Ready, Willing & Mabel

Last week, a friend of my cousin decided to treat his widowed auntie Mabel who was celebrating her 73rd birthday, but was feeling a little low since the death of her husband two years ago and suggested my name when it came to thinking of a way to cheer poor Mabel up.

From the outset I insisted that no sex was to be on the cards - I would accept payment to take her to the cinema, maybe accompany her to a slap-up lunch at a well-known London grill, then on to a little pub I know in a leafy part of the city, something like that. But there was absolutely no way, the Geoff Hoover was going to suck away Mabel's cobwebs!

I knew I would feel self-conscious when we met up. The age gap was wider than Kerry Katona, we nothing in common and what the hell would the conversation consist of? I know nothing about austerity in the 1950s or digging around bombed houses for shrapnel during the war years. But still, I was adamant the day would end with no sexual connection whatsoever. Which was very much a watershed moment for me.

We saw Indiana Jones,

then went back to hers

for a milky coffee.

After all, I had dedicated my life from the age of 13 to 20 trying to get as much sexual contact with women as my penis could cope with.

So we had a lovely day, went to see Indiana Jones in London's Leicester Square, then on to an Aberdeen Angus. Mabel never let on, but I could sense she was impressed by my sheer class. We took a cab back to her sheltered accommodation and she invited me in for a milky coffee. After a few moments silence, she said "Why don't you go to the bedroom?"

I almost spat out my drink. "It's alright, dear, there are no stairs" she added, obviously believing that the presence of stairs was the only reason behind my sex embargo. I politefully declined her advances.

I couldn't believe my eyes ... for she started undressing. "I haven't had a sexual encounter since my poor dear husband passed away." This was beginning to sound like a joke told in a some pub on a Saturday night. It was no joke and I was experiencing the live version! She shuffled gently towards me. "Go on ..." she winked at me, holding in her hand a small jar. "Rub this ointment on me back, dear."

I hope I didn't come across as too visibily repulsed, but I felt the strong urge to vomit up my Aberdeen Angus sirloin right over her wollen zip-up booty slippers.

She straddled herself across my legs. It was apparent that it took great physical effort. She mentioned during the trailers before Indiana Jones that she was suffering from rhumatoid athritis. She did her best to convince me to sleep with her. She mentioned she was lonely, she needed the comfort of a good man, and was willing to pay me £800. Of course, I relented. After all how could I refuse coming to the assistance of a lonely woman who required the comfort of a good man.

Weighing up the options, I accepted her financial offer as there had been a spate of rogue roofers in the area, and I would rather the money end up in my pocket than theirs - after all I would have provided a far better value-for-money service than just pretending to replace a loose roof tile. Mabel allowed me four minutes to re-evaluate my entire belief system while she Steradented her teeth. Dear Reader, I am too traumatised to tell you now my decision, but let me close by saying that I made the wrongest decision of my life.

I'll tell you all about it in the next post entitled "He's Alive, but His Dick Is Dead!"

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on permanently

Sexual Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett!)
From Wales With Love
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