Girls

Poor sod.  Head down, ears back and trailing a leg. All for love, eh?

I can’t remember the number of fights I have got into over Girls.

I can remember a few spectacular ones.

I was seventeen, had just collected my pay packet and was invited by the Boss to dinner at his hotel, the Royal in Ashby, and a few drinks afterwards.  We were alone in the bar apart from two very attractive young ladies, two guys that were hitting on them as hard as they could and a barman that could have contrived a convincing display of an Egyptian Mummy in any museum.

Now don’t forget, I was a seventeen year old virgin, very fit with testosterone flowing through my veins and brought up on tales of derring do usually involving a man saving a damsel in distress.  To flinch in the face of impossible odds would hardly be Wagnerian.  My boss begged to differ and went to bed.

Clearly, these two elegant and sophisticated young ladies, dressed in miniscule skirts, impossibly high heels, strident make up and light blouses with no bras (it was a very hot and humid evening to be fair), found the pressing attention of the two gentlemen unwelcome.

Now even though I had exceeded my usual alcohol limit of a whiff of a barmaid’s cloth by about three pints of heavy, I recognized that these were Damsels in Distress and that a true Gentleman should intervene on their behalf.

The last thing I remember was the heavy faux medieval bar stool crashing into my skull.  I had just endured my very first, ‘Good Kicking’.

The two girls took me to their place which was quite close by.  We went on foot and it was the first time I had experienced anyone sticking their tongue in my ear.  The last person that had passed their hands all over my body so intimately was my mother when she was bathing her little baby in a nursery.  Now I had two girls, a few years older than me doing it on a public highway.  I can think of far more romantic places than the A50 but at the time, I just wanted to get my beaten head together in the hope I would get some, well, head.

Sadly, after burying hotel bar furniture in my swede, the attention of my assailants had been diverted to my goolies.  My eyes were closing, port had been spilt, my lips were split and the pain down below had reached my spleen. 

I made it home the following morning, pushing rather than riding my bicycle, still a virgin and it took me four days to recover but, as I explained to my father later, it was worth it to spend a night in agony wrapped in black satin sheets and lithe female limbs even if I didn’t get to shag the owners.  At least I knew what a woman’s breast felt like and learnt that heaven lay twixt their thighs.  Badly beaten as I was, I had already decided it was something worth fighting for.

Poor old Charlie, he is going through the same now.

For years Kizomba, Charlie’s father, has ruled the canine roost that is our neighborhood.  Finally Kizomba has, through Doggie, bred a true contender.  He, Kizomba, knows that of all his proliferate male offspring, Charlie is the biggest threat to his dominance.  So he is beating the shit out of him.

The thing is, Kizomba belongs to Rico, my neighbor.  Regular readers will know that there is a bit of history between me and Rico.  Thankfully, Rico and I are starting to co-operate.  We are both operating in a very corrupt environment so really it is better we combine our resources and present a united front.  Being reluctantly forced into bed together, though, doesn’t mean we have to consummate a marriage born only out of convenience.  Just as Angola was forged out of a proxy war, our war, the one between Rico and I, is now being fought by our dogs, the delicious irony being that my Champion is his dog’s son. In Doggy terms, Charlie is an adolescent male full of the juices of spring and will one day soon, chew his father's arse. 

One of the local bitches started to come on heat a few days ago and poor old Charlie lost his mind.  He disappeared for three days. 

This morning, a shade short of ‘Oh my God, it’s early’ (it was still dark), he limped back severely beaten up and whining piteously.  He is trailing one very badly chewed right rear leg and licking a few other open wounds.  Kizomba, his Dad, had clearly given him a bit of a thrashing.

So what could I do?  Obviously, I hoiked the fridge door open and hauled out a tray of steak.  I need to beef the lad up and give him somewhere decent to sleep while he recovers.  Marcia may not like it but the lad needs a safe berth so his will be next to mine; on the floor but on a bunk made of the clothes I wore that day.  That way he gets my scent and knows I care for him and he can bleed into my discarded clothes instead of the bush.

Charlie is just a dog, but when it comes to trainers, he could not have found a better one.  I am not scared of dogs and Kizomba, large and vicious as he is, is scared shitless of me.  Big as he is, last time he had a go at me I hauled him up by his ears and gave him a damn good kicking.  I may have returned home with blood dribbling down my arms and chest where he had savaged me but the bastard hasn’t forgotten.  I am so looking forward to the rematch.  This time with my dog Charlie which kind of makes it fairer.

Nothing personal, you understand.

 

'More steak and eggs, Charlie?  How about some sauteed calves liver?  I'll go easy on the onions and only use Basmati rice.  Marcia, there's some bread in the fridge, it is only three days old.  Make yourself a cheese sandwich and give me your pillow so I can make up Charlie's bed...'