One For The Record Book

Here’s a set of weird coincidences for you from my prurient past. Let the statisticians among you get calculating the odds on this happening. Or maybe it was fucking karma, a tale of serendipity written in the stars.1

I had long lusted after lovely Lynne, a tall strawberry blonde with a cheeky smile and what looked like a very tasty, meaty arse on her. We had flirted slightly and exchanged double entendres for maybe a year at various business meetings, but nothing had transpired, nothing more than a Happy Christmas peck on the cheek.2

After one particular meeting I somehow sensed that the flirty amber light might be likely to change to green (I didn’t know it then but her boyfriend had just dumped her, it was not just my enchanting personality and fabulous body which finally got to her). By purest chance, my dear lady wife was due to go away for a couple of weeks to visit her elderly parents on the other side of the world. So, I went for it: “How about din-dins on Saturday, dearie?” I enquired. Lovely Lynne was up for that, and so was I.3

After dinner at a well-chosen restaurant conveniently near enough to where I knew she lived (we Lotharios always do our homework), I readily accepted her invitation to a nightcap chez elle. A couple of coffees and a brandy went down a treat and I thought she might go down too. So we went for a preliminary snog, which I enjoyed a lot, judging from the damp leakings I could feel soaking my sexy underwear. She asked me when my birthday was (this is always a good sign I have found: women seem to put some store on astrology, silly tarts that they are, but where would we be without them?). Much to our surprise we found out we had the same birth date (although she was a gratifyingly significant number of years my junior – I have always preferred my meat to be underdone). On the strength of this happy finding, she offered me another brandy and I said I would love one, but I would sadly be over the limit for driving home. So she poured me a big one and that settled that. We were off on the happy copulatory road.4

Lynne was quite a good shag and I found out I had been right about her arse: it was indeed very tasty and well-shaped and it looked fine jutting out as we banged away doggy-style. And thus began our affair, which continued for getting on for a year. We even managed to fit in a saucy little trip to Paris and the Rhine Valley under the cover of one of my business trips. The affair came to its inevitable close when Lynne began to get a bit too lovey-dovey and possessive, suggesting she would have no objection to being Wife Number Two, should that opportunity be on offer. Which it wasn't. However, we parted on relatively good terms; at least she didn't tear my eyes out.5

One drawback to sex with Lynne was that she started off the night smelling sweet as a rose, but after a few pokes, she got a bit pongy downstairs. I decided this was probably just a bit of stale pee, but it certainly discouraged me from having a good morning wake up mouthful of her rancid minge.6

A couple of years passed and then I bumped into dear Lynne at a party and she showed me her engagement ring – we are talking serious rocks here. So she got married to a rather wealthy guy and I entertained no more thoughts of her juicy, gushy pussy, although the odorous memory lingered on.7

The second chapter in this little tale of coincidences happened another two or three years later: another conference, this time in Miami. There was this tall skinny bird, with legs up to her armpits, who I had fancied for some time and I thought I was getting on rather well with her. I could easily visualise those long legs wrapped round my neck as she climaxed in my face. She had her friend with her, a rather heavily built woman with long dark blonde hair, not really my type, but quite fun; her name was Julie. At the close of conference party, the tall target with the legs, the large plump Julie, another guy who was also on the lookout for a bit of tail and my humble self were the last four in the bar, dancing to some dreadful music and knocking back gin and tonics for all we were worth. Suddenly Caroline (the tall skinny one) and Chris (the other predator) had vanished and I was left with big fat Julie. Which was a total pain in the arse. So Julie and I had no real option but to try out a drunken snog (I had to stand on tiptoe) and, would you believe it, her tongue whizzed down my throat like a demented dog after a terrified rat. And the inevitable happened: we ended up shagging the living daylights out of each other in my bed overlooking the ocean. Happily the Atlantic waves drowned the screams of her immense multiple orgasms, although I awoke slightly deaf in one ear.8

I had a strange fascination with her body: it was severely overweight (she ate like a horse and drank like a fish) but it was still very sexy. There really was an awful lot of Julie to fuck and (to be honest) she was a totally wanton slut which was very nice indeed. And so, on our return to Britain, we continued seeing each other: a few drinks, a meal and then off to her bachelorette pad in trendy Hampstead for a good old shagging and some eager oral (on her part, I might add).9

Eventually, we found out each other’s birthdays (regular bedmates obviously need to know birthdays so as to know when to give presents). Surprise! Surprise! Julie and I had been born on the same day! Double surprise! Julie had been born in the same year as lovely long lost Lynne (I was really surprised at this as I would have thought Julie much older than the age gap revealed, but I was naturally far too gentlemanly to comment – I have noticed women tend to be offended when people comment how elderly they look). 10

Now work this one out: I had had an affair with two women born on my birthday in the same year! The odds on this are not as long as you’d think, but they’re still about 1 in 35,000 (taking into consideration the numbers of past bedmates and so on and so forth, I won’t bore you with the statistical calculations, just believe me).11

But now we get to the kinky stuff: Julie also had the same pee smell as Lynne after a good hot night on the job. I had never ever encountered this phenomenon in other ladies of my acquaintance and a little bit of investigation in suitable medical works of reference informed me that only a very small percentage of women urinate slightly during orgasm. And there is one school of thought which suggests that some women ejaculate with the assistance of their G-spot. For those interested, nowadays the internet offers an unlimited supply of allegedly gushed-upon panties for pathetic perverts. I think you pay about £20 for a really odorous set of nylon treasures, so I must have had about five thousand quid’s worth from Lynne and Julie, which is fucking reassuring. 12

One morning, lolling half-asleep in Julie’s bed, noting the old familiar odour drifting up from under the duvet, a sudden staggering thought came to me. Whilst Julie snored gently next to me, I mentally listed the facts…..13

a] Both Lyn and Julie had been born on the same date;14

b] Both had been born in London;15

c] Both were tall (about 5’11”);16

d] Both were strawberry blondes (natural – believe me);17

e] Both were orgasmic gushers;18

f] Both had similar sexual exquisite tastes (i.e. they fancied ME).19

Added to this was the fact that Lyn had told me she had been an adopted child. And Julie had, in nearly six months, never mentioned her parents once. It took me some time to steer a conversation with Julie round to the subject of adopted children. When I finally managed it, Julie went all quiet and reserved. And then I knew. 20

Thus I was faced with the unbelievable coincidence that I managed to sleep with two twins, separated at birth, who shared my own birthday. Truly does God work in a mysterious way his fucking wonders to perform! 21

Now that I have stopped seeing Julie (she got too fat and slovenly for my fastidious and refined tastes), I am working on the possibility that they were not twins at all, but triplets. "Now why is that?" I hear you ask. Well, it just so happens I have just met this fabulous new bird called Heather; she's a tall, middle-aged blonde, born on the 13th of March and she totally pisses herself when she comes. And she's an orphan. I am heading for the fucking record books here.22