Yours,
Raymond Gunt
Okay, so there I was in the tengy, but at first, because it was dark out, I couldn’t tell whose body parts were rubbing me—but isn’t exploration a big part of the charm? Then, in light from one of several tiki torches lit over by the infinity pool, I saw what were possibly the most melon-like breasts of my life, coming towards me in a trajectory of unmistakable lust, and I thought, “Life is good, isn’t it, Ray?” at which point my lower abdomen cramped like a Ford Fiesta slamming into a brick wall. Mother of God, the pain! I rolled over and went fetal in the hope that it was a one-off sensation, but then I cramped again and realized that my last flush was, actually, not the Last Flush. I ran back to the throne with no time to spare and proceeded to fire shit out my arse like a space cruiser entering hyperspace, all the while listening to the moaning, simpering, taunting soundtrack of Thong Kong.
Fucking hell.
After I emptied my thruster of all remaining fuel, I ran out onto the lawn to enter what was, by that point, a fifteengy. Then a woman’s voice (Who? No idea) said, “Uh, uh-uhhh … rules are you have to wash your winky before entering the fun. Pool’s over there.”
I am not an unreasonable man, and could, in fact, understand why a bit of hygiene might make the world a better place. So I scampered over to the infinity pool, hopped in and gave myself a Puerto Rican enema, then ran back to the cluster, by then a twentygy.
I heard another woman’s voice—it was Tabs!—saying, “Hi, Raymond. The girls and I have all decided that we are going to collectively give you the most intense hours of sex ever imagined in the history of humanity. Right, girls?”
Giggles and taunts of What are we waiting for, then?
Tabs led me over to the sacred rock, which was now covered with a foam mattress. Around it, vanilla-scented tea candles had been arranged, and there was also a towel to the right on which were laid out anal beads, a buggy whip and a selection of masks, feathers and silk scarves of just the right length for binding limbs.
Tabs said, “Lie down, Raymond, and get ready for ultimate tantric pleasure.”
I thought my brain was going to explode. Tabs and ten other women formed a circle around me, and Tabs said, “Let the massage begin.”
Dear God, it began, and it was heaven.
Ahhh …
Yes …
Mmmm. Perfect.
The smell of Naugahyde.
Something musky …
Ahhh …
I heard a large crunching noise. What the fuck? I looked up, and behind Tabs loomed Mother, wearing her hideous tarpaulin-like underwear. Her face was blank as she ate cheddar cheese crisps, one by one, taking time to lick her fingers thoroughly after each one. She caught me staring.
“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just watching. Raymond? Is that you in there? Dear God!”
She approached the rock and inserted herself into my coven of erotic masseuses. Her repulsive Toby mug face. Her skin—oh God, it was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen—like folds of vanilla cake batter dotted with the occasional chocolate chip and raisin. Colourless. Dead. Life-sucking.
“Mother, what the fuck!”
“I haven’t seen your willy, Raymond, since I caught you wanking in the loo at Sheila’s abortion party.”
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“No need to take that tone with me, son. Last time I looked, this was a free island.”
My dick shrank to the size of a raisin, and my reptile cortex yanked my balls deep inside me. The girls were giggling now, and the mood was totally shattered.
“Okay, Raymond, don’t worry,” Mother said. “I’m a modern woman. You girls go right ahead and pleasure my son. You just pretend I’m not here, even though I am.” She looked into her left bra cup. “Fucking hell, I’m out of crisps.”
53
Dear The Gods,
Was any of that really necessary? Mother? Crisps? The memory of Sheila’s dismal abortion party where there was no food and where the only wankable image available was a Jenny Craig weight loss brochure sent to Sheila by woefully misinformed postal gods? Fucking hell! I went from James Bond to Mr. Bean in two fucking seconds. Really, The Gods—no, really: would keeping Mother away from the sacred rock have been all that difficult for you?
You wanted a battle? You’ve got one. This means war. Throw me your worst, motherfuckers.
Yours with some displeasure,
Raymond Gunt
With as much dignity as I could muster, I grabbed my pile of scarecrow togs and scuttled along the trail to where the Zodiac was stashed. I was feeling sorry for myself, which is something I almost never do.
How much time had passed since Thong Kong had arrived? An hour? Two? Christ, I hadn’t even bothered to think about everyone at the Zodiac, waiting for me, wondering what was going on. Well, fuck ’em. I hoped they’d waited.