Erotic Distraction No 4: AGONY GRANT
Copyright © Dave Lassut 2011
Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords
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Important note: Don’t forget to laugh.
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-908796-34-9
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-90876-35-6
This is a Frankie Lassut Wonky Novlet.
Don’t read if you’re not an ‘extremely’ broadminded adult.
WARNING: Contains ‘taboo’ sex.
Hi. Frankie here.
I was walking aimlessly round the City one day looking for fresh air, when I saw this guy enter a phone box, put a sheet of paper on the shelf, and then leave without making a call. As he left the phone box, I entered. I was quite amused by the sheet of A4, or rather by the information printed on it. It was 7pm on a Sunday evening, AND the City centre was empty, so, I easily tracked him and stopped him.
Oh Boy! After I’d talked with him for a while, we decided to put this little book together. It may shock you, but, well, life is a myriad of tales. Some of them are ‘good’ some are ‘bad’, but this one? Well … make your own mind up.
Just before I begin, I need to tell you this. There was a newspaper cutting on this particular photocopied leaflet, which didn’t matter, as this document was originally in book form, and they transferred easily to the page. It’s a bit different on electronic devices, telephones, and the cuttings wouldn’t have transferred in a readable size. So, I have taken it upon my good self to put the first one onto the electronic device, and also write it out. The rest I have written out, and left the cuttings out. Just to show I’m not making these cuttings up, they are on my website if you want to look at them.
www.frankie-lassut.com
Thanks and enjoy.
Part 1.
The ambitious guy!
Ask and ye shall receive
Seek an ye shall find
Knock; and the door will be opened to you;
And then some Prick will slam it right in thous face
‘Jesus’.
(That’s what happened to Jesus when he went for an interview to be a money lender. LOL!)
Hello reader. My name is Grant, and I’m an Agony Uncle; quite possibly the world’s greatest, as I seem to have a natural ability for it. An obvious gift from my Creator!
To be a great Agony Uncle like me, you not only need huge amounts of common sense ... but, a bucket load of compassion too. Saying that, do you like my ‘coat of arms’ on the front cover? Here it is again in case you didn’t notice it. I drew it myself, who needs expensive graphic designers and artists (it only took me seven sheets of card to get it perfect).
With all of this common sense and compassion, which I have in abundance, I can easily tap into people’s mental pain, and expertly guide them back into the comfort of a peaceful mind.
***
Admittedly, I’ve never had a girlfriend, which is quite wise of me really, because mother says that ‘no woman in this world is good enough for me’, and ‘that there will only ever be one woman in my life; ‘her’.
It has been hard looking after mother since father disappeared five years ago.
I think he may have run off with some hussy from the working men’s club where he went for two pints every Friday night. Well, either that, or he’s hiding in the garden shed, which is quite large; but, that’s just silly.
Mother did shout at him a lot and slap him around a bit, as she’s quite an angry person, and father wound her up quite a lot with his work. You see, he looked after people’s tortoises when they went on holiday, and mother is allergic to tortoises: she really didn’t like it when people brought them to the door in no cages and handed them to her if father was out.
She had lots of awful rashes on her arms due to this behaviour.
His large garden shed housed straw filled compartments for his tortoises, and on sunny days he would have them freely walking around on the garden, much to mother’s dismay, as she loved sunbathing. He called the shed the TORTOISE HOTEL, five star accommodation for your tortoise!
He also had a tortoise hospital, and a hospice, but, the shed now has a big lock and a chain on the door. He locked it the day before he left. I cried a lot, as he did himself, when he left.
Sometimes, people’s tortoises died, either in the hotel, the hospital, or the hospice; or in their homes, and, as father was known locally as Mr Tortoise, they would either bring them from their home and hand them to him, or mum, (she hated that, but at least this time they were boxed) for burial in the special Tortoise Cemetery, in amongst the trees behind the shed, or they would come to him for a ceremony if their pet had passed in his care. Mind you, sometimes they brought the dead animals to the door and stayed for a ceremony, especially for the kids.
We have quite a large garden with trees at the lower part, behind the shed. Dad held quite a few very nice tortoise funerals in the spaces between the trees. He would read the service from a special ‘tortoise’ Bible father had written specially for such occasions. In his Bible, God was a Galapagos tortoise, heaven was a slow world full of lovely lettuce leaves …you get the idea? (The kids liked it). He had mini gravestones made by the local undertaker.
Father though had this rather ‘macabre’ pastime.
He would go out into the graveyard some nights, dig up the freshly buried tortoises, and make ashtrays from them, or designer soup bowls. He also sold them in a craft shop up North, and, some to a guitar pick manufacturer; and some to a designer specs manufacturer. How many he sold, I have no idea.
He must have done ok though with the whole venture, because he drove a fairly new Jag.
One day, mother got a moped, and father, being a creative soul, but a little tight with the cash, tried to save her money for a crash helmet, and made her one from Timmy, an extra large specimen. He got a good battering for that, but never seemed to learn. It’s difficult mixing love and miser-ism. There again, it’s difficult mixing love and money (or the lack of either).
In the end, the ash trays, soup bowls, a large wind chime
(which didn’t chime, it clonked), a large wind clonk, and a host of
other products just got mother so angry that she threatened to kill
him if he did any more. She also ordered him to pack in the Tortoise
Hotel and all to do with the ‘bloody things!’ Which he did, and
it broke his heart.
He disappeared shortly after this, and mother, who must have thought something of him, started comfort eating … big time.
Well. I finished school, and … I couldn’t get a job offer above the level of a cleaner. But, mother said ‘you’re worth much more than that Grant’, (parents! They only want the best for us, in their selfish opinion); so, believing her (mothers are your best friend and women are always right … the two qualities therefore made logic of her idea about me) I decided to ‘dole’ it for a little while until something ‘suit and tie’ came along. I’m still waiting (I don’t have a tie yet).
Now, as I would often try and diffuse the situation between mother and father, (especially the times when she had her hands round his neck and he was going purple) ... I sometimes had to use ‘reasonable’ force.
For e.g. I had built a homemade cattle prod from a broomstick, with two metal rods fixed to it (one either side), two pushbike handlebar grips (for both hands), some insulating tape; and a mains plug and flex. It was crude, but, it would break mother’s grip on father’s neck, and force her into the pantry where I’d lock her in until she cooled down. While in the pantry, I would ‘talk her down’ and therefore save her relationship once again, and most probably father’s life. This is when I realised I could be a great agony uncle, and so, advertised in the local paper.
RELATIONSHIP PROBLEMS?
IN ‘AGONY’?
Call GRANT on …
Solutions and happiness
GUARANTEED!
Common Sense and Compassionate approach.
Please have credit card details ready if you want it over the phone.
If not, please send your story to me and enclose a cheque for ...
Etc.
That’s a good advert isn’t it! Wowee!
Eventually, my friend Trevor began to call me AGONY GRANT!
I was born!
I had found my true vocation in life! Helping those in pain! Healing people! Saving troubled relationships!
What a beautiful way to live. The trouble was; well, no one got in contact with me. God only knows why not? So I had to think out a cunning plan.
It hit me one night in bed when I was making love to a beautiful woman, (Trev had lent me the mag). I prefer to do it by DVD, but it was late, and I didn’t want to wake mother up; and the slightest sound travels much more efficiently at night, or underwater. It isn’t so bad in the daytime, as when mother’s drunk, as she sleeps through all the daytime noises and so doesn’t hear me in my throes of passion. At night though, even with drink, she seems to wake at the slightest DVD moan of ecstasy, or my scream as I fall off that much sought after fabulous precipice, into the short lived, but Hey! Wow! Mind spinning, lung busting, heart thrashing, body tensing, orgasm paradise.
I did try headphones, but nearly strangled myself during one extremely strong eruption.
It may be wise for me to tell you here that, as you may or may not have guessed, mother is now, and has been for a while, bedbound at 42 stone, (and climbing). She can’t actually leave the bed, but at times, she really winds me up, especially about my ‘self gratification’, and I enter her bedroom, and we argue a lot. I therefore try and keep things quiet, or for when she’s sleeping … and we then get on much, much better.
Anyway, my career plan was this.
I would choose a newspaper Agony columnist. I would then ‘advise’ the subject ‘properly’ (women columnists aren’t ‘always’ correct if they aren’t your mother), write it all out, and then leave printed sheets of the problem and my answer in places like telephone boxes, and on bus seats etc.
I would put on my advert, and wait for the calls!
Excellent!
How could I fail?!
The only dilemma was this. When one of the top newspaper or magazine editors rang me and offered me the job, how much should I charge? … I didn’t want to lose out by being too cheap … history isn’t littered by the ‘could have been’ careers of those who sold themselves cheap. God, I wish I’d communicated with my father more, and then I could have talked to him about how much he charged, to, for instance, look after a tortoise.
But, that bridge I’ll cross when I come to it.
I tested a few columnists on Trevor and Mother, and I chose the most popular; by Trevmum demand no less!
The advice of the most popular (and therefore to me, the most ‘entertaining’), was, at times, by unanimous thought, to be rather Dreary, which incidentally, was extremely close to the wonderful columnist’s first name. My accumulated work, some of which you now hold therefore became known as Dear Dreary, because I considered the replies from this particular columnist to be just that, but fabulous too. I’ve tried not to use the names of body parts, because mother, who once went to church a lot, taught me that body parts and sex were dirty according to God (who got very angry at such blasphemies), and she never used words like penis or vagina (Hail Mary), so I don’t know.
See what ‘you’ think?
She Likes Toy Best.
Dear Dreary
I bought my girlfriend a Rampant Rabbit to spice up our sex life but now she prefers that to bonking me.
My romps with my girl used to be amazing. She’s 23 and I’m 25. She was always up for it but now I’m lucky if I get it once a month..
I’ve complained but she says she’s never in the mood.
I got her the sex toy recently. I was hoping it would kick start our sex life again. Now she just uses the toy instead. I feel so rejected.
Dreary says:
It sounds as though your sex life had got dull – for her at least. But tell her your relationship won’t last like this.
The two of you must discover what will make sex great for her too.
‘My’ reply:
Since when has a man been able to put his dirty bit inside a woman’s dirty in between bit and stimulate her dirty little button at the same time and make her go ‘hooo haaa’?
He can’t, so the job must be done first, before the hard bit goes into the then throbbing cavern (I heard that on a film!)
Trev showed me his Rampant Rabbit with the woman’s ‘shaky’ ... ‘we don’t need men’ button; men just can’t compete. I’m not sure why Trev had it, because although he said he’d bought it for his girlfriend for Valentine’s Day, I think he was lying; because he hasn’t got a girlfriend, and I don’t think it was his mother’s.
So mate whoever you are, I think you sound like a boring ‘wam bam thank you mam’ fucker, and must be about as boring in the sack as an accountant is in a creative writing class. Imagine this: if you were broke, and you drove a battered old car, and one day your girlfriend won the lotto and bought you a brand new Porsche, which you loved; would you still want to drive the old battered thing?
Naaa. Trev and Mother agree, although I didn’t tell mother about your girlfriend’s dirty in between bit habits, as she’s extremely prudish, and I believe, because she told me in temper one day, that she made father wear a blindfold during my conception. That’s true, honestly, even though she said she was, from the neck down, covered in a sheet with a suitably sized hole just on her dirty in between bits hole thingy. She says she guided father in with two fingers because she didn’t want him to look, and Trev agrees that ‘you’ (yes YOU) must be dead bed-boring to make her prefer the rabbit.
If you send me £10.00 and a self addressed A4 envelope, I’ll send you a well creased (folded too many times) picture of a woman’s dirty bit, on which I’ve drawn a circle around where I think the dirty button is … at least then you’ll know nearly as much anatomically as the designer of the Rabbit (the picture, because I took it off the screen and blew it up is a little pixilated, but if you squint a little, it looks a little better).
So then, if you do that, and then maybe ‘prepare’ before you put ‘your’ bit in her bit? And then take your bit out, and then … erm … use your tongue to stimulate her love button again … your relationship will be saved!
PS.
Maybe you’d like to have some mouthwash at the ready, or some lightly diluted fruit juice, because, you have to admit; a woman’s dirty button and the dirty in between bit don’t look as though they taste very nice, do they. Yeugh!
Trev says they taste great, but I don’t believe him. Mind you, he was, and still is, very close to his grandmother!
PPS.
Trev just phoned and said that his mother’s friend just said to his mother, that she had a Rabbit, and now, she didn’t need a man! ... See!
So. Maybe you could buy something that really eats batteries, and uses the same type as her Rabbit, and then flatten her batteries each time she puts new ones in … that way she will throw the rabbit out, and maybe decide that you’re better than nothing at all.
Who knows?
Yours truly,
Grant.
And that dear reader is the excellent quality of service you get from ‘Agony Grant’!
***
Punch Drunk
Dear Dreary
My girlfriend’s dumped me after we had a row that turned violent.
We were together seven years and have a son aged three. But one night I had too much to drink and we came to blows.
I would never want to harm her or our son and don’t drink all the time. But do I have to stop altogether? Or would counselling help? How do I win her back?
Dreary Says:
Your girlfriend was right to walk away from the abuse that turned violent. It’s dangerous for her – and damaging for your son to witness.
If you cannot trust your reactions when drinking. Giving up is the only solution, and that may involve counselling. Then she may give you another chance.
My free leaflets Have You Been Violent? and [sic] Drinking Problem? will [sic] help.
‘My’ reply:
My friend. The first thing to remember here is, never argue with a woman, especially if you’re drunk, as they are here, on earth, to naturally wind us ‘useless’ men up.
But still, there’s always a solution, and this is it.
You my troubled friend ‘can’ avoid all this MENTAL and physical pain. Here's how you should do it.
First of all, you must fit a chain and ankle shackle to your kitchen wall (or the living room?). Then, get her to gag you and shove a straw through the gag. Your hands can then be tied behind your back (if she pinches your nose at this point … she ‘hates’ you). Then, get her to shackle your ankle and LOCK YOU IN, and give her the key. Have her put a can of beer in front of you each time you finish one (no sense in lining a few up and letting them go warm, IS THERE!). You can then get as drunk as you like, but how the hell are you going to argue and fight then?
To make it more fun, and to show her you really want to be cured so you can get back to being a loving couple and regain access to her dirty in between bits, you could always let her be the counsellor, a REAL counsellor! Give her a baseball bat, and if you still annoy her by ‘trying’ to argue and be violent ... she can give you a nice thwack-twat across the head! Or in the arm (if she really loves you).
Tell her this, and I reckon she will come back to you, especially when you mention the baseball bat bit. Her son may enjoy that part too?!
PS. Try not to break wind when you're chained to the wall and she has
that bat, as I don’t need that sort of publicity; and you don’t
need your kneecaps doing as well as your sad old troubled head. I
don’t know why women have a problem with men breaking wind, as
snatch dirty in between bit farts during sex seem to
be ok? (Heard one on a Swedish DVD, and the woman didn’t
complain!).
PPS. Trev says, just as a shot in the dark … 'have ‘you’ any blueys ‘you’ don’t want?' German preferred.
Yours truly,
Grant
***
At this point, maybe I should tell you about Trev’s mother, and her similarity to mine.
Trev argues with his mother when ‘he’s’ drunk. She usually knocks him out with the same right hook every time! Honestly, you'd think he would have learnt to duck by now, as it’s been going on for years. He usually ends up doing a chore like 'mowing the lawn', as she tells him he 'promised' a chore each time he wakes up.
He never has any idea about how long he's been unconscious, and can never weigh up how his particular hangovers turned out not to be just headaches, but are always accompanied by “a very sore jaw?”
Last week, when he came back to consciousness, she had him wash, and then shave her back, (the hairs come through her shirt and she gets itchy).
We chatted about his sore jaw hangovers ages back, and came to the conclusion that if he fed his mum nothing but fast food, she would soon be as heavy as my mother, and then he could argue at a safe distance whilst she was bedbound.
Of course, he couldn’t weigh up how this would work as he didn’t know that his mother always hit him when he's argumentatively drunk; but I persuaded him to try anyway. This, as I say, was about two years ago.
He was a little bemused, but undertook the challenge and actually managed to get her hypnotised by a hypnotist friend of his, who ‘programmed her to eat fast food five times a day, and hey presto, she reached, in no time at all, forty ‘fast food’ stone and was bedbound in under a year (is that a record?).
He then argued with her at leisure, getting drunk deliberately, which made him feel good as the argument progressed. What fun! Teach 'HER' to give birth to Trev and bring him into this STRANGE, CUCKOO WORLD! Amazingly, his hangovers went back to normal. He thought I was a genius. He is obviously VERY aware a man, thinking like that; 'I think'.
Unfortunately, his mother foiled his fun activities. Somehow, she got a rope, and learnt from a magazine or bedside TV, how to throw a lasso. Now, when he wakes up, not only does he have a red ring around his neck, but a very sore jaw again, and alcohol being what it is; he can’t remember a thing. I keep telling him that he simply has to stop drinking. He did, and now he gets no hangovers, the red ring has disappeared from his neck, and he gets on really well with his mum … who he decided to leave bedbound and eating fast food.
That state, like mine own, keeps her out of the way while he’s studying naughty DVDs (for a PhDVD! ... A joke!)
How do I know what happens? I hear mother talking to his mother on the phone; and Trev tells me of course.
Trevs father?
He, a policeman, disappeared shortly after his mother became bedbound. True, she nagged him, and beat him too, but, he was quite wimpy and took it all. I reckon she got him to roll her to the side while he straightened her sheets and wiped her bum, and as he did it, rolled on him. So, by my reckoning, I would say he’s underneath her, mummified! ... Wife-ified?
***
Back to work.
Wedded Woes
Dear Dreary
My Husband is affectionate, but now we have wed he never wants sex.
I’m 27 and he is 28. Sex was great before the marriage, now it is non existent.
He says he finds me attractive and occasionally feels like sex but at the wrong times. We have a very respectful relationship and have worked through our problems with Relate but he won’t discuss sex with a counsellor . He hates it if I make the first move. He says he feels chased.
Dreary Says.
The clue lies in your word respectful. If he was brought up to believe a man should respect his wife, he may feel it is wrong to lust after you now you are married. My advice line today Your Man Too Cold? explains [sic] how you can help him overcome his sexual guilt so you can enjoy one another.
‘My’ reply:
Hmmm? Well darling, from what I know, it’s usually the other way round, but, it looks like he’s used sex to coax you into marriage, and once married, the ‘temptation’ would then disappear, and he’s therefore withdrawn his dirty dangler.
This is probably because he didn’t want to be a sad old bachelor, which would be terrible if his friends are all married … that would make him the ‘single’ leper. Wait until his friends wives and ‘partners’ start having babies, then he will be putting moody pressure on you for one. What you don’t say is ‘before we were married, we had a wonderful sex life and he wouldn’t leave my women’s dirty bits alone, and I couldn’t resist his!’
What you need is what the lady earlier had (SHE LIKES TOY BEST), a Rampant Rabbit, then, for sex you’ll not need a man. He can then concentrate on cooking, cleaning, and paying the mortgage; and ‘one day’, dirty, squashy bit feeding the baby.
There again, you could always try him with German hardcore Porn, and, if he doesn’t like it, my friend Trev says he’ll take it off your hands; free!
Must go as mother’s shouting for me. She must want wiping down as she does sweat a lot, especially when she’s watching the Alan Tit … what’s his name? The gardener bloke show (I think she fancies him!).
With best wishes
Grant.
***
Net Lover’s Father Won’t Let Us Wed
Dear Dreary
I’m in love with a woman half my age but her father refuses to let her come to the UK for us to marry.
I’m 50 and non religious. She’s 25. Muslim, and living in Egypt. We fell in love chatting on Skype.
She told her dad about us – and he had a heart attack – literally.
They live in a high rise flat so she has to care for him. She needs a visa to visit me costing hundreds of pounds and they can refuse her without refund.
Dreary Says.
There is no magic wand to make the obstacles to your relationship disappear.
Her commitment to her sick father means it would be very hard for her to come to the UK.
Visit her for a holiday – get to know one another in person and show her dad what a genuine, caring person you are. When it’s no longer just a virtual romance you’ll see the problems and possible solution more clearly.
‘My’ reply:
Dear Sir.
Of course he would have a heart attack, because he will not want to go against Allah, and will want his daughter to probably marry a similar aged, same race and religion, Doctor, Barrister … money sir, money, money. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just a waste of useless slime from your dad’s anti Allah dirty ball bits which unfortunately found an egg in the womb of a whore (well, that’s how some of them think, isn’t it?).
Of course, if you give him a million quid, he may think about it (their creed think money too!).
Trev says to tell him (after I said it to Trev of course, as he isn’t ‘that’ clever), not to worry about your dirty hard bit’s, God offending ‘slime’ making his daughter pregnant with a crossbred worthless piece of crying shit, whom ‘Allah’ will NOT like; as you’d actually prefer to shaft (engineering term) her up her lubed bum hole bit anyway (hail Mary).
Mind you, if he were a similar age to you, and you were a white, face showing, leg showing, ankle showing whore, and he wanted to empty his purebred hairy sack (coalman’s term) stuff into you, it would be alright; and the mother would be guaranteed to be a single parent, because ‘halfway house’ would just not be good enough for the next messiah incarnation due to the infiltration of the white non Islamic blood; ‘but’ it ‘will’ displace another impure white ‘infidel’.
Try and tell him this on the telephone, and with any luck, he will have a heart attack which will kill him, and then you can have your wicked way. Also, and very importantly, make her pay for her own ticket, and don’t go anywhere near her if she doesn’t waggle her illogical dirty female tongue round your ‘shameful’ nob (bon backward ... sweet in French), and rim you (don’t ask). I saw all that on one of Trev’s films yesterday afternoon, lucky eh?! He’s lent me it too, so now I have to pop to the shop for some tissues … Oh damn! Yes mother?! What do you want?!
Sorry. Gotta go.
Hope I’ve helped. No offence, that’s just the way things are, so I hear.
Grant.
***
His Birthday Bonus
Dear Dreary
I want to surprise my boyfriend by giving him great oral sex for his birthday today but I don’t know how.
I’m 20, and he’s going to be 21. I’m really rubbish at oral but he loves it. If I can get it right it could be the most special present ever.
All I need do is learn how to do it properly.
Do you have any tips on how to make his day one to remember?
Dreary Says:
Isn’t it great when you can give someone an amazing treat without breaking the bank?
My oral sex advice line today is a detailed guide.
Happy birthday to him!
‘My’ reply: