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I'd been given a chance to bum 1970s lightweight Jim Watt, a man now more famous to fans as the commentator on SKY Sports.
When I knocked on his door, I was surprised to see Jim already naked, save for some lacy pants and a pair of suspenders. The stench of woodbine cigarettes and eighteen bottles of Bell's whiskey was unmistakable. Nevertheless, I was intrigued.
I quickly took Jim to his bedroom and pulled down his knickers, finding his withered scrotum looking not unlike a turtle's wrinkled neck. His testicles fell for what seemed like aeons, these aged man g****s tumbling until they warmed his ankles. Sitting majestically atop them was a two inch pecker, enshrouded by a mesh of pure white pubes.
I suckled gently on it for a time, though felt like a bit of a faggot in doing so. Eventually I decided it was time for the bumming, so flipped Jim over and went nut deep.
With each hard thrust I was producing a geyser spurt of blood from his 66-year-old anus, but Jim wasn't convinced.
"Aaaaadam," he cried out to no one in particular, "his corner need to pull him out of this ring, they have tae get him out of there. He's just nae performing, I'm disappointed in this wee fellow. It's like there's nae confidence in his bumming. These are what I call 'don't bum me' thrusts, he's just keeping me on the end of his **** so I don't bum him back. That's a round ta me on mah card."
Eventually I got tired of his relentless negativity surrounding my bumming skills, so I put my hairy white arse in Jim's face and offered him the chance to rip my colon asunder.
Sadly, his withered taddywhacker grew not more than three inches in length, and he was pushing it in and out of me with all the speed of Carl Froch in leg irons wading through treacle. Despite this, Jim was adamant he was king in the bedroom.
"This is more like it, Aaaaaaaaadam," he roared, "this fellow's taking some punishment now! This is a 10-8 round, Aaaaaaaaaaadam, he's being absolutely dominated in that ring!!!"
Just as he was about to cum, Jim withdrew, then placed his ancient phallus in front of me, hoping to coerce me into a money shot of his own volition.
I looked on in sadness as his penis coughed and splurted up just one desperate white tear, falling helplessly to the floor. Again, Jim wasn't having any of it.
"And that was **** ON THA CHIN! He felt that one DOWN TO THA SOLES OF HIS BOOTS!"
As we'd finished, three judges came into the room to rate the bumming. One of them I recognised as a judge who'd scored most of Ricky Burns's fights, and he immediately handed over his 120-103 scorecard in favour of Jim. The other two, however, confirmed my view of the session: a solid 116-112 bumming by myself.
I tried to hug Jim and congratulate his efforts, but he was having none of it.
"Aaaaaadam, I cannae see how they had that card. No. No. A draw... mebbe... if ah was being generous to tha other fellow... but ta say he won it? No, that's just beyond me, that's not what mah card had at all, I don't see how they came to that conclusion."
As he spoke the words, I felt water in my eyes. Jim nobly tried to talk up his performance, even when his aged bowels gave way and he shat himself on the floor.
I realised that I wasn't crying for Jim, but for myself, and all our futures. Here was a man who had been lightweight champion of the world, who had shared a ring with Ken Buchanan and Alexis Arguello, reduced to getting his shit pushed back in and drinking an entire whiskey distillery for his lunch break.
In that moment I saw what we all shall one day see... the broken dreams of a much older man, looking back on days gone by, and wondering what might have been. To make it up to Jim, I rimmed his prolapsed arsehole for five minutes, then left, reflecting on the poignancy of the moment.
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