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Red Fez and Pancakes

 Craig Wallwork
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 Craig Wallwork
Red Fez and Pancakes
by Craig Wallwork  FollowFollow
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Craig Wallwork's one claim to fame is that he once met James Joyce while shopping in Marrakesh. Joyce had set up a stall there selling famous...read more novels that he had re-written to make them more marketable to the masses. There was a version of Moby Dick where Ahab befriends the whale and they set up an aquatic theatrical production of their life stories called Mouldy Dick. Another title saw Shelly's Frankenstein monster make it big as a Hollywood actor, winning an Oscar for his uncanny portrayal of Ronald Regan during his final years in office. Craig Wallwork has now commissioned Joyce to re-write all his own stories, the first of which is titled Red Fez and Pancakes, a modern retailing of the classic Great Expectations. For other stories, please visit Craig's website: www.craigwallwork.blogspot.com
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Red Fez and Pancakes
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TRY EXPLAINING TO TWO PARAMEDICS that the reason your dick is stuck in the cadaver of an old woman is because she didn’t want to die a virgin. I know that sounds like the motto of everyone who practices necrophilia, but before you start thinking I’m some twisted pervert, I need to go back two months.

Julia came into my life via the back door: she was a proctologist and I’d been suffering with haemorrhoids. I’d been getting them on and off for months and I was referred to Julia by my local GP. She was drop-dead gorgeous. That’s not an exaggeration—it was sickening how pretty she was. The first time I saw her, my arsehole actually opened a little. It was like when someone startles you, or creeps up behind and lifts you up unexpectedly, your arse just lets out a gasp, a small little gesture of shock, and that’s what happened when I saw Julia.

While she took my details and medical history, I examined every part of her. She must have been in her late twenties, blonde, but not natural blonde. She had dark roots matching her eyebrows. They say if you want to know the colour of a person’s pubic hair, look at the eyebrows. They were like two black comet tails arching over planets of azure. Her nose was slight and rounded at the tip, and her lips could stop a train. She got up from her desk, and I saw that her skirt fell just above the knee, her legs slender and the colour of toffee. I noticed a splattering of beige freckles being sucked into the cleavage of her ample breasts like stars into a black hole. Two stud-sized nipples guided her around the office like fleshy divining rods. When she told me to drop my trousers, I felt blood rush to my cock. Luckily, I have never developed well in that area so my cock just appeared average in size when I bent over the chair.

She was gentle and I appreciated that because the last thing you need when you’ve got a swollen anus is an enthusiastic finger. Apart from once letting a girl lick my perineum, no woman has ever been that intimate with me. During the examination, I made a terrible joke about the difference between Rocky Balboa and proctologists, which wasn’t very funny and was slightly offensive, but Julia took it in good spirits. There was talk of a haemorrhoidectomy. Julia tried to explain the procedure but I couldn’t help wondering how many points that word would get you in Scrabble. She prescribed me some ointment and I was to come back and see her in a week.

I spent that week squatting over the toilet applying the cream and wondering what to say to Julia when we next met. I thought that I would play it cool, but when someone is staring at your anus, it’s hard to be anything but awkward. “The cream is working”, she said, “and the piles are shrinking. “

After the course of ointment was finished, I assumed Julia and I would go our separate ways and I’d just be another arsehole to her. While bent over the chair, I asked her, “Do you enjoy Mongolian food?” I turned back and caught an expression that seemed to say she was a little disturbed that Mongolians would even be cooking. I tried to reassure her that they weren’t handicapped and that Mongoloid and Mongolians were two different types of people. ”I know,” she said. I began to fill the silence by telling her how health and safety regulations would probably restrict a Mongoloid person from even entering a professional kitchen.

Julia told me to pull up my trousers and when I finally sat down again she wouldn’t look me in the eye. I was told to continue with the cream and everything should be okay. As matter of precaution, she scheduled another appointment for a month’s time.

I began to worry that if my haemorrhoids disappeared I’d never see Julia again, so I stopped taking the cream. I began a low fibre diet. Actually, I cut all fibre out of my diet. I would read for thirty minutes at a time while sitting on the toilet, and then spend an additional ten minutes straining to have a shit that I didn’t need to take. I sat on the cold kitchen floor whenever I could and ate processed foods.

A couple of days before my next appointment, it felt like I had a bunch of grapes hanging from my arse. That was my opening gambit, too.

“If nothing else,” I said, “you could retire and use me to make wine.” She smiled and I thought the whole world had shaken. She wasn’t pleased with the way things had gone and she said it would be best to have surgery.

“I don’t want surgery,” I said, but Julia was keen to tell me the problems that would occur if the haemorrhoids ruptured.

“It could lead to gastrointestinal bleeding or thrombosis,” she said.

I told her, “My grandfather walked twenty miles to Dunkirk with shrapnel wedged in his feet. We are a family of martyrs! I’ll be fine.”

She explained the complications should I refuse.

“I’ll have anything you suggest,” I said, “if only you’ll allow me to take you out for something to eat.”

She was flattered by the offer, but felt it would be unethical to see a patient. That was the end of that.

The next day I rang the hospital and explained to the receptionist I wished to speak to the head of the proctology department. That wouldn’t be possible so she put me through to a human resources manager. I explained to this person I wasn’t happy with Julia’s prognosis concerning my condition and I wanted to seek a second opinion. I was assured Julia was an expert in her field, but after a lot of complaining on my side she transferred my records to a Dr. Corrigan. I bought a bunch of flowers and dressed in a suit that I once wore to attend a family funeral. I shaved and wore cologne and ate two packets of mints while waiting for Julia to finish her practice. She was stunned to see me waiting outside her office and asked if everything was okay.

“I’m fine,” I told her, “but I’m no longer your patient so there’s no need to be worried about any ethical obligation.” I handed her the flowers. “I have reservations for two at a nice Italian restaurant that employ able-bodied people only.”

She was reticent and so I sang. There were people still milling around, patients and orderlies, nurses and doctors, and there I was, dressed in black singing like Andy Williams.

I thought it would be cool, like something you see in a film, but in practice I sounded terrible and people were looking at me like I had my dick hanging out. To save me further embarrassment, Julia agreed to go out with me.

She never wanted to be a proctologist. From an early age she loved the theatre and wanted to be an actress. She named some musicals she loved and I agreed they were splendid but I’d never heard any of them.

“I liked Grease,” I said, “especially the bit when Olivia Newton John turns up at the end all sexy, smoking a cigarette with black pants they must have sewn her into.”

Julia laughed, but I couldn’t remember what was funny about that scene. She ordered the veal and I ordered the lasagna. She ordered a glass of expensive red wine, and I asked for a beer. We were worlds apart. She had brains, was well-travelled and knew how to speak Russian. I had a bronze certificate for swimming, had been to Benidorm and was struggling to speak English most of the time.

By the time we got to desserts my arse was aching from sitting on the hard wooden chairs. I did the gentleman bit and walked her to her car. I wanted to be balls deep in this woman but I knew if I rushed it I’d scare her off.

“I had a wonderful night,” I said before kissing her cheek. She didn’t even move away even though my breath must have stunk after all the garlic bread I ate. She gave me her number without me asking and said she was free next Saturday. When I got back home I went through eight man-sized tissues.

Things moved steadily from there on. We would always meet in some fancy restaurant; Chinese, Thai, Mandarin, Turkish, Moroccan, French, Vietnamese, all with hard chairs. Some days I’d try and get Julia to meet in a local pub for scampi and chips, but she said when compared to the foods of the world, English was just so very bland. I told her that Crème Brule originated in England, which impressed me more than her because I don’t usually retain information that well.

Julia spoke about things I had no idea about, worldly matters that seemed very important to her; the environment, the current economical downturn, child prostitution, the Far East, communism, socialism, and a few other isms I couldn’t care less about. But I did my bit because with every meal, every conversation, I was drawing closer and closer to sleeping with her.

After our ninth date she finally allowed me into her apartment. It must have been expensive to live there because none of the lobbies or elevators stank of piss. The inside of her apartment was equal to her personality, full of abstract paintings of body parts that look rude but really were mostly close ups of elbows and belly-buttons. She had coffee table books concerning matters of photography and Art Deco. There were tribal masks on stands within shelving units clamped to exposed brick walls. She had a cello in the corner of the room, embroidered cushions on a large L-shaped couch, a wine rack in the kitchen filled with dusty bottles, a free standing grandfather clock, small expensive looking lamps, shelves packed with books on all manner of topics, none of which were fiction.

But what shocked me more was there was no television.

I asked, “What do you do at night?” and she said, “Read.”

Fuck me.

She opened a bottle of red and we sat on her couch. We talked and after a suitable mount of time had passed, I kissed her. She slipped me the tongue and I grabbed her right breast. In my palm I could feel her nipple rising like some morning worm breaking out of the earth. There was heavy breathing, leaning of bodies, and the smell of saliva. My cock was suffocating under the weight of my jeans, its head pushing frantically for the taste of fresh air. I moved her hand toward my belt, but she retracted. I tried again and Julia mumbled something. I began to undo the belt myself when she said stop. Julia pushed me off her and wiped her lips.

“Is everything okay? Was I doing it wrong” I asked, and she said I was doing everything fine.

She grabbed the glass of wine and downed it in one gulp. I thought she might have been put off because of my piles, like maybe she was thinking that her hand might grab one accidentally while I’m pounding away at her hole. I tried to reassure her that the new cream I was taking had shrunk them all and there was nothing to worry about. Julia said this wasn’t the problem. I could feel the moment was passing.

I was wondering if it would be highly inappropriate to just ask for a hand job when she told me, “I’m still a virgin.”

I couldn’t believe it. A woman as beautiful and sexy as Julia still a virgin. I thought maybe the fact that she didn’t have a television had put some men off her, but she said that she’d had plenty of offers, but she never went through with it. My cock began to grow again. Every woman I’d had sex with felt like I was waving a stick in the Albert Hall, and here was a woman untouched, un-stretched and unbelievably hot.

”If you’re worried about the pain, don’t,” I said. “I have a very small dick.”

Her forehead crumpled, “That’s very sweet of you,” she said, but I could tell she was a little disappointed too.

The problem wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to have sex, but she was afraid that if she did, something bad would happen. I considered this and assumed the very worse would be a little bit of blood on her Egyptian cotton sheet, and that maybe I would cum within thirty seconds.

“You needn’t worry,” I said. “I can be very gentle.”

She then asked, “Can you keep a secret?” I would have told her anything to get her knickers off, so I said yes. That was when Julia told me about her dream.

Every night Julia goes to sleep and dreams she is making love to a handsome young man. The dream is so real she feels like she’s really having sex; she feels the stranger’s hand on her body, his lips pressed against hers. She even feels his dick inside her, even though she has no idea what a dick feels like. Julia enjoys the dream very much. Then something strange happens. As the man makes love to her, Julia notices her skin becoming wrinkled. She looks down and her tits are losing their shape and fullness. As the man gathers a steady rhythm, she notices her pubes turning white, and her stomach becoming flabby. She runs her fingers over the man’s face and they appear warped, the back of her hand peppered with liver spots. As the man shoots his load into her, Julia feels her heart slowing and her memory fading. She wakes up. She’s had this same dream every night since she was a teenager.

“It’s just a dream,” I said, and she began spouting about some tribe that believes dreams are linked to the conscious world, that they are projections from the future, messages and warnings.

I asked, “And do these tribe people still wipe their arses with leaves?” Julia laughed a little.

“I had a dream once where I fucked my teacher,” I said, which in Julia’s opinion wasn’t uncommon.

“It's when their name is Mr Bennett. Dreams are dreams,” I said, “and this is now.” I reminded her how much she enjoyed the feeling of sex in her dreams, and I assured her the reality is much better.

An hour later we were in her bedroom. Three candles burnt a soft yellow flame on a shelf above the bed. We kissed for a while and Julia stopped momentarily to tell me she never wanted to die a virgin. I told her she wouldn’t. I went down on her for fifteen minutes. I timed it using my watch.

I figured she’d need to be really wet, and besides, she’d been waiting for this moment for so long that I wanted all her expectations met. I wiped my chin and lips on the duvet and then moved back up. Even in the dim light, I saw a healthy glow to her cheeks, a red rash creeping over her chest. She guided me between her legs. I felt a little resistance so I thrust my pelvis a little to help.

Julia gasped, her head thrown back into the pillow. I kissed her lips and then focused all my attention on her tits, which were now wobbling up and down with each of my strokes. Her nipples were erect and a wonderful red colour. My rhythm increased and Julia began panting like a rabid dog. I felt her hand reach down and begin stroking my balls. I shut my eyes and began to count. I projected numbers against the blackness to help quell the orgasm brewing in my stomach.

When I reached the number twenty-five, I reached down and grabbed Julia’s arse cheek. It felt soft, softer than it looked in her tight skirts. I assumed it would be firm, hard even. I began counting the numbers again. Julia was moaning, her voice becoming husky with every exhale. I was at the number seventy-three when I opened my eyes again. They were still positioned at chest height, and what I saw jumping around was not the round and ample tits I had seen moments before. Each breast had turned flat, like they’d been deflated. The nipples, while still erect, had a grotesque lock of hair sprouting from them, dark and wiry. I looked down and they reminded me of a pancake wearing a red fez.

I was still fucking her when I looked to Julia’s face. Her blonde hair appeared white, dry and wild. Her cheeks had swelled and the extra weight had caused heavy lines to appear around her mouth. Her once full and rounded lips were collapsing before my eyes, a fringe of fine hair breaching the cracked flesh. Darkness enveloped each eye, their beauty violated by a spider web of wrinkles. Her body mass had increased, the muscle turned soft. I glanced down and the cheeks of her arse were extending along the white cotton sheets. And I still kept fucking her.

Suddenly my dick started to chafe as her juices dried up. The hole felt tighter, denser. Julia’s breathing had become less erotic and more disturbing. I stopped thrusting and asked if she was okay. Okay? She had aged sixty years in the space of ten minutes! I tried pulling out of her but it was wedged tight. I yanked on it but the pain was excruciating.

I saw my trousers on the floor next the bed and I reached over for them. In my pocket I found my mobile phone and dialled the emergency services. I asked for an ambulance and told the call-taker, “My girlfriend is dying.”

I was asked what of, and I replied, “Old age!”

By the time I finished the call Julia has passed away. The eighteen minutes it took the ambulance to arrive, and the ten extra minutes it took them to get the apartment manager to open the door, I spent feeling rigor mortis setting in to every part of Julia.

The paramedics couldn’t cut me free from Julia in case it compromised the autopsy. But I figured that was bullshit. They saw me as some weirdo who deserved to be humiliated. And I was. They threw a blanket over Julia and I and put us both on a gurney. During the descent down the stairwell, the blanket came off and a few neighbours gasped in horror.

In the hospital they placed us in a room and various doctors, more than we could possibly have needed, came in to look at us. I lay there in that cold room knowing they were sniggering and calling me names, but at the end of the day, Julia didn't die a virgin. I was happy that I never broke that promise, even if it was at the cost of making her dream come true.

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