51 comments/ 73161 views/ 15 favorites Oh Fuck!!! By: oldiethevoyeur Just a short story based on a supposedly true tale I read in a gossip magazine once. No explicit sex I'm afraid, so if you are looking for a quick 'fix' please move on quietly. As always, constructive criticism and comments are most welcome and, as usual, any personal attacks either on me or Britain in general will be deleted so don't even bother writing them. Votes are both helpful and appreciated by us budding writers in order for us to gauge readers reactions to our efforts, so please find the time to comment and vote (no matter what your feelings) Hope you enjoy, Oldie. OH FUCK!!! Helen Patterson reclined back on her comfortable pillows admiring the strong, muscular physique of the tall black man getting dressed at the bottom of her bed. A smile crossed her lips as she remembered vividly how that same man had ravaged her body for the last two nights; how he had used her for his enjoyment and satisfaction; and how he had totally satisfied the sexual yearning she had been feeling a few days before. She looked down and smiled at the marital rings on her finger, the beautiful diamond and ruby engagement ring her husband of 15 years had placed there when he proposed to her on her on her 25th birthday all those years ago, the plain single gold band that he had placed there when they married shining like a beacon of their love. A tinge of sorrow crossed her mind, sorrow that she had been unfaithful yet again to their loving marriage back home in England. No remorse though. She thoroughly enjoyed her extra-marital dalliances while she was away in New York one week in every month and had long ago ceased to have any feelings of guilt and shame at her blatant betrayal of the wedding vows they had exchanged on that beautiful summers day all that time ago. She needed those sexual escapes. Her life at home was wonderful, loving and caring. The sex with her husband John was never less than satisfying and more often than not absolutely spectacular, leaving them both totally satiated and content. Why then did she stray every time she was away from her marital bed? Why no guilt? No remorse? She knew she risked everything by doing what she did, so why did she continue? Her adulterous betrayal of her marital vows had started 8 years previously. She had been travelling to New York for the monthly main board meetings for a couple of years by then, staying in the same hotel, same room even, for the majority of those times. Adamantly refusing the temptations and inevitable invitations offered by work colleagues, she invariably spent lonely nights in her suite after eating in the first class restaurant downstairs. That particular day she had been involved in some intense discussions at work, the rivalry between between her and her peers for the approval of the main board of their individual suggestions had spilled over into some rather heated debates and she was extremely tense when she had arrived back at her hotel in the early evening. Against all her self-imposed rules for her 'downtime' as she put it, she had gone straight into the bar and had several large gin & tonics to help her wind down; those strong drinks of course had gone straight to her head as she had had nothing to eat for several hours beforehand. This situation had left her extremely vulnerable to the attentions of the devastatingly attractive man who had joined her at the bar and invited her to have another drink with him. He appeared to be several years younger than her and she felt dangerously flattered by his obvious sexual overtones. Consequently, they had spent the rest of the night in her room, fucking like rabbits, her body responding to his far more than she would have wished if she had been sober. She had woken the following morning alone in her bed with a slight hangover; a sticky, well-used body, and an extreme sense of anguish and remorse at what she had done to betray her loving husband. Surprisingly, she had felt extremely relaxed in the meetings the rest of the day, her demeanour and mood giving the intended impression to her colleagues of a woman at the 'top of her game' who was not someone to be messed with in the slightest. Travelling back to London the following day she had gathered her thoughts as she sat in First Class, sipping the complimentary champagne as she ate her wonderful lunch. Normally she would have been working on her laptop, but on this occasion she had far too much going on in her head to be able to concentrate on such mundane matters. She went through all the emotions one would expect in a woman who had just committed drunken adultery for the first time, the feelings of guilt and shame; the wonder of how she would cope if John noticed any differences in her body; how she would be able to look him and their children in the eyes, knowing that she had betrayed their love like that. At the back of her perplexed mind however was the underlying feeling of excitement. The thrill and depravity of giving herself willingly to a stranger for the first time since she met her husband totally overpowering all the sentiments of guilt and remorse. By the time the plane had landed at Heathrow she knew, this was not going to be the last time she fucked another man!!!.... * * * * * * Ms Patterson, as she was known at work, was the 42 year old CEO and Vice President of the UK arm of a multi-national merchant bank based in the USA. She had a first class Business Management degree from Manchester University as well as a Business Law degree from Cambridge. She had risen rapidly through the ranks at the bank, her talents as a hard negotiator and her keen eye for a new business opportunity soon bringing her to the attention of the movers and shakers who ran the business. Determined never to have to be beholding to anyone in her career, she had steadfastly refused to ever date anyone she worked with, never becoming involved in the sexual merry-go-round that other women seemed to succumb to in order to advance in the male dominated world of corporate finance. Helen had met her husband John at Manchester University. He was a year in front of her, studying computer science, and they had met when they both attended a summers ball at the end of her first year there. They had hit it off immediately, her being attracted to his wit and rugged good looks; him, as he had confessed many times since, enchanted by her beautifully shaped, medium sized breasts. Although he was a year in front academically at Manchester, she was actually two years older than him when they met. She had already studied for her Law degree at Cambridge and had enrolled at Manchester on the advice of her father. He was a very successful businessman in the Northwest of England and had studied at 'his' university for his own degree years previously. Helen and John were inseparable almost from the first moment they met. They had moved into her flat together after only knowing each other for five weeks and all their family and friends were immediately aware that they were total soul-mates and destined to marry as soon as they could. That event however took a little longer than they and anyone else had anticipated. They were both extremely busy trying to build their careers until eventually, just before Helen's 27th birthday, they discovered she was pregnant. Not wanting her wedding photos to be ruined by having a large bump in the front of her dress, they had married a short few weeks later on the island of St Lucia in the Caribbean, surrounded by their families and a few close friends and all paid for of course by her delighted parents who loved John like the son they had never had themselves. Baby Annabell had arrived faultlessly on time just after the Millennium, followed two years later by her sister Rebecca. It was obvious from the beginning that Helen was going to rise quickly in the corporate world, her opportunities for advancement far in excess of her husbands. With this in mind, they had taken the marital decision for her to concentrate on her blossoming career while he worked from home; being a so-called house husband as well as the children's main carer and major housekeeper. This arrangement worked extremely well for them. Helen had gradually advanced to her current position, whilst John had started his own website design business, working from his home office in the evenings after his wife had arrived home and taken over the care of their children. Although John's business was extremely successful, Helen's salary soon outstripped her husband's hugely – her recent annual bonuses alone were all in excess of £1 million – and consequently, they were a very affluent young family. * * * * * * Helen was acutely aware as a lawyer that, in the event of her marriage breaking down and them getting divorced, John would receive substantial alimony from her as well as child support. He would undoubtedly get custody of the girls and as the main carer, would also be allowed to keep possession of their beautiful home in the royal borough of Windsor. Despite all this, she still felt safe in her adulterous behaviour. She had imposed several rules on herself when she decided to continue fucking other men. - It would only happen while she was in New York – There would be no work colleagues involved – As the hotel she stayed in was a 5 star in Manhattan, the men involved would all likely be well-to-do businessmen but she would also try and pick only the married ones, (less likely to want to continue a relationship) – There would be NO intimacy, i.e.:- no kissing or oral sex on her part, that was to be kept for her husband. - The men would be allowed access to both her pussy and her anus, (she loved anal sex) and would ALWAYS have to wear a condom – There would be no sex less than 48 hours before she returned to her husband, (gave her body time to remove any trace of sexual activity) - And lastly, she would NEVER, NEVER, give her true name or phone number to her paramours, no matter how attractive they were. With these 'rules of engagement' in place she felt that there was no way that John would ever discover her betrayal. * * * * * * Two weeks after her latest New York trip, Helen arrived home on the Friday evening after work to a surprisingly quiet house. Normally at that time of day it would be filled with the sounds of the girls creating havoc while John was making supper. She let herself in the front door and after dropping her briefcase and keys on the hall table went in search of her family. She found her husband sat at the kitchen table with a buff coloured, A4 sized envelope in front of him. She received no answer when she enquired as to the whereabouts of the children, instead, with a wave of his hand and a stern stare, John indicated that she should sit opposite him at the other end of the table. Helen was worried. Had something happened to the girls? Was it too terrible that her husband couldn't even speak about it? Was it their parents? She began to panic slightly as her poker-faced husband continued to stare at her, his face showing no emotion although his eyes were glaring hard at her as though he was trying to look into her very soul. Silently he reached into the envelope and took out a neatly folded piece of paper. Opening it up he slid it across the table to her and indicated she should read what was written on it. Dear Mr. Patterson, It is with much regret that I feel obliged to send you the enclosed evidence of your wife's adultery. The man in the photographs and video is actually my husband Paul, - our last name doesn't really matter. I have suspected for several months that he was being unfaithful to our marriage on his frequent business trips and consequently hired a private detective to check if my suspicions were correct. As you can see from the evidence, sadly this has proved to be the case. I haven't personally looked at the video (much too painful) but my lawyer has and tells me it is quite damning. I have though looked at the enclosed photos and, as both their wedding rings are plainly visible in several of the pictures, I am certain that both of them were quite aware that they were each married. This means to me that your wife too has willingly committed adultery on your marriage and, whilst not wishing to break up another union as well as my own, and not knowing any arrangement you and your wife may have, I do feel so angry about the whole situation that I have no alternative other than to include you in my outrage. I am so sorry to have to be the bearer of such bad news but I would hope that if the shoe was on the other foot so to speak, you would have informed me too. I have written both my private investigator's and lawyer's phone numbers on the back of one of the photos, just in case you feel you need to confirm any of the evidence enclosed, and once again would like to express my sorrow. Yours Sincerely, 'A Sorry Wife' Helen was inwardly panic-stricken after reading the damning note. How unlucky was she that her last lover had been a serial adulterer like herself but unlike her, had a suspicious spouse. Her mind was in turmoil as she tried to think as to what her best reaction would be. Her years of negotiating and not showing her emotions to her opponents helped as she quickly ran through the alternative ways of responding to the obviously infallible evidence of her adultery in her husband's possession. What was the best way to rectify the dire situation? Was there any way she could save her marriage? Quickly deciding that perhaps partial truth and throwing herself on her husband's mercy may be the best strategy, she started to tell him what she thought he should hear. How it had been the first time it had happened; How she had been celebrating a complex deal going through successfully and drank too much champagne (he knew that champagne made her giggly and irresponsible); How she had felt herself inexplicably and drunkenly attracted to the other man, filled with curiosity as to whether all the myths she had heard about black men and their prowess in bed were true; Swearing to her husband it would never happen again, she begged his forgiveness. John responded to her tear-filled pleading by shaking his head slowly side to side, a look of sorrowful contempt distorting his handsome face. He again reached into the envelope and pulled out one of the enclosed photographs, pushing it across the table to his wife. He then pressed the play button on the remote for their in-house music system that he had been holding in his other hand. Helen heard her instantly recognisable voice through the speakers, the reproduction crystal clear and in glorious surround sound. She heard herself explaining her rules for committing adultery to her new lover, the words condemning her beyond repair. Looking down at the photograph in her hands and with tears streaming down her face by then, she saw through the haze the total, unmitigated damning evidence as to the pack of lies she had just blurted out to her disbelieving husband. There, obviously taken through the open balcony doors of her hotel suite, was a picture of her on her knees being impaled anally by a rock-hard cock. Her face plainly showed the lust she had been feeling at her debasement and both hers and her lovers wedding rings were clearly visible glinting in the light of the bedside lamp. However, the final irrefutable proof of her lies was in the main feature of the man fucking her ass so enthusiastically. Instead of the black man she had confessed to having an illicit affair with, there was a middle-aged, slightly overweight man who was clearly as WHITE as the driven snow. Helen buried her heads in her hands, sobbing loudly as she realised her marriage and serenely comfortable life was irretrievably over. She was unable to look her contemptuous husband in the eyes as he spoke for the first time since she had arrived home. "I want you out of here before I bring the children home. I've packed most of your things in suitcases and taken them to your parents house, you can arrange with them to pick the rest up when the house is empty." The cheating, lying wife gasped, uttering just two words in reply before breaking down completely, Oh, Fuck... An audio experiment, trying to convey as much meaning as I can using only two words. * * * * * Click Here to listen: .mp3 format or .ogg format. (6.5 min/mp3) * * * * * Oh Fucking Hell! Let's get one thing straight from the beginning. I'm not gay. I don't have any trouble accepting gays but I'm not one myself. I thought I'd mention that right now so you don't get the wrong idea about me. My mates who are gay say that I'm gay-friendly. Whatever the fuck that means. Are they saying I'm gay friendly like some web sites are AoL friendly. Or are they saying I'm always on the lookout for gays to make friends with them? Fucked if I know. Anyway I'm not one and that's an end to it. I work in this small pub just off the Portobello Road in Notting Hill, which for those of you who haven't seen the fucking film, is in London. It's not a bad job, as jobs go, and as I had no work references to show the boss I was happy just to be taken on. One trial session so I could prove I knew the difference between a lager and a fucking beer and I was hired. It wasn't the job that was important to me. What I really needed, and got, was a roof over my head. Before the pub I was dossing down in this crappy squat run by, "run" that's a fucking laugh for a start, a group of pansy students who reckoned they were studying psychology or computer science or accountancy. Some sort of crap like that. I could never work it out as I never saw them studying anything except the bottom of an empty glass. Anyway to them I was definitely from the wrong side of the tracks and the only reason I was there was because Cyril, my cell mate from Strangeways, was living there and he vouched for me. The only reason he was living there was because his moron of a cousin was one of the students. So there I was, three weeks of freedom behind me and already bored out of my fucking mind. Dole money was no great shakes. The Law knew I was around and kept stopping me to make a search, though I reckon one had the hots for me, the way his hand would slide casually over my cock area as he pretended to look for something I could be booked on. I had no job, no proper place to live and was surrounded by arseholes who spoke in a language I didn't understand. I knew it was English. But that's about it. So, one time when Cyril had a day off from his own job; lucky sod knew a porter down at Smithfieds Market who fixed him up a day after he left prison, we went out for a pint together. Well one pint led to two, which gradually slipped into three and then, thank the fucking lucky stars, my money ran out. If I could have afforded it I would have stayed all day getting paralytic. But I couldn't so I didn't. Simple as that. And it was as simple as that that my whole fucking life changed. Cyril had gone to have a piss and when he came back he got all conspiratorial. "Hey George," he said, "I just heard the guv'nnor here is looking for a barman. Offering accommodation too." "Yeah?" I replied, "and where did you hear this then?" "Just now as I came out of the khazi. This bloke was saying to his mates that he'd have to put an ad in the paper again because some cunt who'd been working here, isn't any more. If you get my drift." I nodded. Yeah, sometimes things fall into your lap. So I went over to the counter and said to the young kid standing there, looking as if he was going to shit his pants at any moment. "Is the manager around?" "Yeah I'll get him for you." And off he shot like he'd got a fucking wasps nest down his trousers or something. A second later this fat cove came up to me and asked me what I wanted. "I hear you got a job going. I'm a barman and I'm looking for work." He was silent for a bit just looking me up and down. "References?" he asked. "No not yet but I'm expecting them any minute now." "Fuck me I haven't got time to wait for a whole fucking minute. Come in tonight, do a trial session, and we'll take it from there." "OK" I said and off he went. I fucking liked him. He was my fucking sort of bloke. That night I swung through the work without even breaking out in a sweat, got the job and moved my gear round the following day. I sort of fell into a routine after that. The work was easy enough, I had a fair to middling room and I had a whole day off on Sundays when the guv'nor's bitch of a wife came downstairs and did her once a week stint behind the bar. What made me feel good was the rustle of notes in my pocket after I'd been paid. Yeah life was beginning to look fucking sweet. Then I ran into Wilfred "Psycho" Sykes. I suppose a name like Wilfred would make most people feel a bit odd but when you're well over six feet tall and built like the proverbial shite house door, and with the intelligence of a fucking orang-u-tang , it's going to make you kind of mental, And that's what Psycho was. Mental. I don't know what he was put away for, nobody told me inside and I wasn't going to fucking ask, but I reckon it was for something pretty heavy the way everyone did their best to keep out of his way. But no matter how hard I'd tried to make myself invisible there was fucking Psycho making me his best buddy. I mean life was a fucking cunt inside anyway without having the added benefit of having "Psycho" as a mate. But you play with the cards you're dealt with or some shit like that and I settled down to make the best of it. After I'd got used to the smell, Psycho had this farting problem, and the stupid jokes and being punched on the arm every two minutes which he thought was a sign of friendship, I got used to it. And there was the added bonus of being left alone by the others. Nobody was going to touch me with him around. Anyway there I was walking along near Paddington Station when suddenly I was lifted high in the air by two massive arms that had grabbed me around the waist from behind. Only one man I knew was that big. "Hello Wilf," I said as he put me back down, "George my man!" he roared back, "what's been happening?" So for the next ten minutes I stood there looking up at this man mountain telling him roughly what had happened to me since we'd last met. Which, considering he'd been released six fucking months before me and I'd only been out for three weeks there wasn't much to fucking tell. But with Psycho you don't just walk away when there's nothing else to say, you do whatever he fucking wants. And that's why I found myself walking into this boozer just off Norfolk Place to meet up with his uncle and aunt for a drink. Well as I've already told you, I'm not anti-gay, but these two relatives of Psychos took a bit of fucking beating, even for me. Yeah Uncle and Aunt. Right. Well it only took a two-second gander at the "Aunt" to see that 'she' was a he. Some worn out decrepit old queen who'd been around for more fucking years than I'll ever see in my lifetime. Make up put on with a trowel and with a fondness for lavender. Everything was fucking lavender. The hair was dyed lavender, the masquara was lavender, the powder on those sagging old cheeks was lavender and the smell, oh for chissake sakes the smell was the most lavenderish of all. It clung to my fucking nostrils when I was still twenty feet away, walking towards them, escorted by Psycho, with my hand outstretched in greeting and with a fixed grin on my face and I'm fucking sure a glazed look in my fucking eyes. Well we sat down, with me choosing the upwind direction from the old queen, whilst Psycho's uncle went and got them in. I'd ordered a pint along with Psycho, but these two faggots sat there sipping a couple of fruit filled cocktails from cocktail glasses through straws so fucking daintily you would have thought they were sitting outside some fucking bar on the Cote d'Azure. Not fucking huddled around an old stained wooden table in a fucking back street boozer in Paddington. So we got talking. The bloke, Psycho's uncle was alright. A bit frayed around the edges and dressed in a stained pinstriped suit. All in all I could put up with him. He had some great fucking jokes to tell and his stories made me piss myself laughing more than fucking once. But the queen. I had to avoid 'her' at all costs. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't 'her' so fucking much. It was the fucking smell. Anyway we had more drinks, then some more and then some more on top of the more. I was so fucking happy I had some money to spend that even Psycho felt like he really was some old pal from the Nick. His uncle was in top form and kept us well entertained and after a while I could even bear to look at the 'aunt' with a bit of drunken fondness. The afternoon drifted on and though we were well pissed the bar staff weren't going to stop serving us. Not with Psycho sitting there looking as though Christmas had come early. Then some cunting idiot in a group near the counter made a fucking remark. I only heard part of it but it involved faggots, arseholes and fucktards. That's all I heard. But Psycho must have had sharper ears than me because he carefully raised himself to his feet and started to take a slow, ponderous walk towards the bar. Big as he was he had still put away some ale and it took all he had to put one foot in front of the other. I fucking swear it was like one of those horror movies where no matter how fast the victim runs the slow walking monster always catches up. I was busy looking through bleary eyes at Psycho's feet waiting for him to fall over and I heard his 'aunt' somewhere in the background screaming, "Wilfred! Wilfred! Don't you go over there. Come back here!" Yeah, as if he was going to take any fucking notice of that. When, I couldn't help it. I started fucking laughing. Out fucking loud. It could've been anything that triggered me off but I think it was hearing the old queen shrieking out "Wilfred" at a guy as big as fucking Psycho expecting him just to turn around and come back. I vaguely saw the group at the bar frozen to the ground as Psycho's shadow fell over them. And I vaguely saw that massive fist go through one of the terror struck faces, before I laughed so fucking much I had to breathe in deeply to get my breath back. That's when the fucking smell of lavender hit me like a brick. I bent over and threw up all over the fucking carpet. Then I passed out. After that, I don't know. Didn't remember a thing your worship. All I knew was that I woke up in a dark room that smelt musty. I raised my head and with a small groan quickly put it back down again. I must have drifted for a bit because the next time I woke up there was enough light coming through an old sashcord window for me to see where I was. Not that it mattered where I was, I just wanted a fucking piss. Slowly I got up from the armchair I'd slept in and made my way to the door I could see in the dim light. It seemed to be an apartment because when I opened the door I couldn't see any stairs. Just a long corridor with two or three rooms running off it. I tried a few as I reached them and finally hit lucky and found the bathroom. Never had a piss felt so good. After that I could take a bit more interest in my surroundings and thought I heard a muffled noise coming from behind one of the doors I hadn't reached before I got to the bathroom. OK blame the drink, or just say I was a fucking fool to do what I did, but without thinking I opened the door and walked right in. Without a by your fucking leave. Then I sobered up. There was the queen, on 'her' hands and knees on a big, big bed being fucked up the arsehole by Psycho's uncle whilst Psycho himself dressed in some fucking stupid nappy with a gap in the front had his thick, long cock halfway down his uncle's throat. The tableau froze and was forever burnt into my brain, like an image captured on your eyeball from a flash camera. The queen gave a little scream and fell forward. 'Her' live in lover, or whoever he fucking was, jerked away from Psycho's cock, which left his mouth wide open in a parody of a blow up doll, and Psycho himself fell backwards off the fucking bed to land with a floor shaking impact. For a moment no one moved. Then I turned on my heels and got the fuck out of there as fast as I could. I for one wasn't going to face up to Psycho when he picked himself up from the floor. In the street I got a taxi and in twenty minutes had let myself into the pub where I worked and crashed onto the fucking bed in my room. I couldn't fucking sleep though. Not with that image of Psycho dressed in a huge nappy deep throating his uncle. The queen and Psycho's uncle I had no bother with. As I said my gay friends call me gay friendly and though I'd never seen any of them at it before it doesn't take much fucking imagination to guess what they get up to. But Psycho for chrissakes. That I found hard to swallow. So to speak. I dozed on and off for a bit and then remembered I had to be behind the bar by ten o'clock. I made it just in time. For a few days I could hardly think of anything else. But as they say time is a great fucking healer and after a couple of weeks I'd pushed the whole thing to the back of my mind. Life was getting even better. I met Lynne when I went round to see Cyril one day at the squat. She was one of the arsehole student's sister and the three of us went out for a drink. Lynne and me started going out on a regular basis. And the first time we fucked it was like I'd died and gone to heaven. She could suck my cock like no other girl had sucked my cock before. And when I came in her mouth, spurting time and time again she would swallow the lot and then raise her full breasted body up the bed so that we were level and we'd both drift off to sleep in each other's arms. Yeah the future looked fucking rosy. Then one wet Sunday afternoon, when I was doing an extra shift, Wilfred and his uncle walked through the pub door. I didn't exactly get frozen to the fucking spot but my heart wouldn't keep still in my chest. I thought everyone could see it jumping around inside me. They appoached the counter and Psycho's uncle said to me in a low voice, "Hello George, can we talk to you for a minute?" I looked at the big round clock hanging on the wall and said, "Two minutes. I get my break in two minutes. What're you having and I'll come across when I'm relieved." They bought two halves of lager and went to sit at a table by the window. Lucky it was raining. The pub was almost empty. When the boss's cow of a wife came down for her weekly session I opened a bottle of Light Ale and went over to join them. I was wary. Too fucking right I was. Sitting at the same table as Psycho is not always a good fucking idea but sitting at the same table as Psycho knowing what I knew was definitely bad fucking news. Without any preliminaries Psycho's uncle said, "Julian died last week." My confusion must've shown on my face because then he went on. "Julian. Wilfred's auntie" God. I groaned to myself, what the fuck's going on here? "We've come to see you to explain." "Look, I don't want to have any fucki…" I stopped short as Psycho placed a massive hand on my arm and pinned it to the table. "Maybe you don't want to hear an explanation. But we want to give you one. It's like a cleansing of the soul. And it's for Julian. So that you won't feel to badly about us." "I don't feel…" a slight pressure on my arm and I shut the fuck up. "When Julian and myself were young we knew we were attracted to each other. Well you can't really hide your true feelings can you? But in those days we not only risked the wrath of God," he smiled slightly, "or so the Church told us but we also risked the full force of the law. To be a homosexual back then was a criminal act and you went to prison for it. We hid it from the rest of the world as much as we could of course and it was quite common for young men to share apartments together. Nothing was thought of it. If homosexuality was thought about at all in the public's mind, it was relegated to the public toilet or the park bushes. Nothing that normal, decent people would ever dare contemplate. Julian and myself set up home together in the mid 1950s up in Hampstead and for a long time we had a good life. Rumours spread around a bit, but that was our own fault. No matter how hard you try you can't stop yourself from a small touch or a more than casual leaning towards each other when you're having a conversation. It's love you see George." I opened my mouth to say something but another squeeze from Psycho made me shut it fucking quick. "During the 60's things relaxed quite a bit. Danny la Rue, he was a drag act George but you'd be too young to remember him, became a very famous stage act, appearing in the West End and even in front of the Queen at the Royal Variety Performance show." He must have seen my small smile at the mention of the Queen, because he gave a small smile back. "Oh yes George all we queers saw the funny side of the Queen of the West End appearing before the Queen of England but you see things were getting better all the time. Even the Laws were changed. Not much, but enough to make the future look hopeful." I knew most of this, my gay mates had told me the whole fucking history of the gay movement but with Psycho's hand getting very heavy on my arm it was better to let him talk and get it over with as quickly as possible. "I suppose it was because of the success of Danny la Rue and others like him that other homosexuals saw a way to express themselves in public without making themselves a target for people's contempt and even hatred. Yes George although things were getting better a lot of people still hated us. Julian was one of those who took to wearing women's clothes in public and managed to put together a drag act and performed in pubs and small theatres outside the centre. He had always been the feminine side of our relationship and now he could almost flaunt it without too much concern." He took another sip of beer. "Don't worry George. I've nearly finished and I want Julian to hear this, wherever he may be, as much as you. As I said it's a cleansing. Sometime in the 1970's we met Wilfred here. He had taken to appearing at Julian's shows so often and he was so big that he couldn't be missed. So we became friendly and when we found out he was alone in the world and that he had suppressed his homosexuality for so long, it only seemed natural that he move in with us. They were good times weren't they Wilf?" I looked at Psycho who was looking down at the table nodding. And I fucking swear I saw tears rolling down his cheeks. I looked away quickly. "Well then the queer bashing started, and the queer burning, when a few poor gays were set alight and burnt alive. It hit the headlines alright. There was enough of it happening for it not to be ignored. But the police never caught anyone, no one was brought to trial and nobody cared. You see George in people's eyes we were still queers. Living in Hampstead as we did we felt especially vulnerable. Most of the attacks were happening on the Heath, which started not fifty yards from our apartment. Then one evening I was just walking up to our front door, I even had my keys out to unlock it, that's how close to home I was, when I was attacked myself. I don't remember anything really except the massive blow on the back of my head and choking on the petrol and fumes as it was poured all over me. I have a vague memory of someone screaming in terrible agony and a bright light through which I could see what looked like arms and legs thrashing around. But that's all. The next thing I knew I woke up in hospital. I was unharmed but Wilfred here suffered the most. He caught them you see, just as they were about to set fire to me. He got hold of one of them, poured petrol over him and threw a lit match at him. That was the screaming I had heard. Wilf was sent to Strangeways Prison for twenty five tears, where you met him, but was released on review of his case after fourteen." He paused and looked vaguely into the middle distance. Psycho was openly sobbing now, not even bothering to hide his tears with his hand, It was only then, with a small start, that I realised I was no longer pinned to the table. Oh Fucking Hell! "So you see George," he continued, "when you saw us, we were still overjoyed at being together again, and with the drink we let our defences down too far. To be truthful with you, we had forgotten you were in the apartment at all, So that's it really. Not an apology to you although I would like you to accept one. But a small wake for Julian. You see neither of us had anyone else but each other and then when Wilfred joined us we became three. On that night you saw us you became the only person on the face of the earth who knows for absolute certainty what our lifestyle is like." I couldn't fucking hold myself in any longer. "But that's fucking stupid" I said, "times have changed. People don't care any more. You've been living in fucking fear for years for no reason. For chissakes you must have fucking known that!" I was shaking with fucking rage at the whole futility of it all. "There's one other thing you should know George. To keep up appearances we told everyone that Wilfred was our nephew. That we were his uncle and aunt. Not true of course but it helped oil the wheels so to speak. Nobody questioned it." He stood slowly to his feet with Wilfred instantly by his side supporting him. "But what we could never tell anyone, anyone at all until now, and Julian is no longer here, Is that he and I were true brothers," he paused, " if you can imagine what it was like being a homosexual in the old days. Think what society would have done to us if it had known our relationship was also incestuous." I sat there stunned as he and Wilfred walked out of the pub. One old man and one giant, holding on to one another, protecting each other against the weather and the world. Just the two of them. "OH FUCK!" I screamed at the top of my voice.