The Fowler and His Net - Chapter 5 - Sex Stories

The Fowler and His Net - Chapter 5

Sunday had passed in a blur for Gary Fowler. Deprived of his ritual Saturday night session of drinking with the regulars at the Plough he had woken sober and confused believing the strange recollections must have been some kind of fever dream; he had withdrawn groaning back beneath the covers when he had realised that they were memories.

He lay in that morning thinking about his behaviour since he left the army. Time alone had induced a degree of reflection that was new to him, and that caused him much perturbation. It was as though a mirror had been placed directly in front of him and he was being forced to look at his self-inflicted blemishes. Particularly, he was thinking of Mala Gupta, the wife of the owner of the “Taste of India” restaurant chain. She had hoped for more from the handsome young workman who had entered her life. She had wanted to lay Gary in a bed of rose petals and love him with sensual oils. Gary, in his arrogance wanted none of that, and had given her his way of loving. An experience that had plainly affected her, as had the disappearance of her favourite elephant broach.

The rest of the day had been spent nursing pints in the tap room at the Plough while pool games were played and gossipy nodding went on from fellow regulars around him. The popular opinion was that Gary wasn’t feeling himself.

Early Monday started with his drive round to pick up the team for the big job in town. Wayne was first.

‘Mornin’ Gazza. Feeling better today?’ he ...

... asked

‘Eh? What do ya mean?’ he responded irritably.

‘From what our kid said you ‘ad a right monk-on last night.’

Gary thought as fast as he could. ‘It were a bloody hard week, last week.’

‘Aye, yer puttin’ in like twelve ‘ours a day’. The lads’ll chip in, yer know, on that evenin’ job.’

Gary dismissed the notion inventively. “Ha! They’ve told me it’s either just me or nought. They’re dead frit’ about getting robbed and that.’

Foreman Paul was next. ‘Ayup, Casanova!’ he chirped as he shuffled on to the bench seat.

‘Morning gaffer.’ Although the son of the owner, Gary still had to recognise the organisational structure.

‘Yer gonna be givin’ it yer whole length this week eh?’ he winked at Jake the apprentice, who clambered in through the side door.

‘Morning Gazza,” the bleary eyed youngster piped. ‘Are we stopping off at caff on’t way?’

‘Eh, the lad needs to fill up his testicles,' Paul japed. ‘good ta’ see a young lad spillin’ his junk at weekend.’

‘Gaffer, leave it out, me mum forgot me brekky.' he was learning he needed to respond to the blokes around him. Most days started with this kind of joviality.

But, noticeable to all, Gary wasn’t part of it. All had joked about the sexy, buxom aristocrat that he was devoting so much of his time toward, but none seriously believed that any “funny business” was going on. That would have been absurd; it was that absurdity that made the matter funny. But the secret dilemma he was presented with was very ...