The Wurzels

While I've been sitting around waiting for my helmet to recouperate, I've been writing on Unencyclopedia again. Here's me latest endeavour:

(The Farmer's Wife's Got A Four Inch Crack In Her, But She Ain't) Broken



Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a Wurzels basis

Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)
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Ain't That A Kick In The Helmet?

Oh! There's good reason why I have been unable to blog this past few days and why the recording of my latest podcast has been postponed in a temporary fashion?

Well, I'll tell you - And I'm not ashamed to admit it. There is absolutely no embarrassment factor here as far as the Geoff is concerned. None at all. Honestly.

No shame.

Not bothered at all and not worried about what people might think, even though the sterling staff in the A & E department at St Thomas' Hospital found my condition hilarious and will no doubt be beating each other with shitty sticks in order to gain the 2008 Christmas party anecdotal rights.

Here goes ...

During a paid prostitutional session with one of my regular clients - a lovely lass, 46 years old, recently divorced, face like a blistered pisspot, but richer than King Midas and a body to match - became sexually over-exuberant during a lengthy penis/mouth interface and took for herself a large bite to my penile headpiece.

I was rolling around, groaning, sweating ... crying. It was only until she noticed the blood that she knew anything was wrong. Indeed, she assumed my agonised convultions were simply me experiencing an incredible orgasm. It's no picnic having yer purple Lord Vader chomped on, I can tell you. We quickly recovered the missing section of helmet (it had tumbled under the bedside table) and in hindsight, I was particularly disturbed to note that the cleaning staff of this pricey and rather well-known London hotel are quite lax in their cleaning routine. The piece of my piece was covered in dust.

We quickly cabbed ourselves to the hospital (during which time, the driver could not stop laughing) and the separated part was re-attached to it's rightful home. My helmet is now sporting a raised scar that when healed will serve as my very own 'ribbed for her pleasure' device. Of course, I can't even think about having sex again for at least 3 to 4 months. Actually, when I do think about it, the penile arousal that ensues causes unbeliveable agony. So much so that I have had to cancel half of my Sky channels for fear of a nasty genital split.

The last time I endured similar pain was when I was 19. I was naked and about to enjoy a shower when I picked up a metal coat hanger with the hook facing upwards and managed to gouge my ballsack. But that's a story for another time.

I went into the studio with paper thin walls yesterday (with interruptions from the actors next door reciting Shakespeare) and laid down my 3rd podcast (which will be released shortly) in dire pain. Have sympathy and please ... no jokes.

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a bitten off more than she could chew basis.

Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)
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The Thin Line Between Love And Hate Mail

Since starting this blog some two months ago, and in the wake of the two failed podcasts, I have noticed I have been the recipient of the type of mail Heather Mills has been used to reading. So just to show that your kind words have not gone unrecognised, here are a few choice cuts from my loyal fans. Maybe I should use them as advertising like Universal Pictures or Paramount put across their film posters to attract potential cinemagoers.

This from Anonymous: "Yor a Big Pratt"

Thank you, Anonymous. But Anonymous gets about a bit since he's also accused me of being "sick", "a wanker", and that C word which my Mum taught me never to say when the Vicar was in earshot, even though I distinctly heard him say once "And now, hymn number 73: All Things Bright and Beautiful, you cunts." A few days ago Anonymous popped up and informed me that I was a Royal one.

"You Suck!" so says the curiously named Onezed. Yes, Onezed, I do. I also nibble, nuzzle and lick.

Dick The Christian (which is less a name, more of a pastime) asked why on earth I wanted to tell people about my sexual antics. For entertainment, Dick, for entertainment. Now fuck off!

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up as often as I can.

Sexual Geoff Prickett
From Wales With Love
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Virgin Nerves and A Sexual Shopping List

I'll never forget the first afternoon I officially started work as a prostitute.

I can't remember the date, I think it was in June or maybe August time. Then again, it might not have been in the afternoon at all. And I'm not altogether certain of the location of the hotel in which the event unfolded. And I cannot be 100% sure of the name of the receiving client.

But as I say, I'll never forget when I officially became a Tart. It was, to say the least, awkward.

The lady client I refer to was a 46 years old businesswoman. She treated me to a slap-up grill at one of Central London's most expensive eateries - I forget which one - before taking me in a chauffeur-driven limo to a plush 3 star hotel. Until this moment I was simply employed as an escort - being a lunch date or as a guest to take along to a party. A fantasy partner which the lady clients liked to parade in front of their counterparts.

Up to this point, the question of sexual relations had not really reared its helmet.

To tell the truth I didn't want it to for I never considered myself confident enough. Don't get me wrong, I'm okay in the privacy of my own bed when I'm alone - I don't want to come across as some loser! Although I do now recall that one client whom I partnered to a performance of Rigoletto at The Royal Albert Hall did request that I finger her during the second act. If memory serves, I obliged. And in hindsight, it would have been more fitting if it had been re-named Frigoletto.

So back to the slap-up grill, during which the client issued me a strong sexual idea of all the sexual things she wanted to do to me sexually. Let me tell you she did not beat about the bush - which, funnily enough, was precisely what she wanted me to do to her!

We retired to the hotel and the woman was straight out of the traps! For before I had even closed the hotel room door behind me, she was lying splayed out on the king size stark naked and looking like the ace of spades. "Writhe on me!" she demanded. This made me all the more nervous. I didn't want her to think I was some novice and put her off using me again - Repeat business is everything in this game and Thank You For Coming was embossed on my business card, after all.

She gazed at me with lustful intentions and an expression that said 'Fuck me'. In fact, that's what she did say. She then reeled off her list of demands like she was reading out her weekly shop: "Suck my tits, nuzzle my clit, bite my arse, slap my thighs, rub my mound - "

"All right, all right!" I exclaimed, cutting her off. "I'm a Welsh Lothario not a fucking Octopus!"

But my distressed words served only to intensify her crazed desire. My nerves were in shreds. It was just like being a virgin again. Panicking, I didn't know what to do other than display a touch of sophistication. The trouble was, after I finished reading excerpts of my poetry to her, I noticed she was asleep. But when she woke, it seemed to have sent her hormones up to 11! She pulled me on top of her and we had almighty sex that rattled the glasses in the dining room 19 floors below us.

Ahhh, she was my first customer and she was fantastic. I must have made a good impression because she later became my 3rd, 6th, 7th, 12th, and 19th customer. Each time she left me a not ungenerous tip of £15.

Most of my clients are from identical backgrounds and the reasons they they employ my services are equally similar. They are usually businesswomen (too wrapped up in their work to get wrapped up in the duvet of a regular boyfriend) looking for a quick slide in-and-out of the slippery eel and needing the services of a phallus that, for a change, did not have an off switch or three-speed setting. In fact, another client once told me that her female Boss had ordered her to seek out the services of a male prostitute after she was caught using her vibrator in the company lift.

Aren't people peculiar?

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a Friggoletto basis

Sexual Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett!)

From Wales With Love
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My Cure For Unwanted Erections is

this blog.

To celebrate the anniversary of my inaugural post, (can it really be nearly 4 weeks?) let me take you backwards through time to when it all began way back on June 28th 2008. Remember the clothes we all wore and how funny we all looked in the photographs of the period? Back then, a loaf of bread cost around 98p and diesel was about £1.50 a litre.

If you've just stopped by, welcome to what nobody is calling The Best Blog of the Century. After nearly three weeks of blogging my brains out, I am still with trepidation - How much should I tell and how much shall I give away about my life? Again, this is not a blog for the titillationary (I call it my Anti-Viagra Diary) but I am hope that there are many things that will educate and even enchant you about the world of prostitution. On reading my blog, you will very rapidly learn that I get into all sorts of sticky situations and am very often tied up in knots. In many cases, literally.

Please feel free to explore my blog and comment also as I would very much enjoy to hear from you all. Also, if you are experiencing any form of sexual errors I am also on hand to assist you as I have been dealing with much of its kind in my unchosen profession. Also, please take a look at the various polls on the right side of the page that appear occasionally and feel free to fill them up with your juices of creativity.

I will also inform you more about the tasty friend who educated me in the form of sex. When I arrived at University from the small Welsh outpost of Lampeter and was forced to raise money through sexual work, it was she who showed me what went where. Many, many times. Again I will conceal her identity and provide her name as "Laura". Her real name is Kate. More on her later. So to speak.

Keeping it up on a four week basis

Geoff Prickett
From Wales With Love

He's Alive, But His Dick Has Gone To The Other Side.!

Dear Reader, if ever a woman tells you that she is a widow, I guarantee you that there is an infallible method for discovering if she really is a widow: If her husband suddenly walks in while you are standing naked in his bedroom and giving your penis a pre-intercourse pep talk, then you know she's been bullshitting you.

This old man walked in. Walked in? Tottered in (The poor guy could not have been younger than 90) He tottered in and regarded me coolly as I stood silently before him looking like a human tripod.

Without a word, the old man began undressing. He unplugged his colostomy bag, hitching it up on his zimmer frame. Mabel or Mrs "Widow" as I shall now refer to her then walked in from the bathroom without a stitch on! She had a body that resembled a Madam Tussauds exhibit after someone had left it too near to the radiator. I snorted at her, "You told me your husband was dead!"

"I can't remember what I told you, " was her defence. "I've got Alzheimers!" She then asked if I would partake in a three way with her husband as they had not had one since VE Day. She promised that she would increase my original fee of £800 to £850. I consoled myself with the plan that I could always put the £850 towards the cost of the psychological counselling that a threesome with a combined age of nearly 200 would undoubtedly require.

With good fortune, and perhaps you already realise given the title of this post, the old man's involvement in the threesome was nil. We tried every trick in the book to arouse his aged penis from it's (presumably) 20 year slumber: From blowing air on it, to flicking boiling kettle water over it; from showing the old man a picture of Greta Garbo in her pomp, to Mrs Widow talking dirty to him ("I'm putting on my flannellette nightie and running my fingers through your hairpiece") there was no way the bloody thing was going to emerge from its hibernation.

I'm afraid I had to depart after a couple of hours as I had a prior appointment, but even today I still wonder how long the couple were there, slapping away at the Old Feller's old feller.

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a once a decade basis

Sexual Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)

From Wales With Love

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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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£100 For A Kiss

Yes, it's true. You read it right. A ton for a kiss.

The title of today's entry is exactly the price I was charging for a session of lip locking. I was young and foolish, it was my initial foray into sexing ladies for cash, and consequently I was pricing myself out of the market.

Nobody told me about how much to charge the clients. It's not as if there are Government guidelines. I undertook an ill-advised period of research where I approached several young women in the King's Cross area of London and enquired after their prices, (98 times out of 100 I selected women who weren't actually prostitutes and took great offence to my questions - Over the course of that two week research period, I spent a total of 3 days in hospital and 2 nights in police custody.

I'm reminded of the story of Lily of Lampeter who, it was rumoured, was Wales' oldest prostitute back in the 1930s. Of course, Lily's pricing was in old money, but she used to gobble off the miners well into her 90s, bless her, and added an extra threepence to the bill if they asked her to put in her teeth while she did it.

Still, my problem remained. I was flying blind - what to charge? How much for how much? And for how long? And when was the moment that the transaction becomes final? When I received payment or when the client received the goods? When I've made the coffee? I simply took a wild stab in the dark and costed my services thus:

A Kiss on the Lips £100. 15 minutes sex without foreplay £799 (£799 looks better than £800). Coffee £3.99

P, a fellow male gigolo was charging his ladies a lot less, but providing a hell of a lot more, and consequently enjoying success aplenty. After one less than profitable night, (I made £2.50 and a 62 year old woman come)

P sidled up to me in The Butterfly Lounge as I was nursing a cuba libre and pushed under my nose the secret of his success - and it was laminated.

It was his price list.

I stared at it with awe. He gave me advice regarding the amount I was charging and the time before I was discharging. He told me that I needed to engage in full sex for much longer than I was managing.

Being brought up by my parents to believe that life is a competition, I thought ejaculating before the stopwatch hit 60 seconds was simply a proud testament to my speed.

P added that this was not value for money and equated the notion to purchasing a cucumber from Tescos, then getting home only to discover that it had turned rotten.

P's actual price list - as written, I've added nothing - was listed as follows:

Soapy Tit Wank £5.00

Breastal nuzzling £4.00

Basic Vaginal Exploration £9.25

Full Sex £12.00

Full Sex and Full English Breakfast (The latter provided by Client) £9.00

(Reproduced with kind permission)

I was impressed!

Immediately, I focused on making myself last longer before coming. As any man will testify, yanking on the ball sack or flicking the helmet is a sure fire method of delaying the result.

That, and picturing Lionel Richie. Just thinking about him delays my eruptions.

So after a self-designed course of excessively masturbating to The Commodore's Greatest Hits (Please - no jokes about "Easy" or "Slippery When Wet") I adjusted my prices to fit the activities, drew up a price list and went out and made copies.

I got some funny looks from the guys in Prontoprint that afternoon, I can tell you!

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a Lionel Richie basis

Sexual Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett!)
From Wales With Love
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A Right Good Probing

I want to fill you in somewhat regarding several of my more horrendous examples of sexual engagements that I, Sexual Geoff, have had the misfortune to swallow. If you'll pardon the expression.

If any of you out there in blogland believed that only the malekind were into the kinks (and I'm not talking about Ray Davies here), then I have shocking news for you all. For even before I stumbled into the sex-for-cash world, I encountered women with the most peculiar sexual proclivities.

Not this type of Kink

When I was 19, I enjoyed - no, endured - an intense 3 week affair with a married lady called Gwenda, who shall remain nameless, and who, during our lovemaking sessions, possessed a curious tendency to walk across my bare genitals wearing nothing but her golf shoes. By the time she had had her orgasm, my private parts looked like they'd been draped across a lathe.

Why did I not protest, you might ask? Well I did - on many occasions most vociferously, too, but she always appeared to misread my screams of pain as squeals of ecstasy and only increased her steps. Mind you in hindsight, maybe it did not help matters that she was profoundly deaf. But still, you would have thought the mimes of "Stop trampling on my testes, you deaf bitch!!" would transcend any of the world's languages.

As an older lothario, I am no longer surprised by the perversions of the female sex.

I recall this one woman whose name I never knew, although if she was born to a tribe of native American indians, she wouldn't be called Dances With Wolves or Rises With The Sun, she'd most likely go under the name Likes To Hit Penis With a Four by Two.

If I didn't say "Thank you very much" after each whack to my shaft, she would intensify the blows. Blows! An interesting double-entendre when you think about it. This creature obviously believed that violence and sex go hand in mouth. But she wasn't the most prominent file in my sexual filing cabinet.

No, that honour befalls a girl called Tula whose vagina resembled The Sarlaac out of Return of the Jedi. And I'm telling you although I'm no Boba Fett, but after she grasped my head, forcing it towards her gaping front bottom, I swear to you I thought I saw someone in there. I managed to beat a hasty retreat. There was no way I wanted to experience 'a new definition of pain and suffering' or be 'slowly digested over a thousand years,' as See-Threepio said.

And no body ever whacked him on the penis.

If indeed he had one.

Which I doubt.


Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a four by two basis
Geoff Prickett (it's pronounced Prickett)

From Wales With Love
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The Oscar Goes To ... Dave The Plumber

When clients (of the non-screenwriting variety) first contact me, they are aware that my name is Geoff, however when I begin dispensing my medicine of lust in the art of horizontal gigolity, many request that I perform under all sorts of aliases.

One lonely housewife asked if, during a Geoff sexual session, she could call me 'Sir Trevor Brooking' after the former West Ham midfielder. I think she was a fan. I duly obliged, of course - The customer is always right ... however sick and depraved they might be. And keeping within the football theme, I even impressed the customer with a skilful tackle, slotted one in, and was even pulled off at half time!

Another favourite name with the ladies is 'Dave the plumber' or something equally general. The women I attend to often like to fantasise that I am not a male prostitute, simply a bloke called Dave from round the corner who pops in to bleed the radiators. Don't ask me why, maybe they view shagging the plumber as a more erotic event than a £20 an hour Welsh Gigolo.

But it's easy for me to lose concentration during these times and there are moments when I have to contain my laughter and work jolly hard to stay jolly hard, especially when all you hear between the moans of pleasure are the phrases, "Fuck me harder, Dave the plumber", or "I'm coming, Dave the plumber, I'm coming!!!"

Other names I have been asked to assume during the throes of nobbing are also as incredulous:

Terry

Your Highness

Mr Cock

Senip Gib

Bob Carolgees

Dorothy

But I am never one to judge. If it increases the pleasure for a woman by referring to me under a nom de shagge and I get amply rewarded by it, then who am I to start moaning? I leave that to the lady underneath me who likes to call me 'Dave The Plumber'.

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a plumbing basis

Sexual Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)
From Wales With Love
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The Stranger Sex

There is a blog I recently come across wh- I'll start again.

There's a blog I have recently read written by this woman who suffers from a nasty case of excessive masturbating. You can't help but sympathise with the poor duck as she relates that her entire life seems to be taken up with copious amounts of finger thrashing. If there was a mountain, you can rest assured that she'll be coming round it when she comes. The poor damn creature is insatiable, her arms are no doubt rattling away like a pair of pneumatic drills and you'd think that she would never be able to leave the house. However, she doesn't stop at the living room. Mrs Palmer is probably filling up her waking hours chugging away at herself down at the supermarket, the cinema, the bakers, she's getting other people to do it for her.

Anyway, I'm getting away from the point - I advise you to read her blog - Although she doesn't need me advertising her as she's got a book deal under her belt. Imagine that - getting paid to write about your wanking.

Now, I like to think of myself as a man of the world, and indeed, many other people do as well, but when I was a foolish young idiot I always assumed that sex was something that men did to women. For females to engage in the same handling activity as men was unheard of. It seems today that it still is.

I am certain that GWAOTM is only one of a rare breed of women what wank.

Most of the ones I talk to when they're pissed enough to admit it insist they tried it once in their early years but didn't like it, preferring 'the real thing' or something. I suppose that the selling point of her blog is that she is a rare breed -something unusual. I have met women who masturbate, (although not while they were doing it, I must add) but they say it only happens occasionally. In Zoe's case, she's never off the case.

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a well, in Zoe's case, a constant basis

Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)
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Czeching Me Out

Last Monday, I found myself sitting on a Northern Line tube train on the way to meet a new er - client at Embankment station when I noticed this young woman staring at me. I thought at first she might have died and no one had discovered her.

A bit like that lonely man in the 1970s who died on the tube on his way to work and nobody noticed and he kept riding around the Central line for about 6 weeks until the smell became unbearable.

But here this woman could not take her peepers off me. When I say "Me", I mean "My groin area". Yes, I know the concept is strange, but she was glaring at the Geoff trouserlump. Well, she is only human, after all.

As the train rattled through the famous London sewers, I found myself feeling quite violated. I was being optically raped. I know pretty women get this kind of thing all the time, but this is different - They are all used to it and enjoy the attention. However, I did not. I felt like this woman was mentally gnawing my 'nana. In public, too. And for free when I usually bill the clients £15.50 for such a treat.

Despite all attempts to make eye contact with her to telegraph my feelings that I thought that her eyes were visually abusing me, I checked first to see if I had something on my lap area that was causing her eyes to become glued to my crotch as I made the error last Christmas of trying to rapidly fingernail off some chocolate which had plopped onto my fly while standing on platform 5 at London Bridge next to a group of Millwall supporters. They misconstrued my actions and I earned a whack on the nose for my trouble.

By Kennington, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Literally because I had a monumental itch down there. Oh my God. I can't scratch it - what if she thinks I'm perving at her and rubbing myself erotically and it gets me chucked off the train and I'll get arrested and end up in the newspapers as Geoff Prickett, The London Underground Pocket Billiards Player.

Then that would be the end of my Horizontal Gigolo career!

Anyway, this woman kept staring. After about 12 minutes of this, she finally spoke to me - At least I think she was talking to me because she was still unable to tear her eyes away from my latent bulge, and in a voice that even the Driver would have heard at the other end of the train said:

"I hope you don't sink I'm rude. I've never done anything like thees before, but I haf been looking at you since Tooting Broadway and you haf got a fantastic package."

I gazed around at the other passengers. In true London Underground style, everyone was pretending they couldn't see or hear. Despite this, my face flushed red with a mixture of embarrassment and pride. "Thank you," I uttered.

That evening we went out for a nice meal at an Aberdeen Angus steakhouse. We got on famously, laughing and joking and immediately I felt myself falling for this creature. I learnt much about her. She was from the Czech Republic, liked football and was really pissed off that her country was kicked out of the Euro Championships.

The evening ended with a kiss at the door (Hey, come on - I'm not a sex maniac!)

She told me that she made the same tube journey everyday, and even though I didn't, I planned to surprise her the following morning. Equipped with flowers and a Terry's Chocolate Orange, I joined the train at Collier's Wood and found her in the last carriage. She didn't see me and I couldn't sit near her as the train was packed with travellers. She was talking to a bloke sitting opposite her. It wasn't hard to hear what she was saying as her voice carried as much as it did the day before.

Yes, that's right. Altogether now:

"I hope you don't sink I'm rude." She said to him. " I've never done anything like thees before, but I haf been looking at you since Tooting Broadway and you haf got a fantastic package."

I alighted the train at the next station. Bloody women. I felt used. And not in a good way either.

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on an underground basis

Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)

New James Bond Poster

No reason. Just for the hell of it, really.

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a basis

Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)
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My First Time

I was 15 when I was relieved of my virginity.

My Auntie was 19.

Now before you start judging me, I didn't know she was my Auntie at the time as my pervy Uncle Terry had secretly married the ample-breasted Goddess in secret ceremony somewhere in Las Vegas several months previously. Girls, please ignore the disgraceful chauvinism that follows, but Guys, I swear this woman was so horny, I did not believe it really was sweat running down her leg as she claimed.

I met this fantastic woman at my local scout meeting (She was my Akela's daughter). During the tuck-shop interval, she took me round to the caretaker's hut and boy, did she take care of me! I was in teen heaven! While all the other cubs were buying penny sweets and peanut brittle, she was giving me aniseed balls! Of course, the woman wasn't breaking the law as it was actually my 16th birthday, but I always tell people the incident happened when I was 15 to add a bit of Welsh glamour.

I tell you that leggy creature did things to me during that Monday evening Scout meeting that I had only ever witnessed in a 4th generation copy of that Animal Farm video - And I'm not talking about the George Orwell version! I'm referring to the infamous blue movie of the early 1980s - a highlight of which involves a naked lady riding a horse - albeit not in the same sense as you'd witness in the 2.45 at Aintree.

On this occasion, I was that horse.

First she took me in hand, an activity which up to the previous evening was something only I had been privy to. Then, she spent several good minutes rubbing and gently twisting, and delicate kneading my boy parts. There was also some erotic folding. I later learned she worked in a bakery, so she was quite dextrous with her hands. Of course, I would have gone limp if she had brought along her rolling pin.

She hitched up her skirt very slowly, pulled down my trousers and pants, then bestrode me like a Colossus. Before I knew it, I had become A MAN. To this day, I still can't watch The Derby without remembering that marvellous day.

Anyway, blah blah blah we had sex - squelchy, squelchy, spurt, spurt (Ooops, I've just lost the feminists) and I came like Stephenson's Rocket, completely ruining everyone's evening of rope knotting. As a consequence, I was banned from attending another Scout meeting until 2019. All hopes of earning a badge for shagging had regrettably evaporated. Although I always thought that if ever they awarded badges for excessive masturbating, then my poor Mum would have got arthritis attempting to sew them all on to my uniform!

Mind you, thinking about it, my Mother would be the very last person I would want to proudly show off my Wank badges to.

But digresssing I am. As I said, at the time, I was unaware that my first sexual partner was related to me, although this type of experience is not an uncommon experience for those growing up in Wales, and it was only a fortnight later that we both discovered the truth during Sunday lunch at my Nanna's when my Pervy Uncle Terry showed off his new bride for the first time.

I held no grudges, but I was, to say the least, embarrassed, but only for the poor cheating slut. I maintained a gentlemanly discretion when we shook hands 'for the first time'. Looking back, I wish she was just as discreet - for she said, in a loud voice for all to hear, "It's alright, we've fucked before". Only too late did she realise that she meant to say "met".

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a first time basis.

Geoff Prickett (it's pronounced Prickett)

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A TRAMP SANDWICH (No, this is not a sexual position)

I'll never forget the first time that I was mistaken for a gay hustler.

It was about four years ago, and I was underneath the arches near Waterloo station doling out sandwiches and rolls to the kind of people who would give their home address as No 3 Cardboard Box, The Arches, Waterloo.

Every Friday my friend Mick 'Le Grand Cocque' Harris (a self-proclaimed epitet, I might add) and I used to visit the local bakeries at the end of shop hours to buy up all the soon-to-be-out-of-date sarnies at cut price. Then we used to call upon the various Tramp areas in the city and dish out the free grub.

We did this to make ourselves feel good (isn't that why everyone does things for charity?) and the homeless people certainly appreciated it. They might still have smelled of vodka and piss, but at least they were fed.

"Let me take you by the hand ..."

Mick and I had been Welsh Gigolos for about 5 months, (actually Mick was from Wrexham which everyone knows isn't Real Wales) and we were still feeling quite ashamed about the whole thing - where I was from I was taught that sex is dirty. In Mick's case, quite literally. He told me that the first time he and his girlfriend indulged in a spot of anal intercourse was precisely the same moment the poor woman was struck with the worst case of projectile diarrhoea on record. Soon, they were the stars in their own private version of the little Dutch boy plugging the leaky dyke. Only with liquid faeces .

Anyway, back to the plot. To offset some of the shame associated with our prostitution, and to earn some Heaven reward points with the man upstairs, the idea of The Tramp Sandwich was born.

However, that same Friday evening, we were arrested by undercover policecops (they were dressed in tramp clothes and stank of piss - At least I think they were undercover ...)

We were detained that whole night in the cells because the detectives believed that we were not charity workers, but two good looking Welsh bastards touting for bum fun.

It was news to me at the time, but "Would you like corned beef roll?" was apparently some kind of code instigating homosexual intercourse, kind of like the days when you carried a green handkerchief to advertise the fact that you would take a man's cock up your bottom. (My Grandad carried a handkerchief - once he had a cold, his handkerchief turned green, he got all sorts of propositions!)

Four of the burliest officers Metropolitan Police beat the living shit out of me and Mick. From this I sensed that the police force took a dim view to the gaylords.

I was kept on my own in a cell until the following morning when I was visited by the Chief Superintendent. He made an offer - £50 to give him a blowjob. God, I must have been so innocent back then, because I told him that I didn't have £50 on me.

When he put me straight on the matter, and said that he would pay me the money, I calmly informed him that I wasn't a rent boy, merely a friend of the tramps. Then, four of the burliest officers in the Metropolitan police then beat the living shit out of me. Do you know, I reckon the cops hate everyone.

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a blow-by-blow basis.

Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett!)
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I AM RELATED TO ONE OF THEM, YOU KNOW

My cousin is a screenwriter. And a hugely successful and wealthy one he is too. Look at him, residing in a large and beautiful mansion in a faraway country adjacent to a very pretty coastline, he's pathetic and he is a bastard but I refuse to display any kind of bitterness towards him. So good luck to him and his overly hairy wife.

For the past few years I have been engaging in some kind of twisted game with my cousin in order to see who is the more talented of the two of us. He constantly seems to be in the lead.

But it is a long held desire of mine to usurp the blackguard as he was always the favoured child of Mum and Auntie Gert (Auntie Gert moved in with us shortly after the divorce of my parents - Come to think of it, I'm uncertain that Gert was a conventional Auntie, but she lived with Mum all the same. Come to think of it again, despite being wealthy, they did insist on sharing a bedroom. To save on heating two separate bedrooms, one supposes. Mum was always frugal. And she rather adored Rugby Football.)

But I digress.

I am acutely aware that I am not getting any younger and that my advancing years may hinder my progress in the chosen sphere of screenwriting, and fearful that success may ultimately reveal itself Eva Cassidy style (more famous dead than alive).

My loyal girlfriend, the redoubtable Helen, has in her time written many articles for such giants of the magazine world as Family Circle and contributed many readers letters to various newspapers such as The Guardian, The Observer and The Kilburn Times. Therefore, she can provide me with the professional knowledge, but since the little woman is given to pottering about in the garden of her mind (out there for days she often is) I trust that I will have no shortage of willing combatants in The War Against Cinematic Mediocrity. How the hell Four Weddings and a Funeral topped the list in a recent 'Favourite British Films' survey is anybody's guess.

Also, by way of warning one must inform you that Geoff has some ground rules. He abhors swearing, rudeness, intolerance, and queers. That was a joke by the way. I really don't mind the queers.

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a "Four Weddings???" basis

Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)
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My Opening

Felicitations to you all!

You can call me Sexual Geoff, although this is not the name my parents chose for me. Can you imagine what my school life would have been like if they had? I had thought about using a fabricated pseudonym in order to tell you all my private thoughts and doings without fear of recognition or reprisals or letterbombs, things like that but then I thought 'Why should I?' The name Geoff gives myself an exotic edge.

Well, here I am. I have finally been persuaded to enter the world of blogging.

I can tell you I cannot help but feel a bit shameful about this whole blog thing as I always find it a bit embarrassing to wash my dirty pants in front of everybody - which I actually had to do once when I was 15 years old and had inadvertantly shit my pants during PE lesson.

But a couple of weeks ago a very close friend (that doesn't mean my friend is sitting next to me) gave me the advice that I should create this blog in order to air all my thoughts and troubles connected to my attempts at writing and my night time employment (and also some Thursday afternoons) which, to put it nicely, involves initially taking my customers out to dinner, but more often than not, leads to antics of a sexual nature for money. Well, it supplements the writing career. Although I only netted around £11,000 last year from gigoloing.

Basically, I am a prostitute. Who's also a writer. Okay, they are one and the same thing.

Now for the more naive among you, this doesn't mean I take to wear high heels, a micro skirt and a basque while I prowl the streets after dark. Although I do know some writers that do.

Granted, there are times when I have been asked to wear this particular attire during the course of my work, and very comfy it all was too, but that's a story for another post.

No, I am a male prostitute. And within this blog, I hope to enlighten you further with tales of my tail.

But first, a warning. Although here I do talk occasionally about sex, sexiness, sexuality and the sexual act, this is not a sexual blog, so any preverts out there can collect your raincoats now. I am no Barbara Cartland. I couldn't write a juice inducing horny paragraph if I tried. And even if I could, I would probably find it hard to type with just one hand.

Anyway, my blog is intended to arouse nothing except your funny bone. I will leave the titillationing to better skilled and more sophisticated purveyors of perversion. A bit like that woman who writes a blog about constantly masturbating in Tescos or at the bus stop or something (and got a book deal out of it, too! Jolly well done to her, though despite going a bit off the boil of late) And many others are absolutely disgraceful and should not have a place on the internet. I had to visit them several times because I wanted to see if they kept disgusting me. And they did.

So if you suddenly find yourself sexually thrilled by my adventures, well, that's really your problem. Have a cup of tea instead, you big old prevert.

As a lothario, I am paid to entertain women of many varieties. Fat ones, thin ones. I even made a Chinese lady orgasm. Twice. I make it sound like I am standing up in the middle of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting admitting for the first time that I drink like Richard Burton. I don't drink like the great man, but in the early days of my dishing out my bratwurst of love for cash, booze was indeed copiously taken by myself. Merely a confidence boost, you understand. A stiff one for a stiff one if you will. But that's an area I will get to later.

After all, I cannot tell you everything now. I barely know you.

Although speaking of AA meetings, I am reminded of my dear friend Jackie (no names, no pack drill - I choose not to tell you his last name as I wish to preserve Mr Thomas' anonymity) who stood up and admitted to his fellow anonymous alcoholics during the group introductory meeting that he was a rampant homosexual.

It appeared the poor fool had misunderstood what the Counsellor meant by "telling us all his secrets" - Either that, or poor Jackie was too pissed to listen.

But back to me and my blog. I hope you will use it to discover hitherto unknown information regarding the mysteries of being a lothario and a hitherto unsuccessful screenwriter. For should you dip a quizzical phallus into the vast vagina of knowledge, I can provide you with the pounding orgasm of information you need.

I might also talk about scriptwriting and my thoughts on the trouble in Zimbabwe, but knowing people, they just want to hear about a stranger's sexual mishaps.

As my friend Jackie once said, "if you think sex is a pain in the arse, you are doing it wrong."

Geoff's Blog: Keeping it up on a regular basis

Geoff Prickett (It's pronounced Prickett)
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