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Subject: Alphabet Stories: G - Requested Repost
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                        Glissando
                        ---------


Sunday morning, but only just. The clock of the WesterKerk struck midday
soon after I awoke. I raised my head, testing for pain. Oh, yes. Oh,
Christ, yes. A classic hangover. A real brain-curdling, stomach-
tilting one. A double-whammy headache with a side of nausea.

I pushed myself up onto my elbows and groaned. From the taste in my
mouth, I must have contributed significantly to the export figures of
the Bordeaux region last night. I figured I was also pretty popular
with the tobacco growers of Virginia.

I got out of bed and made my slow and careful way across the polished
wood floor towards the bathroom. Even when you're in total control
of your sense of balance, the floor in my apartment is treacherous.
When, uh, indisposed, you have to treat it with extreme caution,
or you end up flat on your back.

Standing in the shower - why do they make those things so loud? - I
reconstructed the catalogue of horrific excess that had led me to this
sorry pass. There'd been dinner with some work-colleagues. Then a handful
of us had gone on to a bar up near Amsterdam Central Station. Then
Simon and I had thought it a thoroughly brilliant notion to take in
a couple of clubs.

I toweled my hair and pulled on my jeans.

There'd been this redhead. We'd danced, chatted. I must have spent at least
an hour on her. We were sizing each other up. It was obvious that she
wasn't utterly bowled over by me, but I flatter myself that I was
reeling her in, slow and careful. She'd had opportunities to scrape me
off, and hadn't taken them, so I guess she figured I'd do for the night.
Simon had wandered over, having been nixed by some under-age blonde in a
hippy-hat. He slumped down beside me, lipped a cigarette and grinned a
win-some-lose-some grin. He has this one-side-of-the-mouth grin, that
some women find attractive. The redhead certainly did. She lit up like
Macy's on Christmas Eve.

I sloped off to the bar, and started working on a waitress. I know
when I'm beat. I got some laughs and a free bottle of wine out of
the waitress, but that was all. I think I must have walked home -
I don't remember. Damn lucky I didn't walk straight into a canal.

With this kind of hangover, you have the choice of two options. Either
you submit to the tide of nausea and go straight back to bed, or you head
out and eat some greasy food, drink four cups of coffee and then submit
to the tide of nausea and go back to bed. I stood by the mirror in my
jeans and pictured two sunnyside-up, coupla rashers, flatcap mushrooms,
grilled tomato and a succession of cappucinos. Then I hurried to the
bathroom. When it was over, I pulled on a plaid shirt and some moccassins
and left the apartment.

The Siciliano considers itself a pizza joint, but they do a curative
breakfast that ought to be available on your health plan. I sat at
the bar with the Herald Tribune and a coffee whilst Carlo rustled up
my prescription. There were a couple of girls two stools away, doing
a girlie Sunday lunch - all giggles and whispered confidences. My dick -
which has no sense of occasion whatsoever - sent a message to my eyes,
suggesting that the old baby-blues could do worse than check out the
form. Fortunately the message was intercepted by my stomach, which
grabbed it by the back of the neck and plunged it headfirst into a cup
of coffee, holding it under until it came to its senses.

Breakfast arrived. If it's possible to wolf food gingerly, gingerly is
how I wolfed it. It would be overstating the case to say that I felt
better when I'd finished - but I certainly felt terrible in an
entirely different way. The newspaper had decided to stay in focus and
the first cigarette of the day sidled unnoticed into my hand. I hacked
furiously on the initial drag and congratulated myself on my
single-mindedness in the face of the myriad physical and scientific
arguments ranged against me.

As I perused the Sports section, I felt a touch on my elbow. I turned
my head faster than was sensible, and a smiling brunette swam woozily
into my sight. It was one of the two girls from along the bar.

"What is your feeling for Yahtzee?" she asked, in accented English. It
took me a moment to figure this, but I eventually got it. Yahtzee is
a dice-game that the Dutch find infinitely captivating. She was holding
the distinctive score-pad in her hand. "My friend does not like to play -
so I think perhaps..?"

It involves mental arithmetic and a certain amount of strategy, Yahtzee
does. Needless to say, she whopped me three times on the trot. Her name
was Valerie - dark, messy hair, deep blue eyes, tall, even for a Dutch
woman. She laughed often and unselfconsciously - a trait I always find
fetching. Her friend, who watched the game from the next seat along, was
called Gabriella - a straw-blonde with a sulky mouth and a wary green eyes.
She barely spoke, but tutted when I made tactical errors. On top form,
I would have tried hard to amuse her, involve her - but I frankly
couldn't be bothered. In fact, I worked up a silent dislike of her
that was out of all proportion to her importance in my life.

Next thing I know, it's four o'clock and I'm starting, almost
subliminally, to consider the possibility of alcohol. Well - you've
got to get back up on that sucker sometime. I bought a bottle of
wine and the three of us dived into it, abandoning the Yahtzee and
making a valiant attempt to converse. We talked about our jobs,
the beauty of Amsterdam, our hometowns and how life had conspired to
bring us here. It was all pretty safe stuff - as my incorrigible organ
was at pains to point out.

"Come on!" it seemed to be yelling, irritatedly. "Get on with it! Ditch
the blonde and tug the brunette. Jesus! Look at the tits on that! I
could rhumba between those no trouble. And the legs! Clock the legs!
They'd wrap around twice and still hang over the end of the futon!"

Johnson had a point, but my queasy innards weren't so sure. I ordered
another bottle of wine in the hope of talking them round.

"Oh my God!" screeched the ol'fella. "Catch the view when she leans
forward!" It was quite a sight, no doubt about it. At any moment
I expected my dick to leap out of my jeans like a Jack-in-the-Box,
yelling 'Hubba-Hubba-Hubba!'

He's far from subtle.

At about the time that my wussy guts started to feel a little more solid,
the blonde, Gabriella, stated to loosen up. Every so often she would
put in a good-natured aside in Dutch, causing Valerie to grin or giggle
or twitch her eyebrows in amusement. Given my poor grasp of the language,
I could only guess what she might be saying, but by now the alcohol
had kicked in, so my guesses were pretty egotistical. I was sure,
for instance, that I caught the word 'pijpen' - which means 'to
suck'. (This is the kind of vocabulary that you pick up when
you flick through the late night channels on Dutch TV.) I also could
have sworn that I heard 'nat', which means 'wet'. So it seemed pretty
obvious that Gabriella was saying 'Wow! I wouldn't mind sucking this
guy's rod. I'm getting wet just thinking about it." Yeah - made
sense.

Still, I didn't think I was up to fucking both of them, so Gabriella
had to be offed somewhere along the line, leaving me free to indulge
in the loose-limbed delights of Valerie. I was contemplating this plan
when Valerie suddenly said,"Hey. It's six-thirty. I have to go to
meet with my boyfriend. Thank you for the wine." Then she whispered
something in Dutch to Gabriella and sashayed out the door like a
leopard on blades. Gabriella looked at me and shrugged, then smiled.

You know the rest, right? You're ahead of me. We could just leave the
story there. But - no. Okay. You've read this far, so I guess
you deserve it...

On the short walk back to my place, Gabriella slid her hand into the back
of my jeans, grabbing a fistful of cheek, and grooving one finger
along the crack of my butt. You may think that this was a little
forward but, to a Dutch woman, it's the equivalent of a chaste
squeeze of the bicep. I fell in with the prevalent mood, and wormed
my hand into the back of her jeans. Her ass was firm and round, but
kinda cold - which is good, because my hand must have felt real hot
to her, as my restricted fingers rippled across the swell of her
backside.

By the time we made it to my front door, we were both pretty worked up.
There's a steep, narrow flight of stairs leading up to my apartment,
and as she went up ahead of me, I leaned forward and nipped her
swaying ass with my teeth. She yelped and turned, her tits at my eye
level. She grabbed my head and pulled me towards her, so that my
head was buried in the soft billows of her linen shirt. I put my
arms around her waist and pulled her tightly against me. She was
panting - a hell of a turn-on. I felt her hands fumbling in front of my
face, and suddenly the buttons of her blouse were undone, and she pulled
the front of it open so that my nose was now deep in her cleavage.
I brought my hand up and yanked her bra down on one side, freeing the
nipple and closing my mouth over it. It was hard. I pressed it against
my palate with my tongue and brought my teeth together around it, gently.
At the same time I brought my other arm down her back, over her butt,
and slid my hand between her legs from behind, sawing it sideways
along the seam of her jeans. For good measure, I grabbed her other tit
with my free hand and squeezed it roughly.

I musta done something right, 'cos she went off like a rocket on acid.
Her nails raked down my back and her breathing became a rapid series
of ah-ah-ahs, like a stutterer trying to order artichoke in a hurry.
Suddenly her hands were all over me. It was hard to believe she only
had the standard issue two. They were in my hair, up my shirt,
scrabbling at the fly of my jeans. She pulled my cock out ("About
bloody time," it gasped.) and - literally - yanked me up the stairs
by it. I'm glad I'd left the apartment door unlocked because
she wasn't about to wait around while I hunted for keys. She'd've
kicked the door down and marched straight over it.

Next thing I know, the air's full of flying clothes - mine and hers,
though I swear I never so much as popped a button. My vision of the
room cleared as the laundry fluttered to the floor, and there she was,
bent over the back of the sofa, her spread legs summoning me in a way
that I have always prayed to be summoned.

Such things don't happen to a guy more than once in a lifetime and so,
with extraordinary presence of mind, I paused a moment to take in the
view. I wanted it fixed in my mind, photographically. Reading from
the polished woodfloor up: her feet were a good metre apart,
braced against the onslaught she momentarily expected; her legs,
slim and white, were straight and locked, angled towards each other
so that the eye was led up and up along the smooth curving thighs to
their apex; and there was her cunt, spread and opened, pink and
gleaming, moistening the trim crinkles of its surrounding light brown
hair; above that, the asshole, nestled between the impossibly perfect
geometries of her buttocks, which were thrust out by the arch of her
spine. Her hands were resting on the back of the sofa, and she was
looking over her shoulder in the direction of my throbbing erection.

"Come on," she urged. "Stick your prick up me."

Well - she had a  better grasp of English than I'd imagined. But if
a prick stuck up her was what she wanted, then up her a prick would
unarguably be stuck. And I didn't mean eventually. I had the goods
right there to hand.

I took a purposeful stride forward and stepped on a discarded shirt. It
shot out from under me across the polished wood floor, taking my leading
foot with it. I did the splits, and hit the deck balls-first, my stiff,
nodding cock slapping down on the pine-tiling with a sickening 'thwack!'
as I toppled forward onto my chest. The pain was unbelievable. I curled
up in a ball and howled.

You're disappointed, aren't you? Well, imagine how I fucking felt. Gabriella
dressed with the same alacrity she'd shown undressing, and was out of the
door before I'd fully got to my feet. The tears were streaming down
my face and my dick was looking bruised and angry. In fact, it was livid.
I tried to give it a stroke - to ease the pain; to calm it down.

"Keep your hands to yourself!" it yelled. "That's it! I quit!"

Three days later, it's still not talking to me.




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