The Whitby Incident
Recently my father and I went on a mini break to Whitby for to have a relaxing time after one thing and another. Our first day went exactly like this!
Picture the scene, February, cold, frigid and indifferent. No, not every woman I’ve ever met, the Yorkshire seaside town of Whitby. We arrived at our accommodation pre tea time (pre time); we didn’t know what kind of room we would get as there were dozens of rooms in several large properties. As it turned out we were in room 6 (of 7) in Beech house. A large five floored house. We stood at the bottom of the staircase and looked up, there were many flights of stairs to climb, room 6 was right on the top. This was going to be a herculean task, climbing to the top. By the second flight of stairs, each leg lift was an exercise in torture and determination. Our bags weighed more than the earth, our feet were being crushed under our bulks and our lungs had the capacity of a small otter. We had to have 5 sit downs per floor.
Once we had made the long climb we came to our door, it was on the top of a tiny landing, no more than 1 meter square. Right next to our room was room 7 which was also served by this tiny landing. The doors were not opened by standard keys but rather by a futuristic keypad, you had to input a 5 digit code then your door would unlock and access to your holiday accommodation would be granted. I entered the code and we got into our compact en-suite room, it was very nice, clean and tidy. There were tea and coffee making facilities and an ironing board and iron. Cecil collapsed on the bed, I sat on the floor. We didn’t move for 55 minutes. Why couldn’t they have a stair lift fitted!?
We spent the day losing money in the arcades. Cecil beat me at mini golf, half way round the course when I had gone 10 over par for the sixth time, I tried to bend the putting stick in anger but it was very sturdy and I just bruised my knee. We thought about walking up the hundreds of steps to the abbey but after the stairs to the hotel room, we gave it a miss. We had tea in an Italian restaurant. The woman serving us kept looking and giggling at Dads toupee. He’d worn his poshest one, it’s jet black. He looked like his head had been tarmacked. The waitress wasn’t Italian, yet Dad kept saying “oh bella bella, senorita” I didn’t tell him that was Spanish; he seemed so pleased with himself.
The meal was nice, we then slowly walked back to the hotel, not wanting to face those stairs again. By the time we got back and climbed the stairy mountain, we were both exhausted and went straight to sleep.
7th February – 3:58 am
I woke with a start; there is thunking coming from downstairs, an odd moaning and scraping noise. I eventually figure out it is the sound of a man, a man who seems intoxicated. And from what it sounds like he’s being pleasured sexually. I think “Oh aye, someone’s ‘pulled’.” there is staggering noises coming up the stairs leading to our room. The moaning continues. It sounded almost like Gollum was creeping up the stairs, drunk and being fellated. The man gets to the top of the stairs and onto the tiny landing. He is making very drunk noises; he’s not capable of forming words. He’s still also making the sounds of a man enjoying the oral pleasures of sexual stimulation. Cecil was asleep. Cecil had taken his sleeping pills because since mum left him, he cannot sleep. So no matter how hard I tried the old man lay slumbering like a babe in a papoose. Whatever was to happen, I would have to deal with it on my own!
He is thrashing around, oddly he doesn’t use the keypad to enter room 7, he remains on the landing. He bangs on the walls, clearly unable to stand up. Suddenly I realised that the vigorous rubbing noise is not a sexual partner, but rather the man is rapidly ‘loading his pump action flesh gun’, he’s milking his own member’, he’s ‘jettisoning his DNA payload’ he’s ‘making the snake vomit’, he’s ‘making a withdrawal from his own sperm bank’. He’s wanking! Wanking incredibly enthusiastically and from the sounds he was making, he was enjoying himself very much. I wasn’t certain he was loving his own love muscle until the horrific sound of him spitting onto his own hand and the subsequent squelches. Then his moans grew in intensity.
Now at this point the thought that was predominant in my mind was “Do I go out there and put a stop to this or leave him to it and hope he goes away” but before I could form a coherent thought in my head (it was 4am) the man started trying our door. So apparently being from the 1950’s I shouted “Oi” at him. He instantly stopped fiddling with both himself and our door. He went silent, probably shocked to realise someone was in the room. I can only assume he passed out then as he went quiet for 40-50 minutes.
I was nearly drifting off to sleep when he must have come to, which is surprising because he hadn’t put the landing light on so he was in pitch black out there. There were some more rapid sounds of him pumping his womb broom (masturbating) then he stopped doing that and tried to use the keypad to get into room 7. Given he was so drunk he couldn’t make whole words come out of his mouth, I didn’t expect he’d be able to get in. He couldn’t! After several attempts and variations on shouting the words ‘Fuck’ and/or ‘Jesus Christ’ he gave up. He decided to take the door by force. Thankfully the tiny landing didn’t give him any room to get a run up, so he was basically just leaning on the door. Also he’d begun loudly farting every 3 minutes.
I’d had time to think now; I could have gone out there and spoken to him, either with a swift kick to his precious ball zone or talking to get him into his room. But the landing was so small, if we scuffled then one of us would be going down the steep curved stairs or the final horrific option was; he gets into our room and either pisses, shits, vomits or ejaculates somewhere, maybe all 4! If I tried to help him into his room I suspect he wouldn’t know his room number. So I decided to leave him on his own.
Then he tried again to get into our room, I felt he needed a much sterner telling off this time, so I shouted “Oi, what the hell are you doing? Give up!” I am apparently a school teacher from the 1920’s! Thankfully my harsh words stopped him in his tracks. I should have realised this meant he was easily put in his place and I could have gone out there and dealt with him, but then we heard the sounds of zips becoming undone. He was of course getting naked, all the while saying “Jesus Christ” and complaining he was cold!
I’d had enough, time to man up! I did what any self-respecting grown man would do. I rang reception for help! There were some emergency phone numbers in our welcome pack so I called them. They could deal with naked, drunk, masturbating man who may or may not have poo, piss and cum all over himself, this was my holiday, I didn’t need to see that! He had gone silent again, passed out I assumed.
I sat up in bed and waited for someone to come, after 10 minutes there was the sound of none drunk people talking. We heard footsteps and a ladies voice saying “Shall we wake him up?” A man said “Do you want letting into your room” to which my drunk, wanking hotel friend said “Nah, I’m alright!”
The people then left! Our rescuers just walked away leaving him sleeping on the landing. I sat in bed for 30 minutes shocked! Listening to him, he had gone to sleep. I thought he had gone to sleep, he was very quiet. I couldn’t hear anything. I looked under the crack in the door. He had vanished!
I opened the door and there was no sign of him. No smell of bodily fluids or solids. It was as if he was never there!
I went to bed and fell asleep, not waking till 1pm, Cecil was still asleep! I went to the bathroom and got a put of cold water and poured it over his lazy old face. He woke up with a start, shouted “man overboard!” I told him of everything that he’d slept through. He just laughed, the old idiot. I was furious!
We got up and walked to reception, which was in another building 5 minutes away. My lack of sleep meant I was in a frightful mood. I complained vehemently. They said “Yeah, it happens more than you think, I’ll have a word with him”. They didn’t seem like they were going to do anything so I said that we weren’t going to stay there and we wanted a room change. A Queue was forming behind us and we used the word ‘masturbating man’ a few times, so to appease and shut us up, they put us in Starfish cottage, a three bedroom house, a luxury house, with all wood walls and posh shower and bath!
The cottage was a lovely upgrade but we had missed the bus and the mystery trip away. We decided to spend the afternoon walking around Whitby’s charity shops, looking for any bargains that might be on offer. Dad bought some new socks, a book about fly fishing, 2 pairs of glasses and a trombone. He can’t play the trombone, but that’s as he says “because I’ve never tried” so the horrific sounds of trombone pumps could be heard all evening. It was horrible, but he fainted due to lack of breath so I got to concentrate on the film I was watching.
We went to bed by 10:20pm we had to be at the bus by 8:30am tomorrow morning to be taken home. I shall be complaining in the strongest possible terms to the travel company about this!