Monday, September 24, 2007

This Erotic Story is Bollocks: Discuss


There's a reason for this photo. Honest. No, really. Seriously. Read on. Really.


A few weeks ago I was asked by the sexy website Nerve, in America, to write a "humorous" short story for the site.

So I did. At first they liked it, which was nice. But then they said they didn't like it, and they said they weren't going to publish it. I asked them why didn't like it, and they said Because it's crap (I paraphrase, but you get the idea).

Were they right? Search me. Read on and decide for yourself. The story is certainly slight - it ain't War and Peace. It's not even Somerset Maugham on an off day. But then again the story is what they asked for: frivolous and lighthearted. Fuckers.

But then again, who cares? I'm off to Monte Carlo this week. On a helicopter. So life isn't all bad.

A bientot.



The Breast Sharers



The Breast Sharers

Sean Thomas



I remember when we first had the idea for breast sharing. I was drinking with my old friend Matt in a pub on Charlotte Street in London. We used to meet there after work - me when I had finished my underpaid copywriting for the day, Matt when he had finished his shift as a bored bookshop manager. We let off a lot of steam during those beer frenzies - we'd get drunk and shoot the breeze and ogle women, argue about soccer and sex.

One coolish evening in May, Matt and I were sitting there, in the Fitzroy Tavern. If you don't know it, the Fitzroy is quite a famous London boozer. Karl Marx used to drink there during his Soho pub crawls. Aleister Crowley the Satanist was another regular -- he used to walk around in a big green cape.
These days it's mainly students because it serves cheap beer. But what students. Beautiful students. Girls of 18, 19, and 20, with their toothpaste-ad teeth, implausibly glossy complexions and lovely young bottoms, taut enough to bounce tennis balls against.

For Matt and I, this ogling was just that: all we did was look. And maybe yearn a bit. No more. Because, you see, we'd both been happily married for years, so it didn't matter to us whether these girls were all gong and no dinner. We were going home to a nice hot supper, anyway.

However, this evening Matt seemed less happy and relaxed than normal.

'They're spreading,' he said bitterly.

'What?'

'Beautiful girls. Every year there's more and more of them. It's starting to get me down.'

I looked him over. Hair thinning, jowls developing: he was definitely headed for middle age. But usually he was sanguine about this. His wife was still quite a beauty. He was a lucky man.

'They're like algae in the Adriatic.'

'Sorry?'

'Girls. With their amazing breasts. They bloom inexplicably in summer. Like that algae you read about.'

'Maybe you need another drink.'

Mildly concerned by my friend's angst, I visited the bar. Between the crush of happy young undergrads, I managed to catch the bargirl's eye, always an achievement in the Fitzroy on a Friday night. On the way back, I saw that my friend had his head slumped in his hands. I placed the drinks on the table and leaned over.

'What the fuck is wrong?'

He sighed. Then he said:

'It's Laura's breasts.'

'What about them?'

'Well...'

He tailed off. I tried to nudge him along:

'How can there be a problem with Laura's breasts? I mean, she hasn't got any!'

It was true. Laura, Matt's wife, was an A cup at best. Her breasts were like "two bee-stings on an ironing board," as she once described herself. But Laura was also funny, clever, sexy and very beautiful in a cheekboney way; she also had a fabulous arse. Who cared if she didn't have any tits, in comparison to all that?

Certainly not Matt. At least, that's what I had always presumed. I'd always imagined Matt was the same as me - not a breast obsessive. Otherwise, why would he have married a woman with one of the flattest chests of her generation?

It now turned out I was wrong. Very wrong. As Matt sank drink after drink, it all came spilling out. He was totally obsessed with tits, as he mournfully admitted. He loved breasts. Adored them. Needed them. He liked big ones. Bouncy ones. Massive ones. Breasts like two baldheaded Zen monks having an argument under a woman's shirt. Whacking great hooters. Ginormous Bristols. Wombats. Mozzarellas. Gazonkas. Matt liked them all and he loved them big, and yet he was married to a girl with breasts like two bee stings on an ironing board.

'Don't get me wrong,' he slurred. 'I really love Laura and I don't want to be unfaithful to her ... but... sometimes...' He burped, morosely. 'Sometimes when I look at the girls in here with their big happy wotsits I just get really sad.'

My God, he was nearly crying. This was not good.

'What makes it worse...' He added. 'Is Sarah's tits. Wasted on you!'

Sarah was my wife. My pretty, curvy, 28-year-old wife with the fantastic breasts.

He was right. As I have already implied, I don't particularly care about breasts. My only concern with breasts is that they shouldn't be too weird, but other than that, I'm studiously neutral: big, small, pert, voluptuous, large-nippled, pink-nippled, extra-nippled - it's all the same to me. I'd much rather focus on a girl's bottom or her legs, which I find way more interesting and erotic.

Yet ironically I was married to a woman with some of the finest breasts imaginable.

Looked at one way, this was quite sad. Sarah's breasts were internationally acknowledged as being superb, yet they just sat there. On the shelf. Unused. Unnoticed. Ignored by me from one day to the next. And eventually they would be... not so good. They would droop. And what a waste that would represent! No one would have appreciated them at their finest. It was like someone without a driver's licence being given a new Ferrari, then letting it simply rust away in the garage.

At that moment a weird but amusing idea entered my rather drunken mind. Perhaps I could... share Sarah's breasts with Matt.

The concept was striking. But it needed pinning down. I didn't actively want any of us to "swing." No - that would have been too stressful. I don't agree with infidelity, and I despise the idea of open marriages. My parents had an open marriage, and it sucked.

But how about just sharing some breasts? That would be different -- not so profound but possibly quite rewarding. And I did want someone to appreciate Sarah's breasts before they inevitably declined. And who better to appreciate them than a close friend -- one, moreover, who was a real connoisseur of breasts, who would really get a kick out of them because he wasn't getting any decent breast action at home?

As we sat there, in the heaving pub, the deal was done. We'd share Sarah's breasts.

The only problem with this was Sarah. And maybe Laura.

The following evening I made a special supper for Sarah and I. Baked wild sea bass with potatoes, and two bottles of proper chilled Riesling. She needed sweetening. This was a tough sell.

At least, that's what I expected. I had forgotten that my wife Sarah is bold, libidinous and slightly crazy, which is why I had fallen in love with her in the first place. As soon as she heard the idea, she laughed uproariously and said, 'Why the hell not? But he can only touch my breasts, and look at them. No kissing. And Laura's got to be okay with it.'

I rang Matt that evening with the good news. To say he was very pleased would be understating the case. He started singing a Burt Bacharach medley. For Matt that was a sign of the purest joy. Hastily he reassured me that Laura was absolutely fine with the breast-sharing. Then he asked me when it should happen.

'I dunno...' I thought for a moment. 'Well... How about now? I mean, while Sarah's cool with the idea?'

He slammed the phone down. Three-and-a-half minutes later I heard his car pull up outside our flat.

'Quite keen then?'

'You don't realize how long it's been,' he said. Then he grasped me by the arm and shook my hand firmly, like an overly sincere politician. 'Thankyou, thankyou.'

We went into the sitting room. Sarah was there, on the sofa, looking pretty in her white T-shirt and laughing at Matt.

'You weirdo,' she said. This seemed to throw him, so she clucked encouragingly: 'Come on, hurry up, before I change my mind!'

Matt went quickly over to my wife. I stood in the doorway, observing. Matt sat on the sofa next to Sarah, then gingerly peeled off her T-shirt and sighed when he saw she wasn't wearing a bra. I felt proud of my wife's young and joyous bare breasts, swinging pertly before my friend. I felt happy as my friend touched the breasts, in awe. I watched contentedly as he stroked one breast like it was a puppy, and then stroked the other like it was an even nicer puppy. Matt was like a kid with two brilliant Christmas presents, unable to decide which to play with first. He was actually whimpering with pleasure. Over Matt's head I could see that Sarah was trying to stop herself laughing.

'Can I photograph them?' asked Matt.

'Nope,' said my wife.

He smiled, shrugged and thanked us anyway in a rather strangled voice.

Then he went home, happy as I had ever seen him.

The next day at work I got an angry call from Sarah.

'Laura didn't know!'

'What?'

'I just spoke to her. I mentioned the breast-sharing thing - and she knew nothing. She went nuts.'

'Jesus. So what do we do now?'

'She wants you to sing to her, when she's masturbating in the bath.'

I paused.

'Sorry?'

Sarah's tone was brisk and businesslike.

'She says she's always liked your singing voice. I said I couldn't care less about opera. So there we are. It's a swap. She wants you to go over there and sing to her when she's soaping herself. I guess we'd better agree, to keep things smooth.'

That night I did it. I went over to Laura and Matt's house and I watched Laura take a bath and use a vibrator while I sang "Che Gelida Manina" from the opera La Boheme. I noticed she had a nice pussy. Very neat. Then she got out of the bath and showed me her arse, the arse that I had always liked. The soapsuds were running down the golden firmness of her buttocks. It was all very exciting. And it was getting out of hand. Two days later Sarah said she wanted some thrills on the "breast-sharing front," as she was the only one going without. The trouble was, she didn't fancy Matt at all - but she had always admired the thighs of a colleague of mine: Andrew M, the accounts manager at work. So he came over one night and Sarah rubbed Boots bodylotion into his muscly, rugby player's thighs, while I went off to play with Andrew's girlfriend's long red hair; meanwhile Matt persuaded a friend to let him tweak the neglected left nipple of his fiancee, and Laura was massaged by a lesbian friend of Sarah's with gorgeous lips.

Three weeks later we started up a company based on the concept. BreastSharers.com. We advertised for couples who didn't want to be totally unfaithful, but who did want to pep up their sex lives. The special attraction of our concept was that we promised to utilize bits of your partner that you might find unattractive, or aspects of their sexuality that disinterested you, that another might just go crazy over. All the spare sexy stuff going wasted around the world: it would now be properly admired. In a way, we were being environmentally friendly. Recycling.

On the website, we told our own story. We used Sarah's breast-sharing tale as our prime example: how some beautiful breasts unappreciated by their present owner had been swapped for a glimpse of female bottom and some operatic bathing fantasy, and how everyone was satisfied.

The site was an instant hit. Within weeks we were on TV and all over the press. Then it went global and people started making us offers for the concept. Across the developed world people were breast-sharing, swapping unwanted but voluptuous hips for delightful but unappreciated cunnilingus skills, and so forth. It was a total triumph. We made the world a happier place, and we also made a lot of money.

One day, maybe a year after it all kicked off, Sarah was standing in the garden of our big new London house. She had that mischievous yet sexy expression on her face, the one I'd seen when I'd first suggested "breast-sharing". She was staring at the neighbour's garden, at the cocker spaniel that was chasing a football.
'You know,' she said, 'I wonder if the neighbours appreciate just how sexy that dog is?'

2 comments:

Marina said...

Love the idea, and love this post. And I'm assuming that's not a pic of your wife up there at the top. ;)

Anonymous said...

Bless you Marina. (Though I'm not married...)

;)

Sean