| EXTRACT FROM "KINGS CROSS" CHAPTER 3 - ON A WING AND A PRAYER |
| It was great having Claire stay with me. After my divorce, and my total
failure at having been able to effect any real reconciliation with my by
now ex-wife, I really felt that life was dealing me a fresh hand of cards.
It had been tortuous for me out in Clifden, in County Galway, where my ex
and I - and our newly-arrived daughter! - had gone to after selling our
house in Hornsey, north London. Travelling throughout Ireland in a Mercedes
camper van and stopping off in bed and breakfasts along the way, we had
travelled all the way round from Rosslare, through Waterford ( and past
the famous crystal glass factory), Wexford, through to Cork and Kerry. The
sheer beauty of the Emerald Isle marvelled me, as it did Evelyne. Each day
the sun would rise, resplendent in such incredible colours and with such
serenity it would sometimes make me weep. We came across a small but lovely
cottage on Sky Road, just outside Clifden, in County Galway that was for
sale , and put our monies together and bought it. It was here that we would
recreate our futures, I believed, and splice back together the strands of
our destinies. Looking out each morning, I would see the tiny islands on the horizon, with their miniature houses dotted all along their backs, with the world-famous Slyne lighthouse blinking its light at night. This light was the last thing of Ireland that many Irishmen and Irishwomen would ever see as they emigrated to the Americas, to escape the poverty, starvation and slavery forced upon them by their English colonial masters. What I was looking at, I realised, was the land from which my mother’s actual mother had come from. Born illegitimately, in the 1930s, my mum was snatched from her mother at birth, and given to another woman to bring up. She herself never managed to find her, though search and try she did, although I myself did, a tiny woman who must have been probably underaged when my English grandad made her pregnant. Yet despite all my efforts, a reconciliation with my ex still proved impossible, and I felt crushed by defeat. Whilst there, though, I had written three books- one book on the Lord of the Rings, turning it into an Oracle Pack for a British publisher, the other two were novels. Both of these died in childbirth, as they say, of manuscripts that get rejected and come back to haunt their authors with a heavy thud of a package on the hallway floor under the letterbox. We were running out of money, so I began to consider a brief trip back to London to get some new writing contracts underway. Whilst back in London, though, one thing led to another and despite sending money back to my ex, she suddenly wanted to sell the cottage and come back to the UK. |
| Eventually I agreed, and when the place was sold I found to my amazement
that my investment had grown, and began looking in places such as Exeter
for a flat. In the meantime, I moved into a flat overlooking the whole panorama
of London, which I found almost as inspirational as my previous lookout
over Galway Bay. ‘This is a bit of alright, innit mate?’ the cockney girl’s accent was grating, first thing in the morning, but in a pleasantly refreshing kind of way. This sexy little waif was standing on tiptoe, looking out the opened window st the view over London, and at the extensive shared garden in the back, immaculately manicured. Wiping the sand from my eyes, the first thing that hit me was the cheeky little bottom of this maiden peeping back at me. My goodness, the joys of life, I thought to myself, as I licked my lips in devilish anticipation of some nice pussy with which to start the day. It was obvious she needed help, this poor young girl alone in London, where wicked men abounded that would fiendishly and eagerly take advantage of such a maiden. I knew- I was one of them. Getting her back had been easy enough, and she had been only too keen to get down to biznis- which is what she called our lovemaking!-after a good blast of crack cocaine on the water pipe which I kept and occasionally used. But the few small pieces which I had in stock, and which usually lasted me a week or so before I needed a top up, had been machined gun down in a single evening. It had been a good blast, though, admittedly, but I had just done over two hundred pounds worth of gear. Still, if that’s what it took to finance a first date with such a cracking bird as this, no problem. In times gone past, I have spent that much on a straight night’s whoring- whereas here I had the makings of a real relationship! What a challenge, though, I thought to myself, looking at myself in the shaving mirror. Trust me! Fancy ending up with a King’s Cross girl- and, from what she was telling me- one of the leading ones there, too! I couldn’t help grinning at myself. In my career as a tarot reader I had often come across girls that were into a bit of whoring, either full-on or just now and again. A lot of men’s wives do it, with their hubbies not a jot wiser, to finance a new car or new home. One girl had even come to me and asked me to pimp her- a sweet young thing from Gloucester, who, with her young looks and naughty ways eventually ditched me and went on to become London’s west end’s most successful Naughty Schoolgirl act- making thousands of pounds a day, I’m told. Yet- in a weird kind of way- it made perfect sense. A lot of men have the fantasy of seeing ‘their bird’ getting down ‘n’ dirty with another man-even in front of them, even on the nuptial bed. They call it cuckolding, and I wondered if I might even be one of them. I paused while shaving, and wondered. Could I be one of them? I imagined a string of strange and perverted men streaming in and out my bed, humping the daylights out of Claire and leaving all their spunkstains smeared all over the bed, wiping their dicks clean on the curtains, and the place starting to smell of other mens’ spunk. Was I going nuts? If so, why was my dick doing getting so hard and red -around the- head in between my legs right now? I breathed deeply, and knew I would be getting into this fantasy big time when I next slid between this bird’s legs and started to blow my load. |
| I looked round at her, and she was laying there, playing with her fanny,
nice and virtually bald, her hairs all shaved off, pulling it around like
it was a piece of plasticine. I went straight over and got into the 69 position,
and started to lap into this cunt while as I looked further down I could
see her lips bob-a-jobbing my end, her eyes peeping up at me submissively
thorough her long eyelashes. For a moment she paused, and then spoke, my dick standing upright and red in her right hand. ‘I might want to use this gaff wot to bring me punters back, aw’right?’ and with that she was bobbing me again, her clit twiddling in between my lips like it was a tiny dick, about to blow its load. One thing was for sure, I sure blew mine. What a lovely turn-on. This bird knew how to bring a bloke off, and no mistake. While she lapped up the remaining droplets from around my balls, I realized that in a way it made perfect sense for me to hook up with a bird like this. Here was I- a man of strong and quite exceptional needs- how could I possibly expect an ordinary woman to satisfy me? What I needed was a girl that –at the very least- had an extensive repertoire of sexual skills with which to me my voracious needs. I had had enough of being the round peg that tried to fit into the square hole. The little straight man’s life that I had been trying so pathetically to fulfil would never suit an old Buccaneer like me. I needed a real wench, but hopefully one that could be trained and brought under the leash of submission, so she wouldn’t overthrow me. And there was the rub. That might prove to be a bit challenging. Still, might not it prove interesting? Getting dressed, we both now got ready to go out. I wasn’t quite sure what was coming next. Oh yes, time for me to get back to my shop in Queensway. It seemed a million miles away- it was in fact right across in west London, and I usually took the tube. ‘Right mate, I’ll be seeing ya’ Nelly Furtado was saying, as she slipped into her tracksuit bottoms and headed for the door in a single bound. ‘Oh, right, OK then’ I heard myself saying, leaning forward for a kiss, but none was forthcoming and she was out the door. I didn’t realize till after, that so was an extra £60 from my wallet, when I got to Archway station and went to pay for my ticket. The little minx! Still, in a way it was kinda sweet- it made me smile. Was I in love? Days passed in the shop and I decided that it was time to take a swoop round the Cross to see what was on offer there. I might evens see this little minx, I thought. That would be nice. I would leave out the biznis side, though- probably too risky. This the first time she had had me over for £200 worth of gear - £40 for the shag- and then an extra £60 in the clip. Quite an expensive afternoon, evening, I realized, but probably small potatoes for her. Since then she had probably ‘done’ dozens of punters, and not even remember from in particular. Or would she? Deep within my stupid male pride was the hope that the massive orgasm she had had in my face was a real one- I knew that mine most definitely had been-and that when she had told me that she could never normally ‘come’ with punters there had been something so sincere and embarrassed about the way she told me I had believed her. Could there really be such an amazing bond between us? I had had enough experience with women to know that by and large they are ruled by their cunts. Whichever way their cunt votes the rest of them gets to vote that way eventually- even if they hold out in their heart or their head for a while, eventually even these defences must crumble in the face of their pussy grumblings. This is not to say anything detrimental, either- this is the way human nature is. Similarly men- if they fancy a bird- and in particular if she decides it is to her advantage to play up to this- will do anything he has to for that pussy. This is human nature, how Mother Nature has formed us so we all want to continue shagging and thus keep our respective species going. |
| Sometimes I would get into my car and do ‘a tour of duty’,
that is, a few rounds down in the Cross, flowing around in the one-way system
there, spotting the different chicks that I had bonked or been blown by.
Some would be almost staggering along, their eyes bleary from ‘their
missions’- the 3 day coke and H binges in which they would go beserk
shagging , their pussies sopping wet when you went to shag them from all
the crack they’d been blasting. I remembered one occasion when I had
picked up one girl, and driven her to a deserted car park off the Cross,
a bit up towards Islington. In the back seat we clambered- as I always preferred
the back seat where I had space for a pussy shot. Merely getting blown up in the front seat I have always regarded as being short-changed- you can’t beat that for a starters course, truly, but then I like to drop anchor( my trousers) and ‘hoist away’( take my dick out). A quick slip of a rubber, and the maiden is then guiding me in. ‘Guide me in’ I said to her, ‘Just guide me in’. I don’t know why, but I have always liked to say those words at that crucial moment- for me it is like sat and pepper on yer eggs and bacon. And guide me in she jolly well did. Oh, what a pleasure to see her quickly slip her panties off, and open her legs for me. ‘There, there, that’s my girl’, I said to her, as I eased in. It was bliss. A lovely warm, wet pussy, like walking into a friendly pub in the midst of a winter’s squall, with the blazing log fire in the hearth and a row of smiling faces along the bar. Try as I might top hold back, within minutes I was blowing my own trumpet so to speak and floating on Cloud 9. Wasn’t life simple, really? Why did we have to make things so damn complicated??? But then from out of nowhere another car swoops alongside. Not just adjacent- that might be another punter- this one was close- too close! This was a blag( robbery)! Had she set me up? I looked at the chick, but she looked as though she didn’t know what was going on. Still, that didn’t mean much- the girls are all brilliant actresses- some of them actual actresses out to make some real money for the night! But a glance at the driver of the car showed me a black man. I didn’t see a girl in his passenger’s seat, though, which might have allayed had my suspicions. Either he had just pulled in here for a quiet smoke or he had spotted us, and had come to rob me- and probably her, too. I was still naked at this point, but had enough sense to grab my trousers, and jump into the front seat with them, pulling my jacket with me. The girl was also naked, but still in the back seat. Slamming the key into the ignition, I fired the engine and it burst into life. It was a brand new BMW so it should have. In a flash we were out of there and away, leaving whatever was ‘due’ or ‘could have happened’ far behind in our collective histories. |
| A few corners later, all taken at about sixty miles an hour, throwing
the two of us from one side of the car to the other and back again, she
in the back seat, and me in the front, and we were in the clear. ‘Oi mate!’ she cried, in her overdone Cockney accent, ‘Pull over ‘ere!’ she said, pointing to one especially shady spot where a series of trees hung ominously over the pavement from an overgrown front garden, as if they were people stretching their arms out to catch someone unawares. Even the houses round here looked spooky-the large windows like vacant eyes of the lobotomised, staring into space even when you looked right at them. I pulled over, and made sure my wallet was still in my trouser pocket, where I had stashed it, my clothes still in a big bundle which I had hurriedly made and dragged with me into the front seat, naked, and all too eager to avoid what then had looked like a right royal turning over just about to take place. In a flash she was out the car, and off into the night. Rarely had I seen someone become so ephemeral so quickly, instantaneously blending back into the band of merging and coalescing shadows from which she had emerged. Her little legs pumped away as she disappeared, her bum still peeping out from where her short skirt had gotten caught up with her panties as she trotted off into the night. Where did all these girls come from, I wondered? Why did I feel such a sense of being so forlorn at seeing her go? Why did these girls mean so much to me, that I was prepared to risk so much for such brief encounters? Although I lacked the words to then describe it, somehow these girls represented a part of my soul, which I was desperately trying to retrieve, to find, a small piece here in this girl, another piece there in that one. Somehow I was trying to piece all the fragmented and scattered segments back together again. Was I losing my mind, or was there a method in my madness? It was then that I noticed two uniformed police officers standing in the darkness underneath a tree, just where the girl had walked! What did this mean? Was this a set-up? If so, what kind? Or a coincidence? I couldn’t see if she had actually gone over to them, but I thought they had just happened to be there- no, the girl was walking down on the opposite side of the street, away from them. But it could still have been a set-up, at that. In any event, I wasn’t going to hang around to find out. Time to vanish, which I did. A couple of corners later, and lo and behold of all coincidences a flashing blue light appeared right behind me, along with the outraged howl of the cat which a police siren has always reminded me of. I pulled over, aware that I was still naked, behind the wheel. The police officer got out of his car, and came over to mine. It being a left hand drive, the driver seat was on the left, close to the pavement. ‘Excuse me sir,’ he began, ‘But would you mind getting out of the car?’ he asked me. ‘I’d rather not’ I replied. ‘Why is that. Sir?’ he asked, politely. ‘Because as you can see’ I indicated my naked lower region, ‘I seem to be somewhat indisposed at the moment’. |
| His face at that moment was a picture- in the space of about three seconds
I sawe the emotions of shock, horror, fear, disbelief, and then finally-
admiration!- flash across his face. ‘Sarge’, he called out to his companion, ‘This one’s bloody naked!’ In those days the police were having one of their periodic crackdowns on the swarms of punters which in the spirit of samurai stormed into Stamford Hill and the Cross each evening, and kept up the frantic pace of the nocturnal barrage of merry bonking right through till every sunrise. And then, to coin a phrase, as the cock crew did it all stop, until the following nightfall, anyway. Both the girls and the punters followed an unwritten code which decreed that all such fornications should only take place under cover of night, although it was sometimes overruled by necessity, on occasion. Like strange nocturnal beings both the hunted and the hunting, the clucking and the stoned, junkies for flesh or junkies for the stuff would follow the rules of their guild and generally cease- or at least substantially tone down all their activities- when daylight came along. Getting out of that car that night, completely bullock naked as the day I was born onto the pavement I performed something of an initiation ceremony upon myself. Possibly for the neighbourhood itself as well, like an underworld deity from some ancient mythology arising from the nether region back to the world’s surface. I gingerly climbed back into my underpants and other clothes. Meanwhile the attendant officer’s ministrations had taken an almost reverential tone, as if he were witnessing some moment of great historical import. ‘Can I ask you were you with a prostitute, sir?’ he asked me. I didn’t want to incriminate myself on this point, knowing only too well how most would-be villains get themselves a guilty verdict by what they say at moments such as these- but neither, on the other hand, did I want to antagonise what might yet turn out to be a hopefully not hostile police patrol by treating them as stupid. ‘Well I wouldn’t describe my date as quite in that category’ I replied, carefully hedging my bets as best I could, answering neither in the affirmative yet simultaneously giving them the nod about what was going on. ‘Well, then why have you left the durex on the back seat, sir?’ |
| ‘What durex?’ I asked, genuinely mystified. ‘That durex!’ he answered, and proceeded to point out to me a single very lonely looking durex lying on the back seat, where the girl had pulled it out of herself prior to getting hastily dressed. ‘Always get rid of the evidence’ he said to me, conspiratorially, removing the offending condom with a pen and flicking it into the gutter. ‘By the way, sir, have you anything here with your name and address on it?’ I thought for a moment. In actual fact I didn’t, only for the reason that like many punters when they went a-whoring round these areas, I always removed my wallet and any ID just in case I ever got waylaid and robbed by the many teams of muggers that moved with the girls. Instead, the only ID I carried was a membership card for the Masonic magazine ‘Masonic Square’ which carried no reference to anything Masonic, but merely showed the famous symbol of the square and compass, emblazoned in black on a gold background surmounted with a letter ‘G’. This also showed my name, but- there was no actual address on it. ‘Here’, I said, ‘This has got my name and address on it!’ I said with emphasis, holding the card close to his face, hoping against hope that my authoritative demeanour might yet carry the day and enable me to avoid an uncomfortable night in the cells. Thankfully, my acting ability won the day, and within moments I was climbing back into my car, and heading off home after yet another evening’s happy hunting. And yet I was beginning to miss my minxy little friend Claire. I thought of myself as a rescuing knight, who had been chosen by fate to swoop down and pull this troubled young lady back into a normal life. Although an occasional smoker myself, I was no way into it as deeply as she was, and - bit by bit - I would be able to help her get off the stuff, and then be rewarded with the love of my life. It was the most romantic opportunity I had ever come across in my entire lifetime. In all my previous relationships, I had never really meant that much to whoever I had happened to get in with. Most birds put up with me until something better came along, or their boyfriends came back out of prison. Then, my little bubble would burst and I would be left yet again desolate and heartbroken. I also had some faith in the magical spell I had cast - it seemed to be working. For sure it was working, came the thought, as I turned the key in the ignition and headed the car out through Archway and down Fortress Road towards King’s Cross. Only now something else was cutting in. I was no longer so interested in any of the other girls that floated around that area - I realised I was actually looking for Claire. Night after night I looked, and could find no trace. Neither hide nor hair of her could I come across, and then, about a fortnight after our initial encounter, there she was! |
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| To read an extract of Terry Donaldson's life story, please click here. | ||
