to her belly button, my poor poor friend. He's hung like a donkey; it's like a baby's arm holding an orange.

As I said early on, I'm not, but Kay and Miriam just love to play wanton sluts. Miriam is Kay's enabler, but they are as bad as each other. Ross, one of my best mates is Miriam's partner, he shags her bandy most nights as well. There are several of Kay's fellow teachers that I like. Some I can take or leave, and some are pretentious bastards. They are so full of themselves that they think their shit doesn't stink.

The leader of this group is a guy called Peter (definitely not Pete) Spiller. Talkin about Kay one evening he said "she is such a little tart", he said that to no one in particular. As he did so, he brought his hand down on Kay's bum. You are absolutely right about her being a tart old sport, as I said. But she is my tart, and if I see your hand on her arse again, I will break the fucking thing off. I said this just between me and him in the quiet, in the men's room. "I was only being friendly," he said. "I wasn't." I growled back. "I meant what I said." He obviously went crying to Kay about it. She ragged me about it later. Don't worry about him, baby; I think he's a prick. He is very talented with a paintbrush, but I prefer men I can't beat in an arm-wrestling competition, big boy. She gave my cock a squeeze, grabbed my arse, and stuck her tongue down my throat.

Life settled down; my old man was right. What he said was, don't try to understand them; just accept what they are, but always keep an eye open. The best are a bit unpredictable. What he did say outright was that she is a good one, a keeper; don't throw her back.

A month after the dance, lying in bed, Kay asked me if I loved her. I told her I couldn't imagine loving anyone else. We had just made love--not fucked; I made love to her. I've got to tell you something, she said and it's going to hurt. It's not you, the baby thing; it's not you.

There were snot and tears everywhere again. It's me; my eggs are wrong she wailed. She tried to talk some more, but all she was able to do was shed tears and bawl. After an hour, she managed to ask if we could do it again before I left. The silly bitch thought I was going to leave her, but she still told me. "Kay, you forgot; I came back to you. I don't think I can live without you."

She cried when she thought I was leaving her. She cried when she realised I was staying.

Back to the night skies! Cassiopeia's baby girl, Andromeda's, was the goddess of love; she could have made them just a little bit more logical, surely.

My new scope reignited my passion for the heavens, so much so that I had to limit my observations to one night a week. I do have other interests; we have other interests. We dance and bowl together; that's "rock and roll" jiving and lawn bowls, not crown green or tenpin. Kay, my wife, runs an evening "dance-fit" class at the school she teaches at. I have my gazing night on the same night if the sky is clear. As you may gather from that, Kay is a teacher, and I am, these days, a high tech pikey.

These days, I travel to daytime auctions once or twice a week. I look for stuff to sell on eBay and other auction sites. I started this last year, I had a bad accident travelling to work. I was off work for six weeks. I was self-employed at the time, when I was fit to start again, there was no job for me to go back to. My average monthly profit makes me nearly double the money I was making in wages, and I spend a hell of a lot less time doing it. We keep independent finances at Kay's insistence, not mine.

When I was a wage slave, I would have preferred a joint account. Now that I was an independent trader, separate accounts are a blessing. We both make a monthly payment into our household budget account that covers running the house. Water, gas, electric, landline telephone, TV, cable, and Internet, and every other household bill, including a transfer to another account for our holiday fund, we pay it all from this account.

These days, the transfer from my personal banking account to our joint account as a percentage is much less of personal income However, I transfer at least twice as much, usually much more, into my savings account.

Last week I bought a lot of old fishing rods, they looked a bit rough. I called a collector I know; he drove over to me and gave me two thousand quid for three of them. The rest I threw away

My savings account isn't a secret account, but Kay doesn't ask about it, she knows as much about my savings as I knew about hers, precisely zip.