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The Hooker | |||||||||||||||||||
| A Brief Encounter; a Hooker | |||||||||||||||||||
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This story has some explicit sexual contact. Please be wary. This story will remain at this address for the time being, but will most likely be moved to "Best of 2000" to show the best stories of 2000. I love this story. This story comes from the writings of William Webb Ellis. See the below links to see other stories on www.finedisregard.com. After a lengthy Festive rest and recuperation, my first 'Fine Disregard' of the new year is a (temporary, perhaps) departure from the norm. Ladies and Gentlemen, I offer you a love story. . . What follows is true. The name of the rugby club is not mentioned and the names of the individuals have been changed, for obvious reasons... It was a warm and still evening in late May, and the light was fading fast. Eric could see a low narrow bank of cloud lining the horizon, clouds which were tinged with a glowing pink luminosity cast by the rays of the setting sun. The birds were singing out their last calls of the day. There was so little breeze that not even the tiniest leaf seemed to be moving in the woodland to his right. Eric smiled broadly as he strolled across the grass, glad to be alive on this gorgeous, beautiful evening. His reverie was broken by an all too familiar snarl, which startled him so much he felt his eyes widen as he caught his breath. "FUCKIN' 'ELL ERIC THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE ENDURANCE TRAINING - MOVE, YER FAT BASTARD!" Without even turning his head towards the source of the noise, Eric broke into a trot and pretended to make an effort to catch up with the rest of the team. He knew it was a futile task; everyone else was so far in front that Eric had to squint, in the failing light, just to try to focus on the backs of their ridiculously fast-moving tracksuits. Now no longer one with Nature, Eric returned to his usual method of surviving training - complaining to himself. He knew he was very good at complaining, and he had heard it rumoured that all hookers have this gift. The shouted voice which had thrown him so cruelly from his daydream belonged to The New Coach. He had been at the club, this little Sussex backwater, for all of four weeks, and because he was actually getting paid, The New Coach had insisted upon endurance training. Endurance training in May, Eric thought to himself, and pulled a face as he plodded along the touchline; whoever heard of such a thing? Eric cast his eyes towards the metallic blue sky. Spare me, he winced. Spare me from having to take orders from Men With Ambition... Still, Eric considered, life wasn't bad for a not very good and not very fit hooker like himself in this neck of the woods. He was 26 years of age, a regular first team player, and he was aware that he commanded a certain respect from the other club members. Well no, he decided, that last bit wasn't particularly true. When he told himself he commanded a certain respect from the other club members, what he really meant, if he was being really honest, was that they didn't take the piss out of him ALL of the time. The bit about him being a regular for the first team was truethough, and that sounded good, particularly to people who didn't know much about local rugby. Eric had to concede to himself that it would sound less than impressive if one was told the first team had won only five games in the last two seasons; and one of those wins was a friendly against the local greengrocer and his drinking buddies, a last minute drop goal (definitely NOT by Eric) deciding the issue. No, the sad truth was, Eric was the regular hooker for the first team because no one else wanted to be. He frowned and he heard The New Coach shout again, this time from further away. "ERIC, GET BACK TO THE HUT YER DAFT BASTARD BEFORE YER GET LOST IN THE DARK!" Eric turned and headed for the warm yellow glow of the window of the modest clubhouse, the flyblown 60 watt bulb casting long shadows on the gravel of the car park. Another shout. "HURRY UP YER FAT BASTARD!" Eric reminded himself that he is a hooker willingly, without payment and for his own pleasure. . . On the face of it, and just a few short months ago he himself would have agreed, there seemed to be little or no pleasure in Eric's existence. He spent so much time at the rugby club that he had no friends outside that small, masculine world, and therefore no opportunity to go out and meet a girl. . . | ||||||||||||||||||
| Hooker | |||||||||||||||||||
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For shy and unattached people like Eric, a rugby club can be a lonely place. At first glance the casual observer would see a couple of dozen men, some in blazers, some not, some sober, most not, all singing songs together as they gathered with their arms entwined and big, beaming smiles on their faces. Scratch the surface though, and the thin veneer crumbles. The men, ties twisted around out of position, shirts clinging to their bodies with the beer sweat, are merely playing a role, their own idea of a caricature of what a rugby player does and what a rugby player is. To Eric, these people seemed so loud, so sure of themselves as they roared up to the club, jumped out of their cars, did the training without any of Eric's faltering, gasping steps, drank eight pints and roared away into the night. Life, to them, was no problem. To Eric life was a never ending obstacle course, and he needed people to talk to, to confide in, to go out with to meet girls, to see films, to go to the theatre. . . but the rugby club could never offer this. The gathering of men, the testosterone, the macho bullshit, all combined to close down the conversation to only a few conceivable topics. The talk was of cars, money, how your bench presses were coming along, exaggerated bullshit (Eric hoped it was, anyway) about the amount of women they'd screwed since the last training night, the positions adopted, the blowjobs received. Eric went along with the pantomime, the sweaty singing, the smiles and laughter, and if he drank enough, for a short while he could actually believe he wasn't absolutely alone in this crowded clubhouse. It wasn't as though Eric was a virgin. Well, he didn't think so anyway, but he had to admit (only to himself, though) that, technically, he still might be. . . Two seasons ago the club was on a close-season mini tour in Wales. These jaunts were invariably organised by those club members who were most miserable of all in their marriages, and were nothing more or less than glorified piss-ups, an excuse to get away from the ball and chain for a week or so with a couple of half-hearted matches thrown in to give the whole thing a touch of credibility. The team were staying in a seedy hotel in Mountain Ash, a small town about twenty miles from Cardiff. Eric was extremely drunk, and finally, in the wee small hours, he had decided to leave the others in the hotel bar and stagger off in an attempt to locate his bed. Once on the first floor landing, Eric was kidnapped. There can be no other word for it. He was vaguely aware of a door opening, just off to his left, but before his drunken senses could register anything more, someone or something grabbed his arm and pulled him inside the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Eric's momentum carried him into the room and he stumbled, falling onto a bed. Once Eric could manage to focus, he saw a woman towering over him. An old, stocky woman, almost as wide as she was tall. The classic build of a hooker, in fact. She announced that she was going to make love to him. Eric cleared his throat nervously as he drunkenly weighed up the options. As he did so, she had already undressed. On the one hand he could see this woman had incredibly large feet, legs which literally had more hair on them than his own, breasts on which the veins were so prominent that they looked like two surreal maps of the London Underground, and the stomach of a Buddha. On the other hand he had worried for years and years that he might die a virgin. All things considered he decided to slip her one and regret it later. He thought he was doing well. Five minutes into his performance, he was congratulating himself on a job well done. He was aware that many virgins found their first attempt at intercourse difficult, but he had studied hardcore porn videos closely for many years, and this seemed to be paying off with regard to what goes where. Fantastic, he thought to himself, I'm no longer a virgin, I've finally done it . . . and then his world imploded and his beer-fuelled thimble of confidence evaporated in an instant as he heard the Welsh grandmother of three ask, in idle curiosity, "Is it in yet, bach?" Eric made his incoherent excuses and pulled on his clothes. He found a bathroom on another floor, climbed into the bath, and stared straight ahead of him, stared in horror at the memory of what had just happened. Was he still a virgin or wasn't he? He didn't know. He decided it probably wasn't the thing to bring up for general discussion with his team mates. Eventually, after giving himself the benefit of the doubt, he fell into a fitful sleep. . . But that was a long time ago, Eric consoled himself. Two seasons ago. The woman was so old she could well be dead by now. It had been sordid, tawdry, offensive and terrible. The low point in his life. But everything was alright now. The sun was forever shining and the birds forever singing. A new purpose had entered Eric's previously drab existence. This not very good and not very fit hooker was in love. Obviously, Eric being Eric, he hadn't actually spoken to the girl in question and right from the start had determined to merely worship her from afar - but still, just seeing her face say, once a month, just that was enough to make Eric's heart skip a beat. . . He remembered, as if it were yesterday, the first time their eyes had met, the first time she had spoken to him. It was during a home Christmas fixture against some unpronounceable Scottish team, who were themselves on a mini tour away from their wives. She hadn't been difficult to spot; attendances were never high and she was, after all, a Goddess. The 'crowd', if that is what it could be called, was usually made up of a few friends and relatives, a couple of people out with dogs, and Loony Geoff. Eric always thought Loony Geoff was the most interesting and most vocal spectator present. They let him out of the Institute every Saturday afternoon and he was convinced he was watching, every Saturday afternoon, the all conquering Welsh national side of the seventies take on a Children's TV Programmes All Time XV. It was a pleasure to see the referee and opposition grow ever more disturbed as Loony Geoff would really get into the game. "Ooh, you dirty BASTARD, Andy Pandy!" "Lovely kick Captain Scarlet." "Watch Tinky Winky referee, he's collapsing it every time!" And in the second half, "Do try to concentrate, Blues", he would frequently implore, "we're looking through the SQUARE window this half!" That first time he had caught a glimpse of her, it seemed to him she stood out like a diamond in the middle of a coal seam, except she sparkled twice as brilliantly as any precious stone ever could. The light in her eyes illuminated the whole world, her smile lifted up his heart. She was without doubt the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Needless to say, Eric couldn't concentrate on the game. He was torn; a part of him wanted the final whistle to come so that he could gaze on her without interruption, and another part of him wanted the match to go on forever, because she would then be standing in front of him, on that touchline, for all eternity. At some point in the game (was it an hour or was it five minutes later? For the lovelorn Eric, time seemed to have lost its normal ebb and flow) the ball bobbled over the touchline less than six feet away from The Goddess. The referee signalled a lineout, Blue's throw - which meant that Eric got to walk towards her, he got to be near her, as it was his job to throw in the ball. Perhaps he would be able to catch a gentle hint of her perfume on the winter breeze? Would he be lucky enough to hear her voice, or to know her laugh for the first time? He jogged towards this beautiful creature, all the time trying not to appear self conscious but all the time trying to run through deep rice pudding, all the time trying to disguise the fact that his shorts had suddenly developed tent-like properties, all the time aware his face was as red as a traffic light. The entire World, or so it seemed, went absolutely still, and all eyes were on Eric as he picked up the ball and raised his arm for the throw. She was close by, to Eric's left and slightly behind him, but still he knew her lovely, gorgeous, piercing brown eyes were on him. He felt her gaze, like a laser beam, cutting through to his heart. He sucked in his stomach and squared his shoulders, and at that moment, in more ways than one, was fully erect. "Get it in number two, come on,"the referee urged. Oh, how much he wanted to. . . It was all too much for Eric. He closed his eyes and hurled the ball. It went straight to the opposition jumper who caught it cleanly and gave quick ball to the scrum half, who in turn sent it spinning along the backs. Eric watched the attack develop as the ball was moved far, far away up the pitch. In spite of himself, he couldn't resist chancing to glance across at her; he had to. She was the most beautiful woman in all of Creation and he knew he might never be this close to her again. Unbelievably, her lovely eyes met his timid and befuddled look. Her full red lips parted, showing her perfect, gleaming white teeth. Eric's heart skipped a beat as he realised she was about to speak to him. Oh, joy of Joys! She ran a graceful hand through her long dark tresses and her eyes burned into him as she cried out, "That was a WANK throw, number two!" Eric was in danger of dying of happiness; at last she had noticed him. Reluctantly, he jogged away to get behind the try line in readiness for the conversion of the try he had just handed to the opposition. In the following weeks and months his world was turned upside down and inside out, and he lived only to catch sight of The Goddess. Winter came and went, then Spring, and Eric spent all of that time happily worshipping from afar. He could not bring himself to speak to her. It was enough to see her hugging the touchline, as she did almost every game. Eric turned up for every evening of endurance training in May, not because he wanted to impress The New Coach, but because The Goddess might be there. It was a forlorn hope, he knew; but he didn't know anything about her apart from the fact that she came to the club on match days. She never attended training, though, and Eric consoled himself with the knowledge that it was probably for the best; whilst he could suck in his stomach during a match for the brief periods that he was near her, it was asking too much for him to breathe in for the whole of a training session. Then came the moment Eric had been dreading ever since Christmas; the end of the season. He wouldn't see The Goddess again until August, and by then, he managed to convince himself, she would have decided to support another, better team, or get involved in a different sport, or get married to a Hollywood actor or something. In desperation, and for the first time in years, Eric took to jogging during the close season. His route was a continual up and down one, to and fro, past the rugby club, first one way, then the other, in a frantic and futile attempt to catch a glimpse of The Goddess in case she lived nearby. By the time of the club's August Fund Raiser Summer Ball, Eric had never been more lovesick, and never been fitter. The Summer Ball was usually quite an ordeal for him as he felt more than a little self conscious in formal dress. He remembered the first time he had worn the outfit, when he descended the stairs ready for his parents' inspection. Although his mother had made little clucking noises of surprised approval, his father, not a rugby man himself, informed his son in a rather deadpan delivery that he looked like the man on television who sticks his fist up Sootys arse. Such comments can shake a young man's confidence to the core... But this year, for the first time ever, Eric was up for it and feeling rather excited as he walked towards the clubhouse, hoping against hope that the Goddess would be there. He checked his reflection in a car window and glanced down at himself. He was feeling the part in his shiny shoes, frilly shirt, cummerbund, bowtie and, just in case he was lucky, he toted a packet of lime flavoured condoms. | ||||||||||||||||||
| The finale | |||||||||||||||||||
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These condoms were already nine months past their 'Use By' date, thereby telling their own story of just how often Eric did get lucky. The bunting was out, and the clubhouse had never looked better after a close season lick of paint. The old guys at the club once told Eric that they got out the bunting when there was something monumental to celebrate. The bunting had been flown for example, on the defeat of The Kaiser, then later, on the victory over Hitler and all his evil hordes, and then again much later when, quoting 'musical differences', The Bay City Rollers decided to quit. All through the summer, all through those punishing runs Eric had inflicted upon himself, he hadn't once caught the briefest glimpse of The Goddess. He was no stranger to disappointment throughout those long, hot days, and as he entered the clubhouse he drew back his shoulders and prepared himself for yet another anti-climax. How wrong he was. The Goddess was there. Eric couldn't find words to describe how she looked at that moment. She was exquisite, flawless, beauty beyond compare. She was standing in a corner of the room, entirely alone. (Later, Eric remembered being non-plussed about that at the time; why isn't the most beautiful creature in the world surrounded by his club mates? Couldn't they see she was an angel?) Eric tried hard not to stare, and made his way to the bar. No sooner had he been presented with his pint that he sensed someone was at his elbow. He turned. . . and The Goddess was there, by his side. Not only that, but The Goddess actually wanted to speak to Eric! His legs turned to jelly. He was sure he was blushing. He found it hard to focus, and impossible to concentrate. Dimly he could see her full, ruby red lips begin to move, revealing perfect white teeth. He could hear the melody of her voice, the sweet tune to which his heart was dancing, but couldn't make out the words among the general noise of the gathering. He shrugged, apologetically; she understood, and made a gesture which suggested they would be better off outside the clubhouse. And in this way, Eric the unpopular, Eric the uncomfortable, Eric the unhappy, found himself strolling along the grass towards the little copse on the far side of the first team pitch, in bright sunshine, with an angel by his side and a pint in his hand. Eric had never been happier. As they walked, they talked. They talked about everything, and nothing. They spoke of their hopes, their dreams, their aspirations, their plans. He noticed her laugh, and how the light in her lovely brown eyes would dance and sparkle. In turn, she told him his wide shoulders made him seem the dependable, safe sort. Eric knew, and had known for longer than he could remember, that he was in love with this wonderful girl; but what was almost unbelievably fantastic is that this fabulous creature appeared to feel the same way about him. Eric's wildest dreams were coming true. She was falling in love with him. He hoped he wouldn't spoil everything with an impromptu fart. Inexplicably, unexpectedly, as if they had floated there, they found themselves amongst the trees. She turned and looked up at him. It was cooler in that shade, and the sunlight struggled to break through the canopy. Again, Eric felt those gorgeous eyes burn into his as she spoke once more. "Come on, let's have a shag", she breathed, "do you have a hanky" It happened all too quickly for Eric to think straight, and The Goddess was already on her knees tugging at his cummerbund. Ever the gentleman, he fished in his pockets and handed her his white linen handkerchief, then helped her remove his cummerbund. He lowered himself to the ground and struggled to remove his trousers and pants as quickly as he could, noticing that she had turned away from him and seemed to be pre-occupied with the handkerchief. Soon she turned and smiled. "There!" she announced. She held up the handkerchief and showed him the result of her labours - she had tied a series of knots in the linen cloth. Eric must have been frowning because she laughed, pulled him to her and said, "Don't worry lover, I'm only going to give you the best bloody orgasm you have EVER had!" With the benefit of hindsight, Eric realised that he may have been guilty of placing her on a pedestal. It is doubtful, he knew, that an angel would be doing this sort of thing. Eric pondered this as she went to work, feverishly and unceremoniously stuffing the knotted handkerchief up Eric's back passage. So desperate was Eric for her company that he allowed her to continue. He didn't want to do anything which would upset her or make her walk away from him. He just wished that his mother had been a little more frugal with the spray-starch when she had ironed the bloody thing; no matter how many times he told himself it was only a handkerchief, his back passage was telling him it had assumed the proportions of your average galleon's mainsail. "There, that's all in", she grinned, breathing heavily from her exertions, "now let's get to it, and tell me when you"re going to come." Despite one of his orifices seemingly being used as a laundry basket, this was the moment Eric had dreamed of for just about as long as he could remember. Very few men get to make love to the woman of their dreams, and of those that do, even fewer manage to acquit themselves well. Within a couple of minutes, Eric felt he was close to exploding. The Goddess must have sensed this because she said, "Don't forget to tell me when you're about to make glue without boiling a horse", she laughed. He did. She grabbed the couple of inches of linen she had left hanging out from his rectum, and pulled with all her might, using expert timing. Eric screamed. The Goddess screamed. Eric screamed because he was in ecstasy; true to her word, this was the finest orgasm Eric had ever had, an orgasm so fantastic he wouldn't have believed it was possible, an orgasm seemingly without end. The Goddess screamed because, as she had pulled the cloth from Eric's rectum, there was a volcanic eruption of shit which followed it; gushing, hot, brown, falling everywhere. It covered her dress, her underwear, her bra; she clutched her face and her hair in horror, only to see her hands were covered in it too, which only made her scream more. And still it kept coming; it covered the outside of one of her shoes, and filled the inside of the other one. It splattered over most of Eric's clothing as well. Eric thought he was going to die. When, after what seemed like an eternity, the bodily fluids had subsided, he opened one eye and was relieved to learn that his heart was still, apparently, beating. He put one hand behind him and groaned in agony; his arse was on fire. "Help me", he whimpered. The Goddess was not in a helpful mood. She assaulted him with a volley of curses and oaths, the like of which Eric had not heard for a very long time. She called him just about every name he knew of, and some others besides, and she only paused momentarily to vomit violently, twice, as she pulled on her shit-spattered floral dress, and, in vain, tried to scrape her face and hands clean with bracken. Still cursing, she stormed off back in the direction of the clubhouse. . . Eric lay there for some time, in his own exhaustion and stench, and then slowly dressed, after scraping off what crap he could. He surprised himself then, by smiling. On balance, he decided he didn't really think she was much of a Goddess after all. Then he realised he never did get to know her name. Having decided a return to the clubhouse would not be in order, he walked through the copse and set off on the long walk home. Eric was no longer in love; but he didn't mind. Eric never did go back to the club. Initially, he was too embarrassed to face his clubmates, but as the blushing subsided, the ordeal by ordure somehow caused Eric to take a step back, and evaluate his whole life. He stopped living with his Mum and Dad, and got himself a flat and a new job, up North somewhere, where no one knew him and where he could make a fresh start. Now, years on, he still plays rugby, at a junior club. Here though, his clubmates don't take the piss out of him continually. Eric has also managed to cultivate friends who have nothing whatsoever to do with the sport. Eric still doesn't have a wife or regular partner, but he does go out often, and he meets lots of girls, and he is happy. He threw out all his handkerchiefs a long time ago, and uses paper tissues instead. | ||||||||||||||||||
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