Limp Dicks & Saggy Tits
Tracie Podger
For my mum, my greatest supporter – even if she has been the cause of my premature grey hair!
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tracie Podger
Limp Dicks & Saggy Tits
By
Tracie Podger
Copyright 2019 © Tracie Podger
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents, either, are products of the author’s imagination or they are used fictitiously. Any reference to actual locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, to include, by not exclusive to audio or visual recordings of any description without permission from the copyright owner.
Chapter One
Fifty and single was not a great place to be. Especially when I had no desire to be either. But, against my wishes, I found myself to be exactly at that point.
Why should meeting a man be so difficult at my age? Why couldn’t I walk into a bar and not look like a cougar on the prowl or a nearly-OAP being patronised by the youth? Why couldn’t I still have a healthy sex life even if I didn’t have a husband anymore?
Too many whys, and after my third glass of wine, I guessed I could continue to add more but…what the fuck good would it do?
“Lizzie, are you listening to me?” I heard.
“No,” I replied, draining the glass I held in my hand. “I’m thinking about what the nurse said to me.”
“What did the nurse say?”
“That I might need to consider lubricant.” I was aware of the slur to my voice. “She said I have vaginal atrophy. Fucking vaginal–”
“What’s vaginal atrophy?” he asked, interrupting.
“A shrinking fanny, Joe!” I replied.
“Let’s just call it a return to virgin fanny, it sounds better. So, did you hear what I said earlier?”
I was lying on the sofa. There was a romcom playing on the TV that I had absolutely no interest in—had probably seen twenty years ago—while my best friend, Joe, was sitting in the chair opposite me.
“No, what did you say?” I asked, shuffling up a little so I at least looked interested in what he had to offer.
“I said, I think we need a little weekend break away,” Joe repeated.
“I like the sound of that.”
“I might have a look online tomorrow.”
Maybe he told me more, I had no idea. I awoke the following morning with a banging headache and a mouth tasting like a sewer.
“Who filled their mouth with sewer…stuff, to even come up with that phrase?” I said aloud as I climbed from the sofa in need of water.
The kitchen was spotless, and I gave an imaginary thumbs up to Joe who had obviously cleared away our takeout containers. I smiled at the small box of empty wine bottles he’d left on the counter, ready for recycling.
I scratched my head, feeling the tangles in my hair from sleeping on a sofa at a strange angle, and probably tossing and turning at that. On sniffing my armpit, I tried to decide on the urgency of a shower, or whether I could fit a cup of coffee in first. However, since I was alone, it didn’t matter if there was a slight sweaty smell; coffee was needed.
The only time I drank instant coffee, from the jar, was when I was hung-over. I hated the stuff normally, but I couldn’t be arsed to make fresh. I unscrewed a jar, banged it on the counter to loosen up the granules, and plunged in a teaspoon. Once deposited in a mug, boiled water added, and a splash of milk, I piled in some sugar and sipped. On hung-over mornings it was nectar for the brain.
Flashes of conversations filled my mind as I walked through to the bathroom. I was sure Joe mentioned a weekend break at some point the previous evening. I hoped it involved a spa, and wine, and maybe a nice restaurant, and a bar, and maybe more wine.
My singleton life since…him, revolved around too much alcohol, and not enough self-love, of any kind so yes, a nice spa would be perfect. It was time to kick myself and my alcohol-fuelled body back into shape. I was that buoyed in that precise moment, I showered quickly, drank down the rest of the coffee, and then had the bright idea to hit the gym, a place I hadn’t ventured to in months.
I pulled on some leggings and accompanied them with a long t-shirt to hide the rolls of fat. I found my trainers and a gym bag with a towel and toiletries and before I could change my mind—or sanity returned—I left the flat and walked up the road.
I’d made it halfway before my body started to sway and a small wave of nausea washed over me. I could have very easily turned around and headed back home. I was determined, however. I was going to the gym; I was sick of myself, and I was sure everyone else was too.
Many a time I’d made the decision that I didn’t want/need a man in my life and every time, I knew I was kidding myself. I also knew it was the fallout from being cheated on and left to pick up the pieces while he swanned around town with a bloody drag queen.
Maybe if she’d been tall, blonde, slim and well spoken with a high profile job in the city I might not have been so bitter. If she had been the typical just-out-of–her-teens bimbo with no aspirations other than wanting a sugar daddy, I could have understood, sort of. But a drag queen? Now, I have nothing against drag queens, per se. I have everything against my husband running off with one.
I had no idea why the situation seemed worse, I mean, it was pretty laughable. He was short, balding, with a paunch forming, and heading for his sixties. ‘She’ was over six feet in height and that was without the five-inch heels, muscles, tattoos down one arm from days in the navy, of disputable age, and with one false eye! I mean, for fuck’s sake, why?
I shook my head, as if that would actually rid me of the images, and walked on. I wasn’t going to dwell on him. Our divorce was due any day soon, and according to Joe, the font of all gossip, Harry and…her, were going to get married. My eyes stung as tears formed. I wasn’t sure what was worse, to discover your husband was having an affair with another person, or to discover your whole marriage had been a sham; a cover for some twisted sense of respectability on his part when in actual fact he had been gay from birth but refused to acknowledge it. That was the part that hurt the most. He had denied his true self for fear of…God knows what. His parents were more liberal than the Liberals. In the meantime, I was the one who got hurt.
Joe had joked once, years ago, about Harry being in the closet. I guessed he’d seen something in either Harry’s face or mine, as he never mentioned it again. I didn’t want to think about it anymore.
I powered on to the gym, despite the headache. Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the heavy glass doors and then got stuck at the turnstile. I fumbled around for my membership card. I’d been a gym bunny for years; I would have kept my card in my gym bag, somewhere. By the time I’d em
ptied the bloody thing out, wrinkling my nose at the stale smell of a bag that hadn’t been opened in a while, the smirking receptionist had handed me a temporary one. I snatched it from her and barrelled through.
I took a corner locker in the changing room and stuffed my bag in an equally smelly wooden closet. I put my fifty pence in the mechanism and locked the door, slipping the elastic band that held the key on my wrist. I ran up the stairs to the gym floor, desperately hiding the lack of breath by the time I’d reached the top. I could feel my cheeks redden with that little exertion, and realised I was in bad shape.
I nodded to the personal trainer as I passed; I doubted he knew who I was, but it made me feel good when he smiled back. Then I walked to the warm-up mats and started my stretching.
I wasn’t concentrating when I decided to stretch my inner thigh. I slid my leg out to the side, not realising the twit on the mat before me had placed their condensing water bottle there. My trainer connected with the droplets of water and what should have been a gentle stretch as I crouched ended up a half-split and a torn muscle (self-diagnosed, so who really knew what damage I’d done?) and my hooha screaming with the reverse wedgy that had occurred as my leggings were pulled not just tight, but upwards.
I gritted my teeth, hissed out an expletive and gently slid my leg back to a more natural position. The burn in my inner thigh suggested I wouldn’t be walking straight. Shame the swagger was from a muscle strain and not a night of rampant sex.
Deciding the walking machine—or as I called it, the gentle stroll machine—was probably out of the question for the time being, I hobbled to the bike
I pedalled slowly, realising how out of shape I was and watched MTV, or whatever it was, on the huge screen in front of me. I couldn’t hear anything and had to lip-read as I’d forgotten to bring the earphones I’d need to plug in at each machine for sound.
I was glad, though; I was sick of watching girls with big tits and perfect teeth prancing around the stage wailing about a lost love they’d never experienced.
Be fucking fifty and dumped before you scream about your heartbreak, I shouted, in my head.
I pedalled faster. “Harness the anger,” I whispered to myself and then chuckled.
The anger lasted all of about thirty seconds; it coincided with the agonising pain that shot up my dodgy knee from pedalling so fast. With one torn (self-diagnosed) inner thigh muscle and one dodgy knee, I slid off the bike and limped to the wind-down mats. I used the excuse of a post-exercise stretch to lie down and rest from such an arduous workout.
Maybe I’ll book Pilates, I thought, as I just lay there like a limpet and looked at the ceiling. Lying around wasn’t hard work, probably something I could do very well.
Yes, Pilates, that would be next on my list.
Chapter Two
After a shower and a cringe in the mirror at my discoloured bra and non-matching, greyish, Tena Lady knickers (think period knickers—wide gusset to hold a pad that soaked up…not the substance that reminded women they were all woman, despite their moans about it, but pee), I dressed, cursing myself for not actually having a clean outfit to change into. I stuffed my towel in my bag and scraped back my wet hair into a ponytail. Sighing, I dragged my fingers under my eyes, annoyed at the bags and dark circles that hadn’t been there prior to him running off.
I’d always been one for manicures, for regular appointments at the hairdressers, nice clothes, and a spacious house. Harry earned well, although I wasn’t the trophy or the freeloading wife I seemed to have been so-called throughout our divorce. I took all the menial jobs I could to support him while he worked the shit jobs and did the training to become the broker he ended up as. It seemed to have been forgotten that he was the one that said I shouldn’t work when he ‘made it’. But I still kept house, I still cooked and cleaned, and made sure his friends and colleagues were always well entertained during the many, many dinner parties I hosted. I was the perfect wife, and when he had decided to embrace his gayness, all that was forgotten.
In my grief I’d let myself go. I wanted to get back to me; the one I liked or thought I had. I just wasn’t sure who that me was. I needed to start with my diet and lose the break-up chocolate, the wine, and the many take-outs. I was going to get healthy.
I rang Joe. “I’m just leaving the gym, do you want to meet for some shopping and lunch?” I asked.
“Lunch, yes, shopping, no. I have two viewings this morning and then a waxing later.”
Joe was an estate agent, but not just any old estate agent. If I remembered correctly, the cheapest property deal he’d done had been in the low millions. He was also addicted to a sack and crack wax. I doubted he allowed the hair to grow back before he made the next appointment. I’d told him many a time to join a BDSM club and get his pain kicks there instead of ripping his skin to shreds. But perhaps, having never experienced a BDSM club, it was the same thing.
“Okay, Carlo’s at twelve?” I asked.
It was our favourite restaurant. “Perfect,” he replied.
“Oh, and I want to talk about BDSM clubs,” I said, just before I disconnected the call. I heard him splutter as if he’d choked on a drink.
I browsed the rails of a department store concession and sighed. When Harry left, he’d also closed down our joint bank account and cleared off with the money. When I realised I couldn’t keep the house, not only was it in his name but I couldn’t afford it anyway, I had moved into an apartment that Joe owned. It was meant to be a temporary move; when my divorce was finalised, and the money I believed I was owed was released to me, I could buy my own place and purchase the nice clothes my fingers fondled. I wasn’t bitter—well, not much—but I was still angry. Angry with Harry for his deceit and angry at the way he thought he could walk away and leave me with nothing. He was the one in the wrong, he was the liar, the…
“Ma’am?” I heard. My eyes came back into focus, and I realised I had screwed up the silk, thousand-pound garment in my angry little fist.
“I don’t like the colour,” I said and stalked off.
I decided to head to Carlo’s and grab a spritzer before Joe arrived. It wasn’t beyond the realm for him to be late if his client wanted a second tour of the thirty-something roomed property he was likely showing that morning. He had offered me a job with his agency but being nice to people wasn’t on my list of things to do at that time, and it didn’t change for quite a while. Instead of showing people around, he had me doing his paperwork. It was charity. It felt like charity, but I wasn’t so proud that I turned it down.
I pushed through the door to Carlo’s.
“Lizzie, it’s good to see you, you look…” Paul, the owner, said as we embraced and air kissed.
“I look?”
“Shit, my darling. Is that prick still hurting you?” he asked as he stepped back and held me at arm’s length so he could study me.
“Thank you, you’re too kind, and no. I’m hurting me by letting him hurt me still.”
He chuckled as he showed me to my favourite table. I settled in, kicking my gym bag into the corner and wishing I’d left it in the locker to be collected later.
“Usual?” he asked.
“White wine spritzer with lemonade, not soda,” I replied.
“Mmm, okay. Eating alone?” he asked as he placed a menu on the table.
“No, Joe should be here shortly.”
“Ah, the delectable Joe. I wonder when he’ll succumb to my charms,” he said, licking his finger and wiping it across his eyebrow.
“Never, my darling, but we can fuck just the once if you like,” we heard.
Joe had arrived earlier than I expected. He kissed Paul on the cheek and then pulled out the chair opposite me to sit. I watched Paul flush and felt sorry for him. They would make a great couple, but Joe was too much of a slut, and Paul was too nice for it to work. I sighed.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Joe said, and then placed his palms down on the table. “You will never believe who
my last viewing was with?”
“Who?”
“No, you have to guess,” he said, pouting with displeasure that I wasn’t playing.
I sighed dramatically. “Joe, it could be one of a million names. Who?”
He rolled his eyes. “Dave Thompson,” he said, then sat back with a triumphant smile on his face.
I stared at him.
I stared a little longer and took a sip of my wine.
I stared some more.
Eventually I had to ask. “Who the fuck is Dave Thompson?”
He gasped. “Lizzie, Dave Thompson is the brother of you know who.”
I continued to stare. “I have no idea who ‘you know who’ is.”
“Jesus Christ. I’m trying to be subtle here,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Dave Thompson is the brother of Saucy Sally. He’s a darts player.”
I stared just a little longer but blinked when Joe slammed his palm on the table causing the cutlery to jump about. “Sally! Shagging your husband,” he said slowly in an overly-dramatic theatre whisper.
“Her name is Pete,” I said.
“That may be the case, but when she is a she, she’s called Saucy Sally.”
“Like I would know that. Who is a darts player?” I replied with a scrunch of my brow.
“Dave,” Joe said, with a voice raised in exasperation and followed with a sigh.
“How do you know he’s Pete’s brother?”
“Because that’s who is buying the house.”
It dawned on me what Joe meant then. My tight-fisted husband had argued that he was oh so poor was buying a multi-million-pound property with Pete/Sally. I doubted being a professional drag queen earned enough for that type of a mortgage.
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