There was a whole lotta shaking going on in Fag Hag towers last night. The pear drop chandelier crystals were trembling away, the cracks in the ceiling were widening like the San Andreas fault and the mice were clinging on to their cheesy squares like pole dancers in a typhoon.
And why was this, may you ask? Yes you may. It was all because the neighbour’s lady loves a right good seeing to.
First, it was the sound of an Ikea bed overhead squeaking like the soundtrack for Norman Bates mother when she raised a knife aloft. Then it was the shagee herself making so much noise I nearly called the police (or the Fuzzettes as my godmother, Aunty Lynsey de Paul calls them.)
‘AAHHH!AHH!OHHH!’ screamed the lady as my neighbour did his worst. ‘OOH!YEES!MMMNN!’ she continued as I seriously began to wonder whether the Lotto rapist was at large and up to his pesky old tricks again.
Finally it stopped. And then started all over again 20 minutes later. ‘ARRGH!OH FUCK!YEEES!’ girlfren’ screamed. And shouted. Until it stopped. Only to start again 40 minutes later. ‘YEEEESSS!DO IT!FUCK ME!’ she instructed. By this time Faggy had fucking had enough. ‘WILL YOU STOP GIVING HIM FUCKING VIAGRA!’ I yelled in a moment of pure red mist rage. And then silence.
If I’d have known it was that easy to put a sex pest off his stride, I’d have tried this years ago.