Neither Mirth nor Woe: Night of the Zombies
One summer evening, after a pint or so with my beloved at the Old Bell, we both decided that we might like to celebrate our blossoming relationship through the medium of a good, hard porking.
Still living with parents, we knew they frowned on the sound of creaking bedsprings and cries of "Stick it up me gowl, you enormous fucker!", so we resorted to Plan B: The car park up at the woods.
So, I drove her to what I thought was a quiet spot for a bit of late-night sexy in the middle of nowhere as part of what she euphemistically and charmingly referred to as "courting".
After several minutes of rampant courting on the back seat of my Austin Allegro, I looked up to see at least six people standing nearby, peering in through the car window, all with cocks in hand, all beating the bishop to varying degrees of completion.
I'll be honest here - it fair put me off my stroke and somewhat killed off my desire to finish the job.
Somehow making it into the driver's seat, trousers still half-mast, I gunned the engine on the race-tuned Allegro Equipe and sped from the car park, bouncing across exposed roots and wide-eyed perverts as we went.
In the dim light, I glanced in the rear-view mirror to take in a sight that would haunt me forever.
And it was this: Imagine if you will, half-a-dozen middle-aged men shuffling after us like so many zombies on the rampage for fresh, young spicy brains.
Zombies with rapidly deflating cocks still in hand, trying to squeeze out any vestiges of gentlemen's relish they could over the scene they had just witnessed.
"Come back! We haven't finished!" one cried as we raced back toward civilisation.
My own Johnson already the size and shape of the nozzle on an airbed, I certainly had.