:: Article

A Walk in the Park

By Sam Jordison.

It was still nice and hot and I decided to cut through the park. The sun was setting slowly. The blue in the sky was deepening. The white clouds were tinged with pink. The air smelt of pollen, petrol and barbecues. Summer.

I was going fast, getting a sweat on. My shirt was sticking to my wet back.

There weren’t many people around. A bald dad throwing a frisbee to his boy. A group of young men strutting around a football. A few birds.

Everything was smooth.

The path ahead of me shone like water.

When I got round the corner, I really saw something.

Two girls.

Two juicy girls.

They were bursting out of their dresses. Tits and smooth skin. Little summer numbers they had on. Their long legs flowed right up to their asses. Two of them. I could just see them holding each other. Running their hands through each other’s long shining hair. Pink and firm fingers sliding through the blonde and black tresses. Soft tresses. And those marvellous fucking tits. Oh boy. Ripe and crammed into their dresses. Looking like they were trying to pop out.

I wondered what they were doing, wandering in the park, together like that. Perhaps when I was younger I’d have asked them back to mine for some good shagging. Back in the days when I had more hair.

Actually, I wouldn’t. I never really had much action from the girls. I wish I hadn’t been so shy. And I wish I had been more with it — you know, more seductive. I think they never really liked me, the girls. The bitches.

But hell. Forget it. These ones looked so good. So pure. The first fruits of summer. The beating pulse in the divine mind. They looked immortal. So lithe and flowing. That vast expanse of flesh. Those dresses that didn’t hide anything. Those dresses that just accentuated it all.

I imagined the girls would smell pretty good too.

I didn’t mean it, but I felt myself getting stiffer in my trousers. The kraken had woken. I could feel it now, pressing on the zip. Pressing hard on the zip. I remembered how I’d spilt some piss before, thinking that I’d finished my tinkle when I hadn’t. But that didn’t stop me. I badly had the horn. I guess it was the heat. It had finally got to me. The air tasted of sex. And barbecues.

Yes, it was one horny fucking evening. Sweat dripped into my eyes from my forehead. Sweat trickled around my mouth. I was getting close to them now. I looked the girls up and down, from feet to hair to feet again, via legs. I wanted to grab those nice breasts.

I let out a kind of sigh.

One girl was darker skinned than the other and her cleavage was glorious. She was staring at me. Trying to smack me with her eyes. I looked away quickly, but it was no use.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“What’s wrong?” asked the other one.

“Him. He’s looking at us. Oh christ. Don’t look. He’s flashing.”

They were closer now. They did smell good. I’d known it all along.

“You perv!”

“Shut it, you whore,” I snarled right into the brunette’s face.

She gasped. I liked it.

“You fucking love it,” I told her and strode on.

I suddenly felt ashamed. They were children and I’d trodden on their new toys and laughed. They were making me feel guilty and I hated them. I took just one glance back. They were walking away quickly. Christ, they were hot.


Sam Jordison is a regular contributor to The Guardian. He is the author and editor of several books including Sod That: 103 Things Not to Do Before You Die and Crap Towns. He still hasn’t written a novel.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Tuesday, March 29th, 2011.