Posts tagged “london

Piccadilly

our first kiss, at the arrivals terminal, was electric and aroused both our passions instantly to near boiling point, and as we squeezed onto the crowded Piccadilly line train you could feel my erection, through my trousers, pressing into your behind. there was only one spare seat, so i took it and you sat on my lap, piling your various items of luggage on your knees to make room for the throng of standing passengers. my cock pushed up between your soft, gently squeezing  thighs. it was an end seat an the woman to our right was engrossed in conversation with the man on her right, and your bags and parcels made a perfect shield against any of the standers seeing as i inched your skirt slowly up over your ass, pulled your panties to one side and slid a finger deep into your soaking, hot pussy. you knew exactly what to do and lifted up while i got my cock out, draped from view by your flowing skirt, and when you sat back down it plunged deep into your waiting depth, making us both shudder and gasp uncontrollably.

there was no need for us to move, as the juddering of the carriage, as it hurtled down the tunnel, jiggled and shook you on top of me. it was quite an unnatural sensation but exhilarating as the train rocked and bounced you on and off my throbbing shaft. at some points the carriage would jolt vigorously and repeatedly, lifting you almost off my cock completely before slamming you back down onto it, at others, the train just shuddered and trembled, it was like sitting inside a giant vibrator.

we had waited months for this and we could have very easily come within a few minutes, if it weren’t for the fact that every couple of minutes the tube came to a halt at a station, teasing us and prolonging our ecstasy for nearly the entire hour long journey. we sat in those stations, sometimes on the very brink of orgasm, trying not to move or breath too hard, my prick deep inside you, pulsing as your dripping pussy squeezed it.

you realised that the stranger stood right in front of us had realised what we are up to, when you saw his trousers begin to bulge and fill and when you looked up, he stared right down at your flushed face and winked, he knew exactly what we were doing. his growing erection was only inches from your hands as they clasped the parcels on your lap, and you watched as it came to full mast and bulged forcefully against the thin cotton like a wild beast demanding release from a cage. you could so easily reach out and touch it.

the stranger allowed the swaying of the carriage to push himself nearer to you, brushing his impressive cock against your knuckles, it felt like something made of rock in there, and when more passengers board, he used this to squeeze closer to you and let his long coat hang down on either side, shielding what you did next from view. with me still pumping deep inside you, my fingers digging into your butt, you unzipped him and slid your hand inside, clasping his bursting cock greedily. it was magnificent, not particularly long but so thick and hard that you could barely get you hand round it.

we were only two stops from home when the three of us came, after a long series of powerful judders, that took us to an explosive and thick and deep climax. thanks to the screeching brakes we were all able to cry out undetected, except for the woman to my right who shot me a filthy look when the words “holy fuck yes!” escaped unbidden from my mouth.

the stranger got off one stop before us, his coat now buttoned to conceal the large stain, and we never saw him again.

anyway son, that’s why we called you Piccadilly.


Lizbet

So, my friend Lizbet comes over from Denmark, and she’s never been to London, so she’s all like wanting to do all the touristy shit, yeah? Now, I’m a Londoner, and I hate all that tourist bullshite but you gotta go along with it, haven’t you? Well, you do if you wanna get your dick wet.

So, Lizbet wants to see where Charles and Diana got married, okay? And, I’m like not very up with the whole royal family malarkey, but I do remember one thing about them from school, and I’m quite proud of myself for doing so; I remember that royal weddings take place at Westminster Abbey.

So I take her and we look around, and she’s like “It looked much bigger on the TV” and I’m like
“Oh, its probably the way they did the lighting or something.”

So, later we go on the London Eye and we’re like gonna have sex in one of the pods but British Airways have a member of staff, a sweet young American girl, get into the pod with us, to stop us getting jiggy. She stands there the whole time, with her arms folded, like scowling at us, and if I’m honest, she was much cuter than Lizbet.

It was only much later that I realise that, up until Charles and Diana, all royals did marry in Westminster Abbey, but Charles and Diana didn’t, they married at Saint Pauls.

So, I get my dick wet anyway, later, although I’m thinking about that sweet American girl in the pod as we do it, and I never tell Lizbet that I took her around the wrong cathedral or who it was I was thinking about as I fucked her.


You know you’re from London when:

  • You are angry that you can’t get a haircut at three in the morning.
  • You can buy weed more easily than you can milk or eggs.
  • You can buy crack more easily than you can buy weed.
  • You come home from the shops without noticing that its Christmas day until you turn the TV on.
  • You learn how to do fractions as a child by buying eighths and sixteenths of hash in the school yard.
  • You don’t understand why people from other places walk so slowly.
  • You think that waiting more than a minute for a bus is an outrage.
  • You are baffled by how out of towners could possibly get lost in London.
  • The only countryside you need is on the TV.
  • You are polite to tourists when they ask for directions but always send them in the wrong direction.
  • You know its monday morning because only half the people you meet are drunk.
  • You support tube strikes but you fight old ladies to get on that replacement bus.
  • You think smiling should be made illegal in public.
  • You don’t even notice when white kids call other white kids ‘nigger’.
  • You think talking to strangers is a sign of mental illness.
  • You think people who do not dress in grey or black should be executed.
  • You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multiligual.
  • You have no idea where Buckingham Palace is.
  • You eat take outs from 15 different cultures and never have to travel more than a quarter of a mile.
  • You’ve never been on the London Eye.
  • You think 2 AM is way too early for a supermarket to close.
  • You don’t understand why tourists stare at some buildings or why they are taking photographs.
  • When you have Biryani for breakfast.
  • You want to kill people who call Angel, The Angel.
  • The police only ever stop and search you when you’re with your black mates.

inspired by this post from the awesome snarkysnatch


Oaf

It was the 70s and all the punks would hang out on the Kings Road. I had the works: tartan bondage pants, the original ‘god save’ t-shirt (printed inside out), a chain from my ear to my nose and a tall orange mohawk. We kept them stiff with soap, no one had hair gel back then.

All the tourists knew where to find us, we were like Buck House or some shit. They would take photos of us and we would then demand a pound from them. We weren’t violent, if a tourist refused to pay, my mate Oaf would threaten to vomit on them.


Tales of a Chugger

chugger:  (noun)  chug-er. Shortening of charity and mugger. A street fundraiser. A person who stands on the sidewalk and asks passers by to donate small amounts of money, on a regular basis, to charity.

I loved being a chugger. It was the best day job I ever had. I felt more like a soldier than when I was a soldier. It had a Robin Hood feel to it, to some we were outlaws, to others heroes. I liked being outside in all weathers, I loved chugging in the rain. I liked the pressure and the competitive nature of what we did, and I definitely liked it that most people didn’t like us.

“You’re just all fucking parasites!” a suit said to me on Wardour Street.
“If you fancy me Sir, just say so.”
“Where’s your team leader?”
“Standing right in front of you Sir.”
*looks me up and down, stares at my mohawk, shakes head and walks away*

It didn’t matter that most people didn’t get us, you only had to get three or four people to fall in love with you a day. That’s how it worked though, it wasn’t about the charity, it was all about the chemistry between you and the donor (we refered to them as ‘units’). It was us they bought, not the charity. Honestly, if the magic was there, they would have signed up for “Nuke the Dolphins”.


Olympic blow job

Has anyone else noticed how the London 2012 Olympics logo looks like Lisa Simpson giving someone a blow job?

Thanks to my mate Wobsy for pointing this out.


Seven more things

  • i am a writer and a designer and a developer and a layabout
  • i have been a cartoonist and a soldier and a web designer
  • i have been a teacher, an addict and a street fundraiser
  • i live in london but spend most of my time in facebook
  • i like to do voluntary work and australian women
  • i have had radio plays broadcast and a book on programming published
  • i like to type in lower case because it is easier to masturbate when you don’t have to use the ‘shift’ key