Thereâs been many an inflated tale of sexual conquest and derriere-do on this forum recently, some of it better received than others. While I have no doubt that much of it is wildly inflated, much like a condom over ones head, there may at times have been a grain of truth to some of it. In response, I feel it is only fair to begin to recount some of my own history, and also a few stories I have encountered along the way. Iâve shagged more than my fair share, but mainly because I have been willing to lower my standards further than most, rather than any particular pulling power of mine. In truth, I cannot claim to have as much pulling power as a freight train; in fact it is rather more similar to a moped with a flat tire. The first tale was not my first sexual encounter; I will leave that for another day. In fact it happened quite recently, when I had quite rashly walked into a room and declared that I could cop off with any of the women in there. Sadly I was in a retirement home at the time, but at least I felt it was a boast I could live up to. (I would not have been so crass as to say this in a rape crisis centre or a nursery school, even I have some boundaries.) I weighed up the talent with an experienced eye, not immediately discounting those bound to zimmer frames, but definitely penalising them for undoubted lack of flexibility. I soon saw my mark, a saucy wee minx playing scrabble by the window. Sheâd just placed the word âknobâ on a triple word score so I knew she had a dirty mind. Her blue rinsed curls fell tantalisingly about her horn rimmed glasses, and she gave me a cheeky stare out of her good eye. âScoring much?â I asked with just a suggestion of double entendre, backed up by a subtle air-thrust with my hips. âOooaah, youâre a naughty one borâ she replied. Christ she was from Norfolk. Oh well, we could make do without the dirty talk then, Iâd never been much of a fan since Iâd mistakenly called a phone-sex line based in Swansea. I pressed a finger to her lips (not as dry as you might think) and ushered her towards the boudoir of forbidden lust. Once in the broom cupboard we fell upon each other with unbridled lust. Well, it was unbridled once Iâd removed her girdle, but it became bridled once again when I got it stuck between my teeth and the silly cow would stop yanking on it. After disentangling myself from her undergarments and support hose I reached down to fondle her breasts, and reached down, and down and down. In the end, it was easier just to haul the breasts up above her knees, youâd need arms like an Orang-utan to get a hold of her nipples and still stay on your feet. I traced my fingernails tenderly along her stretch marks, making her moan in pleasure. She arched her back causing the gristle to crackle menacingly (Note to self: Maybe skip the pile driver 69 this time round). With an alluring hand she pulled her dentures from her mouth, tossing them carelessly over her shoulder. There was a worrying crack as she dropped to her knees before me, but I was too excited to worry about her arthritis as I was about to score the Granny-bangers holy grail â the Gum job. There are many acts of copulation that can bring large amounts of pleasure, but a toothless blowjob has to be one of the greatest. No biting, no snagging of pubes, just sheer unadulterated (yet possibly adulterous) pleasure. Say what you like about octogenarians, theyâve had plenty of time to practice their fornicatory arts, and this one must have been a right goer in days of yore. As soon as she had de-trousered myself she had clamped on like a limpet to the hull of an Akula class submarine and was sucking on it like a condemned mans last cigarette. In the end I was forced to pinch her nose together so the fixated bint would let go. As she gasped for air I turned her round and tried to aim for the wet spot. There wasnât one, blasted dried up old mare. After trying to bring up enough spit to use as lubrication (the determined blowjob had rerouted ALL my bodily fluids away from the head), I spotted a bottle of Brasso on the shelf and elected to use that instead. If I tried the back door route weâd have to rename her rusty sheriffâs badge. I flailed away, she moaned insensibly. I was a little worried she was having a stroke, but it turned out it was just her Norfolk accent once again. When I could tell she could take no more a mere thirty seconds later, I let out a cry of victory âHe shoots, he scores! Yessssssss! â and proceeded to blow my copious Brasso tinted load over her even more copious back wrinkles. Sated, I looked in vain for my other shoe as I left the broom cupboard and itâs shagged out occupant.