Thursday, 6 September 2012

Introduction To Good Times With Girls

Since the paperback version of Good Times With Girls will emerge in about a week's time, I thought it a good idea to give you an extended taster of the book by posting the whole of the introduction here. For the first month or so the book will only be available from one site, but by the middle of October I expect that Amazon will have it as well. The e-versions will also appear over the next six weeks, so you have something to buy for your kinky Christmas.


 If you have read A Spanking Good Life, and you should because it is a damned fine read, then you will know all about me, but if you have not yet read it then allow me to  give you a brief outline of my life up to now:

I was born the year of the Suez Crisis in 1956, and left school fifteen years later as part of the last tranche who were able to go off and earn a living at that age instead of wasting another year of their lives providing employment for the teaching trade. For over a decade I worked as a projectionist and combined it with a nice little earner on the side as a writer of erotic short stories, or sleazy porno if you prefer. Finally, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I went off to university, first to Ruskin College, Oxford, and then to the University of Manchester. After graduating, I beetled off to Mexico where I spent the next two decades doing a bit of this and that, some of it being academic, but most of it not. As you can see, I am a self-made man, which at least relieves the almighty of an awful responsibility. 

You will want to know something about my physical appearance, I suppose, so let me give you a thumbnail sketch. I stand a shade over six feet tall and have worn glasses since I was a teenager. My moustache has been on my upper lip since I was nineteen and the beard that joined it a couple of years later was only shaved off in 2010 when it became too salt and peppery for my tastes. I buy my shirts and toiletries in London’s Jermyn Street and my jackets in Marks and Spencer’s.

My taste in aftershave may be that of the haute bourgeoisie, but my nose for women is louche in the extreme. If you did read A Spanking Good Life, then you will already know that the good time girls of this world really do get my gonads jangling. I find vanilla females very tiresome indeed, and I would much rather cross intellectual swords with a good time girl on the make than spend time with some tedious little wallflower. So when it came to choosing a theme for this follow-up to A Spanking Good Life my choice was not hard to make - I would just write about the girls that I find both fascinating and desirable.

A good time girl is not a prostitute exactly, but she possesses a negotiable virtue, and is quite happy to put her looks, charm and bedroom attributes to work in hooking a suitably solvent male.  For his part the fellow gets a girl who does not ask too many tiresome questions about his marital status, nor expects too much in the way of either fidelity or commitment, and who tends to go like a steam engine in bed. When you get right down to it, the chap who has never bet the contents of a well-stuffed wallet on one of these delightful wildcats has never really lived.

To a man who believes that a saucy female should have her backside paddled as a matter of course, a good time girl does provide an extra source of delight. Many of them are so used to acting as prima donnas with men who really do not know how to control these feral cats, that the opportunities to upend them for a schooling are virtually limitless. To be fair to the girls, I have never met one who has held a grudge against me because she has bet her soft female backside against my hard male hand and lost.

Until fairly recently it is fair to say that the British good time girl was virtually extinct, but as you will see later on they are now making a come back to our shores. I am all in favour of this, as anything that helps to lower the moral tone of the race and nation is to be encouraged. However, such was the dearth of indigenous good time girls that, as recently as 1993, I was forced to engage with a Polish import, who turned out to be wonderfully mercenary in her outlook. 

That said, it is to Mexico that we must look if we want to see the species thriving in large numbers in their natural habitat. That country has many things going for it, and the two that spring most readily to mind are a healthy attitude to work, and the easy availability of the female population to any man with a good-sized wallet and an eager penis.

Work, as we know, is the curse of the drinking classes, and the Mexican aversion to that vilest of four letter words is taken to extreme lengths. To be fair, Mexico is a country where wealth is largely inherited and where the right family connections count for everything. A person with ability but no connections is at a decided disadvantage.

El que no transa, no avanza, is the country’s unofficial motto. It means that if you do not hustle then you do not get anywhere. The Americans may believe that the poor are lazy and feckless, but south of the border the Mexicans know that the poor are just people still waiting for an opportune moment to arrive, so that they can hustle their way into the easy money.

Therefore, Mexico City is alive with sharp eyed, tight-skirted, high-heeled talent on the make, their hunters’ eyes constantly on the lookout for a man who is not quite as happy as he might be, especially if they see an opportunity to move in and displace his already existing lover. All is fair in the hunt for the next meal ticket.

To make matters even more interesting for the libertine, Mexico is actually a rather wealthy country, so it attracts fortune hunters from other parts of the Americas, and beyond the seas. Thus, I got to enjoy a rather tasty Argentinian girl who fled her country’s crisis in 2002, and I must not forget the American who found herself down south and worked her ticket home in the old-fashioned manner.

Once I realised how the country worked I fell into the Mexican ways with gusto. I had the advantage of being a white, non-American westerner. Not that there is anything wrong with los gabachos, but hard-eyed Mexican slappers take pride in their abilities to hook exotic fish, and there is nothing finer in their mind than a Western European. Trust me, you young fellows, when I say that to be born an Englishman living in a country like that really is like winning the lottery of life without having to buy a ticket in the pussy hunting stakes.

Sadly, all good things have to come to an end, and in December 2009 I returned to the UK due to ill health. As I recovered my strength and turned my attention to matters feline, I was delighted to discover that a new breed of good time girl had been created in Britain during my absence. Unlike their Mexican counterparts, the British girls are not hustling for money. In fact many of them seem to have married very well indeed and are cheerfully engaged in repaying their husbands’ generosity by taking lovers. The excuse is that the wretched men are working like dogs to keep their heads above water in these troubled times, and are too tired to pay their wives the attention that the little darlings demand. Trust me when I say that I do try to understand the thought processes that are at work inside these particular female minds, but my logical male brain just cannot get to grips with their behaviour. On the other hand, it is possible that my joints will not articulate sufficiently to get my head that far up my bum to make sense of them, but whatever their motivation is, they are all grease for the cock, which in the end is all that matters to me.

I may be uninterested in a good time girl’s motivation, so long as my balls have been suitably emptied and I am left with a nice shine to my knob, but I do find the demimondaines to be fascinating creatures that I cannot get enough of. I suppose when you get right down to it, the female who is not quite a whore, but who is certainly not a respectable member of bourgeois society, is just my kind of girl.

So, to all you good girls out there who want to know how bad girls behave, and to all you chaps who might be thinking about taking a wildcat on board, all I can say is come along and let me introduce you to a few of the more memorable ones. 

As with A Spanking Good Life, everything in this volume is the truth, but I have played fast and loose with the chronology and I have combined some characters to ease the telling of the tales that will follow. Needless to say, all of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

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