The Definitive Head Job
By
Captain Mission

I had started the writers group for one reason only, and that was to meet intelligent sexually liberated young girls who I could impress with my provocative short stories, worldly travels and quirky off beat sense of humour.
The ad ran in the local paper and by mid afternoon I had already received about 16 calls, mostly from women. I took numbers and then called them back in the evening, when I had more of an idea of what I was going to do. Strategically I did not call any of the men that responded. Fuck them!
They can run their own ads.
Well the karmic joke was that all the women, except one, were over sixty.
You have to laugh sometimes, me I laugh all the time these days, but back then I kinda choked.
Our first and last meeting was at my place and in preparation I hid all my porno mags and movies, bought a teacake and washed some cups and cleaned my teeth.
One by one I greeted the geriatric wanna-be writers as they arrived, all showed tremendous surprise when they saw me open the door. My sophisticated telephone manner did not match my shabby slightly threatening renegade appearance.
We sat in the predictable circle, that seemed to manifest around me sipping tea and smiling awkwardly, I felt like a wolf amongst the hens, a shark amongst the minnow but it was more than likely I was just another man with teenager urges amongst a group of sophisticated and experienced old ladies.
I could feel the expectation upon me to take control and initiate the group.
I made the introductory speech, the humble writer, shy, introverted and nervous, not wanting to take any responsibility for my creation, I bumbled along in a cross between Marvyn Haggler and Woody Allen kinda way.
However there was one younger girl in our group who looked interesting enough for me to impress. She was not classically beautiful, she was not really attractive either, but in the most superficial way, she looked like she may be a reasonable fuck.
I encouraged a short discussion about what kind of format this group should take, wether we should meet weekly or monthly, where we would meet etc. The result being, once a month, at each person’s home we would listen to the host’s story or poem and then, pretending we knew what we were talking about, discuss it over tea and some sort of cake.
So as murmurs of approval and self-congratulation dissipated, all eyes fell upon me.
Suddenly I panicked. It was a internal panic, the kind you get when you realise you have locked yourself out and then suddenly realised you actually forgot to dress as well.
My stories were slightly erotic escapades, make that very pornographic exploits, hardcore pornography with a literary feel, maybe Henry Miller writing for Hustler.
There was no way I could possibly entertain these women with one of my bizarre creations.
‘Yes. Come on,’ they pleaded, ‘Yes read us one of your pieces.’
Murmurs of encouragement between dunking digestives and sipping of tea, the clinking of china, suddenly the room became overwhelmingly bright and my eyes began to burn.
I rummaged through a file looking for something I could get away with.
My eyes looked around the room and I began to experience that sinking feeling. The truth is I was not going to get away with anything. These women were old, they didn’t have to play the game anymore, they had lived long enough to know they could do what ever they wanted and get away with it whereas I couldn’t.
I pulled out a story.
‘Oh what’s it called,’ they all asked inquisitively.
‘It’s called,’ I hesitated, cleared my throat, ‘The Definitive Head Job.’ I lowered my head, not being able to bear looking at my audience’s embarrassment.
I began to read.
One by one the women left, sometimes two, three at a time until I was sitting with the young, not so attractive girl. She was smiling, and her lips were in full bloom.