April, Part One

As you will have probably realised by now, I have a healthy respect for the world's good time girls. Whether it is cold hard cash or favours of some kind, a girl of negotiable virtue is more than willing to spread her thighs and allow ready access to her ripe and ever eager pussy in return for some of the things that she desires.

Alas, there is a type of good time girl who falls outside these mercenary boundaries and I must be honest and say that they make my flesh crawl. That is not to say that I try to avoid them because at the end of the day it is another notch to add to my cock, but I do despise them for what they are and what they do to men who fall under their spell. These girls do not want money or good times, what they are after is an emotional crutch that leaves them feeling desired. Many will just have emerged from a broken down affair and feel the need to boost their egos with a succession of men. Others will feel that their husbands are not giving them the attention that their vacuous little female minds demand. Either way, unless a fellow keeps his wits about him these mingers spell trouble.

April was a case in point, since she was all these things and more. Still, she was a good rattle, so I cannot complain, can I? At forty she was too old to chase, but not too old to fuck if handed out on a plate, which is basically what happened. I was living just outside Birmingham as the summer of 2010 turned to autumn. I had spent three months of the year before in a coma following a routine operation that went pear-shaped in Mexico. At the end of the year I returned to the United Kingdom for the first time in almost two decades and I spent the first few months of 2010 slowly learning to walk again as my muscles had atrophied after almost a year of inactivity. My plan was to recover slowly, but for reasons that would be as tiresome for you to read as they would be for me to write, I speeded up the process and at the very end of May 2010 I quite simply forced my body to start working properly by ignoring the pain that coursed through it. My version of physiotherapy seemed to work as by late summer I was in a pretty fine fettle, with only a walking stick needed to provide my with legs with total stability.

That September afternoon was one of those drowsy end of summer days that England sometimes gets. I was sitting on a park bench on a spot that overlooked a large lake, and was busily engaged in doing nothing very much that fine day. I can remember watching the heavyweight carp in the lake coming up to the surface to gasp for air on that sultry day, and I idly used my stick as an imaginary fishing rod, swinging it with my wrist as if I were casting out a line.

"Is that how you fish in Mexico?" The question was asked jocularly, obviously from a female standing somewhere to my right. Ah - there she was, an elfin faced brunette in a rather nice yellow sun dress, a late thirties, early forties bit of talent, not yet gone completely to fat, and so fit for someone to fuck. Not me, of course, since I do not chase women of that age, but most men would find her agreeable enough to pursue.

"Mexico... How did you know that?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson," she replied with a grin that ran from ear to ear. She came over to me and fingered my shirt, and then pointed to the broad brimmed panama that I was wearing. "You don't see them in this country," she concluded, triumphantly.

"They sell panamas, but you are right about the guayabera," I told her, as with my thumb I gestured to the white, pleated shirt with its four pockets that is worn outside the trousers, which I had on that day. "I could have been from Cuba," I went on, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"I didn't know they wore them, but was I right about Mexico?

"Yeah, you were. I lived there for almost twenty years," I told her.

"Why did you come back to this?"

"My health was bad, and England's home," was all I said. "My name's Nick, by the way," I went on.

"I'm April, pleased to meet you. What did you do over there?"

"University don."

I was being taciturn, largely because as far as I was concerned this was just a spot of idle chit-chat before I wandered off to get lunch. The rumbling in my stomach told me that it was time to move, so I eased myself forward on the park bench and took the weight on my stick with a view to getting up.

"Have you published anything recently?" The question was asked lightly, but I noticed that she was leaning forward, head cocked to one side, clearly interested in the answer.

"A few small things on Mexican history," I told her, before going on to list a couple of articles, before telling her where she could read them on-line.

"I will check that you are telling the truth,"she said, her finger wagging in mock sternness.

"And when you see that I am I will smack your bottom for doubting me," I replied, getting to my feet. I had no inclination to chance my arm with that woman, but it was something to say to end the conversation. On impulse I gave her one of my freshly printed business cards,  for no other reason than that they had arrived that morning and I had a supply in my pocket. Had I not had them I doubt if I would have fished around for a pen and paper to write my telephone number down - that is how indifferent I was.

"I'll be in touch if I like what I read," I heard her say as I sauntered off. I just raised my arm in acknowledgement before my thoughts turned to the idea of a damned fine chop with roast potatoes and some green stuff on the side. Maybe a decent claret to wash it down? I pondered the thought as I made my way to the eatery, and quite forgot the woman and her promise.

Which was a pity because the next day she rang me and it was game on.

To be continued.