Works of Fiction with Characters Named 'Ewan'
To set our house in order, Margaret Laurence, short story, CAN, 1964 ['Ewen MacLeod]
A remarkably civilised arrangement, Peter Robins, short story, UK, collected 1982 ['Ewan']
Sunset Song, Lewis Grassic Gibbon, novel, SCO, 1932 ['Ewan Tavendale Snr.', 'Ewan Tavendale Jnr.']
That's it.
Monday, 9 May 2011
Monday, 28 March 2011
Blimey ...
... it's over a year since I posted anything here. Anyone would think I was dead or something.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Etiquette
Alan might be a while coming back to the car, I thought; I'd best find some way of entertaining myself for a bit.
I'd barely set foot inside the catacombs (not what you'd expect to find in a municipal park in Dewsbury, no, but then Victorian ingenuity has committed far worse atrocities elsewhere) when, pausing at a junction to decide which passage to take, a man appeared beside me from the shadows.
'I don't suppose you fancy a blow job,' he asked hopefully and without preamble.
Well, it was a gay porn kind of day so the question didn't strike any wrong notes.
'No, not really,' I said, hoping my directness wouldn't hurt his feelings.
'Ah well,' he said, looking, indeed, a little crestfallen.
'On any other day I might've said yes,' I explained, trying to wriggle myself free of an embarrassing social situation. 'Why?' I asked in afterthought, 'what are you offering?'
He was wearing, I noticed, an old-fashioned slate-blue cotton tracksuit a couple of sizes too big for him, just the kind of garment worn by men who hang around catacombs looking for sex. He now unzipped the top with his right hand while pulling down the front of the trousers with his left.
He was ~ for a park pervert ~ not at all badly put together under his 'trackie'. I'd put his age at about 45 but he was well-preserved and fairly athletic; there was a rather endearing tuft of hair growing between the two halves of his chest; his cock was in the first stages of tumefaction, quite thick, of the type called 'sausage roll', and mercifully uncircumcised (I have a habit of wincing audibly at the sight of a circumcised penis). He waved it at me a couple of times ~ without much conviction, I thought.
Half of me was just about to change its mind about the offer when the other half said, 'To be honest, I'm not in the habit of paying for sex.'
He gave his knob another joggle and grinned.
'Well, to be honest back,' he said, 'I was actually thinking of paying you, if anything.'
'Oh how embarrassing!' I laughed. I'm still not sure who the blunder was most embarrassing for, mind you.
At the sound of voices from outside the entrance to the catacombs he put his three-pack back in his kecks. It was just a bunch of trippers, who soon passed. Maybe there was more than one entrance.
'My partner'll be back soon,' I began, suddenly struck by an inspiration; 'Maybe he'll be in the mood to do something for you.'
'Great,' he said, with genuine enthusiasm.
Did I mention that he had, in perfect proportion to the rest of him, the head of a ginger tomcat, complete with collar in violet velvet (it even had a little bell on!) to hide that difficult join? Well he did.
While we waited for Alan we tried to fill the time with smalltalk, but believe me, it's not easy to make smalltalk with someone who's supposed to be and remain a stranger. So the conversation was pretty desultory and more than once I caught myself wondering out loud what had become of my partner ~ he was only visiting an elderly lady of his acquaintance (he never could say no when old ladies pressed cake on him). So we picked away at neutral subjects (the weather, the catacombs, grocery prices, that kind of thing) for ten minutes. A few times he would flop his tackle back out of his kecks and have a quick fumble, perhaps to show that despite appearances to the contrary he hadn't lost sight of his main objective of the afternoon. That knob was, I freely admit, starting to look increasingly appetizing, but I was damned if I was going to have Alan come back and find me chowing down on it. That would be such bad manners, to start without him. I even contemplated, at one stage, suggesting we go to the pond and throw some bread at the unhungry ducks to pass the time, but then thought better of it: he might send the birds into such a panic that they actually moved.
Afterwards, when it was all over, when the three of us had squeezed out our last remaining drops of pleasure, when he'd picked up his tracksuit top from the puddle it had been lying in and zipped it up for the final time, when we'd each frisked ourselves to make sure we still had our wallets, when we'd shaken hands and sent him on his way, off home for his tea, or to make 'love' to his wife, or entertain his kids by chasing a ball of wool up and down the living-room floor ~ afterwards I said to Alan in the car, 'What on earth kept you? ~ I thought you'd fallen down a hole or something. Still, I'm glad you came back when you did: I was running dangerously low on smalltalk ~ there's only so much mileage you can get out of the price of canned soup.'
We drove in silence for five minutes.
'Nice chap: nice manners,' said Alan reflectively.
Another five minutes passed like a dream.
'Sharp teeth, though,' I said; 'He's given me a nasty nick to the nuts.'
I'd barely set foot inside the catacombs (not what you'd expect to find in a municipal park in Dewsbury, no, but then Victorian ingenuity has committed far worse atrocities elsewhere) when, pausing at a junction to decide which passage to take, a man appeared beside me from the shadows.
'I don't suppose you fancy a blow job,' he asked hopefully and without preamble.
Well, it was a gay porn kind of day so the question didn't strike any wrong notes.
'No, not really,' I said, hoping my directness wouldn't hurt his feelings.
'Ah well,' he said, looking, indeed, a little crestfallen.
'On any other day I might've said yes,' I explained, trying to wriggle myself free of an embarrassing social situation. 'Why?' I asked in afterthought, 'what are you offering?'
He was wearing, I noticed, an old-fashioned slate-blue cotton tracksuit a couple of sizes too big for him, just the kind of garment worn by men who hang around catacombs looking for sex. He now unzipped the top with his right hand while pulling down the front of the trousers with his left.
He was ~ for a park pervert ~ not at all badly put together under his 'trackie'. I'd put his age at about 45 but he was well-preserved and fairly athletic; there was a rather endearing tuft of hair growing between the two halves of his chest; his cock was in the first stages of tumefaction, quite thick, of the type called 'sausage roll', and mercifully uncircumcised (I have a habit of wincing audibly at the sight of a circumcised penis). He waved it at me a couple of times ~ without much conviction, I thought.
Half of me was just about to change its mind about the offer when the other half said, 'To be honest, I'm not in the habit of paying for sex.'
He gave his knob another joggle and grinned.
'Well, to be honest back,' he said, 'I was actually thinking of paying you, if anything.'
'Oh how embarrassing!' I laughed. I'm still not sure who the blunder was most embarrassing for, mind you.
At the sound of voices from outside the entrance to the catacombs he put his three-pack back in his kecks. It was just a bunch of trippers, who soon passed. Maybe there was more than one entrance.
'My partner'll be back soon,' I began, suddenly struck by an inspiration; 'Maybe he'll be in the mood to do something for you.'
'Great,' he said, with genuine enthusiasm.
Did I mention that he had, in perfect proportion to the rest of him, the head of a ginger tomcat, complete with collar in violet velvet (it even had a little bell on!) to hide that difficult join? Well he did.
While we waited for Alan we tried to fill the time with smalltalk, but believe me, it's not easy to make smalltalk with someone who's supposed to be and remain a stranger. So the conversation was pretty desultory and more than once I caught myself wondering out loud what had become of my partner ~ he was only visiting an elderly lady of his acquaintance (he never could say no when old ladies pressed cake on him). So we picked away at neutral subjects (the weather, the catacombs, grocery prices, that kind of thing) for ten minutes. A few times he would flop his tackle back out of his kecks and have a quick fumble, perhaps to show that despite appearances to the contrary he hadn't lost sight of his main objective of the afternoon. That knob was, I freely admit, starting to look increasingly appetizing, but I was damned if I was going to have Alan come back and find me chowing down on it. That would be such bad manners, to start without him. I even contemplated, at one stage, suggesting we go to the pond and throw some bread at the unhungry ducks to pass the time, but then thought better of it: he might send the birds into such a panic that they actually moved.
Afterwards, when it was all over, when the three of us had squeezed out our last remaining drops of pleasure, when he'd picked up his tracksuit top from the puddle it had been lying in and zipped it up for the final time, when we'd each frisked ourselves to make sure we still had our wallets, when we'd shaken hands and sent him on his way, off home for his tea, or to make 'love' to his wife, or entertain his kids by chasing a ball of wool up and down the living-room floor ~ afterwards I said to Alan in the car, 'What on earth kept you? ~ I thought you'd fallen down a hole or something. Still, I'm glad you came back when you did: I was running dangerously low on smalltalk ~ there's only so much mileage you can get out of the price of canned soup.'
We drove in silence for five minutes.
'Nice chap: nice manners,' said Alan reflectively.
Another five minutes passed like a dream.
'Sharp teeth, though,' I said; 'He's given me a nasty nick to the nuts.'
16/11/09
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
New words you won't find in a dictionary* (1)
Impoovement: n. the act of turning a straight man into a gay man
*Though you'll find plenty of examples on th'internet, thanks to illiterate folk who can't spell improvement
*Though you'll find plenty of examples on th'internet, thanks to illiterate folk who can't spell improvement
Friday, 25 December 2009
Thursday, 24 December 2009
Friday, 30 October 2009
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