In my College Years, I was very fortunate to have a variety of extremely beautiful girlfriends, this was not so much due to my astounding good looks and charm but rather to circumstance. I went to an Art College with a Fashion Department and this meant that there were at least 3 girls to every guy. Once you had shown yourself to be at least half-way competent in sexual matters, you had a very good chance of being offered sex on a regular basis. I was very fortunate to be spotted by a girl who was already well established in the College hierarchy and although several of my subsequent girlfriends will attest to the fact that I was completely inept, the fact that I had dated someone held in high regard, was sufficient to ensure a continuation of opportunities to show what I could, or could not, do.

To save blushes, I shall refer to this fabulous person as Miriam. She was Jewish with a penchant for Bacon sandwiches. She was full figured, slightly smaller but quite a bit heavier than me, beautiful, teutonically blonde and adopted. Her adoptive Mum was just as gorgeous but in an olive skinned, tiny, fine boned, Asiatic way, which made the two of them together quite formidable. There was no way, this side of the Old Testament, that Mum was ever going to consider me as other than one of her daughters’ goy flings, prior to her being introduced to a nice Jewish boy from a good family.

Our sex life was, I felt, pretty good. What I lacked in technique, I made up for in enthusiasm and Miriam enjoyed an enthusiastic approach to everything. One night, after a particularly enthusiastic session, I got up for a pee. Hobbled through to the lav, lifted the lid and let go a bladder full. But half way through, somebody hit me round the head with a cricket bat. Or at least that is what it felt like. The stream stopped in mid-flow and I turned round in terror. The bathroom door was closed. There was nobody there. But someone had definitely whacked me a beauty. I shared an attic flat in a very old house with two other guys, but they were away for the weekend. A cold chill made the hair on my arms stand up. My back and legs were covered in goosepimples. We had a Poltergeist. That was the only possible solution.

I managed to convince myself to relax, somehow, and started to finish the matter in hand, but as I did so, I realized that my head was slowly being forced forwards and down until, by the time I had finished peeing, my head was resting on the cistern. The urge to panic was very strong. What had previously been my trusty member was now this little acorn trying to do a Sumo impersonation and I was bent like a 90 year old victim of osteoporosis.

My heart was pounding. I shuffled off back to my bed, looking for footprints in the dust or a hovering cricket bat, but there was nothing of the sort. Miriam told me to get a move on, get back into bed and keep her warm, but I couldn’t. I was stuck rigid at 90 degrees and sex in this position would only have been possible if Miriam were a bloke. With a sympathetic huff, she pushed a pillow and a duvet off the bed and I spent the rest of the night on the floor, wondering who had hit me.

In the morning, Miriam softened slightly, but my rigor mortis did not. She helped me on with my clothes and held the door for me as I headed off to the Doctor’s clinic. There was no way she was going to be seen on the street with me in this condition. I made a pretty weird spectacle, shuffling down the street, bent at right-angles from the waist like an extreme Groucho Marx. I got to the Clinic and managed to push open the door, but the reception desk was a window in the wall and I was below it. The door had opened invisibly, nobody knew I was there and now ‘I’ was the Poltergeist. I managed to get my fingers up onto the shelf and then hoisted myself into view. The Receptionist gave a little scream as I popped up.

I grimaced with the effort, “I need to see Doctor Thomas please”.

“Okay. We can fit you in on Thursday at 4pm, how’s that?”

I grimaced a bit more, “I need to see Doctor Thomas now please. I am in incredible pain and about to void my bowels all over your nice clean lobby. How about it?”

There was pause while she tried to judge if I really meant it, so I said “I’ll scream!”

“Oh alright! You Students! I’ll fit you in as soon as I can. Go and sit in the Waiting Room!”

“Sit?!” I said, in my most incredulous voice.

“Well stand then! Or wedge yourself in a corner! But don’t be a nuisance.”

I hobbled into the Waiting Room and found a corner where I could brace my arse and rest my arms on a chair back. There were several “Tuts!”. Slowly, the room emptied. Now it was just me. “The Doctor will see you now Mr. Dainton” and I pushed through his surgery door.

Doc Thomas was an old fashioned Doctor and his years of treating Art College students had brought him great amusement, if not a lot of private consulting fees. He was famous for asking every male student to drop his pants for an inspection, even if you went in with a broken arm. Still, our College had a very low VD rate, not because he was a great Doctor, but more probably because he was a notorious gossip. If you got the Clap, everybody in town knew to steer clear.

“Now then Mr. Dainton ! What appears to be the matter?” He turned and peered over his glasses. “Christ! What happened to you? Fall off your bike? Rugby Scrum? Beer adventure? All of the above?”

“No Doctor, I had an ehrm, personal misadventure”

“Well look, get up here on the bed and we’ll have a gander at you. This could be tricky and a bit painfull, but if you do it this way, it should be okay.” and he demonstrated a sort of sideways vault.

I tried it and gave out a bloodcurdling scream. With his years of medical experience, he clamped a very firm hand over my mouth. “Let’s not upset the neighbours Mr. Dainton. In your own time in, your own manner, but no more screaming. Eh?”

Once I got my breath back, I bit my lip and slithered onto the bed somehow. I lay on my back and my legs pointed straight at the ceiling. “Oh dear. That is a little odd, don’t you think?” He asked, as if I would know. He took hold of one foot, “Now this might hurt. You will let me know, won’t you?” he smiled. Gently he pulled the foot down until the leg was flat on the bed, the other one still pointing skywards. “Now that’s good”, he said, presumably because I hadn’t screamed. He let go and slowly, the foot raised itself until it was aligned with its partner. Doc Thomas giggled, “This is fun. Isn’t it?” I wasn’t falling about with mirth, but at least I wasn’t screaming in agony. He, meanwhile, repeated the process with the other leg and clapped his hands with glee when it did its levitation thing as well.

“Very good. I’m relieved to say that we have now determined that you haven’t slipped a disc. This really is fascinating” and he started with the legs again. “Now you really must tell me how it occurred”.

“Well Doctor…” and I told him all about the toilet and the cricket bat episode. “Fascinating. Fascinating. And before that Mr. Dainton? I doubt very much that this was caused by reading in bed”.

I covered my mouth with my hand and mumbled something. “Sorry! Didn’t catch that”, was his response.

“I think I did it during sexual intercourse Doctor”.

“Oh you poor bast…. Sorry! Sorry.” And he tried to compose himself. “How unfortunate Mr. Dainton! And the young lady? I trust there was a young lady involved. Possibly, by the look of this, there were two?” And he sat down behind his desk, giggling and phoned Doctor Jacobs in the next office, who was round in seconds and the pair of them were then pulling down my legs and then falling about laughing as they levitated slowly to the sky.

Despite their strict assurances that it was just a formality for the records, I declined to provide them with the name of the young lady involved and, after they had stopped laughing for a while Doc Thomas explained that I was the victim of a hyper-extension of the spine. That during excessive over-arching, I had managed to lever one of the vertebrae out of its socket. The cricket bat round the head was the result of the top half of my spine dropping back into place and the subsequent pain was the inflamed spinal cord which had been nipped between the vertebrae when they were out of alignment. He gave me some tablets, some cream and a National Health walking stick and, as I walked out the door, some advice. “And perhaps we should put away the trapeze and wading boots Mr. Dainton”. And with that, the pair of them howled with laughter.

I made it back to the flat, took the anti-inflammatories and later, when Miriam came round, she rubbed some cream into my back and I told her the whole story. She seemed very amused, but not overly impressed that I had protected her honour by keeping her name out of it. Which I thought had been the gentlemanly thing to do.

Anyway, the next day, I was feeling much better but still couldn’t walk very well without the stick. I had a bit of a lie in and then decided that I should go into College and report sick. By the time I got there it was lunch and so I wandered over to the canteen. I pushed open the Canteen door and stepped in, heading for the queue to get a bite to eat. The place was pretty crowded, but I spotted Miriam with her best friend Jane over on the far side. As I walked forward, the place started to get very quiet until a complete hush descended. I looked round, a bit bewildered and then somebody shouted ‘Hooray!’ and the whole Canteen burst into applause. Evidently, Miriam had not been as circumspect as I had. By the time I got to the Dinner Ladies, they were all lined up beaming and the head dinner lady, Big Mary herself, carried my lunch tray to Miriam’s table and gave my bum a pinch as I sat down. Miriam, was a bit red in the face, but still managed to light a fag and look unconcerned. Jane was dancing round the table and making exaggerated humping movements with Big Mary.

Of course, none of this did my reputation any harm at all and it has to be said that by the time Miriam and I split up, there were a number of young ladies (And Big Mary the Dinner Lady) waiting in the wings, with trapeze, wading boots and all sorts of tackle.

However, that was not the only adventurous experience with the lovely Miriam. There was the time, when on a camping trip, that we started getting frisky in a two person tent. The door was open and she wasn’t an exhibitionist, so I had to close it. Miriam didn’t leave a lot of room in a small tent and so it was with great dexterity that I revolved around my own axis and then completed a forward roll that brought me to the tent door in a tucked position. As I zipped the tent shut, I felt an odd sensation in my groin and looked down at my engorged member. There he was, firmly staring me right in the eye. No problem there. But he had no balls. I gave out a gasp and looked around, but they had disappeared. I let out a sort of strangled whimper and when Miriam asked, “What’s up?” I could only gurgle and point. She looked very closely and exclaimed, “That is so cool!” But of course, that’s not what I thought.

“Look!” she said, and pointed to two egg shaped lumps up above my dick where, in future years, I would get a similar shaped hernia. Gently, she pushed one and then squealed with delight as my bollock dropped back into place. Then she did the other and squealed once more. “Do it again! Do it again! Can we do it with them up there? It would be like having sex with a Sumo!” Needless to say, that is as close to being Japanese as I ever wanted to get and I left her disappointed.

Then, one weekend, Miriam had her Mothers’ car and determined that we should go off for a dirty weekend. This, in itself, was a bit of a Bus Mans’ holiday, in that every weekend and most weekdays and nights, were about as dirty as they could get, except that we quite often did it in the bath. Anyway, off we went to enjoy a seaside weekend. Cheltenham is about as far away from the coast as it is possible to get in England and the closest local resorts have names such as ‘Weston-Super-Mud’. Miriam wanted something a bit more exotic than that and so it was that we went abroad, to Wales, and Barry Island to be exact.

Whether Barry is, in fact, an Island, is something of a moot point. It was a grey miserable weekend and we didn’t venture out much. We found a holiday Bed & Breakfast that had a lovely view of the Train Yards, the local Pub served pies that even a sinful Jewess could not stomach and the locals were about as friendly as Welsh people ever are. Which is to say, they were complete animals. The nightlife in 1974 Barry Island was absolutely dire.

But the bed was good and big and stood up to a severe tonking and, in the morning, the Landlady served a great breakfast. We were a practiced couple and didn’t merit much attention, but a young pair who very obviously were on a real dirty weekend, got the complete discourse from the Landlady about last nights’ Banshee. The eerie noises, shifting furniture, wails and screams. Until the young woman ran from the breakfast table, much to the general mirth of everybody else.

We checked out and drove back through the rain to England and, true to form, as we drove into Chepstow, the sun came out. Barry had been a bit of a let down, the driving had been hard and Miriam had a monk-on. We decided to stop and have a picnic. We went into a local Deli and bought Ham, Cheese, Wine and French Bread and we climbed the Castle mound so that we could sit in the sun against the Castle walls. As we climbed, Miriam was really giving me it in the ear about what a crap place Barry was, it was a crap idea to go there in the first place, the weather had been crap, the driving was crap, she felt like crap and it was all my crapping fault. So I’d just better make it up to her by making her the best sandwich ever, loads of ham and get the wine open as soon as possible. As we climbed the slope and as all this crapping verbiage was washing over me, I spotted a little ledge in the grass and, on the little ledge, a little grass snake warming himself in the sun. Without breaking stride, I scooped him up and into my jacket pocket.

I sat against the walls, which were warmed by the sun. Miriam lay beside me on the grass, her hands over her eyes but, unfortunately, not her mouth and the endless droning litany of crapness carried on. I opened the wine and, of course, it was crap, just barely drinkable, don’t even think about getting any of her share. I sliced the French bread lengthways and laid in the Ham, the Cheese and the Grass Snake. He was very sleepy and didn’t wriggle at all. His head and tail stuck out at either end and he seemed quite happy in his cheesy bed. I handed him to Miriam. “Here you are Darling” I sang to her.

One hand came off her eyes and groped towards the sandwich, “It better not be crap!” I pressed it into her grip. It swung towards her lips and, just as she opened her mouth to eat, she removed the other hand and opened her eyes. There was a moments’ pause as the two eyed each other. Then the snake blinked and flicked out his tongue. Miriam screamed in a way that Hollywood can only attempt. The snake sandwich sailed off into the ether and Miriam was on her feet. She didn’t stop kicking me until I had rolled all the way back down the Castle mound. Mothers covered the ears of children. The kicks slowly gave way to slaps as I managed to stop laughing. Then she kissed me. We found the remnants of the sandwich, these were mine now and I made her a new one. It really had been a great dirty weekend.

• Uncategorized