Geeky Gruber Hoover was a virgin. And would be still, were it not for the erotic intervention of the Octopus-Alien from the Bubblegum planet...
Every now and then, the earth moves. Even for geeky Gruber Hoover.
He suffers from what he calls his 'problem'. That's why he takes a couple of extra Y-fronts when backpacking in the Peak District or along the Pennine Way. Activities also done to avoid situations that cause his embarrassing condition. City precincts, particularly in summer, tend to provoke his 'problem'. Girls wear short dresses, tight T-shirts and often less. Thin fabrics that contour their frequently bra-less breasts that visibly quiver like two fresh scoops of creamy-white ice-cream, setting off stirrings in his underpants which he can't control. And his Y-fronts fit him as tight as a warm handshake from a friend. If he had a friend. Which he doesn't.
Gruber is meek as a squeak, with a train-spotter's dress-style. The recession never bothered him. He'd been a failure even during the boom. He's also invisible. Meet him, and ten seconds later you've forgotten what he looks like; which is geeky. Even at thirty-two, living with Mumsie, he's got explosions of facial acne like complex Braille texts, lank hair that's long and greasy where it's not already receding, and heavy-rimmed glasses as thick as bottles.
So when he's in precincts or Shopping Malls, and its summer, he's worked out some survival strategies. A girl, a T-shirt so sheer the nipple pigmentation and dimpled areola are not only visible, but tactile. Two playful snub-nosed delights just begging to be petted. So first you deliberately don't look, so as not to alert her to your intention. Walk towards her, your eyes hunting dropped coins on the pavement, or sight-cruising the Music Centres, lap-tops and DVD displays behind the reflecting shop windows. Until the last possible moment. Then look up sharply -- as if surprised, pausing as long as is safe to gaze directly at the breasts. Sometimes, if that gaze lingers a nano-second beyond the acceptable limit, she intercepts your attention. Luckily Gruber is -- remember, invisible, and her expression of shocked distaste soon fades as, a moment later, she's forgotten he ever existed. Of course -- if the furtive gaze had come, not from geeky Gruber, but from a good-looking hunk, her expression would be a secretive smile of approval. He knows this. Sometimes the unfairness of it all gets to him.
Public transport is also a dangerous provocation. Even before sitting down in the No.167 bus to Halifax, or the 07:46 train to Cleckmoorside, he knows the seat-vibration on his clenched buttocks will cause instant arousal. And that once arousal begins its unstoppable expansion within the tight confines of his trousers, the friction that results between the sensitive tip of the glans and the slightly coarser material of the Y-fronts will speed up the process. If there's a girl there on the seat across the aisle it then goes into overdrive. Which is where the extra underpants become important. On a bus or a train it's impossible to control an in-pants ejaculation -- so what do you do? Stuff a handkerchief into your fly, hoping no-one notices, and bite your lip to stifle the groan? Cross you legs furiously, close your eyes, and hope against hope the 'problem' will subside first...? But you know it won't.
So Gruber goes backpacking by himself in the Peak District or along the Pennine Way where he can avoid the things that bring on his 'problem'. Humming Abba songs to himself. Sitting on a smooth rock looking over Ribbledon he can noisily chomp the cheese & tomato sandwiches Mumsie has prepared, and slurp sweet milky coffee from his red thermos. The air sharp and cool. But even here, miles from anywhere, there can be daydreams of shocking nymphs doing delectably dirty things. And his cock achieves lift-off beneath his anorak...
Of course, he's a virgin. And would be still, were it not for the intervention of the Octopus-Alien from some Bubblegum planet.
It begins like this. He's humming "Voulez Vous", striding his ungainly uncoordinated gait along the drizzle-drab Pennine Way towards his planned overnight stop at Luddenthorpe, when the rapid dot of a Spacecraft cuts the clouds. Then he loses sight of it beyond the sudden jump of a hill. Until, with a spiral cavorting across a cleanly slashed sky and a sound like the air itself retching, the craft comes in low over his head. He can see it in detail now. All winking green lights and the chuntering clunking motion of something wounded.
It's a UFO. He knows that immediately. He's seen the blurry out-of-focus photographs and the 'artist's impressions' in his magazines, 'The Unexplained' and 'UFO Watcher'. And now it's coming down violently a close hundred yards away, beyond the dry-stone wall and just in front of the trees...
--- 2 ---
And every now and then, the earth moves.
This can't be happening. Not to geeky Gruber Hoover. But it is.
From where he's lying on his back on the floor of the reception hall of the B&B he can see right up Mavis Bisselrode's dress. The effect is sensually shattering. She's middle-aged. A little over-weight. But all Gruber can see is legs ascending to heaven above him, smooth sleek female legs that go all the way up to her stocking-tops. And the dark M&S suspenders. And the white knickers with shadowy traces of pubescence curling from beneath their lacy rim.
Only moments before he'd come lurching and staggering down from the tree-line above Luddenthorpe, his moss-green anorak scorched, his long greasy hair crisped, and his face blackened but for the two large round circles around his eyes, where his shattered glasses had been. He'd come all wonky-legged and shaky to Mrs Bisselrode's B&B, where he'd earlier 'phoned through a reservation, and as Mrs Mavis opens the door to his frantic buzzing, he falls inside, flat on his back, spread-eagled on the carpet. His eyes -- looking straight up her dress, are glazed. His breath rasping somewhere deep in his throat, where little gasping groans get caught up in each ragged bubble of exhalation. But, there in his trousers, in instant reaction to the vista of her revealed crotch, his problem starts stirring.
"Oh, Mr Hoover, whatever's the matter?" she gasps, her motherly concern an overwhelming thing that urges her to stoop protectively over him. So that the secret odour of her scented underwear reaches his nostrils. And the unbidden dirty thoughts storm his head even as he lies there. The knickers. The nest of coiling hair. The taste of those moist vaginal lips where the pubescence must delicately part. It's all too much.