It was 2009, and after cashing in the GUKPT Luton Main Event I felt confident going into the Walsall leg that I could do well. I’d been studiously reading Phil Gordon’s Little Green Book of poker and was ready to put big Phil’s masterplan into action.
The big day arrived and I was quickly eliminated.
With no flights available until a few days later, that night I took a wander round the town to have a few solitary beers and consult Phil’s Gospel to work out where I had gone wrong in the tournament. I must have missed a something, I needed to read between the lines, that’s what big Phil would do. Lost in the sacred text, I looked up just in time in avoid bumping into a black man with what looked like a silk tie-die dress on. They weren’t wrong when they called it the Black Country I thought to myself, there was jiggerboos everywhere. Playing back the hands in my mind and pouring over the Little Green book of knowledge for clues, I failed to notice that I had accidentally turned into a dark alleyway.
What happened next is too is painful to talk about but the upshot is that I was systematically raped by a dozen niggers. After the terrible deed was done, they further compounded their brutality by Bukkake’ing me for an agonising 30 seconds. I can’t describe how undignified you look after being ejaculated on by the descendents of twelve elephant washers, and I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that 12 well hung darkies jizzing on your face causes problems for the skin, and crucially to my story, problems with the eyes.
Reluctant to go to the quacks but with increasing blindness forcing my hand, I shook off the embarrassment and popped down to local GP to get some eye drops. He was a queer looking fellow with a mock John Gielgud accent.
“How did the symptoms manifest?” asked the Doctor.
“12 Nigerians ejaculated in my eyes.” I said.
“Good god” he bellowed “You faggoty kids get up to all sorts these days”.
“No. You don’t understand, Doctor. I was raped”
“I see. We’ll need to run an AIDS test immediately”.
“No need, Doc. I’ve already got AIDS.”
I could see he was shocked at my matter-of-factness, so I dodged the awkward moment when he offers me his pity, but is secretly wondering if I have used the toilets, by elaborating:
“To me, Doc, it’s a family heirloom of sorts. We were the first in our neighbourhood to have AIDS. My old dad passed on to me, and one day I hope to pass it on to the future Clive Junior.”
A look of horror adorned his face. I could see that I hadn’t instilled any confidence in him that I was at peace with my predicament, so I casually followed up with:
“You know, when I was being banged up the arse by nigger, after nigger, with dicks like monstrous chip-shop saveloys, I couldn’t help but be reminded of a classic joke I once heard: ’Statistically 9 out of 10 people enjoy gang rape’. Well I can tell you Doctor, l will take great consolation in knowing that statistically, four of those beasts will catch my AIDS.”
“You poor man” he uttered solemnly.
Suddenly, he began shiftily scanning the room, as if checking for intruders that might have got in through the only door without us noticing. Once satisfied that we were alone, the Doctor pulled out a business card from is desk drawer, approached me, and slipped it into my top pocket.
“Give her a call. She’ll sort you out, old boy. I can highly recommend her” he said with a sleazy smile that grew as he reminisced, and briefly orgasmed.
Clearing his throat and putting his hand on my shoulder whilst leading me to door, he offered a line of comfort “If only somebody had thrown them a basketball – you could have been spared all of this pain .”
A week later and still a bit upset about being violated by a dirty dozen, with my eyes still blurry from the jazz festival that took place on my face, and with images of the rape flashing constantly through my mind, I suddenly remembered the business card the Doctor had surreptitiously slipped into my pocket.
Retrieving it from my pocket I could just make out through the puss in my eyes:
Hourly and half-hourly rates
All sorts catered for
Fanny Forshaw – Psycho the rapist
At the time I couldn’t quite see how getting raped by a Psycho was going to help me. Perhaps it’s a radical new technique, in which they heal the mental scars of a terrible ordeal through the medium of rape. I wasn’t sure it was necessarily appropriate in my case, but I was game.
I rang the number, “Hello, could I speak to Fanny please, I’d like to avail myself of her services”
“This is Fanny” said a husky sounding voice on the other end of the phone. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly fit you in until late doors tomorrow….. oh hang on”, she said, “that’s right, the judge has cancelled, I can fit you in at 5 if that’s not too short notice?”
“No, I’ll be there. By the way, my name is Clive”
“Ok Clive, 2 hours”. And with that she hung up.
I wondered if the whole “Judge” charade had been contrived to reassure me that she wasn’t just some crack whore. No matter, the voice alone had me intrigued, and I had only two hours before the illicit rendezvous to ponder just how to make the ‘rape’ look convincing when unless she looks like Annie Duke, I’m not going to be putting up a fight.
Arriving at the address she had given me, I was greeted by a blonde woman smoking a cigarette outside. “Fanny?” I enquired. “Yes” she replied, “You must be Clive, come this way”. She held out her hand and led me inside, expertly flicking the cigarette dead centre into the ashtray outside the building. She was a striking looking woman. Both pipes make no mistake. I could see why she made the Doc moist. No rape would be taking place here today.
Leading me inside a plush looking room and sitting me down on a sofa she softly said, “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll just go and make sure nobody disturbs us”. Barely had the door closed behind her before I was bare arsed, stood the sofa, with my cock draped over a silver ashtray as if on a platter.
As she came back into the room Fanny shrieked in abject horror.
“What’s the matter?” I asked puzzled.
“What the hell are you doing, Clive?” she screamed angrily.
“I’m here to be healed through the medium of rape!” I triumphantly exclaimed, dropping the silver ashtray to punctuate the last two thirds of the sentence with air quotes.
“I’m afraid there has been a terrible misunderstanding. I’m a Psychotherapist Clive, not a prostitute”.