Nobody22

A Day In The Life

19 posts in this topic

I thought it might amuse some WGs to know the lengths married punters go to before and after we ring your bells: it might explain the state we're in! My experiences yesterday morning, but it starts months previously, building up the cash in an envelope at work which has my name on in my boss's handwriting and contains a set of unused concert tickets which I couldn't find on that evening. So if I'm up in heaven going through my punternet reports one by one with my maker (oh, and this one too: OMG!) my widow will be able to think the cash is a typical balls-up on my part. Next is the series over the next weeks of phone calls and texts. I love the phone calls and the nerves involved. I like to think between us we build up a pleasant anticipation so that when we meet we're not strangers.

Thursday morning, drop my wife off at work. I might need the car; I'm to visit a firm. That appointment is for 3pm, so there should be plenty of time for my 11am two hours, ninety minutes' travel each way. Wrong, of course. Always leave more time than that for covering your traces, punters. When I set out on a journey, St Christopher rubs his hands with glee. First call Sainsburys. Draw out cash first: no receipts for the bottle of wine and two big carrots: Acteon's mouth freshener but also handy if the WG turns out to be partially sighted. Fill with petrol: that's important. Call at work next for the cash. Is that a wad in your pocket? Call home to put the wine in an insulating bag with freezer blocks. Can't find it! Did I leave it at the petrol station? Very difficult to think clearly at this point. Have I got time to get another? Find that St Christopher has tucked it under the passenger seat, from which it would have rolled out days after I'd got another. Tap the destination town into SatNav, and zoom round the corner.

Now you're in gear. SatNav gives ten minutes spare time. St Christopher here gets out his roadmending vehicles set, and puts them across the road. Two men on a different time-scale from mine stand with their lollipops.

Driving to a punt, I'm under the punter's delusion that every man knows what I'm doing and every attractive woman is the one I'm going to meet, on her way to the same place. Roadblock past, I'm a mile into my seventy when St Christopher reminds me I've left my CD of elegant music at home. Back home, and all the roadmenders are leering at me. Run upstairs, run back to car. On the road now, but St Christopher has fiddled with the SatNav so that its quickest route has forgotten that motorways exist and that it's harvest time in Oxfordshire. Alternate fast spurts and needs-be-patient. At one stretch St Christopher has line up a petrol tanker behind a cement lorry behind a tractor with hay trailer. SatNav tells me I'll be fifteen minutes late. On the other hand, it's good to listen to the CD and imagine. Ten miles to go: it's eleven o'clock. Traffic is slow, so give a quick call and get details of the nearby swimming-pool car park. At this stage it's thrilling to be talking to the WG. I'm going to someone I don't know, for two hours, and this is where I'm grateful to be going to a professional, who will know how to handle the situation.

11.15, and I stand in the car park for directions. You can see her house from the car park (good) but it's down a wide street with a corner store looking onto her place. I'm about as private as Gary Cooper at high noon as I go up to her door. Ring the bell hoping no-one will walk past (because all the men know what I'm up to) and that no good citizens are coming out of the corner shop. This is the peak of anxiety, like when the astronaut hopes to get into the rescue pod in 2001. Rustling within, the door opens and shuts quickly.

Conversation, good actually, this is someone who could easily be a friend: likes literature and music. The house is very much a home, but WGs, it's all very well knowing no-one overlooks your back windows, the punter doesn't know this as he pops downstairs starkers for a shower before business. Two very good hours follow, but I worry that there may be a scent from the oil. I can't tell because the bedroom has that lovely smell anyway. I shower afterwards, but is that enough? Acteon has forgotten to bring his own shampoo.

It's time for tea and meet the wife. Am I smelling faintly of patchouli, or is it fear? Hammer home with the windows open, but perfume works by mixing with the body's own scent, which is heightened by the arousal I've enjoyed. At home first check out the car first: clear SatNav destinations, throw out carrot stumps, put freezer bag and blocks back. Then into the house to deal with hair that looks like I've touched a Van der Graaf generator, which in a sense I have.

Visit the firm. Now feeling ten feet tall. Spare ten minutes before picking up my wife, so to Sainsburys again. Fill up with petrol and pay cash (good move). What will fill the car with smells? Vinegar crisps and oranges. Delicious. Pick up my wife. She sniffs when she gets in the car, but she finishes off the crisps. Home to watch her favourite TV viewing. Detective series!

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Nice story, Acteon. Makes me glad I use public transport.

But I'm puzzled by your reverse superstition there. St Christopher of course never even existed, as the Vatican itself officially recognised some 40 years ago. But he was always supposed to be a help to travellers, not a hindrance.

Anyone happen to know if there's a patron saint of punters?

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patron saint of punters is surely ST GALAHAD

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I thought it might amuse some WGs to know the lengths married punters go to before and after we ring your bells: it might explain the state we're in! My experiences yesterday morning, but it starts months previously, building up the cash in an envelope at work which has my name on in my boss's handwriting and contains a set of unused concert tickets which I couldn't find on that evening. So if I'm up in heaven going through my punternet reports one by one with my maker (oh, and this one too: OMG!) my widow will be able to think the cash is a typical balls-up on my part. Next is the series over the next weeks of phone calls and texts. I love the phone calls and the nerves involved. I like to think between us we build up a pleasant anticipation so that when we meet we're not strangers.

Thursday morning, drop my wife off at work. I might need the car; I'm to visit a firm. That appointment is for 3pm, so there should be plenty of time for my 11am two hours, ninety minutes' travel each way. Wrong, of course. Always leave more time than that for covering your traces, punters. When I set out on a journey, St Christopher rubs his hands with glee. First call Sainsburys. Draw out cash first: no receipts for the bottle of wine and two big carrots: Acteon's mouth freshener but also handy if the WG turns out to be partially sighted. Fill with petrol: that's important. Call at work next for the cash. Is that a wad in your pocket? Call home to put the wine in an insulating bag with freezer blocks. Can't find it! Did I leave it at the petrol station? Very difficult to think clearly at this point. Have I got time to get another? Find that St Christopher has tucked it under the passenger seat, from which it would have rolled out days after I'd got another. Tap the destination town into SatNav, and zoom round the corner.

Now you're in gear. SatNav gives ten minutes spare time. St Christopher here gets out his roadmending vehicles set, and puts them across the road. Two men on a different time-scale from mine stand with their lollipops.

Driving to a punt, I'm under the punter's delusion that every man knows what I'm doing and every attractive woman is the one I'm going to meet, on her way to the same place. Roadblock past, I'm a mile into my seventy when St Christopher reminds me I've left my CD of elegant music at home. Back home, and all the roadmenders are leering at me. Run upstairs, run back to car. On the road now, but St Christopher has fiddled with the SatNav so that its quickest route has forgotten that motorways exist and that it's harvest time in Oxfordshire. Alternate fast spurts and needs-be-patient. At one stretch St Christopher has line up a petrol tanker behind a cement lorry behind a tractor with hay trailer. SatNav tells me I'll be fifteen minutes late. On the other hand, it's good to listen to the CD and imagine. Ten miles to go: it's eleven o'clock. Traffic is slow, so give a quick call and get details of the nearby swimming-pool car park. At this stage it's thrilling to be talking to the WG. I'm going to someone I don't know, for two hours, and this is where I'm grateful to be going to a professional, who will know how to handle the situation.

11.15, and I stand in the car park for directions. You can see her house from the car park (good) but it's down a wide street with a corner store looking onto her place. I'm about as private as Gary Cooper at high noon as I go up to her door. Ring the bell hoping no-one will walk past (because all the men know what I'm up to) and that no good citizens are coming out of the corner shop. This is the peak of anxiety, like when the astronaut hopes to get into the rescue pod in 2001. Rustling within, the door opens and shuts quickly.

Conversation, good actually, this is someone who could easily be a friend: likes literature and music. The house is very much a home, but WGs, it's all very well knowing no-one overlooks your back windows, the punter doesn't know this as he pops downstairs starkers for a shower before business. Two very good hours follow, but I worry that there may be a scent from the oil. I can't tell because the bedroom has that lovely smell anyway. I shower afterwards, but is that enough? Acteon has forgotten to bring his own shampoo.

It's time for tea and meet the wife. Am I smelling faintly of patchouli, or is it fear? Hammer home with the windows open, but perfume works by mixing with the body's own scent, which is heightened by the arousal I've enjoyed. At home first check out the car first: clear SatNav destinations, throw out carrot stumps, put freezer bag and blocks back. Then into the house to deal with hair that looks like I've touched a Van der Graaf generator, which in a sense I have.

Visit the firm. Now feeling ten feet tall. Spare ten minutes before picking up my wife, so to Sainsburys again. Fill up with petrol and pay cash (good move). What will fill the car with smells? Vinegar crisps and oranges. Delicious. Pick up my wife. She sniffs when she gets in the car, but she finishes off the crisps. Home to watch her favourite TV viewing. Detective series!

Interesting and amusing post. Glad to hear it was all worth it. :)

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Love it , love it , but what were the two carrots for ? :blink:

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Cracking post Aceteon ........and not so far from my own pre punt thoughts routines. ( Minus Carrots !!)

the perfume , the messy hair and the arriving home cleaner smelling than when you left are always ...."considerations"

and sods law is never far away ....something always goes slightly wrong !!

and you can never tell quite what..... or when ....Its gonna happen

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I had a client once who turned up with two cucumbers ... well, you can imagine the rest! :P

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I know I am not supposed to but I feel really awful for the wife. In fact any mention of punters wife and I just feel like like vomiting.

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Enjoyed reading that.

You should start a blog [if you don't have one already]

p.s. The elegant music cd... was it really necessary to go back for that?

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Love it , love it , but what were the two carrots for ? :blink:

That's what I was wondering :blink:

Patron Saint of Punters is surely St Hugh of Grant (except he got caught).

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That's what I was wondering :blink:

Patron Saint of Punters is surely St Hugh of Grant (except he got caught).

I believe he uses them to freshen his breath...

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What a palava ! All I can say is that I am glad I am single and dont have to go to such extents. This sounds like an awful lot of prep for a two hour punt, but I do understand that you have to cover your tracks. However if I chose to be married then I simply wouldn't punt, and your story is a good enough reason to stay faithful, even before mentioning anything about morals !

I suspect many married punters have similar preparation proceedures and that it becomes a habit and an accepted part of their punting experience!

But if I were in your situation, I simply could not find the time or inclination to find it enjoyable.:blink:

Good luck on your next 6 monthly punt :D

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I thought it might amuse some WGs to know the lengths married punters go to before and after we ring your bells: it might explain the state we're in! My experiences yesterday morning ........

Sounds just like one of my punts.

Apart from the angst

... and the carrots

... and the wine

... and the insulating bag

... and the music CD (really ?)

... and the feeling that everyone knows what I am up to (I start from the assumption that no-one does know)

... and bringing my own shampoo

... and the defumigating the car

Still, it sounds like you had fun. Thanks for sharing :D .

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Enjoyed reading that.

You should start a blog [if you don't have one already]

p.s. The elegant music cd... was it really necessary to go back for that?

The way I see it is that the money I pay makes up for the preposterous difference between us in age and attractiveness. So we meet as equals, and I want to give as good as I get. I bring some attractive music, both relaxing and stimulating in the best sense, as a kind of gift for the occasion. Like a guest in "Come Dine With Me".

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I posted something equally as long about getting ready for my man of the moment, a long time ago! Let's appreciate one another more eh...all good. We're sort of on the same side, after all.

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It may sound callous but the research and the prep work is the foreplay to the meeting. This meticulas build up and planning is just as much an integral part of the companionship as the face to face part.

A whole new dimension is added by having to cover your tracks. i have been with my wife foe over 20 years and the thought and cost of being caught does not bear thinking about!

As an avid gambler..and punter squirreling away the cash is not an issue, finding the time is ...seeing as my down times are differant to many of the posters on this board.if only i could find the lady of my precipitous dreams at 3 am.

greatest challenge to me on my companionship days..(twice a week..plus one massage on top) is clothing and what to wear.In my gambling work i often wear a gambling branded hoodie, jeans and sneakers so i blend in...not the best outfit to meet a lady in. If i scrub up...and i do scrub up well i'm more likely to attract my wife's attention.

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I i have been with my wife foe over 20 years and the thought and cost of being caught does not bear thinking about!

.In my gambling work i often wear a gambling branded hoodie, jeans and sneakers so i blend in...not the best outfit to meet a lady in. If i scrub up...and i do scrub up well i'm more likely to attract my wife's attention.

For a man in your marital position are you not giving away far too much information here ?

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my wife is as likely to use a computor as i am a washing machine

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Nice story, Acteon. Makes me glad I use public transport.

But I'm puzzled by your reverse superstition there. St Christopher of course never even existed, as the Vatican itself officially recognised some 40 years ago. But he was always supposed to be a help to travellers, not a hindrance.

Anyone happen to know if there's a patron saint of punters?

Not sure about the patron saint of punters, but if you can believe wikipedia then Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of prostitutes! Will have to see about asking a priest about the accuracy and background of that; maybe I'll bring it up after a Confession. ;) Also maybe that's why Santa is so jolly eh? :D

Great story too Acteon, I know exactly what you mean about feeling like people in the street on the way know what you're up to for some reason. I sometimes have a similar feeling on the tube on the way back from an appointment - but generally my mind is more on memories of the past hour or two. Also always part of the challenge to find the right time and right cover story for a visit too. It is kind of funny the much larger amount of time involved in the build up and wind down from an appointment, but often part of the pleasure I find.

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