The Blanchardstown Blondes

A serialized story in parts in the style of acclaimed author, Amanda Brunker…

Sharon Rashers stretched out on her floral sofa and casually flicked through the television channels. Yawning, she settled on the Jeremy Kyle show and flopped back onto the over stuffed cushions, half watching the box, half day dreaming about her night with Pat.

It had been more than she could have ever dreamed of, even in her wildest dreams, which usually occurred after too many fatfrogs with Maggie and Sandra in Sizzles.

Pat answered the door of his Affordable Home wearing some lose fitting jeans and a salmon pink shirt with six buttons opened, his thick chest hair straining through the cotton gap. The sight of him made Sharon involuntarily lick her lips.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you, Sharon,” he said, his thick neck bulging with manly veins.

“I’m sordy, I..I…I will go if ye want, deres good TV on tonigh so I don’t care,” answered Sharon, aware she was babbling.

“No, no, don’t be silly, come in, I just wasn’t expecting company, that’s all. But here, I’m just about to make some pasta, I’m sure I can stretch this Ragu for the both of us.”

“Bleedin rapih, I’m starvin’”

As they ate the pasta with sauce, Sharon tried to find out a little more about Pat, but he seemed distracted and unwilling to answer her questions.

“So how is de club goin’?”

“S’alright”

“Were ye busy today?”

“Yeah, same as I s’pose”

Instead of annoying her, Pat’s indifference and distance only fuelled Sharon’s loins, her flaps going ten to the dozen and her heart pounding inside the Penny’s padded bra.

As if he was reading her mind, Pat put down the bowl of pasta and moved towards Sharon on the plastic leatherette sofa, which squeaked with every movement.

He scooped her in his big, strong arms and planted his generous mouth on her face. Just when she thought she could take no more passion, he began to dribble hot, sweet curry sauce on her tits.

“Oh fuckin jaaaaaayzus Pat, yer bleedin greah,” she yelled, in the height of ecstasy.

Pat expertly flipped her over, and poured cheese sauce down the small of her back, licking it off with his expert, manly, probing tongue.

“Noooah fuckin way man, dats mental wha yer doin’ dere, fuckin brilliant man,” she yelled again.

For twenty minutes, Pat ate an entire tray of garlic cheese chips off Sharon’s fanny and she could confidently say no other man had made her feel so good.

But yet, after the ecstasy came the agony and Pat returned to his distant self. His eyes, round and black, gazing out into the distance, and his manly arms, just moments before holding Sharon tight, were now flopped by his side as he maintained a cool silence.

“Anyway…Sharon…um, I’ll have to boil wash these sheets so I think you’d better go home now.”

With that, she went home and had a fitful night’s sleep, and now, lying on her couch, couldn’t think of anything, or anyone else but Pat Parsnips.

“Buh at least I don’t want to roide Maggie no mowar,” she mumbled to herself, before snuggling down for today’s Jeremy Kyle: “You gave me the clap, and I want answers”.

 

Will Sharon and Pat have a repeat performance? Can Sizzlers be saved from closure? Will Fingal County Council ensure local welfare claimants don’t sell on their bin-tags?

Find out soon…