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Mucky Pups

Make Mine Funsize

Peter Miller

Global Fiction

First publication: October 2001

http://badosa.com/n121-04

Despite his bloated bladder, Ed already had a stonking great stiffy. He could feel the wet grass through his jacket and the horizontal position he found himself in brought on a quick headspin, his nausea diluted by the strong wind across his stubble-scrubbed face. Flopsy hoisted her leg over him and plonked herself right on his midriff. Ed had to quell the urge to shout in panic, suppressing thoughts of his bladder bursting and drowning both of them in a tidal wave of blood flecked urine. Flopsy’s beery breath fought with his own, her long hair curling up his nose and into his open mouth as he stretched for air. The hairs were blown out again, only to be replaced by the strands saliva-stuck on Flopsy’s rough tongue when she rammed it down the back of Ed’s tobacco-thronged throat. She pulled the hair away from her mouth and smiled drunkenly at Ed, who managed to smile back bashfully, as he had practised for the six weeks or so that he had been on Flopsy’s trail. He had made sure to go to the toilet before they left the pub, needing a great deal of concentration to reduce his level of excitement so that he could piss safely into the toilet bowl, rather than up the wall: this had happened to Big Splag, a friend of Ed’s who had disproved the theory that it was impossible to have a wazz with a stonk on. Ed was trying to appear relaxed in spite of the unstable mixture of sexual arousal that he would have liked to give in to, and the desperate lavatory need that he was fighting against with what felt like the strength of a gladiator. The ten minute walk from the pub to the seafront pleasure gardens had been enough for his body to brew another sixty-three gallons of piss. He was afraid that if he mentioned that he had to go for a jimmy riddle Flopsy would think he was a poofter and bugger off, never to return. They wandered through the well-tended rockery, stopping every now and then to grope each other’s genitals. They squeezed through a gap in a wooden fence and started to thread their way through the fibre glass wonderland known as the Waterways. During the brief summer months it played gentle host to crowds of wide-eyed infants, the coloured lights reflecting on their thrill-filled faces, to the endless pleasure of doting parents who couldn’t afford to go to Miami or the Costa Brava. Now Flopsy was trying to shag Ed senseless underneath a grim effigy of Little Miss Muffet sitting on her tuffet, the spider dangling stiffly a few feet above Ed’s besieged crotch. Flopsy grabbed his bollocks and squeezed hard, making Ed straighten up sharply. A handful of mud from the puddle he was lying in sneaked inside his jeans and started to seep into his underpants. He had put clean ones on, just in case, but now his carefully talcum powdered bum cleavage was playing host to a soggy mess like three day old porridge. Flopsy slipped one cold hand under his neck and kissed him delicately. With the other hand she undid the zip of his jeans roughly and started to fumble around, trying to get his dick out of his y-fronts. She couldn’t even find the opening, so she stroked his shaft through the manmade pantfabric for a while, before trying again to get the bloody thing out. After a brief struggle she managed to twang it free into the cold sea air. She started to gently tug him off and began to gyrate her backside, laughing in devillish delight. Ed chuckled softly, secretly scared that she was laughing at his penis, hardly the Scott Monument.

A small object plopped on the wet ground by Ed’s head and started to fizz. Ed immediately twisted round, knocking Flopsy off balance, and flicked the object, Subbuteo style, as hard as he could. The wind was too strong for it to travel very far, even in the relative shelter of the Nursery Rhyme Aquatic Grotto, and it landed back in a pat of thick mud. The banger exploded, showering Ed and Flopsy with slime. Flopsy hoped it wasn’t dogshit. Ed untangled himself from Flopsy and started running in the direction of the tinny laughter that the wind carried in their general direction. His mud-spattered erection waved frantically before him, like a toy truncheon, as he hurdled the Hey Diddle Diddle Cat and its Fiddle and ducked, Spartacus-like, the hind legs of a Cow Jumping Over the Moon. When he got round the back of Mary Mary Quite Contrary’s garden shed he slowed to a jog and then stopped, hands on his knees, to get his breath back. He noted with surprise the prescence of his penis mere centimetres from his puffed-out face, and straightened up sharpish. As soon as his erection had subsided he propped himself against the hollow garden shed wall with one hand and let out a steady flow of urine. It made a sound like a cow pissing as it hit the wet ground. With the philosophical clarity born of a freshly drained bladder, Ed resolved to do two things: first, kill the little bastards, whoever it was, who’d thrown the firework, preferably before they made him a laughing stock around town (although if the worst came to the worst, that would give him a good means of Sherlocking out the guilty parties); and secondly, fuck Flopsy’s brains out at the earliest opportunity, should he ever get another chance, which to be honest he doubted. Come to think of it, it wasn’t such a fantastic idea, she was the number one Premier Division sex sharpshooter, and he was a Sunday league linesman without a proper flag. He shook his penis and put it away, the last reluctant dribble of piss soaking warmly into his mud-clagged underpants. He shrugged and shuffled off.

Mungo was home long before Flopsy trudged in. He had plenty of time to hide his muddy shoes next to his bike in the shed. He slipped inside the house and trotted triumphantly up the stairs.