Thursday, 23 August 2012

If you have a story you want to share send it to peterhero3@gmail.com

peterhero x

Wednesday, 22 August 2012

69) Two Well Dressed French Girls

69) Well, we are in France…

Two Well Dressed French Girls

(but only one Fanny)

Anything you Cannes do, I can do better

Which is Nice

Comprendez?

D’Accord…

I was back in Cannes, but not on my own this time - with Paula, only the best PA in the world (sorry, Rach)

And we’d had a busy few days, what with Waltzing Matilda (Kenya) in the Grovesnor (and did the Footman like her!) and then the Comedy Store with Matilda and her sister, and..whatever

So we came to Cannes to chill

Now I find it hard to ’chill’ at the best of times, and especially hard in Cannes

Trop Chaud

And that’s just the girls

(how come all French girls have 42” legs?)

Bainsfair once told me, on this very terrace, that until he came to Cannes his life had been in Black & White

Nice line, Paul

Well said

So, after we checked into The Carlton (no half measures for Paula) we went to Babylon

Just for a quiet drink

As you do

Well, it was far from ONE drink

And it was far, far, from QUIET

We sat down in the back room and I clocked two beautiful babes

One black, one brown

And the brown one clocked me

While the black one only had eyes for herself

And for Madonna on TV

Now, the old days something might have happened with the brown one

But S L O W L Y

Now it happened

SUDDENLY!

WITH BOTH OF THEM!

Thanks to Paula

Which is why she is THE BEST P.A. IN THE WORLD (Sorry, Sam)

She just spoke to them

!!!!????

And smiled that @girl smile that says ‘it’s cool’

And beckoned them over

And

They

Came

OMG!

How cool is that?

So let me explain about Babylon

Great concept

Until Midnight it is just a restaurant

Then at the stroke of 24:00

BANG

The House Music kicks in

And everyone

But EVERYONE

Starts dancing

AT THEIR TABLES

ON THEIR TABLES

And on the floor

And all over each other

Wow

Nothing like that in Chichester

Yet . . .(?)

And within MINUTES the brown one (Sophie: Brazilian French) was dancing, like a Brazilian, with eyes only for me, of course

And the black one

Fanny

Yes, really

(It took me some getting used to, too)

French Cameroonian

Fanny was dancing too

Still with eyes only for the TV screen

HER BLOODY MOBILE

And, from to time to time,

Paula’s bum

Which is quite a sight in itself

And, I thought things were going QUITE WELL, all things considered

AND, just to give you the picture, guys and gals, Fanny looks like Naomi Campbell

But hotter

(she works in a shop in Marseille, but I’ve discovered an uber-model – lucky me)

And Sophie looks like Jay-Lo

But is single

And here. And now, And how

And Paula, who looks like BB, isn’t too bad a mover herself

That’s three for the price of one, boys

Dream on…

Then things really started to hot up

Peterhero

Started

To Dance

And, when I start to dance with girls, things really start to happen

If I do say so myself

I’m quite a mover and shaker

In many ways

Let me teach you how to dance guys

You need to learn, badly

Anton talks about dancing with the feet

Len talks about dancing with the hips

I dance

With my eyes

You get eye contact

Then you lock in

Then you copy the girl’s move

So she KNOWS

You’re on her wavelength

Now you’re talking SEX

And I can do that with one hand tied behind my back (as Matilda found out)

Sitting down

So, I’m dancing with Bella Brazilian Sophie WITH ONE HAND

Sitting down

And sipping JD with the other

And Paula is sizzling with Fanny (yes we told her, she couldn’t give a fcuk (Sorry, Trevor))

And Paula is dancing with a man on stilts (what a bar!)

And a dwarf (this is CANNES)

And anything else with a pulse

And the back room is ROCKING!

So the Manager, nobody’s fool, says “Mr Peter, I have a special favour for you…” and moves us centre stage, FOH, in the Front Room

Because he knows a class act when he sees one

Or two, counting Paula

So, we are sat down

And we stopped dancing

And couldn’t talk

Because the fcuking House Music is too loud

And doing my head in

So I left it to Paula

And left…

How cool is that?

And then, of course, Paula being Paula, at 12:00 sharp the next day Fanny (who’s decided she’ll be called Natasha in the UK)

Fanny, who, INCIDENTALLY was on Temptation Island on French TV

AS A TEMPTRESS

Fanny (I still can’t get over that. A double entendre in two different languages. UK & US. But [Butt?], as I explained to Paula, until Fanny Hill was published, it was a normal Saxon name)

Fanny & Sophie (what an arse) were at the front door of The Carlton, worried they had missed us

And very well dressed (Zara with attitude)

And very well up for it

Sophie, by the way, is a nurse. Fanny works in a shop. These things happen…

We fly to St Tropez by helicopter

As you do

And had lunch

And I bought them some beachwear

Harsh not to

And Paula Had A Fit

When she saw Fanny in Dark Blue & White

Because she’d missed the outfit

And the guys at the next table had a fit

Of laughter

That I could be in control of Paula

And pull two French Babes

Without lifting a finger

And Rolls Royce gave us a Ghost

And drove us to Nikki Beach

Which was LOUD

So we got a cab back to Cannes

And, in the car, Paula told les girls what I can do to a girl

Involving “boobies” and “orgasms”

Citing Matilda

As Paula had seen with unbelieving eyes

And Fanny seemed interested

VERY interested

And Sophie seemed to want to know if I was still interested in her, as well

And Fanny wanted me to show that I was

So I did

Willingly

Because I was

UNBELIEVABLY

And we talked about a threesome

And Fanny said “Peter, I LOVE YOU”

And typed on her mobile

“One bag, 1500”

Which seemed reasonable

And I massaged their feet

And calves

And thighs

And kissed their cheeks

And they kissed mine

And Fanny’s eyes flared

And Sophie smiled THAT smile

And things seemed, I must say, to be going FAIRLY WELL

Even the driver said I was like James Bond

Which was nice of him

So, it was all arranged

After another night at Babylon – me treated like a VIP now – with Fanny & Sophie fighting off the competition from other girls according to Paula, who understands these things (what do I know?), we meet at 11.00 the next morning

And they came in

Looking fcuking unbelievably hot

Sophie is in skin tight white

Fanny in red

Smoking! (as Jim Carey would say)

And the Concierge is in fits

(I love Concierges)

That a middle aged Brit has pulled this off

Effortlessly

Just by being polite

And confident

And understanding girls

So, we stroll down the Croisette

And they were happy

And we dropped into Louis Vitton

And they were VERY happy

And told me just how VERY happy they were

With kisses

And looks

That spoke volumes

And we sauntered back down the Croissant

And I…

Well. You should have seen the view

You had to be there

But you can imagine

I was very, very happy

And about to get happier still…

(Paula was having a facial and massage so she was happy as well)

And then I said “We go to my room”

And they said “Pourquoi?”

And I said “To make love”

And they said “Mais, non, Peter”

And I said

“Nous parlons”

And they…

Well I don’t quite know what they said

They SAID they’d give the bags back

Go figure

I let them go

So they left

Even better dressed than they were before

I’ll let Paula sort it out

JE NE COMPRENDS PAS

That’s what she’s paid for

And why she’s the best P.A. in the whole frigging world

And not a bad fcuk either

Friday, 10 August 2012

6) Julia

6) An Introduction

To Julia

Wherever I may find her

One step forward, two steps back

Sit down and let me tell you a story

It’s the same old story

About a boy and a girl

And it is funny, and sad and a little bit romantic ( a bit like me)

And it’s called Julia

Now her name wasn’t actually Julia. And it was n’t one story it was two

I fact it was Mandy & Kate

But Natasha need a little more to work with, now she is working with me

So, hopefullly, 2 into 1 will go. And the whole will be more than the sum of the parts

So Julia it has become

And Julia is a very good name. like Mandy or Kate it just clicks

And Julia was the first girl I eever kissed

Not THIS Julia you understand

SPOILER ALERT I did not even get to kiss this one at all

No, I mean the other, original and best Julia. I won’t be Vague, I mean Julia Hague

Friend of Mandy, and Billy, and Paul

Actually, to be honest, she wasn’t TECHNICALLY the First Girl I Kissed

That honour goes to Lindsay Garlick.

Unfortunate name. Unfortunately she kissed like an electric toothbrush as well

As some English girls do.

(Sorry Lindsay, I’m sure you got better)

So Julia was the second girl I kissed. But the first who made it worth the considerable effort required as 15 yr old to grab a snog

She was worth it. And then some

I can still taste the deep. Long, warm kiss that Julia Hague gave me, in Mandy Lewis’s house

After I had taken her

By force of personality. Not force

From the arms of Steve Heighway

Be still my beating heart

And other organs

Whatever became of Julia I wonder…

Anyway, I digress, as is my wont

So, back to THIS Julia

I had met her through the personal columns of The Observer.

And she was my first, actual, date since getting divorced (a dirty little war)

And I was 50

And she…

Well, she wasn’t

She was 26

And if you want to leave right now, at that point, then feel free to do so

For these stories are not for you

And we are both better off without each other, frankly

But, if you understand

And, especially if you are not English, many men

And many, many girls

WILL understand

Then we can continue

And if you are English and, despite it all, are prepared to give me – and the girls – the benefit of the doubt

And not assume I am A DIRTY OLD MAN

That the bright, beautiful girls I try to meet are not PROSSIES

And that these stories, as they develop are not SMUT or TACKY

But rather a rather English, rather romantic, chivalric quest for LOVE

And BTW, THE best sex on the planet

Then I have a lot of stories to share with you

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn something

And be surprised by a few things you find out about me, and girls, and maybe even yourself

Whoever you are

And maybe we’ll get on fine

As I tend to with most girls

And some boys

Because, despite my natural good manners, and inability to want to hurt a fly

If people don’t love me

They tend to hate me

Funny old world isn’t it

But

As my family motto goes

Summat Ult Urnup

And as the motto for the stories goes

LOVE CONQUERS ALL

AMO OMNIA VINCIT

(See thoughts of peterhero)

Or, to put it another way (there being no heart sign on a QWERTY typewriter)

¥>

(Thanks Stacey)

But I digress

As I say

Her name is Julia

And she’d called

And she had heard Call Me Peter

And couldn’t resist

Of course

82% conversion

So it was a date…

Me, a recently divorced, 50 something

And a girl called Julia

Bright, beautiful Julia

Both consenting adults

What could possibly BE wrong (despite what SOME people think)

What could possibly GO wrong with that…

Well, quite a lot actually

But first, read 1) Mandy

Or, if you want to cut to the chase, as some girls do

26) Sunshine

They are the antidote to 50 Shades of Grey

If I do say so myself

And, if you like the stories

TELL YOUR FRIENDS

PUT IT ON FACEBOOK

AND BLACKBEAUTY

There are 500 of us now

In the first week

In UK, USA, Canada, Phillipines (god knows), Russia (a lot, for some reason), Oz, Malta (good luck with the flat hunting), Ireland, France and SA

A lot of them SBs (they know who they are) but many not

It’s good

Let’s make it better…

Website soon

Call me

peterhero@gmail.com

peterhero xx

peterhero.com

The thoughts of peterhero

Amor Vincit Omnia

Amor Vidi Veni Vincit

Amor ALI est

Vitae brevis, Amo longa

Sapere amore

Amo, coginto, ergo sum

Amo soit qui amo pense

AMORALIST!

Who LOVES Wins

Love Conquers All

peterhero

5) KATE

Sit down and let me tell you the saddest and the funniest story you’ve ever heard. It's called Kate.

I’d tried to meet Kate before. We’d spoken on the phone and arranged to meet at Pont de la Tour. I know, I know, but she’s a trainee nurse at Guy’s so it’s only round the corner and I couldn’t think of anywhere else. And she looks like Terri Hatcher.

And I knew she wouldn’t come.

I knew as soon as I walked in. I was right on time but I was in the wrong place. It would be intimidating enough to meet an older man you’ve only spoken to on the phone, but a trainee nurse (very young, very skint probably) would not want to meet here. Too alien. Too well dressed. Too old.

So I knew she wouldn’t come. So I had lunch on my own and texted her every now and then with a running, humourous, commentary on my meal; the music (Blues of course); and then the fact that a gorgeous young girl, who looked liked Terri Hatcher, had just walked in… followed by her fat boyfriend.

I didn’t expect her to reply. I just wanted her to know that I had come, and that I wasn’t cross.

Then we spoke again. And she was so sorry and so excited we were talking again. And we agreed to meet the next day. And I was smart this time. “I’ll come to you”, I said, “I’ll come to Guys and you can check me out in reception”.

This was going to go well.

She agreed, and gave me her ‘bleep’ number, so they could call her.

Now, I had gone out with a nurse at Guys before I was married. Toppy was her name and she was a very young sister on the mental ward and she had the longest legs….

Anyway, I knew Guys and that it had a residential block for the nurses overlooking the Thames.

I bought the tulips, thanked Ellie, tubed to London Bridge and then walked to Guys. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day. This was going to go well.

When I walked in there was nobody on reception. Nobody. Just two security guards cavorting with each other in a booth behind reception.

This was strange.

Then another security guard appeared and I explained I was here to meet an off-duty nurse in the nurses' residence. She looked blankly at me. And suspiciously. She pointed at an internal phone. I dialled the ‘bleep’ number, there was no answer.

This was strange, too.

I gradually realised that Guys wasn’t an A & E hospital any more. Whatever it was it didn’t seem to involve many nurses so the nurses' residency had been converted into something else. The nurses now were scattered in various smaller places. And the security staff neither knew nor cared where they were.

Um.

I had an idea. As I do. I’ll find a nurse, any nurse, and she’ll be able to help. The security staff watched but did nothing as I wandered into the hospital in search of a nurse. The corridors were empty, the canteen – empty. This was a hospital without nurses, except the one I was there to see.

I went back to reception. I had another idea. I couldn’t call Kate because her phone had been stolen and she couldn’t afford to replace it yet. So I called Guy’s switchboard. An understanding lady answered. She called the main residences. But all the switchboards are automatic and you have to know the room number. And it’s Sunday, so nobody is in the office.

And I realised what had happened. Kate is a trainee. When she’s on duty everyone calls her ‘bleep’. When she’s off duty everybody calls her room number. But she’d given me the wrong number.

And she wouldn’t know it’s impossible for a visitor to find her without it.

The switchboard operator was apologetic, and sympathetic (I have a good phone voice) and eventually put me through to the senior manager on duty. He tried paging her, officially, through the hospital system. He tried her bleep, but she was off duty so she’d switched it off.

He had no other ideas.

But I had. I don’t give up easily. I found out which was the largest nurses' residency – Wolfson. I found it, through the maze (literally) that is the now largely empty Guys. In the car park some youngsters were unloading a car from a weekend away. “Are you trainee nurses?”. “Yes”. “Do you live here?”. “Yes”. “Do you know Kate?”. “No”.

But I had found life and where there’s life there is hope. This hostel had a manned reception. The security guard was understandably cautious, his job is to protect his nurses after all, but eventually he said he’d try to help.

I gave him Kate’s surname and he took out six sheets of closely typed names and room numbers. They weren’t in alphabetical order so he carefully, and meticulously, and labouriously, went through each name, page after page. Then he reached the end and started over again, because he was a good guy and didn’t want to make a mistake.

No mistake. Her name wasn’t on his list. She wasn’t there.

It was 1.00. I’d spent two hours trying to find Kate. I was beaten, and she’d think I hadn’t come. As if any 40 something would turn down the chance to meet a trainee nurse who looks like Terri Hatchet.

I went to Pont de la Tour and had lunch. The piano player was playing the Blues again. Kate was in a Guys residency, somewhere around London Bridge, waiting for me, and I had gone.

peter hero 2006