The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (11 page)

The teenage years was just one long fuck. I had my share of pussy but my greatest memory was with a half-caste chick. She will remain nameless as it’s not my thing to embarrass women – unless, of course, they’re evil bitches – plus by now she would be a granny.

I met her at a party and we just hit it off. I was seventeen and she was twenty-four. She had a flat she shared with her mate, who I actually knew. She worked at a factory that I once robbed. Anyway, something mental happened that night that’s never happened before to me. I think it was a one-off, a miracle. Call it what you will, but it was mental; it just happened.

We were naked in the bedroom and I was giving her some serious fucking doggy style, really banging away big time. My balls were slamming into her like the birch and we was doing it in front of a mirror so we was both looking at each other. I shot my load and something weird happened – my dick stayed rock hard, it never went limp. It was mental. I kept pumping away and thought no more of it till I shot my second load. I still never went limp. This time I actually pulled out just to check. I was rock hard and all my come was trickling out of her. It blew me away. It didn’t make any sense. Even she said, “Don’t you ever stop?” That night was weird. I came five times before I went limp. My dick was really sore for days after. I’ve never forgot it. I never will. Would you? I bet she hasn’t either!

There’s no explanation for it. It’s spooky, but we’ve all been there as teenagers. Was it good or was it good? Come on, how good was it? It was brilliant: the music, the style, the parties, the speed of living. We was always fast living, but the pussy was something else.

Why is it that black girls are so sexy and hot? Can a black girl move, or can she move? Have you ever seen them move on the dance-floor? Come on, you must’ve done! The way they move that arse is lovely! They’re just sex on legs. You can’t take it from them. They’re just oozing with sex – and they know it! I wouldn’t mind dying of a massive heart attack in bed with a beautiful black girl, say about twenty years old. What a way to call it a day! What a way to leave the planet! The ultimate dream! Here I go again. My dream would probably end with a Colt 45 in my mouth and my brains all over the pillow. She would probably be an escaped lunatic, a right psycho, crazed bitch. Come on, we all love a sexy hot bird, don’t we? You can shag your wife or husband for forty years, but you can’t tell me you don’t dream of a sexy young bird. Yeah, you know it too. We all know it. That tight little hot, sticky, sweet-smelling pussy. Come on, you know it’s your dream. Or, for your old lady, I bet she’s sick of your shrivelled-up dick with your baggy bollocks all wrinkled and heavy and your bad breath or your bald patch or beer belly. She wants a good stiff cock with tight balls and a nice firm arse to grab hold of. And if she don’t then she’s not normal. It’s everyone’s fantasy. It’s why so many mid-life crises happen. They all want that last big fuck to prove they haven’t lost it. There’s nothing wrong with it – just don’t get caught! Live out your dream and enjoy it. When I hit out, every day will be a dream come true for me. Believe it! I’m sure you do.

Love will be the making of me! But am I gonna have a sore dick? Or am I? I can’t fucking wait. I really can’t. Whose gonna love me to death? Who’s gonna shag me to death? Whose gonna kill me with love? I fucking can’t wait to die! Just kill me slowly. Torture me with kisses and tongues! Smother me in pussy. Yahooooooooo! Yippeeeeeeeeeeeee! It’s gonna be soooperdoooooperrrrrr.

Everything is love if you want it to be! There’s nothing that can’t be loved. We all love something, or somebody. What’s your greatest love? If it’s me, you’re fucking mental!

Hey, I loved that Tina Turner in her heyday. What a lovely arse she had. And what about Suzi Quatro in her leather trousers?! Or Joan Collins in
The Stud?
There’s been some hot chicks over the years. She’s a handful that Dolly Parton. It’s a wonder she don’t lose her balance. What a lovely singer though.

Love is a box of Dairy Milk chocolates and a good video and someone to share it with. That’s what love is all about: being free to do it all. I loved it when Robert Stroud found some love with his birds. For those who don’t know of Robert Stroud, well he was “The Birdman of Alcatraz”, You may’ve seen the film starring Burt Lancaster, who played Stroud. It was brilliant. Let me tell you the story. He killed and robbed a bar worker back in 1909. He started his sentence on McNeil Island in Washington State Penitentiary. There he turned into a vicious and violent inmate, stabbing and cutting anybody who crossed his path. He built up a serious
reputation
as a prison activist, so they sent him to one of the toughest
penitentiaries
in America at that time: Leavenworth in Kansas City. Make no mistake about it, Leavenworth was a tough old jail, built and designed to break a man down slowly. The screws were a hard bunch and kept on top of the cons by sheer brute force. Stroud made a tool and stabbed a screw to death in the mess hall, witnessed by a thousand convicts and a hundred guards. He’d just dug his own hole. Mysteriously he was reprieved and committed to a life sentence. They built a cage for him in Leavenworth where he remained in solitary for almost thirty years, and that’s where he became the Birdman. It all began the day he found an injured bird out on the exercise yard. He put it in his pocket, smuggled it back to his cell and treated it. The prison governor heard all about this kind act and the system allowed him his own birds, mostly canaries. And the rest is history! He bred them, wrote books on them and became a bird expert!

Now get this. It may shock you. The Birdman was moved to Alcatraz in 1942, where he was put straight into solitary and denied his birds. For the next six years he remained in Alcatraz seg. block alone – a purely vindictive move. For thirty years he’d kept sane and made some good out of all the bad. He’d become a living legend in US prison history. Sure he killed a screw, but thirty years in the hole was not long enough for him and they wanted more. Bear in mind that he’s now knocking on in age. After six years in the  Alcatraz hole they then moved him to the hospital wing, where he spent the next eleven years. All believed he would die there, and no doubt he believed that too. Then in 1959 he left Alcatraz a very old man to go to Springfield Medical  Centre in Missouri. He survived till 21 November 1963, dying at the ripe old age of seventy-three. He’d spent fifty-four years in prison. For me, I think it’s a tragic story. But it’s one of many from that era. It’s why they made so many films of these legends. So next time you hear about “The  Birdman of Alcatraz” you can say, “Yeah, he was the  Birdman but he had no birds in Alcatraz.” Really it should have been “The  Birdman of Leavenworth”. Well, now you know the story. This is one  Birdman who never flew the nest. He actually died the day the screw died.

Let’s be honest with ourselves, those manic sex-romping years are long gone (for us oldies). Imagine even trying to live it now! You couldn’t last a week. You’d burn out in no time. Your dick would get you down. Fannies dry up. Tits sag. Teeth fall out.

How the fuck do people stay married for forty, fifty, even sixty years? How do they do it? Is it love or is it more a weakness? Nag, nag, nag. It’s like a prison. It’s not a real life is it? Where have you been? What time is this? Who do you think you are? Do the garden. Clean the car. Don’t wear that. Do this. Do that. Gimme all your money. Does my bum look big in this? Honey, your arse looks like a hippo. Yap, yap, yap. Bunny, bunny, bunny. Nag, nag, nag. Pass the aspirin.

How does a man remain a man living like that? Is it love? What is love? I believe marriage is a form of torture! I really do. You’ve gotta be a nutcase to survive it! I also believe a man becomes broken, weak and manipulated. It ends up like a mother/son relationship. You become the boy all over again. That sweet, hot, wet, juicy pussy actually becomes your soul; a fucking big black tunnel of darkness. Crazy, eh? Loonyology at its best.

Enjoy the teenage years, coz that era soon flies by. No sooner are you shooting your load than you’re shitting in a colostomy bag! Hey, don’t old folk smell? Stale piss, B.O., smelly feet, bad breath and they fart a lot. They creak when they move, their hair’s white and their skin’s flaky and flabby and their eyesight’s not good. The pussy is like a dried-up fig and the dick shrivels to a maggot. Fuck me, it’s horrible! And then there’s some nasty nurse giving you a slap to behave and if you’re extra unlucky you end up with a Dr Shipman! How mad is that for an ending?

I’ll say now to all you old folk: don’t die a shell; if you’re gonna go, then go out in style. Go get a nice hot, wet, pussy and pay her to bring a dream ending. Die with your heart and dick pumping some love. Or if you’re an old woman, go get a young stud. Have one final orgasm of life. Scream the house down. Spend all your savings. Go out happy. Fuck the lumbago away. Shag the arthritis away. Enjoy the dream all over again. At the very worst you can always act it or die with a “69” – a sweet, hot pussy in your face or a big stiff cock in your mouth. Housey-housey – bingo!

Fucking sex toys – do me a favour. I am the sex toy and this is how it is with us birdmen. We are starved of sex, hungry like a loon, and then we fly out and become greedy. What do you expect? We are hungry men, desperate for a fuck, and the ladies love us. It’s true. Line me up with a dozen normal men and I guarantee that if we were all bollock naked with hard-ons the ladies will choose me. Even if some are in their thirties they’ll still choose me. Why? It’s simple. The ladies love a bit of rough and I’m the roughest diamond you’ll ever get hold of. The only problem is, you could never keep me. I’m unkeepable. I soon get bored, fed up and need some action, some excitement.

Let me explain. If I was on a seaside pier and a big fish was swimming below – let’s say a shark or a whale – and hundreds of people were looking, I’d dive in, just to say I did it. Now that’s a rare gift. If the fish don’t eat me then it’s a story; historic; something to be remembered for.

There was one black lunatic in Broadmoor who had a cock on him like a hosepipe and he loved showing it off too. He liked to walk down the corridor with it hanging out of his dressing gown. It was fucking gigantic – terrifying. It almost touched his knees. It swung like a giant pendulum and he always had that sick smirk and those beady eyes saying: cop a load of this. He got on my nerves in the end, so I hit him with the fire extinguisher. Flash bastard. I hate flash cunts. A laugh’s a laugh, but every day he did that. Well, it soon stopped after I cracked him. Fucking lunatic. Blimey, I’ve some breaking news: I’ve just farted. I’ve gassed my cell out!

Talking of farts, that’s what Fielding done when I cut him down the boat in Wandsworth in 1977. Fucking rat. He fucked my escape up. I was doing well on it. I had six bricks out of the back of my cell wall. They were crumbling out and that prick grassed me. That cost me 180 days’ remission with fifty-six days’ solitary: no bed, no canteen and a fucking good kicking to go with it. That’s how it was in them days. It’s all part and parcel of life inside. Grasses have been around since day one. These weak, gutless Jesus people. Fielding actually believed he’d got away with it. He thought I didn’t know, but the daft bastard made one mistake. I clocked him at the spyhole in my door. My spyhole had a pinhole in it through which I could see light. I happened to notice no light so I rushed to the door and saw him walking away. Five minutes later the riot mob came rushing down the landing and my door crashed in. I was bang to rights: a fucking big hole in my wall, twenty feet of sheet-knotted rope, a steel chair bent as a grappling hook, and I had £100 and a black coat.

My feet never touched the floor all the way to the chokey block and I bounced off some walls on the way there. Fielding done me up like a kipper. Three months later I hid behind a cell door and cut the rat from his left eye to his jawline: “Stripe”. So every time he looks in a mirror he will be reminded that he’s a filthy grass. That’s
thirty-one
years ago but he’s still the grass. I’ve always said a grass is born a grass. You don’t wake up one morning and say, “Oh, I think I’ll be a grass today.” It don’t happen like that. You’re always a grass. Some may hold it back in the good times, but it always slips out. Some are that stupid they even grass themselves up. How mental is that?