Page 2 of A Cock and Bull Story
Sexaholics Anonymous, here I come;time to make me a new woman.
No one is really comfortable letting an American woman dressed as a night walker borrow their vehicle, so I end up taking a train to Banbury. I get a lot of looks on my journey north. Some are speculative—they’re wrong, I’m not a hooker, I’ll screw their brains out for free—others, suggestive, and some downrighthungry.
I might not be a class-act, but fuck if I don’t have sex appeal. I’ve seriously questioned if I might be a succubus or some shit. When I asked my mom, she hung up on me; so, I’m still not entirely certain. For the most part, I ignore everyone on the train, although I do send a group of nuns a wink. Their scandalized gasps are almost as good as a stranger slipping a hand under your skirt.
Yes,I went there.
We’ve already established that I desperately need help—which I’m getting.Soon. Once the train stops, I follow my phone to the old Anglican church. I’m still not sure if it’s fitting or blasphemous to hold a sexaholics meeting in the basement of Christ’s home, but who am I to judge?
I pull open the front doors and make my way downstairs. A group of men and women around my age are already gathered there in a circle of chairs. I’m not exactly nervous, per se, but my stomach flutters at the sight of them. As long as it’s not my pussy fluttering, I’m going to make it out of this meeting a changed woman.
I sit down in a vacant chair and politely smile at all the other sex fiends in the room—and, then,freeze. There are two women and four men and, clearly, they put the ‘sex’ in ‘sex gods’. They’re absolutely gorgeous! Oh no. . . was Sexaholics Anonymous not for curing your sex addiction, butfor indulging in it?!
I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or excited at the prospect because, let me tell you—these people arehot. Maybe the group is Succubuses Anonymous? I’ve finally found my tribe.Thanks for nothing, mom.I had to do all the work myself. Please, insert some of your own internal grumbling for her lack of help.
I discreetly check everyone out—I mean,assess—from under my eyelashes. The two women have very dark hair, but one is styled into an adorable pixie cut and the other’s is long and straight down her back. The woman with short hair has warm brown eyesand freckles. Frickin’ freckles, I say. That, coupled with her lip piercing, makes me want to kiss her face.
The other woman is not as cutesy, but she has a rack on her that simultaneously makes my mouth waterandmakes me jealous—like, I want to motorboat her and boob-punch them for their large, perky perfection. I avert my gaze from her glorious pale globes—because I’m a recovering sex addict and I don’t stare at strangers’ tits—to her face, which is more acceptable to stare at.
Her eyes are a deep blue that contrasts lovely with her dark hair and fair skin. Her lips are full and pouty, making me wonder what her other ones are like. . .and there I go again. Whelp, this is my first day of SA, I’m bound to have some relapses. If they are just mental ones, I’m calling that a win. The gorgeous woman arches a brow when I keep gawking at her like a creeper. No wonder the world thinks Americans are all impolite twits.
Step it up, Belle!
Although, in my defense, I’m not exactly a stellar ambassador for the American people in general.
I quickly look away to check out—fuck, Itotallymeant assess—the guys in the room. There are four of them and they arebuilt. One has pitch-black hair, but it seems to glint red under the fluorescent lights, but the guy next to him is definitely a red-head. Hello, Mr. Gingerbread Man. Moving along, there’s a blond man and the last guy has brownish-gray hair, but he’s certainly notold. He must dye it that way. It sounds strange, but it’s working for him.
Hell, everything on these dudes is working for them. I can only imagine what their co—nope!Not even going there. I will not, for one second, envision what their dicks look like. Or feel like. Or taste like. I’m going to need a lot of help, aren’t I? I also think I need to find another SA group—one that is lesstempting. Or, maybe, I need a buddy! Someone saintly, like a monk. . .
Now, I’m imagining seducing a monk.
Fuck.
When is this meeting going to start?
I need the helpnow.
The man with the dark black hair with red undertones must read my mind because he clears his throat to get everyone’s attention before addressing the room.
“I don’t think anyone else is coming tonight. Welcome, everyone. I see that we have one newcomer; so, let’s all introduce ourselves.”
His voice is liquid sex I want to pour all over my body and roll in—oh, I’m the newcomer, aren’t I? I sit up straighter, proving that I can think with my brain andnotmy vagina. Plus, I need to get everyone’s names if I’m going to get their numbers later—for that buddy system! If you’re chanting ‘liar, liar, pants on fire’, well, that’s just childish.
“I’ll start,” the sex god who just spoke volunteers.
His accent sends a shiver down my back. It’s the smooth, refined British one that totally would make any woman take off their panties at the sound of it—thank God I’m not wearing any right now, or else I would be making a fool of myself.
“I’m Jude and I’m a cockchafer.”
“Hello, Jude,” everyone says together—except for me.
I’m too confused to say much. See—this is where knowing the lingo would really help. Is cockchafer a British word for ‘cock chaser’? Does this sex god only like dick? Now, that’s a seriously depressing thought. Mr. Ginger interrupts my musings.
“I’m Arthur and I’m a horny toad.”
My mouth flaps open at his brutally honest words. This man might be horny, but I wouldn’t call hima toad, by any means. The blond man goes next.
“I’m Theo and I’m a fucking slippery dick,” he spits out in obvious distaste.
