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Why Should I Help Her? Part 1

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Why Should I Help Her: Part 1
How I met Jo and how she got me in the sack.

Based on a post by Millsy,

in 2 parts. Listen to the
► Podcast at Connected.



It was one of those god-awful early springtime

evenings where all you want to do is just boot the pedal to the
metal, to get yourself home. And have a good old drink; in order to
forget about all the shit that you had to wade through during the
day, in order to pay the bills and keep the wolf from the door.

It was near freezing again despite it being

mid-March. The rain was falling so damn hard that you could actually
see it bouncing off the pavement in little explosions as you drove
gingerly through rush hour traffic. The windscreen wipers were
turning the blurry world into a not so blurry world every second or
so. The sweep of the blades now turned up to top speed so that the
thud-thud-thud of the blades competed with the rattle of the
torrential downpour against the metal roof of the car. I had to turn
the stereo up just to hear it, and that's saying something when
you're listening to ACDC performing Razor's Edge.

It took all my concentration just to maintain my

distance to the glowing tail lights of the car ahead. If you rear end
somebody in these conditions then you could kiss goodbye to your no
claims bonus; and I really didn't need that worry on top of
everything else right now.

I had enough on my plate what with the pressures of

work during yet another recession, an increasingly messy divorce, not
to mention keeping myself financially afloat while juggling the
upwardly spiraling expenses of daily life, family law lawyers and an
eye-watering consent order that made me seriously wonder if I should
have employed a more expensive solicitor after all. Well, I mused,
when you do things on the cheap, you sure as hell end up paying the
price over the longer term.

Much like the owner of that car pulled over to the

side of the road with its hazards on, I noted. Poor bastard, stood
beside it under an umbrella while the driving rain and stormy winds
tried to turn it inside out.

Then, as I got closer, my fatigue numbed brain

registered a vague familiarity with the number plate on the silver
Ford Fiesta. The car came from the bottom of my own street, near the
corner shop, I dimly realized.

My foot lifted off the throttle without me even

consciously willing it to do so, and I cruised past, glancing to the
side to see that the forlorn figure by the roadside was indeed the
woman that lived in the old house two doors down from my buddies
Brian and Sam. I racked my brain for her name, but it wouldn't come.

And then I was past, leaving her standing forlornly

in the downpour, as I made my way home to my nice warm house; less
than a hundred yards from where she lived.

Guilt. That's what hit me. Some people would have

just laughed and carried on. Some would have swerved at the puddle
forming in the gutter near where she stood, cruelly attempting to
soak her even further. Most people just didn't bother giving her a
second glance, such is society these days.

As I drove on, putting more distance between myself

and the stranded driver. I was getting closer and closer to my own
home and the oven and the fridge stocked with Carling.

I noted that the guilt refused to subside and instead

grew more and more insistent.

"Fuck." I spat, as Brian Johnson half

growled, half screeched his way through the final bars of
Thunderstruck. I shook my head at the coincidence then I indicated
right into a cul-de-sac, three-point turned my Opel Zafira, and then
rejoined the main road heading back toward work.

I passed the woman again, still standing there in the

rain, and went all the way around the roundabout half a mile further
on, before doubling back homeward once more, finally pulling my car
in, just in front of the broken down Ford Fiesta.

See what I mean about buying cheap, only to have to

spend more later on? Ford. ‘Found-on-roadside, Dead.’ A
mechanic had once told me that as he laughed at my misfortune, as he
continued to quote me an outrageous estimate for a replacement clutch
for a three year old Mondeo. ‘Fixed-or-repaired-daily’.
That's why I drove a Vauxhall, until my recent move to a German
brand.

Yeah, all right. Stop laughing. It had been a great

little British-made car. A little too big for me now that I'm single
again, though.

I got out of the Zaffy, instantly regretting my

decision as the rain immediately plastered my hair to my forehead and
glued my shirt to my shoulders, I dragged my raincoat from the back
seat and pulled it on as I hurried to the stranded driver's side.

"Avondale Street, right?" I asked, as she

eyed me up suspiciously, then her face changed.

Maybe she recognized me. I was just a face to her,

somebody who may have smiled at her, or nodded to her while I walked
my dog. Or more likely she remembered me as some complete asshole who
had leered drunkenly at her over Brian and Sam's garden fence, when
they were having one of their weekend barbecues. Which was an almost
annual occurrence down here in Cornwall.

"Yeah." She eventually said. "I know

you. Black Labrador, right?"

"No no." I said, grinning. "I'm just

his owner. Lewis is at home wondering why dinner is late and chewing
on the table leg by now, I expect."

She blinked long and hard at that. Okay?

"Problem?" I asked.

I was going to say ‘Lovely evening for a walk.’

But something told me she wasn't really in the mood for levity. In
her sodden but sensible shoes I doubted I'd be up for much of a
laugh, either.

She shrugged. "The Auto Club are on their way.

Should be here in five minutes."

"No point in me having a look, then." I

frowned. Thank fuck, I didn't say out loud. What I knew about cars
could fill a post-it note. On one side. And there'd be room for
doodles.

"What happened?" I finally inquired.

Another nonchalant shrug. "Bloody thing started

to make crunching noises. Then it wouldn't go into gear. Now I just
get a grinding noise when I try to change up or down."

Now that sounded expensive. I winced, the best

expression of sympathy I could muster. "Look, it's pouring down
here. Come and wait in my car until the Auto Club arrives."

"I thought we weren't supposed to stay in the

car, just in case another vehicle hits it?"

"That's why I'm a good thirty feet in front. If

something hits the back of your car, we'll be fine in mine." I
explained.

Her hesitation lasted a split second, and while we

were walking back to my car I felt another emotion; regret. The woman
was going to get my passenger seat, soaking wet.

"Jesus Christ, of all the fucking days for this

to happen." She whined as she put down her umbrella and slid
into my car.

I'd heard women swear before, plenty of times. These

days, all teenage girls do is communicate by swearing and text
messages, usually mixing the two together. But coming from her, it
was a bit of a shock. If you're of my generation then you might
remember listening to squeaky clean, chaste and lovely Whitney
Houston (rest in peace), using the word 'fuck' in the movie 'The
Bodyguard' and felt shock that such a vulgar word could come from
such a mouse-like celebrity. This was just such a moment.

Women in their mid-thirties are supposed to be a

little more adult about the use of such an adjective, or so I
assumed. Okay, some women you learn to expect it, like the ones with
a cig in hand and a pint of cider in front of them, down the bottom
club on a Saturday night. Or the fat cows pushing prams around
Primark in professional chav shoplifting gangs. But not this
smartly-dressed, bespectacled, professional-looking lady. Don't get
me wrong, I'm all for a dirty word now and then, but I prefer it kept
between the sheets, personally.

"How long have you been waiting?" I asked.

"Half an hour," She said, glancing at a

dainty gold watch on her wrist. "The Auto Club man said he'd be
here by now."

"Things tend to drag on days like this.

Traffic's heavier at this time of day. Then also, people drive slower
because of the weather. Accidents snarl up the roads because some
idiots don't drive slower, and screw rush hour up for the rest of us.
He'll be here soon enough."

"I hope they can fix it. I need that car

tomorrow." She had a worried tone in her voice.

‘Don't hold your breath, honey,’ I

managed to choke back, giving her a sympathetic smile instead.
Crunching, grinding noises and a locked up gearbox? Dream on. Even
someone with my miniscule mechanical knowledge could work out that
the odds of that car getting back on the road for tomorrow weren't
very promising. I'd get better odds gambling on Lewis Hamilton for
the 2012 Formula One title. And that's a pretty dumb thing to be
putting your money on with Jenson Button on top form.

"Thanks, by the way." She said, breaking

the silence.

I'm not one of life's great conversationalists. I'm

quick with a quip, but keeping a discussion going isn't one of my
strengths. I find it really hard work, thinking of the next thing to
say.

My ex-wife used to say I had a minimalist approach to

human interaction and she was probably right. I guess that comes from
being a bit of a solitary guy, working on my own, living by myself
for years before marrying. And now back by myself after failing at
the marriage lark, because I was much happier living by myself.
Probably because we ran out of things to say halfway through the damn
honeymoon.

How women can sit there and talk for hours-on-end,

totally baffles me.

"No problem." I eventually managed to

mumble. "I drove past you once." I continued, impressing
myself with my repartee. "I recognized your car first, then you
as I slowed down, so I turned around and came back."

"It's a silver Fiesta." She said,

surprised. "There's like a billion of them."

"The number plate." I explained. "I

pass it every morning on my way out."

"Ah." She wasn’t convinced.

"I have this game I play by myself, to keep my

brain from falling asleep while I drive." I said, trying to fill
the silence. "I make up acronyms from the three letter sequence
on license plates. My company is big on using acronyms."

"So what does mine mean? SHB?"

Oh fuck. This was embarrassing. I could feel myself

reddening as she turned to look at me. I made a show of glancing into
the rear view mirror, willing the Auto Club repair man to arrive.
They called themselves the fourth emergency service, and I sure as
hell needed them right fucking now to pull me out of the hole that I
had just dug for myself. Beam me up Scotty, dammit!

I smiled weakly. "Ah, it's silly."

"Even better." She laughed. It was a nice

laugh, too.

I racked my brains trying to think of something to

say. I couldn't tell her that the three letters meant Sexy Hot Babe.
That would totally kill the mood, send her shooting out the door and
running for the hills. I shook my head from side to side and screwed
up my features as I desperately stalled for time, my brain working
feverishly with the letters scrabbling around between my reddening
ears.

"Oh come on. I could do with a laugh, after

today." She pressed.

"Schwarzenegger has biceps." I finally

blurted. Oh God, ground open up and swallow me down now. That was so
lame. I knew it. From her face, I could tell, so did she.

Before she could say anything, I saw the flashing

amber strobe lights pulling up behind her care. Ten seconds too
fucking late, I raged.

"They're here." I told her, and we both

bailed out of my car and into the raging storm.

Twenty minutes later we were both back in my car,

somewhat worse for wear, and she was not very happy about that. No
way was her car going to be on the road for a good while, the Auto
Club man had shrugged apologetically. Could be the clutch, could be
the gearbox. Could be both. Maybe even the flywheel, he'd said.

It would have to be towed to a garage, he told her.

And he could do that right now before the garages closed for the
night, or he could take her and the vehicle to her destination and
leave the car there for her to commiserate and sort out the recovery.
But he couldn't do both. Not at her level of cover, he explained.
Sorry and all that.

I thought that was a bit off, personally. I thought

they could take you to the nearest garage, then take you home, but
maybe things have changed. He wasn't actually an Auto Club man. As
the Auto Club were too busy with a surge of breakdowns they had
called in a local recovery service to meet their response targets,
Maybe these freelancers operated to slightly different rules, but
whatever the reason behind the confusion she ultimately ended up back
in my car, steam rising from her clothing, not to mention coming out
her ears.

"I'm Jim, by the way." I said as I pulled

off into the stream of traffic, leaving the Auto Club wannabe to load
her Fiesta up onto the flatbed of his truck.

"Jo," She replied distractedly. I

remembered that she said she really needed the car for the next day
and decided to shut my gob, leaving her trying to figure out how she
was going to work around that. Maybe she was panicking about the cost
of a gearbox. A refurbished one could cost near half a grand. I drove
on in silence. Well, aside from the hammering of rain on the roof and
the dull thud of the windscreen wipers. The ACDC CD remained muted.
She didn't look like a rock chick. "Goodbye and Good Riddance
to Bad Luck" didn't seem quite appropriate at that time, either.

I glanced her way occasionally as I drove. There was

a reason why I had given her car the moniker 'Sexy Hot Bitch' for the
SHB in her registration plate. She was a nicely built specimen of
womanhood. Mid-thirties, short brown hair with a hint of artificial
red tinge, long narrow glasses that she made look incredibly sexy the
way some women do with spectacles. Not skinny, but not fat, either.
Full figured, I guess you could call it, with a nice set of curves
hidden beneath her wet clothes, and I'm talking bust and hips there.

A sensuous mouth and deep green eyes highlighted her

face, and her pale complexion seemed to fluoresce the muted red gloss
on her lips. She reminded me a little of Kate Bush in her Red Shoes
phase.

All too soon the drive was over, having passed by in

almost total silence, and I pulled up outside Brian's house. She
looked up suddenly from her mobile phone where she had been busily
composing a text message, surprised to find herself home already, and
hurriedly gathered together the things she had retrieved from her car
before the pretend Auto Club man could tow it away.

"Thanks." She said with a half smile as she

got out of the car and braved the ten yard dash to her front door.

"No prob..." The slam of the car door as

she closed it behind her cut off the rest of my response.

Ah well.

I drove up the hill, parked across the road from my

house because one of next door's three DSS-financed death trap
bangers was parked right outside my front door, and glanced at the
damp passenger seat. Idly, I put my hand on the fabric to test how
wet it was, and felt a comfortable warmth through my fingers from
where Jo's ass had warmed up the seat.

Strangely, for no conscious reason that I could think

of, I allowed my hand to linger there a while, until the temperature
stabilized. Then I headed in and poured myself a drink.

Schwarzenegger has biceps? Doh!

I slapped my forehead as I tossed my car keys onto

the dining table and made a bee line for the mini bar – which
the less alcoholically indulged amongst you might instead call a
refrigerator – pausing only to ruffle Lewis' fur while he
wagged his tail expecting walkies. He could forget that tonight.

Sexy Hot Bitch

Super Hot Babe

Stunning Horny Bint

Sucking Her Boobs

Scrumptious Heavy Breasts

Stretching her bra.

Stripping her bare.

Jesus, they were coming thick and fast now, like my

semen when I had fantasized about Jo last summer, I recalled, but I
still couldn't fucking use them, I laughed out loud as the ring pull
on the can succumbed with a short, loud hiss. I didn't bother with a
glass, just necked the top third of the can down without breathing,
then slammed it down on the kitchen worktop and opened a can of Chum
for Hamilton.

Spanking her butt.

I rolled my eyes, feeling myself beginning to stiffen

at the mental imagery my wordplay was creating.

Stroking her body.

Screwing her box

My prick was getting harder and fucking harder. I

distracted myself by rummaging around the freezer, then slammed a TV
dinner into the microwave, taking a long pull from the can that
drained it down to halfway while the turntable turned and the
magnetron fan roared.

Shagging her behind.

Slamming hard butt-fuck

For fuck sake stop it! I commanded myself, then

flicked on the telly to catch what was left of the news while waiting
for dinner to ping. I settled down for the night, eventually running
out of SHB acronyms when I got to shaving her bush. Emmerdale was
endured. Corrie was switched off. An old film, Maximum Overdrive,
came on one of the Sky channels around 9 o'clock, and as I was
settling in to enjoy the deaths of dozens of Americans on a
malfunctioning highway drawbridge the doorbell rang and Lewis jumped
up from under the dinner table and padded out into the hallway.

Outside stood Jo, umbrella held aloft. I blinked in

surprise. Lewis sat on his haunches, not wanting to venture outside
tonight, his tail sweeping the laminate hallway flooring
enthusiastically as he looked up at her, tongue hanging out the side
of his mouth and panting.

I knew just how he felt.

"You must really like standing out in the rain."

I smiled. "Come on in

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