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The dance of love

By R&H reader Mr Swellmons

Posted October 10, 2013
cupid gets tough
Love is a battlefield: As Mr Swellmons found out down the pub. (Check bottom for credit)

Mr Swellmons recounts an edgy tale of true love and classical music.

I was in the pub the other Saturday and the football scores were over.

It had been another long day of introspection.

My compatriot had fallen asleep over the table, his dead hand still clasping a pint glass.

The afternoon heads had mostly filed off to watch Family Fortunes with their nagging mate-women.

For want of anything better to do I focused myself on the evening crowd that was pouring in, all of them full of the promise only amnesia can give; still sober; still buoyant; still hopeful, as though last Sunday morning had never existed.

I checked out the female folk.

These days I rarely give the girls the attention they deserve, or that they so desperately wish to avoid, and I often mark them out as either shaggable or unshaggable as a common courtesy without ever thinking that the information is of any worthwhile value to me.

But this time, whilst scanning the room, my eyes lit upon a short, blonde-haired creature.

Very pretty, very short.

Oh hold on, she was in a wheelchair.

A wheelchair girl.

I'd never really noticed them until the Olympics.

Not the proper Olympics, I mean the disabled one afterwards.

The one with all those outstanding physical performances that made the nation reassess their opinions about people with missing limbs.

And for the first time in my life I realised that I wanted to have sex with a disabled woman.

There was a logic to it after all.

Able-bodied women never want to have sex with me anymore.

And disabled women must find it almost impossible to get laid.

So in a way we'd be helping each other out.

I looked more closely.

She definitely appeared to be Eastern European, like so many of the women in this city these days.

Slavic girls.

Something about their sharp eyes and aquiline noses really sets them apart from the pudgy English girls.

Polish and Czech girls always put me in mind of Dvořák.

Ah, Dvořák, with his collection of beautiful Slavonic Dances.

I let myself dream.

I dreamt of taking this girl and sweeping her off her feet to Dvořák's Dance No.2, with its heartbreaking strings in waltz time, spinning her around me, holding her close, cheek to cheek, only until the woodwind breaks in, coy and teasingly demure – at this point I would undress myself whilst she lay on the bed giggling.

Then the string theme comes back in, and I approach the bed, serious as a matador.

I mean business girl!

But I pause.

She looks uncertain.

What am I doing?

Am I going to f--k her or not?

How long can she wait?

I stare into her eyes.

She smiles, bewildered.

Then it happens!

Dvořák's Dance No. 7!

With its cheeky, cheeky oboe, clarinet and plucked 'cello tip-toeing into life almost, then slowing to a near halt, then starting off again, before exploding into a roaring march, all cymbals and brass – BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

I imagine throwing her legless torso around the room – and with all that weight removed she'd be easy to handle – and bouncing her up and down on my Johnson in time with the timpani – BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

My! How these Slavic girls love to dance.

I realise, as I tip up and hide the remainder of my pint inside my body, that it's not over for me yet.

Just as it's not over for her.

We are sexual adventurers, explorers of new territories, pioneers of some f--king new age where we all love disabled people because they can play basketball and throw javelins.

Saluting my unconscious friend, I slide over to the girl and clamp my hand firmly to the back of her wheelchair.

"Alright sweetheart… fancy a dance?"

She looks up at me in stunned disgust, and then screams "F--K OFF!!!" as loud as it is possible for a human being to manage before their vocal cords tear into ribbons.

The pub falls silent.

My compatriot wakes up with a terrified stare.

I slide back over to him and suggest we leave immediately.

See also Double-ended dildo pie, posted 2/6/13.

Picture credit

Top and thumb: Cupid with a Kalashnikov by WATTTS and photographed by Pedroalmovar.

For licensing information click the above link.

This article was first posted on the old R&H 17/9/13

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