Grafton Street Late Joys (Free verse) by Engelbert Humpalot
The bar just off Grafton Street was pretty full.
I glanced at the fat old tart sitting next to me.
Jesus, what a bag.
We started chatting. She was fun.
She had a great sense of humour.
I laughed like a drain as she told me filthy joke
After filthy joke and I nearly pissd myself twice.
I wondered what sheâd look like spread-eagled naked on my bed.
I nearly crapped myself with laughter at the thought of that.
Kicking-out time arrived and we were standing on the street.
âWhere to now, Bertie,â she enquired, swaying drunkenly
In the night, and clutching onto my arm.
âI could manage another Jamesonâs or two.
Me oulâ man wonât be expecting me home for another hour.â
So I invited her back to my flat for a quickie.
It was only five minutes away, she could have staggered no further.
She plumped herself down on the sofa with an erotic grunt
And I went to get us a couple of glasses of the amber nectar.
When I returned, she had taken off her cardigan and undone her blouse.
Her ample, mottled mammaries were bursting out of her bra.
It was one of those old-fashioned nursing bras
And she unhooked the clasp in the middle,
And the bra separated with a gasp
And her huge pendulous breasts flopped out,
Like two enormous over-ripe aubergines.
You could have tied a reef knot in them.
She patted the seat next to her invitingly;
I sat down and she knocked back her whiskey in one shot.
I stared in fascination at her horror.
She reached over, undid my belt without a word,
Unzipped me and carefully took out my semi-erect unwashed cock.
She leant over, examined my bulging penis,
Pulled back the foreskin carefully
And took me in her mouth.
In between nosiy sucks, she told me to fondle her tits.
âSqueeze them nipples hard, Bertie my love,
Squeeze them and Iâll come for you.
But donât shove yer hand up me skirt
Unless itâs a fistful of raspberry jam youâre after.â
After a few minutesâ deliriously skilful sucking,
I came into her slobbering mouth
And she gobbled my semen down hungrily.
She lifted up her head and I watched in fascination
As her face contorted in pleasure
At her mighty nipple-induced orgasm,
The bestial expression on her lined old face
When she climaxed was the most loathsome sight
Of my entire life (to date).
I could barely believe it when
She let out the most enormous wet fart
I had ever heard in my entire existence.
The stench was indescribable
And I feared for my fucking sanity.
"Oh sweet Jasus," she exclaimed in wonder,
"But I do think I have crapped meself again,
And all, and all."
And her hand dipped down into her panties
Only to emerge with severely stained and odourous fingers,
Dripping prolific and pungent anal oozings.
After wiping the shit off on the Axminster carpet,
She reached out and finished my glass of whiskey
With a resigned yet satisfied gulp.
âAs me mother said, Jesus rest her soul,
Thereâs no taste better on Godâs green earth
Than a mixture of good honest salty spunk
And yer finest Irish whiskey,â she declared
Before dressing herself and asking me to call her a taxi.
I noted she did not wash her shitty paws,
But at least we did not need to shake hands on parting.
I never saw her again, thank Christ.
But I reflect on the fact that
The best blow-job of my life was delivered
By the ugliest and most repellent old bag
In all of holy Mother Ireland.
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Posted: August 14, 2006 8:06 AM PDT; Last modified: August 14, 2006 8:06 AM PDT
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Most women in Ireland have terrible, terrible, pale doughy, stretched breats with hideously coloured Auroles and turquoise veins. The rest used to be men.