Sincere Male Seeks Love And Someone To Wash His Underpants - Softcover
Colin Fisher is long-divorced with two grown-up children and an ageing mother in care. He is not getting any younger. Perhaps it is time to get married again. There are hordes of mature, nubile, attractive, solvent (hopefully) women out there, and marriage would provide regular sex and companionship, and someone to take care of the tedious domestic details that can make a man late for his golf and tennis matches. All Colin needs to do is smarten up a bit, get out more and select the lucky woman from amongst the numerous postulants. What could be easier? CHRISTOPHER WOOD International best-sellers by Christopher Wood include: A Dove Against Death; Fire Mountain; Taiwan; Make it Happen to Me; Kago; 'Terrible Hard', Says Alice; James Bond, the Spy Who Loved Me; The Further Adventures of Barry Lyndon; James Bond and Moonraker; Dead Centre; John Adam, Samurai. Christopher Wood has written the screenplays for over a dozen movies, including The Spy Who Loved Me and Moonraker, two of the most successful James Bond films ever made.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
International best-sellers by Christopher Wood include:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
A Dove Against Death; Fire Mountain; Taiwan; Make it Happen to Me; Kago; ‘Terrible Hard’, Says Alice; James Bond, the Spy Who Loved Me; The Further Adventures of Barry Lyndon; James Bond and Moonraker; Dead Centre; John Adam, Samurai.
Christopher Wood has written the screenplays for over a dozen movies, including The Spy Who Loved Me and Moonraker, two of the most successful James Bond films ever made.
ONE
Colin Fisher jerked awake for the third time and turned his head towards the illuminated digits of the bedside clock. The effort cost him mild pain in the region of the neck and right shoulder but he was used to that. Pain hopped around his body like a cricket. The price for being a highly trained athlete, or at least if not exactly highly trained, one who had always enjoyed playing games and knew that this was good for you; one capable of seeing the world through the falcon eyes of a highly trained athlete.
Filtered through the substandard double-glazing, the main purpose of which seemed to be to turn anyone wishing to open a window into an amputee, the traffic noises on the nearby Red Route were mounting to a sullen, grinding roar. A great city going to work - with a vengeance. As an auditory experience it reminded him of the sound track of ‘Death Race 2000’, a film he had enjoyed whilst at university. He could see it now: quivering bonnets, white-knuckled revving, hate-filled glances, an explosion of sound as squealing tyres streaked from pools of smoking rubber. In the film, he recalled, it had been rather less intense.
It had been a fairly normal night. Instant sleep after drinking slightly too much - well, in fact, probably quite a lot too much. One, possibly two, trips to the bathroom. Snatches of unfocussed dreams such as might have greeted Sisyphus when he pushed his stone into the twenty-first century - running for buses that always pulled away at the last moment, trying to leave a building that seemed to have no doors to the outside - a few naps; general nebulosity brightened only by a cheering sexual image that could well have resulted in masturbation had he not drifted off into exhausted sleep.
Jogged by the memory of the memory, the old girlfriend swam again before his eyes, on her knees performing a favourite sexual act, and he was pleased to find that he had an erection. Instinctively, he reached out for the Jeffrey Archer paperback beside the bed and pushed down the bedclothes. Colin had never finished ‘First Amongst Equals’ - an experience he suspected he shared with millions of readers - but it had become useful in a way that even the unchallenged imagination of its author might never have conceived. Whilst waiting to be diagnosed as having a minor sexual disease Colin had filled his time in the doctor’s waiting room by reading a daunting article which stated that men’s penises shrunk as they got older. Since this doubly unpleasant occasion he had been consistently - or as consistently as nature and the social situation in which tumescence occurred - checking that, in his case, this was not true.
With the now slightly buckled Archer oeuvre pressed against his pelvis at the base of his penis, the tip of his glans was obliged to reach just beyond the bottom of the first ‘r’ of ‘Archer’ inscribed on the spine to achieve its anticipated aroused length. Colin pressed harder and strained a little. Yes! Everything was within a hair’s breadth of being normal. Nothing there to frighten the horses but perfectly adequate for a still virile male thrusting into his sixties.
He replaced the book on the bedside table and swung his legs from the bed feeling more cheerful, despite the familiar twinges in the small of his back. Once he was on his feet any residue of bad stuff normally dropped away as if shaken from his shoulders like spiritual dandruff. He was on the move and movement dictated response. Was it Von Clausewitz who had said that? It should have been.
In the bathroom he pissed and pressed the lever on the accumulation of the night’s visits. For some reason that he did not completely understand he never flushed the lavatory during the hours of darkness. It was not a sop to bionomics. Nor was he concerned about protecting his neighbours from noise - when had they ever thought of him? No, in the main it was because he enjoyed the pungent, acrid smell of the night’s urine harvest. He realised that there was probably something decidedly animal about this but Colin Fisher was not a man who strove to distance himself from his loping, feral ancestors. His uninformed physical responses were amongst the things he trusted and appreciated most about himself. Were we not being a trifle smug when we imagined that we had ventured a thousand leagues from the slime? Colin had no difficulty in accepting that he was existential. Not an existentialist. He had looked this up and it seemed rather more complicated.
He cleaned his teeth absent-mindedly and spat into the wash basin. Brown. Panic seized him. Blackwater fever. No doubt a legacy of the dodgy Indian takeaway he had consumed two nights before - always a bad sign if they gave you too many poppadoms.
Relief. Yesterday he had used his tooth brush to clean his suede shoes. He had been meaning to replace it for weeks. Now there was brown foam around his mouth. Thank God he hadn’t gone out like that. He rinsed copiously and wiped his face on what he at first thought was a beach towel designed by a manic depressive. It was amazing how filthy the place got - and how quickly. Fortunately, Chita, the cleaning woman, was due back from the Philippines soon. He had better have a clean-up before she arrived. On her last visit he had stumbled upon her muttering darkly in Tagolog as she rained what looked like an industrial-sized container of Harpic into the lavatory bowl.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherTwenty First Century Pub
- Publication date2004
- ISBN 10 1904433189
- ISBN 13 9781904433187
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages200
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