The Short Humour Site

Home : Writers' Showcase : Submission Guidelines : A Man of a Few More Words : Links

Writers' Showcase

Up and Down!
by Jilliana Ranicar-Breese

I thought I was in love with my Italian lover. A handsome man with an aquiline nose of 69 in 2013 who looked 10 years younger, without a single grey hair and all his teeth! I was blind to his zillions of faults, like his financial and spiritual meanness, his loathing of Italians, how he despised the arrogant French and too many Muslims in Turkey, so he would not travel there!  Despite speaking Italian, he never once complimented me on my advanced Italian conversation only speaking to me twice in Italian on the phone when I was away in Rome.  Franco mentally abused me putting me down asking when I had 'let myself go' after having seen black and white sexy photos of me. He commented that I looked like Raquel Welch and how we could have had children had we met in the 60s!

One evening he arrived at my flat and, as usual, took off his shoes and sat at my computer, watching porno to get himself into the mood for sex. A frustrated impotent man who refused to see a doctor or take the Viagra I had bought for him. But to me he was so good looking with a beautiful body and silky skin I loved to touch. He was unaffectionate too. Certainly not a passionate Romeo but a cold intellectual from Verona. What the hell was I doing with a man who slept with not one but 3 duvets at night and even went down the bottom of the bed to face the other way? A man who sat at my computer screen in front of an excellent photo I had taken of him in Amsterdam who spoke to his own image saying, 'I AM good looking,' to which I commented, 'on the outside but not on the inside.' Silence was his reply. He knew deep down what a insincere Narcissistic shit he was!

At my suggestion and expense, we had a long weekend in Amsterdam even visiting the interesting sex museum. I had my photo taken sitting in a gigantic phallic wooden carved seat and ran my ringers over bronze penii in the shape of a free standing bronze sculpture 'chalice.'  He seemed to blame me for being impotent!'

I suggested we look for a slim blonde, non tarty looking prostitute, in the famous Red Light District and see if he could get 'it' up for her! It was a warm balmy Saturday evening and the district was chockablock with punters and tourists all looking for pussy. No men in the windows for us ladies!  A few obviously outrageous Latino transvestites completed the picture in the windows.  The women were all vulgar, scantily dressed in iridescent garish underwear or bikinis, sitting or gyrating in the neon lit windows. Most looked like they came from Eastern Europe looking hungry and not, in our forensic opinion, sexy.

Then I saw her in the window!  Franco's fantasy woman was young, blonde and slender, like a gazelle.  In fact he wanted me running like a gazelle despite having water retention in my legs. I was a middle aged Rubinesque hippo with dyed medium length amber hair, parted in the middle and not a Twiggy lookalike!

Franco would sit for hours transposing blonde film star hairstyles on to my photographic facial features even asking me to cut my locks and go blonde. Pathetically, showing my vulnerability, I asked him if he would love me more if I were a blonde but he declined to answer. He considered me an Alpha woman, loving my mind, so he said, but not my curvaceous well endowed body. He wanted me to loose weight and engage a personal trainer.

She didn't look a slut, in fact she was natural with good skin. Possibly about 30, with a charming smile and good teeth, who turned out to be Russian. She opened the glass door to inveigle him in to sample her wares.

     'Franco come over here!' she cooed, beckoning him over.

     'How much?' I demanded as I was his 'minder' that evening.
     'Back or front?'
     'No, just for a hand or blow job. You can watch if you want.'
     'How long for?'
     '20 minutes.'
     'But it's only going to take 10 minutes for him to cum, what do you do for
     the rest of the time?' I enquired.
     'I dance with feathers!' She smiled knowingly lowering her eyes.

Franco got cold feet or should I say cold cock and moved away with his tail or useless cock between his legs! Her smile vanished instantly, shutting the glass door rapidly as there was 'no sale' and she had wasted her valuable 'sexual' time. Time is money after all in the oldest profession.

We moved on and sat on a canal bench wondering what to do next. We had already looked at displays of sex toys, vibrators and dildoes in a couple of sex shops to no avail. I suggested a live sex show. He agreed, in desperation, and so wasted E50 on entrance including 2 beers, on a mechanical sex show on stage with 4 couples. In, out, shake it all about! So boring and so non-erotic.

All in all we had an interesting weekend until he irritably snapped when I couldn't keep up with his fast walking pace. That made me cry and later, back in Brighton, he mumbled what a shame the Russian hadn't shown me what to do so I would be more experienced 'on the job!'

     'Do you realise what you have just said to me?' I said astonished at his cruelty.
     'Yes, a shame you didn't watch her.' He retorted.

Franco had to go, I'd had enough of his snarky insults. I cut my hair and went blonde in the front but he never saw my metamorphosis. Yes, he was right, I looked more attractive as a blonde. I have been a blonde ever since.

That was in the spring of 2013. I have avoided him but unfortunately our paths have crossed 4 times in Brighton. He scurries away like the rat that he is. However, I still ask myself the lingering question, would it have been 'up' for her?

Written on the train London to Brighton 17.8.2017 after hearing the sexsploits of a best selling author who inspired me to write my Amsterdam vignette.

Read on BHCR on 27.7.18
Performed at The Komedia
Performed at Cascade on
Performed at The Cabaret Lab


My life continues to be synchronistic. On Saturday night I met a new friend, Lydia for dinner. She was fascinated by my headgear and wanted to know why I chose to cover my head with a bejewelled turban and asked me if, in fact, I had hair! This conversation took place as we walked towards our chosen restaurant, Lemongrass, in Brighton. I told her in vivid detail about the mental abuse, Franco's impotency and the Russian prostitute in Amsterdam.

Suddenly she suggested we took a bus for just one stop. I continued on explaining, as went to sit on the bus, that it was because of Franco wanting me to go blonde. I then pointed to the smirking man sitting directly opposite us on the bus. We had acknowledged each other silently with our eyes. We knew!

     'That's the very man!' I whispered in Lydia's ear.

Updated in my flat in Brighton on 19.8.17  If only I had said to Franco that I had been speaking of him that very moment but my courage failed me!

Performing time 11 minutes. Performed at The Cascade 7.10.17.