How the humiliating defeat of a sporting legend ends with our sexual entrepreneur peeing on a porn star

 

I’m not like Édith Piaf. No. Me, I regret plenty. And when I do something shameful or weak or embarrassing, the remorse comes back to haunt me for years afterwards. I’ll be sitting on a bus minding my own business when suddenly an unwelcome memory will spring into the forefront of my mind. It might be a terrible failed joke I made at a dinner party in 1989, or a radical haircut I had during the New Romantic era, or a bad poem I wrote at college. Whenever this happens, I shiver as though a ghost has passed through me.

But even with so many mortifying incidents to choose from, there’s no doubt which one makes me cringe the most. It involved an Australian cricketer, and it led, indirectly, to the sight of a large-breasted woman attempting to swallow my urine. It was the summer of 1993. I was living in Camberwell, south London, and drinking regularly at a pub called the Grove House Tavern. One day, the landlord announced that the Aussie cricket team were going to visit the pub on a goodwill junket organised by Foster’s, the sponsors of their Ashes tour. We would get to meet them up close, pose for photos and get autographs. Best of all, there would be a special ‘Amber Nectar quiz game’ against one of their biggest stars. Because of my superior performances on the sports trivia machine, I was chosen to represent the locals.

Come the day, the place was packed. The Australians, including such legends as Merv Hughes, Allan Border and the Waugh twins, strode in with all the cockiness you’d expect of world-beaters. It was genuinely exciting. After a lot of hand-shaking and banter, the brewery rep announced the start of the game. He read my name out over the mic – there was a huge cheer – and then the name of my opponent. This was greeted with less enthusiasm, mainly because it wasn’t one of the famous players after all. Perhaps they were tired after their county match against Surrey, or maybe breaking sweat for an event like this was simply too much of a chore, but whatever the reason I was going to be taking on a complete unknown, a cricketing Z-lister who had yet to make a dent in Wisden. No-one had ever heard of him.

After building myself up for a fortnight, I felt rather insulted by this. Did they think I wasn’t worthy of respect on my big day? Was I only good enough to take on some drinks carrier, some deadbeat of a twelfth man? Fuelled by a few free pints of Foster’s, my sense of injustice boiled up, and when the quiz began I channelled this fury into my performance. I rattled off correct answers, picked up bonus points, somehow dredging the most obscure snippets of sporting trivia from the backwaters of my brain. I was on fire. My opponent, by contrast, was floundering, unable to score points even when the topic was ‘Australian Sports’. It was all over in five minutes, a total whitewash. And the pub goes wild…

Afterwards, he came over to congratulate me. His hand was outstretched, a friendly smile on his lips. But instead of being humble in victory, I was still stinging from the perceived affront to my dignity. Refusing to shake his hand, I looked him straight in the eye and said, in a sneery voice, “Sorry, pal. But I don’t shake hands with losers.” Oh. My. God. What a prize-winning cock I was. I almost can’t bear to look at that sentence on the page, let alone recall the horror of the actual moment. Mind you, on the bright side, at least I can be sure that it didn’t affect him too badly. Eight days later, the “loser” dismissed Mike Gatting with his very first ball in Ashes cricket. His name was Shane Warne.

Now, you might think I owe the great leg spinner an apology. But even though I freely admit my behaviour was unsporting and abysmal, I feel we’re even. Because if I hadn’t met him, I might never have been dragged into one of the most bizarre and damaging sexual encounters of my life. Fast forward six years to a party on a Thames pleasure barge. I am leaning against the wall, gawping at a gorgeous blonde with enormous fake boobs. She looks like a porn star. Eventually, I summon up the courage to approach her. I say hi, get her name, and then ask her what she does for a living. And it turns out she is a porn star.

Luckily, I’m sober enough not to say, “Great! I love porn! I bet I’ve seen your movies!” In a chat up situation, I find it’s rarely a winning tactic to imply that you’ve already masturbated over the woman you’re talking to. Into a sock. Instead, I go highbrow, and this turns out to be a wise move. Like most foxy girls, she is tired of guys hitting on her in unsubtle ways, and she mistakes my blather about Martin Amis and John Updike for ‘taking her seriously her as a person’. I nod in agreement. Then, when she turns to throw her cigarette butt overboard, I quickly check out her arse. It’s a peach!

Still, talking about books is one thing, actually getting her into bed is another. If only we had a connection. Magically, one arrives. I’ve just asked her what makes her most sad – another good tactic with girls like this, sadness being ‘deep’ – and instead of coming up with some beauty queen bullshit about starving Africans or abandoned puppies, she makes a confession. “Well, I kinda lost a friend recently. She introduced me to that cricket player, Shane Warne, and we ended up in bed at his hotel. But then I met this other guy from the News Of The World, and I sorta did a kiss and tell.” Kinda. Sorta. Her singsong voice makes it all sound very accidental. To show solidarity, I tell her my anecdote and we laugh at how we’ve both upset the same celebrity and what a small world it is.

“Shane was nice. There were only two things wrong with him. He had a spotty bum, and he was a bit straight in bed for me. I like it kinky, you know?” I try to smoulder here, to suggest that I am a wellspring of sexual energy, the practitioner of dark arts under a duvet. “Yeah,” I grunt, judging it the right time to move in and kiss her. “I like it kinky too.” Fast forward another two hours. The boat has docked and we’re back at her place. She’s in the kitchen knocking up some pasta and I’m sitting on the sofa thinking, what the hell have I talked myself into? I’m thinking this mainly because I am watching a porn video she has chosen for our viewing pleasure. Presumably, it’s supposed to put me in the mood for love. It features my hostess herself, on all fours, being anally penetrated by a grunting black man.

I am out of my depth. And, judging by the size of her co-star’s penis, I am wa-a-y out of my length. It must be a foot long, veiny and thick. It could definitely beat me in an arm wrestle. Given the gulf between what I’ve said I’m like in bed (masterful, up for anything) and the reality (lazy, unadventurous), the sensible thing would be to run away and leave her slaving over the fettucine. But there’s still enough drink in me to think, “Hey, give it a whirl. Maybe it’s time you tried something a bit… edgy in the sack. After all, how bad can it possibly be?” I get the answer a minute later when I go to the bathroom. I stand in front of the loo, unzip my jeans and begin to pee. I am halfway through the act when in she walks. At first I think she must have left something in here, or maybe that she’s come in to clean her teeth, so I try to act unfazed. Be cool, I tell myself. You’re in the big leagues now. Then, without a word, she kneels down in front of the bowl, opening her mouth like a shark and leaning thirstily towards the warm yellow stream of my piss. Aaargh!

Panicking, I veer away from her face, only to find that I am now peeing on the fluffy beige carpet. Some middle-class gene instinctively tells me that this is also a Very Bad Thing To Do, so I twist back, hopping up and down and going “No!” In mid-flow I am unable to switch off my bladder. In desperation, I try to aim my urine into the thin ‘corridor’ of enamel between her gaping lips and the rug, but it’s like trying to thread a needle. “You’re not into this, are you?” she finally twigs. “That’s cool, let’s just go to bed.” Bed? Is she kidding? I need at least a week in a monastery and a kilogram of Prozac to get over this. But… oh, no… she’s French kissing me. Her tongue is nimbly entwining around mine. In normal circumstances, this would be unimprovable, but all I can think of now is how much piss she’s drunk. I’m probably getting second hand slash from half the porn stars in London. And what’s going to happen next? Am I supposed to shit on her head for an encore? Or vomit in her shoes?

She steers me back into the bedroom like a shopping trolley. My belt is unbuckled and my shirt is tugged over my head, just in time for me to see her huge breasts exposed. Her hand begins to confidently stroke my groin and somehow – maybe an adult movie trick, or the usual treachery I’ve come to expect from my penis – it grows hard. She licks a finger, puts it between her legs and whispers throatily, “I want it right now.” I am on my back, appalled. She lowers her shaved pussy on top of me and starts to bounce up and down with the vigour of a jockey approaching Becher’s Brook. I don’t even have time to register the majesty of her body before I come. It’s not an orgasm which gives me the remotest sensation of pleasure. It just seems like my semen has looked into the future, seen the shame that’s coming, and decided it would be better to surrender before this goes any further. It’s not so much a climax as the waving of a white flag.

She looks at me in disbelief. The whole process has taken maybe thirty seconds. It is without doubt the most disappointing sex she has ever had. After mumbling some excuses, I zip myself back up and fetch my coat from the sofa. On the TV, she is still being sodomised by a professional. His dark erection looks like a submarine. I try to apologise to her, but she’s not interested. I can see she’s thinking, “All those guys at that party, and I have to pick this one-pump chump?” I leave my phone number on the coffee table, but of course I never see her again. In fact, I lay off sex for a couple of months, and don’t speak to anyone who was at the party in case she’s gossiped about me.

However, looking back, I can see that every cloud has a silver lining. At least if I ever meet the world’s greatest bowler again, I’ll be able to look him in the eye without feeling bad. Because Shane, remember: just like our batting order, I made you look good…