Member-only story
Never Mind the Bollocks
“Does my pussy look punk enough? I reckon I should get it pierced.”
I regret not having any inspiration for this week’s #WickedWednesday, but it seemed appropriate to recycle my last ever Smut Marathon entry.
A year after my Malcolm died I took early retirement, sold up, and moved back home. I bought a little bungalow down the road from the cottage I grew up in. I told myself I wanted to be somewhere that didn’t hold memories of my husband.
Truth be told, I came for different memories.
Trains don’t stop at the village any more, but the railway station is still here, crumbling and overgrown and redolent of happier times. This station, not my parent’s house, felt like home in the summer of ’77. Between school and university I spent most evenings hanging out on the platform with the rest of the wannabe punks, drinking cheap cider and smoking menthol Mores.
It was here I first fell in love, with Harry ‘Dixie’ Dean. He seemed so mature: at nineteen he wasn’t much older than me, but a year is a long time at that age and his permanent sneer suggested he’d already seen too much of a world that couldn’t live up to his expectations. He was six foot three, and with his green hair standing up in stiff spikes he had to duck through doorways. Beanpole thin, he had legs…
