Dirty Molly , the English Greenhorn
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(For the benefit of American readers, one stone in weight is equal to 14 pounds.)
For me, 1993 was a memorable year in many ways. I turned 18 and became a ‘man’; I lost my virginity; my football team, Sheffield Wednesday, reached two cup finals, losing both; I became the first member of my family to win a place at university; Bill Clinton, the first really interesting politician in years, entered the White House; and I embarked on the greatest adventure of my life.
I had wanted to visit the United States for years, and with the money my dad gave me to celebrate my exam success at school and acceptance for uni, I decided that summer was the time to do it. I wanted to experience life on the road, and cross the country by whatever means I found. My girlfriend Gemma, the only girl I’d ever slept with, was supposed to be going with me, but shortly before I made the arrangements we had a huge row and we split up. The reason for that was the owner of the café where she worked at weekends. He was a big, muscular Anglo-Italian, good-looking in a cheesy sort of way. He was nearly ten years older than Gem, and married with kids; but she started making excuses for not doing the trip we’d been talking about for over a year, and one day I saw a secret look pass between her and Gennaro and I knew beyond any doubt that they were sleeping together.
So I made the trip alone, my dad solemnly shaking my hand at Manchester Airport, my mum giving me a big hug and biting her lip, trying hard not to cry, my kid sister effecting bored indifference then, at the last moment, flinging her arms round my neck and bursting into tears. Then I settled back for the long flight across the Atlantic to a place called Jersey City.
I had bought my flight at a bucket shop in Leeds. I had wanted a single, planning to leave my return date open-ended, but the guy told me I wouldn’t even make it past US Immigration without a return ticket and an address I’d be staying at. So I booked a six-week return and a Holiday Inn on West 26th Street in New York, New York, in the shadow of the Empire State Building and Macy’s. For the first couple of days after I arrived I did the full tourist thing, 5th Avenue, the Statue of Liberty, got offered dope and hookers in Harlem, then I met a guy in a diner who offered me a spare seat in his car with three friends going to Greensboro, North Carolina. I felt exhilarated – I was on my way. When one of the guys offered me a reefer ten minutes into the trip I acted cool, and pretended like it wasn’t the first of my life, but I suspect the violent coughing and my face turning green rather gave me away!
After that, I made progress however I could. Through a combination of Greyhound buses, truckers looking for relief from the boredom of the road and generous car drivers, I travelled wherever they would take me and, after three weeks, found myself in Sweetwater, Texas. (Looking back at the naïve young student I was then, I find it amazing I was never robbed, raped or worse.) By then I knew where I was heading: the road ahead lay straight towards LA. It was a thousand miles away, but to me it felt so close I could smell the Hollywood tinsel. I’d found roadhouses were a good bet for a ride to my next destination, so early one morning I made my way to one on Highway I-20 on the western side of town.
There didn’t seem to be many truckers in the place, but I got chatting to a farmer in his 60s who offered me a lift as far as his home town in New Mexico. Wolfing down the last of my grits – an American delicacy I never really developed a taste for – I followed him outside to a battered pick-up truck, with some kind of ancient hound dozing in the back. The animal raised its head and stared at me with red-rimmed eyes, and the old boy patted its head and told it, “It’s okay Princess, this young feller’s a new friend we’re takin’ through to Cranton.” It was a burning hot day, with not a cloud in the sky, but fortunately the guy had a six-pack of beer that he kindly shared with me. I half-dozed listening to him tell me some of the history of the area, while dreadful country ‘n’ western droned away on the radio. At one point Princess heard it through the open window and started baying along to it! I grinned to myself, and told myself that some clichéd images of America exist because they happen to be true.
About mid-afternoon I realised we had stopped by a large ranch house. The farmer turned to me and said, “Sorry son, this is as far as I go. ‘Bout half a mile along the road there you’ll find Cranton.” Feeling hot and dusty, and trying to conceal my slight disappointment that he hadn’t invited me into his home, I thanked him and asked if there was any accommodation in the town. He rubbed his chin and thought about it. “Well, I guess Molly at the Desert Diner lets rooms, you’d best ask her.” With that he bade me farewell and drove down a track towards his home.
I couldn’t believe how hot it was. By the time I’d made my way along the featureless road, bounded on either side by scrubby desert, to the edge of the town my hair was dripping wet and my shirt was glued to me by sweat. The town sign canlı bahis wasn’t very encouraging: ‘Welcome to the community of Cranton, New Mexico, population 780’, to which someone had at some point added in a daubed scrawl, ‘twinned with Shithole, Alabama’. Raising a chuckle I staggered into the town and across to the Desert Diner, which I saw to the right of the main street. I flopped into the first booth I saw and ordered a beer from the bored looking middle-aged waitress who drifted over. According to the badge on her blue uniform her right tit was called Jo Anne. She returned quickly and, after a long slurp of beer I took in my surroundings, and noticed another badge which said simply The Boss. It was pinned to the biggest woman I’d ever seen.
I’m not an expert on people’s weights, but I was a trim 11 stone at this point and my ex-girlfriend was as thin as a rake. I guessed the woman behind the counter must have been at least 20 stone, maybe a lot more. Her sleeveless blue nylon uniform struggled to contain her massive bulk. I reckoned she was in her 50s, and she reminded me of a super-sized Roseanne Barr: shoulder length black hair, with the odd strand of grey mixed into it, heavy eyebrows, friendly brown eyes and a wide toothy smile to match, half-buried in a pudgy face, at least three chins, a bust that put me in mind of the Himalayas, and fingers like prime pork sausages. She had the slight shadow of a moustache on her upper lip, and when she reached up her fleshy arms to a shelf above the counter I saw a forest of black hair in her armpits. She seemed like the most grotesque woman I had ever seen – yet, for reasons I couldn’t possibly explain, from that moment I could barely drag my eyes away from her.
The place was quiet, apart from the inevitable C&W on the jukebox, with few other customers. One was a trucker built like a bear, shovelling into a hole somewhere in his great mass of dark facial hair a plate of ham and eggs big enough to feed most of the population of Cranton. I returned my gaze to the woman behind the counter, and saw she was waddling her way over to me. Her hips and thighs were just as big as the rest of her, but it was only when she loomed over me that I realised how tall she was. I was five-eleven, and I guessed she was at least three inches taller in her cheap flat sandals. She perched a gargantuan buttock on the corner of my table and said, “Can I get ya anythin’ else, sugar?”
I hadn’t eaten since that hurried breakfast, and I quickly scanned the menu and asked for two cheeseburgers and another beer. On hearing my voice her smile widened still further, and she chirruped, “Hoo-ee, what is that accent, English? Ya soun’ jus’ like Alexis outta Dynasty, honey.”
I didn’t think my South Yorkshire brogue sounded remotely like Joan Collins’ character, but I smiled politely anyway, and watched her huge bottom sway back towards the counter, taking in the meaty calves which showed below her uniform dress and her surprisingly delicate ankles. On the way, she stopped by the big trucker and pushed his baseball cap down his forehead in playfulness. Then she leaned her hands on his table and chatted with him. After a minute or so I watched in disbelief as he slipped his hand under her skirt and up onto her bare thigh. Her skirt moved up with his arm, and I clearly saw him stretch a finger between her legs and stroke it along the gusset of her big white pants. She slapped his shoulder lightly, but the smile never left her face and it was several seconds longer before he withdrew his hand and she disappeared to the kitchen with my order.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored surface of the table, and even with the distortion that caused I could see I looked dirty and unkempt. I walked over to the restroom and, after relieving my bladder, ran some water into a washbasin and splashed my face. I was just standing in front of a mirror, combing my hair into some sort of shape, when it somehow seemed to go darker in the room and I realised the view behind me in the mirror was entirely filled by blue plaid. I whirled round to see the big truck driver standing uncomfortably close behind me, an odd smile on his face. I felt unaccountably nervous, but then an idea struck me. “Hi. Look, I’m travelling towards Los Angeles, and I wondered if you might be able to do me a favour and give me a lift in that general direction.”
He appeared to consider it for a moment, then, in a voice that sounded like distant thunder rumbling around a mountain range, he growled, “Well, that kinda depends, pretty boy. Whaddaya willin’ to do for me in return?” I watched in horror as his grin widened and, as if in slow motion, he reached his hand to the fly of his jeans and began to lower it. He was blocking my way to the exit, but I feignted to his right then dived past him on the left. He made a grab for me, and I heard him roar “Sheeit!”, but I hurtled back into the diner, leaving the restroom door swinging back and forth behind me. I almost crashed straight into the female flesh mountain carrying my burgers. She gave me an odd look then, with a grin, said, “Hey, you are hungry, aintcha kid.”
She bahis siteleri placed the plate before me then, quite uninvited, squeezed herself into the booth opposite me. I started to tear into the first burger then, self-consciously, looked up to see her smiling at me, her huge face glistening with sweat. She said, “It’s okay, honey, you carry on, I love seeing a man with a healthy appetite, ‘specially one as pretty as you.” The second reference in a few minutes to my looks made me blanch, and I buried my face in my burger. At that moment the trucker emerged, very red in the face, from the men’s room. I could only guess what he’d been doing alone in there. My companion called, “‘Bye Arnie”, but he just grunted and slammed the door of the diner behind him. I watched with relief as he swung up into the cab of his truck and started the engine. The woman shrugged and said, “Don’t min’ Arnie, he always been an ornery sonnabitch. So, anyway, what brings a young English gennelman way out here to the middle of nowheresville?”
Between mouthfuls of burger I told her about my plan to finish my hike to LA, then travel back to New Jersey for my flight via long distance buses. She grinned at that. “That’s quite a journey. You sure you gonna make it in time?”
I returned her grin. “I’m not honestly sure. Anyway, first I’ve got to make it through tonight. I was told there was a lady here called Molly who might rent me a room form the night?”
She laughed hard at that, then said, wiping tears from her eyes, “Well I don’ know any ladies around here, but I’m Molly.” Her shoulders finally stopped shaking, and the ever-present smile faded for the first time. “Trouble is, ‘ceptin’ for my residents I only got two rooms, an’ they both taken for the night.” She saw my face fall, and smiled again. “Tell ya what, gimme five minutes an’ I’ll see what I can do.” She walked over to a phone behind the counter, made a couple of calls, then returned, giving me a beaming smile. “I’ve arranged for one of my regulars, Joe, to stop over with a friend o’ mine for the night, promised him a discount next time. That means I got one room free – it’s a bit pokey but if ya wan’ it, it’s yours.”
I thanked her, and we talked for a while longer. Jo Anne and a skinny guy I took to be the chef sat at a distant table muttering to each other and looking bored. As Molly and I chatted, I became aware of the most extraordinary feelings I was having about her. My cock had begun to twitch the moment I laid eyes on her, and the longer I inhaled her mixed scent of cheap perfume and sweat, the stiffer it became. I really couldn’t understand it; Molly wasn’t physically attractive in any conventional sense, and she was older than my mother, yet I was incredibly aroused by her. I’d never known any really big women before, and I was perplexed by the effect this one was having on me.
After a while she stood and said, “Come on, I’ll show you to my place.” Turning, she called across to Jo Anne, “I’m clocking off Jo Jo. Randi’ll be along to take over from ya in about a quarter hour.” With that she lifted a coat off a hook near the door, slung it over her arm, and led me through the still sultry afternoon to a small white boarding house just off the main street. She seemed in no hurry to show me my room and said, “Ya want coffee, honey? Just take the weight off in there an’ I’ll bring it in to you.”
I walked into a large parlour containing several big, comfy armchairs, covered in a pattern of pink roses. I was just about to sit when I noticed a particularly striking photograph on the wall. It was black and white and looked like one of the old glamour shots I’d seen in ’60s girlie magazines. It featured a beautiful young woman with masses of dark hair, heavily made-up, wearing a black bra and pants set with suspenders and black stockings. She pouted at the camera and her breasts thrust aggressively towards the viewer, reminding me almost of Madonna’s famous conical bra. I heard a clink behind me and turned to see Molly entering the room with a tray and two mugs. I asked if the picture was of her.
“Sure is honey – 30 years and 200 pounds ago.”
I looked again at the photo. “You were very beautiful.”
She looked stern and replied, “What do you mean, were?” Seeing the look of embarrassment on my face she gave a coarse bark of laughter. “It’s okay honey, I’m just joshin’ with you. Yeah, I haven’t always lived in this hick town. You said you were gonna be a writer when you graduate from college. You should write about me – I’ve had what you intellectual types would call a highly colourful life.” As I sat Molly leaned low in front of me to give me my coffee. She had changed into a loose blouse, and I gulped as I stared down a cleavage like the Grand Canyon.
Pretending not to notice my reaction, or the evident bulge in my trousers, she plopped herself down in a chair opposite me. Her thighs were too big to close, and I had a perfect view straight up her skirt to her drawers. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and started to tell me about herself. “Yeah, I was Brooklyn born and bred. Well, I thought I was all that, bahis şirketleri and I had visions of myself on the cover of Vogue. When I was 16 I started a career in films, only it weren’t the kind of films you go to a legit theater to see, if ya catch my drift. Anyway, that led me down other avenues, and I made a very nice living with that body.” She jerked her thumb at the picture on the wall. I was stunned by what she was telling me – I’d never heard anything like it – and at the same time mesmerised by her enormous thighs and the twin patches of dark hair I could see creeping past the leg-holes of her pants.
“Anyway, I picked up a john in Vegas one time, an oilman, an’ he tole me he was lookin’ for company all the way to Houston. Well, I din’t wanna go to no Houston, but his money was good so I said okay, figured I could either fly back to Vegas or go on from there to Miami or some place else. As it was, bastard got bored with me, beat the shit outta me and dumped me outta his car here, not so much as a penny on me. Fucker!” Even all those years later, the bitterness in her voice was evident.
“I’d been figurin’ my days as a hooker was numbered anyhow, an’ ol’ Charlie Wheeler who ran the diner at that time offered me a job waitressin’. I reckoned I’d stay around here for a few months, recharge my batteries, then pick up again. Been here ever since. I kept Charlie happy for a few years, then he upped and died one day, an’ left me the business. Couple years after that, my Charlotte came along.”
She saw the quizzical look on my face, and said, “My daughter. She’s 20 now, works as a secretary outta the sheriff’s office.”
She was silent after that. I knew I shouldn’t ask but, fascinated now, like watching a train wreck in slow motion, I said tentatively, “and, er, Charlotte’s father?”
Molly’s shoulders shook as she laughed mirthlessly. “Well, now, I couldn’t rightly tell you who that was. There was four truckers came through here one night, an’ I figure it was one of them, but I sure couldn’t say which one.” She gave a barking laugh at the look of utter astonishment on my face, and said, “Yeah Andrew, I been a dirty lady in my time, but I ain’t been like that long since, I’m a respected local businesswoman these days.” She adopted a mock upper class accent on this last phrase. Forcing her bulk out of the chair, she said, “Anyways, darlin’, you wanna come with me, I’ll show you your room then you can wash up before dinner.”
Molly led the way up the stairs then stood in the doorway of a small bedroom and held out her hand, presenting it to me. The doorway was narrow and she made no move to get out of my way, so I had to squeeze past her. Her big boobs pressed into my chest, and my groin rubbed against her skirt. With a snigger she half-whispered, “Make yerself at home darlin’.” After she had left me alone in my room I reflected on the incredible tale she’d told me, and the bizarre effect this fat, hairy, sweaty middle-aged woman was having on me. As I thought about it I started to absent-mindedly stroke my cock, and the next thing I knew I was wanking myself to a huge climax.
An hour later, after a long shower and having changed out of my sweat-drenched clothes into a set of equally crumpled but clean and dry togs, I descended the stairs to the call of a dinner gong feeling relaxed, refreshed, and sure that my earlier burst of physical activity had got that silly obsession with Molly out of my mind. My certainty lasted until I strolled into the dining room and saw her again; she turned a beaming smile on me, upon which I felt my cock beginning to stiffen once again. Flushing with embarrassment I scooted to my place at the table, and Molly introduced me. There were two guys in their 60s or 70s, who were her live-in lodgers; a young trucker called Sam who hardly said a word all evening; and Molly’s daughter, Charlotte. I had been interested to meet her, but she seemed a disappointment. She was as plain as he mother had been beautiful in her youth, and as skinny as her mother was big. She wore black-framed spectacles and braces on her teeth, and her personality was a pale shadow of Molly’s extrovert nature. Molly saw me studying Charlotte and maybe misinterpreted my look. She stood behind me, her meaty hands on my shoulders – and her bust pressing into the back of my head – and said, in a stage whisper, “Don’t you go getting’ no ideas about Charley, Andrew. You touch her an’ Sheriff’s Deputy Frank Simmons’ll rip your balls off.”
Charlotte coloured visibly and groaned “Momma!”, causing Molly and her two regular guests to burst into laughter.
We chatted about this and that over the meal, with the other diners showing quite a lot of interest in England, and my views on America. Sam and the two regulars excused themselves after the main course to watch a ball game on TV, leaving just me and the two women. I felt quite full after a plate of steak and fries, but Molly loomed up before me and leaned her elbows on the table in front of me. Her blouse sagged open and I saw with a shock that she was no longer wearing the bra she’d had earlier on. Her enormous tits dangled before my eyes and I could see the darker colour that marked the border of one of her nipples. Playfully, she murmured to me, “I got some sweet, sweet cherry pie in the oven, sugar. You wanna piece of my pie?”
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