Afternoon Tea
- 2 years ago
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On My Way To Afternoon Tea. free porn video
On my way to afternoon tea.
Lesley Harland
Working, as I do, in a low-ranking Midlands University with a fairly
centre-left management, where Philosophy, Politics and Economics is taught
in my Department via the medium of Marxist Thought, expressing the
slightest reservations about certain political views or positive thoughts
about others is the route to being shown the door, via a period of being
'sent to Coventry'. From where I stand, that isn't so bad, as I often go to
Coventry to see my parents, and it would save me the drive! Only joking!
But sometimes this place just drives me mad with its pretentions and
Political Correctness, especially when it is all for show, and there's no
substance or follow up. Saying so publicly is death, of course. On the
Left, while we hate and despise the Right, we reserve particular vitriol
for the factions of the Left we don't like. Usually, we deny that they are
Socialists! I just keep my gob shut, and my political credentials to
myself, because even if I'm not a Marxist, I am a Socialist. I work for my
Trade Union, and I'm a card-carrying member of my local Labour Party. There
is also a trump card, and I hold it. No, I'm not Black, Minority Ethnic,
Asian, Lesbian, Bisexual , Single Parent, Disabled, Dyslexic, Deaf or
Blind, Wheelchair-bound, or HIV positive, but I hold a post accredited by
the University and the Teaching Union to look after Disadvantaged
Minorities, and I have the Vice Chancellor's written Authority to spend 35
hours a week out of 37-point-5 on Union business in support of minority
staff and students and still draw a full salary. That's the top 'Facility
Time' in the place. I'd just given my once a week lecture, and today, it
had been on Trade Unions and the Labour Party, and it is part of this
Semester's Module on Labour Relations.
The Staff Refectory, where I was headed, is a bizarre place. University
Management worship at the altar of their Minorities Representation Policy,
and they tend to want to celebrate Diversity in every way possible.
Bizarrely, they sometimes forget. The Refectory was originally named the
Jimmy Saville Lounge, but once he was outed, they had an urgent need to
find a new name for it. Staff and Students were consulted. Nelson Mandela
ticked a few boxes, but his brand was thought to be contaminated by 'Only
Fools and Horses' and overuse. My suggestion was 'Myra Hindley Lounge'.
Fortunately, submissions were anonymous, because I realised immediately
after I posted it in the Suggestions box, that I really meant Myra
Breckenridge, the TG heroine in Gore Vidal's eponymous novel, but the
Management were equally likely to make the same mistake because they know
diddly-squat about anything. I felt stupid, but relieved, as I'd almost
established my credentials for a top job!
So, anyway, the winning entry was deceased Liberal Cyril Smith, Rochdale
politician, and the new name signs were up for a couple of days before he
too became a bogeyman, and currently, a handwritten notice was taped over
the plaque saying 'Staff Lounge'. I'd walked past, as I was on my way to
the Ladies' toilets down the corridor, which a year or so before had been
refurbished with Multiculturalism in mind, so they'd replaced one of the
lavvy pans with a hole in the floor, Turkish toilet. Usually, the hole was
surrounded by piles of turds, but today, one of the other bowls was shit-
filled; another was blocked by sanitary napkins and brimming over with
urine; a third was blocked but not so full with a couple of used tampons
floating in it like dead and bloody white mice, and the fourth cubicle was
taped shut. So it was the squat, or not. Fortunately, it was pristine.
So there I was a few moments later in the clean bog, squatting with my
tights and knickers round my knees, bum bare, my skirt up and held by my
elbows and my high heels locked in the ridged footpads. I prayed that I
wouldn't fall over or slip, nor piss over my shoes. How do ethnic girls do
this in a black tent, I thought, with venom. I'd more or less finished, and
was contemplating mopping up the slot, the labia, the general fanny area
and the thigh that had received an errant trickle and a splash, when I
realised that someone had stolen the toilet roll, so I did my best with a
wiggle, a couple of pelvic squeezes and a wipe with my hand. At least the
wash basins worked - I'd seen the tap running! I stood, pulled up my pants
and tights, and made sure that my skirt was safely down. The last moisture
was discreetly absorbed in the soft, comfortable, absorbent cotton gusset
of my pants as I patted it to make sure. I checked what I could of my
appearance while still in the cubicle, pressed the flush button, leaped out
of the way of the tsunami that swept across the footrests, and walked out
into the basins area where I washed my pissy hand, checked the back of my
skirt in the long mirror, touched up my lipstick and ran a brush through my
hair, then walked out and down the corridor for afternoon tea in the Jimmy
Saville, sorry, Cyril Smith, sorry again, Staff Lounge.
As always, at a time like this, I wondered whether all the time, cost,
pain, ridicule, angst and sheer bloody hard work of the transition had been
worth it. The old Leslie would have been in and out of the Gents, cock in
hand, pissing in a urinal followed by a shake or squeeze, in a fraction of
the time. What I am, of course, is not only the University's Coordinator
and Special Union Representative for Disadvantaged Minorities, but I am
also the University's first and sole T-girl Senior Lecturer, and I was now
ready for my Tea!
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