If you’ve enjoyed reading my true account of life with Rachel, you'll hopefully enjoy the next instalment of my rollercoaster life on this earth. On this occasion, I intend to share what life threw my way as the worst of my grief finally subsided. Once again, I hope my writing will be cathartic for me, provide amusement and entertainment, and offer insight into the worst of human behaviour. If men can be sluts then I stand guilty as charged.
Initially, I wasn’t sure how to structure the story, since some elements lasted longer and were much more intense than others.
Then just last week, ‘Eureka’, I had my answer. I was talking to a couple who had just completed the 130-odd-mile West Highland Way footpath. Many of the places they had passed through were also the locations or close by to the scenes of many of the shameless acts of sexual carnage that I will cover in detail later on. This was all I needed to link the events together, as my story will now go under the heading 'The Sex Highland Way'. Starting in Glasgow, up the Loch Lomond side, to Oban, and ultimately ending on the Island of Skye.
If you like true stories of lust, unrestrained raw animalistic sex both indoors and out, toys of various shapes and sizes, threesomes, power play and much more, then I’ve got a treat in store for you.
Please keep in mind, as you read about my life, that I’m not proud of many of the things I did. I wasn’t always kind to people. To some extent, I used women who were already in an emotionally bad place for my own ends. I’d lost the love of my life. I was grieving, I felt sorry for myself and if I was to be unhappy, then so must others. Mendacity springs to mind. Basically, I was a selfish cunt who didn’t care if he lived or died. I probably still am!
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of Claire, Angela, Annie and Joanne, and not pray that they’ve found peace and happiness in whatever way they need. As for me, I don't think peace or happiness are even looking for me anymore.
I once read a quote along the lines of, “I nearly had it all, but nearly counts for nothing.”
Following Rachel’s death, my life exploded in every sense. Understandably, the family wanted me out of the cottage (my home) fairly quickly as it was to go on the market. Rachel’s daughters would move in with their grandparents, and there was little room for negotiation, not that I was in any fit state of mind to do so. The only bit of good news was that Rachel had bequeathed me a fairly substantial sum of money in her will. Her so-called Christian parents weren’t happy at this, and did all they could to prevent the money from reaching me. When ultimately they had to admit defeat, it wasn’t with good grace. I was effectively banned from keeping in touch with the girls, and that was a hard red line. God bless the pair of you.
What to do? What any self-respecting Scotsman would do, and that was drink myself into oblivion. Little did I know at the time, but this bender would last for over 5 years. To take a drink every single day of your life, and still possess some semblance of being able to function as a human being, is no mean feat, let me tell you.
For a while, I was homeless as well. During the week, I slept in my workplace in Heaton Park, Manchester. At weekends, my main place to catch a few hours' sleep was either the check-in departure lounge at Manchester Airport or one of the overnight trains running between Manchester and Sheffield. Warmth, security and hot water all for a £9.80 ticket.
It was during one of these weekend excursions that I first met Claire. The Donkey Stone public house at Ringway airport near Manchester isn’t perhaps the most romantic of locations for a first encounter. However, as soon as I set eyes on Claire as she nursed a Gin and Tonic before boarding her delayed last flight home to Glasgow, it was lust max. I still can't say quite why to this day. She just had a certain presence. A rock chick in training sprang to mind. Gucci sunglasses on top of the head, lots of bracelets and bangles, a fake-diamond-covered mobile phone case (pure class), and a very ample décolletage.
Fortune favours the brave. I offered to buy her a drink. In fact, the words I actually used were, “Can I fill you up?”
Her Glasgow patter was quickly to the fore as she replied, “I doubt that, but you can buy me a drink if you’d like.”
Several drinks, four hours later, and one missed flight, we were in a hotel bedroom fucking as if there was no tomorrow.
I must admit it wasn’t great sex. It was clumsy and lacked any of the ebb and flow of screwing Rachel. That said, for the first time and with a woman whose last name still wasn’t known to me, it was a start. As we lay in bed the next morning nursing our respective hangovers, Claire kept saying to me, “I don’t make a habit of fucking men I’ve only just met. I am not a slut, you know.”
At times, I was unsure who she was trying to kid, herself or me.
As she made us coffee from the small in-room kettle, it gave me the first opportunity to really study my bedfellow. She had what I would typically describe as a West of Scotland body. Running to fat a good few years before her time, big boobs, but saggy and most definitely lacking any of Rachel’s firmness. Claire had numerous piercings and a tattoo I couldn’t quite read on the small of her back (I later discovered it was a shamrock with "I Love Glasgow Celtic FC" around its edges).
She was nice enough and had a fun personality, albeit with a hard edge.
Later on, as I put Claire on the Glasgow train, little did I realise she was about to become my weekend fuck buddy for quite some time. However, with an image of my own to try to keep intact, it took me weeks to inform her that I was homeless, and it would be easier for me to travel to Glasgow by public transport on Friday evenings.
Our weekends were never dull, that’s for sure. We both drank a lot, so on Fridays we'd go toe to toe in numerous city centre bars. Things would eventually get messy once Claire introduced me to a lethal concoction called ‘Aftershocks.’ I’d later return the compliment by introducing Claire to the holy terror of ‘Navy Rum.’
Once we’d drunk our fill, it would be back to her tiny apartment in the west end for sexy time.
Claire was an amazing kisser. We’d often snog for ages, and I’d never tire of exploring her full, soft, ruby lips and darting tongue. Even a few minutes of this would get me extremely hard and ready for action. Especially so if her breath carried the rummy smell of a grog or two.
Most of our sexual activity took place whilst under the influence of alcohol. The sex was more perfunctory than anything mind-blowing. I think for Claire, it was more about pleasing her man and being cuddled afterwards as she drifted off to sleep. We didn’t, from memory, ever really experiment per se. It was never noisy vocal sex, right? Even at orgasm, it was as if Claire had to hold it all in. Rachel wouldn't have approved!
Her on top, facing me, was my favourite position, and doggy style was most definitely hers. When being taken from behind, she needed to be spanked and called a bad girl before she could orgasm. She could never come whilst being looked at face to face. Selfishly, I didn’t question why at the time. I guess I thought she found me ugly. Of course, looking back all these years later, another, altogether more sinister, undertone drove this odd behaviour.
If the sex was at times mundane, the partying most definitely made up for it. Claire could usually drink me under the table despite my best endeavours. She was a real wild one and always dressed to the max, albeit with non of the elegance of an older woman. Low-cut tops, very short skirts, or tight jeans and a man's suit waistcoat jacket with nothing underneath made up her usual weekend attire. Claire was 14 years my junior, so it often felt slightly unbalanced in terms of our hobbies and interests. However, we were most definitely shameless in our lust for self-destruction.
Claire worked in retail in a city centre department store. I soon worked out that she liked a lifestyle that was a good few pay grades above her actual station. I wondered how long it could be kept up?
One of our favourite weekend haunts was King Tuts Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow City Centre. Claire was a real dancer and loved nothing better than being on the dance floor, preferably surrounded by men. On the odd occasion, I’d also see men put their hands on Claire with little or no resistance from her. Was I jealous? Not in the slightest, and from that alone, I always knew our time together would be short.
On Sundays, we often spent the whole day in bed. One of us would pop out for coffee, pastries and the Sunday papers. On one occasion, I couldn’t find my underwear from the previous evening.
“Just wear mine.” Claire dared me.
And I did. It was rather pleasant to walk down Byers Road wearing a pair of still-damp size 16 lace panties under my jeans.
Unsurprisingly, when I got home, breakfast had to wait until Claire’s big, soft, velvety lips had taken my first thick erection of the day down into the back of her throat.
With breakfast consumed, I returned the favour, and despite her smelling a bit stale, I slid down under the duvet to eat her young pussy in the way she liked it best. Long and very slowly.
Claire also loved dressing up. She had a large collection of uniforms. Nurse, schoolgirl, police officer. Whatever floated your boat, it was probably in that wooden chest. Even a pink feather boa was produced on one occasion.
My own favourite was when Claire scrubbed as a rather plump schoolgirl. It was the only time I ever recall her wearing stockings and suspenders—a massive turn on for me both then and now.
Unsurprisingly, she always got her homework wrong. Sunday evening spankings became the norm. It's an abiding memory of her in a tight white blouse, top buttons open, asking, “Are you cross at me, sir?”
To which I usually replied, “Yes, very, get over my knee now.”
However, our relationship ended in the most unexpected and bizarre way. I’d always thought it would fizzle out as opposed to a big bang ending. I was wrong. We went out drinking one Saturday afternoon. By early evening, we should have called it quits and headed out of the city and home. However, we moved on to the Merchant City. It was in one bar (Babbity Bowster, I think), and I went outside to make a phone call. When I returned, it was a bit later than expected, as it had been a long call with a promise of some work.
It took me a while to find Claire. When I did, she was dirty dancing with a couple of guys on the small dance floor as the whole bar looked on.
We had a serious falling out.
I called her a fat fucking slut.
She weighed in with, “You've got the smallest cock I’ve ever seen.”
Eventually, as tempers flared, the door staff threw us out.
However, the argument continued in the street for quite some time. I can’t quite recall what the trigger was. It must have been bad, as without any warning, Claire, in true former pupil at Bellshill Academy style, took off her high-heeled shoe and cracked me very hard over the head with the heel end.
“Wear this, ya bastard,” she roared.
There was blood everywhere. I hit the deck as if I’d taken a right hook from Mike Tyson. Claire went white as a ghost once she realised how much damage she had caused and that her shoe was still embedded in my skull.
It needed stitching, and I carry the scar to this day. Obviously, we had no way back from this, and our relationship ended in the Accident & Emergency department of the Royal Infirmary. I refused to have the police involved and just put the whole episode down to experience.
It was never going to last, but I never thought it would end so violently. The funny thing is. I’ve kept in touch with Claire down the years, and I supported her through a messy divorce about 5 years ago.
In closing, I would like to apologise for this story lacking any wild tales of swinging from the chandelier's sex. The truth is, there wasn’t any. What sex we had was plain vanilla. I can’t even recall much of the details, as we rarely fucked when both sober. I guess using Maslow's hierarchy of needs, we only operated at the very basic top-tier level.
I still felt it was important to share this part of my life. It’s my story and provides a perfect bridge to the next chapter of my life, where the sex was very much tutti fruity with all the trimmings.
