Joyce (57) yanks the fitted sheet off the mattress for the second time today. She bought this one in the sale at Dunelm Mill, a local outlet which specialises in ‘luxury’ bedding. She normally saves the ‘good stuff’ for the classier customers or her husband (estranged) but the washer has packed in so… she has no choice.
Joyce hates changing the bedding. It’s a right pain in the 'backside'.
This afternoon she has to go for a ‘sexual MOT’. ‘MOT’ stands for Maximum Operating Temperature, which Joyce feels is pretty apt given the nature of her work.
This afternoon, the dreaded Richard is coming. Joyce sighs as she shoves twenty Berkley Reds into her plastic handbag. Richard is a little man with a pointy face. The tip of his nose is sharp and cold. Vinegar runs through his veins and semi erects his awful prick. Even that’s sharp. And vinegary.
Thirty years ago, Joyce had a ‘steamy love affair’ with a sailor from ‘down South.’ He had swarthy looks i.e a curled top lip, big ‘sideburns’ and very thick black hair.
This afternoon, on her way to a ‘routine smear test’, prior to an appointment with a miserable client, Joyce is thinking about that sailor’s top lip. She hasn’t done this for many, many years. She’s thinking about how she used to stroke the hair on the back of his head which was closely cut and soft, like an animal. She would nuzzle the back of his head here as he lay resting after their sex. Smelling sweet.
This afternoon, completely ‘out of character’ and lost in ‘girlish thoughts’, Joyce doesn’t look as she steps out into the road, into the path of a T reg Volvo estate.*
*which has just failed it’s MOT.
piece of crap
12 years ago
