Written by Lou Conran


Gone with the wind

Lou Conran’s short story heroine Lucy is back! And this time she’s staying in the closet. Brace yourself: it’s got more smut than a dirty Victorian chimney.

Illustration by Claire Jones.

Illustration by Claire Jones.

Lucy lay on the sofa and stared at her phone.

Ho, ho fucking ho. What did Christmas bring this year, except the usual round of disappointment, family arguments and excessive wind? Another fucking wedding. Great.

She’d decided she definitely wasn’t going to another wedding as a singleton so she’d ticked that, yes, she would be bringing someone with her. She’d received the invite in June. It was December and all she’d had since receiving it was a quick fumble with a bloke in a cab who thought she was someone else and Darren at work who had green teeth, a boss eye, and was very keen on role play (he liked to dress as Manuel Pellegrini, and blow a whistle every time she’d slapped his cock as he desperately tried to go off side).

“Who the fuck gets married at Christmas,” she said to Lesbo Sue, as they worked their way through a tube of Pringles. “Who the bloody hell am I going to take with me?”

“Who says you’ve got to have a plus-one?” said Sue, as she pulled the duvet up on the sofa, “Pass us a Fosters.”

“It’s half past 10.”

“So? It’s Christmas. If I want a drink when I wake up, I’ll have a fucking drink. You should have a drink. Fuck’s sake,” Sue said, snapping open the can, and turning back to This Morning, “If you can’t find anyone to go with you, I’ll be your plus one. Bung us the Wotsits.”

Lucy thought back to the last time Sue had been her plus-one. Portuguese men, kiwi fruits and Sharpies came to mind but there were a lot of elements about that night that still remained a blur. “Um, well. If I can’t find anyone else then, well, we’ll see.” She opened a Fosters, as Sue belched, “I’ll wash me Spanx.”

After the wedding and the usual blur of, “Yes, didn’t she look nice, no I’m not a lesbian, yes it could be me next, ha, ha fucking ha, can I have another glass of Prosecco please and where can I smoke?”, they’d arrived at the reception.

The bride was someone Lucy had temped with years ago and was a ‘friend’ in the sense of occasionally going for dinner for a catch-up, during which Lucy had to listen to how marvellous Sophie’s life was and how sobriety had been the best the thing to happen to her since she’d met her man at AA. Sophie was vulnerable and always just one glass away from going back to the bottle, so Lucy never liked to upset her in case she was the reason Sophie started drinking again. So she put herself through the rigmarole of meeting up to avoid the guilt.

“Lucy didn’t have time to rearrange the seating before Sue had got to her place between the vicar and the grandma, wearing the mistletoe from the top table as a fascinator.”

As they walked into the wedding breakfast, Lucy noticed the couple’s initials all over the walls. “This lot fucking Nazis then or what?” said Sue through the munch of a canape.

“What?! No. Why?”

“What’s with the SS thing everywhere?”

“It’s their initials, you twat. He’s called Steve. Sophie and Steve.”

“Well they didn’t think that through properly did they? I could be Jewish.”

They were seated with the other guests that the couple had clearly no idea what to do with; a long-lost aunty and uncle, the vicar, two men who looked lovely and someone’s grandma.

Lucy didn’t have time to rearrange the seating before Sue had got to her place between the vicar and the grandma, wearing the mistletoe from the top table as a fascinator.

“Would you like some wine, um, Lucy?” said Paul, leaning over to read her name card.

“Yes I’d love some thank you …Paul.” He was beautiful, striking even.

“Are you close to Sophie then?” She said through chomps of unidentified protein, “Ooh, are you not eating that potato?”

“Oh. Have it. Me and Sophie went to uni together. She’s one of my oldest mates. You?”

“Oh I used to do data entry next to her, while she carved out a decent career and I carved out a bad drinking habit. Are you not eating that stuffing?” she said forking it into her mouth.

“Well I was, yes.”

“Oh shit, sorry. I’ve licked it now.”

There was an awkward pause as Lucy slowly ate the stuffing, politely putting her cutlery together to indicate she’d finished. (She hadn’t, she’d just eaten it all. Finished but not finished. She hated that.) Paul winked at her. “Want to sneak off for a mid-meal fag?”

“Oh yeah, good thinking batman.”

“What about your mate?’”

They turned to see Sue balancing Brussels sprouts in her eye sockets.

“Leave it. It’ll be doing that for hours.”

“They watched as Santa, sullen, dragged his massive carcass and sack across the car park. It was clear he was pissed.”

Outside it was freezing. They were tucked away around the side of the carpark, far enough away from some of the other sober guests.

“How long have you been with your boyfriend?” She casually asked, sucking in the menthol badness, slightly light-headed.

“Jack?! He’s not… we’re not… we’re just mates from uni. I used to go out with Sophie.”

“Oh fuck, sorry, I just assumed.” Never assume Lucy, she said to herself, you’ve been told this before. You’re outside having a fag with a fit, straight, man. Be alluring. Say something witty.

“Ha! Oh god. Funny… Bit weird isn’t it? You used to go out with her and now you’re here at her wedding?” Not alluring. Not witty.

“Why is that weird?’”

“Well, I’ve never stayed friends with any of my exes.”

“As if!” spat Sue, as she strode out to the carpark, covered in gravy, wearing one shoe, “As if you’ve had any exes to be mates with! Give us a fag.” Looking across the carpark, she pointed over to a very large bloke in a red suit, with a white beard, trying very hard to get out of his car, with a large sack of presents: “Who’s this cunt here?”

“That cunt is Santa,” said Paul. “Sophie’s booked him to give out presents to everyone. Where’s your shoe?”

“Fuck knows, I was dancing with that vicar; he took it off me, sniffed it and lobbed it somewhere.”

They watched as Santa, sullen, dragged his massive carcass and sack across the car park. It was clear he was pissed. He tripped over his own feet, face-planted in a bush, got back on his feet then fell through the hotel door, smashing the presents in his wake.

“Fucking idiot,” said Sue.

“Do you think we should tell Sophie?” said Lucy, looking at Paul for confirmation, as Jack appeared to tell them they were about to cut the cake.

“Right you, grab the sack, let’s see how many presents are broken.” They were on their hands and knees in what appeared to be a cleaning cupboard, decorated to look like Santa’s grotto, and Jack was shaking the boxes, setting the tinkling ones aside.

“You’re very assertive Jack. Some would say bossy.”

“Am I? Well, my mate’s in there really upset and the last thing she needs is to be driven to the drink again. I’m trying to make sure this wedding’s memorable for the right reasons.”

She’d thought he was quite bland at dinner. Sturdy jaw, black hair, sort of dead in the eyes. She’d paid no more attention to him as she focused on Paul but here in the confines of the broom-cupboard, he looked intriguing. There was something dangerously exciting about him as he shook the presents.

“You’re staring at me. You’re making me feel uncomfortable,” he said, as he opened one of the broken presents.

“I just, um, I just, well, you know. It’s hot in here. Hey, is that a bottle of whiskey stashed under that shelf?” She pointed behind him and as he leant over to grab the bottle, she noticed the bulge in his suit trousers. It was impressive.

“Well spotted, Miss Marple. It’d be rude not to have a tipple. Might help us get this done quicker.”

Might help me get you done quicker, she thought.

“So there she was on the floor of a cleaning cupboard with her old M&S period pants being stripped off by a man half naked-half suited, very keen to kiss her downstairs.”

They swigged the whiskey and chatted. He wasn’t bland in the slightest. He was interesting. Sexy, even, and improving with every swig.

“Right, I think that’s the last one. Sorry, mind your head.” Jack reached over her to place the last present on the shelf. She smelt him. Musk, hot skin and the vague whiff of alcohol.

She felt a longing to never leave the cupboard. As she looked up they held each other’s eyes for a second, embarrassed. She looked round desperately to find any excuse to stay.

“Whiskey. We should at least, have a toast, to our accomplishments. We’ve saved Sophie from the perils of booze, by drinking the booze.”

“Agreed. To Sophie!”

He was standing closer as he swigged from the bottle, intensely maintaining eye contact. He passed her the bottle. She swigged. Her heart going like the clappers, she felt the hard point of his cock pressing against her hip.

Oh god oh god oh god, she thought, as she felt herself widening down below.

How dare he assume I want this?

I fucking want this.

Oh god, get your cock out. Get your cock out. Stop it Lucy. Stop it. Play it cool. Play it cool.

Jack took the bottle from her hand and placed it on the shelf above her head. Slowly he leant into her and gently kissed her. His lips were soft and she could taste the whiskey on his breath. “Happy fucking Christmas,” he said, as he slid his hands under her dress.

“Get your cock out.”


“Sorry. I meant. Oh god. I meant… sorry.” Still, through her babbling apology he unbuckled his belt, undid his trousers and lobbed it out.

“Well. Good. There it is.”


And before she knew it, they were on the floor. He was pulling at her dress. She’d never really done matching underwear. She didn’t see the point. Any time she’d ever worn anything lacy, all it’d done was itch and cut into her hip fat and the matching bras had been more nipple slicers than nipple enhancers.

So there she was on the floor of a cleaning cupboard with her old M&S period pants being stripped off by a man half naked-half suited, very keen to kiss her downstairs.

“Sophie looked at her friend Jack on all fours like a rescue donkey with a lob on with his head trapped in between the thighs of Jabba The Hutt.”

The size of the cupboard meant that for him to give her the attention she so wanted down there, she had to hitch herself up against the shelf with him on all fours, her belly displaying its three-ringed glory as he truffled his way into her, her chin firmly buried in her chest.

The more he buried himself into her, the more she was aware that her dinner, mainly the vegetables, was desperate to reappear and the more he licked, the tighter she clasped her bumhole, praying that the fart that was backing up inside her, wouldn’t download until he’d finished. That’s all she’d need, to be bought to orgasm with the tongue of a lizard and a blast on her arsehole.

But the air was ever more determined to escape. While he eagerly drank her in, she felt it reach the point of no return. He licked and she farted so hard that his head shot out of the area and her thighs spontaneously clamped shut. As the vegetable air permeated her nasal passages he looked up at her, his head firmly held in the vice of her legs. She mouthed “Sorry” as the doors to the grotto flung open and in walked Sophie.

Sophie looked at her friend Jack on all fours like a rescue donkey with a lob on with his head trapped in between the thighs of Jabba The Hutt. As the stench of the fart hit the back of her throat, she balked, screamed and vomited down her Vivienne Westwood wedding dress. On hearing the screaming, Paul and Sue appeared at the door, taking in the display on the floor, the display on Sophie’s dress and the stench.

“Fucking hell Jack, what’s the matter? Lost your watch?” said Sue, pissing herself laughing. “Too much stuffing at dinner?” she said, patting her tummy to Lucy.

“Right, well, Soph. Let’s get you cleaned up, eh?’” said Paul, grabbing her shoulders and turning her out of the cupboard, “You two… You two… just… just… fucking hell. You two.”

Sue walked over to Jack, unpinned his ears from Lucy’s legs and helped him up. “Jesus, look at the shine on your quim, I’ve not seen a slick like that since we watched that felching DVD.”

“I’m just gonna, um, go and… go,” said Jack, pulling up his trousers.

“I’d put that away mate, the kids at this wedding ain’t ready to see Santa’s sack just yet.”

“Right, yeah. Um see ya,” and he walked off, doing up his zip.

“I farted in his face.”

“Yep, course you did mate.”

“I farted in his actual face.”

“I know mate. Shall we put that gash away and go home?”

“Yeah. Yes please. What’s that down your dress?”

“Oh spunk, mate.”


“Yeah… well… Paul was lonely.”

“But you’re a lesbian!’

“It’s Christmas mate. It’s the season of giving.”

“…and receiving…”

“Well I can see you received it all up your thigh. Come on let’s go.”

“Happy Christmas mate,” said Lucy as they stumbled into a taxi. “Happy Christmas mate,” said Sue.

Read more of our plucky heroine’s adventures here


  • googleplus
  • linkedin
  • rss
  • pinterest

Written by Lou Conran

Lou is a comedian, writer, actor, lover of curry and cheese, and is also a giant simple child.