***Takes place before the events of "Blow Dry"***


Phil Allen finished sweeping up the hair from the shop floor.  He'd have Brian hoover it in the morning, but for now, everything looked spandy clean just as he liked to keep it.

The long blonde hairs reminded him of his last client, a man he'd shorn that afternoon.  The man had been openly gay with long flowing locks.  Not that he gave a rat's fart about his client's propensities, but in this case the long hair had an unexpected impact on him.

Whilst running it through his fingers to shampoo it, he'd found himself growing hard, which in turn made him feel annoyed and irritated. 

It was only that it reminded him of Sandra, he told himself, the barmy bint that had turned his wife and then run off with her, leaving him to raise their son on his own.  The fact he'd not been able to get a rise the last couple times he'd needed one meant nothing.  The fact his fingers remembered Sandra's long silky locks and how they had once made him feel hard and guilty all the time meant nothing at all.  Stupid bint.  Stupid body.

He'd finished up the client as quickly as possible, wanting no more reminders of his ex-wife, her girlfriend or how they'd ruined his life.

The unexpected arousal was a transitory problem; the thought of what Sandra and his bloody-minded ex had done to him was an effective erection dissipator.  It had been for years.

It had been far too long since he'd been with anyone, shared any kind of intimacy.  Even though there were plenty of women at the local pub that would take him home and give him release, he didn't take that route.  Oh, but he'd tried.

He had tried twice and then no more.  As the bed had neared in both cases, his manhood had withered, as the last time he'd actually done it was recalled.  Thank heavens both women weren't locals.  Neither had seemed surprised.  One had suggested he try taking zinc, then tried to suck him hard.  It was the oddest thing to find such a pleasurable sensation so uncomfortable.

He could actually feel it, starting first in his stomach which writhed in discomfort, then below where his prick shriveled even more and he'd pried her off it, weary and embarassed.  All because of that damnable night his wife Shelley, (_ex-wife_ his mind corrected) had run off with Sandra... another woman.  (_and a stupid bint at that_, his mind added).

She had played him for a right chump.  Planned ahead she had and her plan went like a charm, starting with him.  Shelley had grasped his ass, playfully, joking.  He had smiled at her, a man in his prime then, a prize-winning hair cutter, king of his world.  Married to Shelley, with a fine growing boy in Brian, and a model, Sandra, who had the looks, the hair, and the lack of inhibition that could make him an international hair styling superstar.  He had it all and he didn't even know it.

Shelley had knelt before him in their hotel room and taken his prick in her mouth and sucked him to oblivion.  His prick still tingled at the thought of that blow job.  And it had been just that - something to blow him off - blow him away, keep him distracted while she took everything from him.

He should have known, should have guessed; Shelley had rarely done that for him, even though he loved it.  A good blow job always drained him, left him drowsy.  He'd fallen asleep, asking her to set the alarm so they'd wake in time for an early breakfast, sated and happy, dreaming of holding the prize winning trophy in one arm and holding his wife and son in the other arm.

Instead he'd woken up in the cold grey of pre-dawn, alone.  Shelley was gone.  Her suitcase was gone.  Sandra was gone.  A note lay pinned to Brian's pyjama top.  "I'm sorry" it read.  "We couldn't tell you.  But I *do* love you, Phil.  It's just I love Sandra more."

Years of drinking to forget, then when that didn't work, drinking to dull his sorrows hadn't been kind to his body.  Last winter when he'd gone to the surgery for a filthy chest cold that had turned out to be bronchitis, the doctor had told him he needed to drink less if he wanted his liver to keep functioning.  He had also asked him if he'd noticed any performance problems in the bedroom due to his alcohol consumption.  Being sick and caring less, he'd told the doctor that wasn't a concern because he was the next best thing to a eunuch anyway.  One thought of his wife's perfidy, he confessed, and his prick took the mickey.  Even wanking wasn't interesting.

So he'd gotten a visit from the head doctor instead, a nice psychiatrist who resembled his ex-wife's father so much he'd nearly dragged himself out of sick bed to snarl at the man.  The visit wasn't mandatory, so the NHS said nothing of his not following up.  The option remained open.  He didn't need a head doctor to know what was wrong, though.  He'd been switchbacked by life, sickened by the ride, and shy of getting back on.  But he wasn't dead.

He'd listened to the doctor, had cut back on his drinking, keeping it to a couple shots at the end of a long day.  He'd taken to eating a bit better, doing a bit of keep fit to lose the beer belly he had started acquiring.  He looked good now, he knew.  He felt fitter.  The local ladies had begun giving him the eye sometimes.

And events like today let him know the equipment was in working order.  It was just the cues it responded to were outdated.

Maybe one day...

He sighed now and finished picking up and throwing away the hair trimmings.  All that was left was lowering the shades and turning the Open sign to read Closed.  He turned the sign first, locked the door, then began to lower the shades.

A curvaceous figure sauntered past outside and he paused, shades midway down.  The woman, auburn-haired, he idly noted, had an incredible ass.  The jeans she wore were form-fitting and she had the long, lean leggy look he so admired in a woman.  He could feel his prick begin to get interested.  He certainly wouldn't mind giving her a prod.

Reaching down with his free hand, he adjusted himself, hefting his bollocks momentarily, pressing them up against his filling cock.  It felt good.

It felt so good to touch his manhood, to feel it heavy and hot in his hand, to know it still worked, if not with others, then with himself.  Much as he disliked tossing off, it was needed.  The doctor had told him it was essential for a man to keep his prostate healthy.  At least once a week, the doctor had cautioned him.

"Think of it as a systems check, Phil," the doctor had suggested.  "You make sure your scissors are sharp and the clippers are in working order right?  You may or may not have a customer to use them on, but they have to be kept ready to be used.  Well, we have to do things like that for our bodies, too.  Even sometimes when we don't want to."

The embarrassing exam he'd been given then was enough to make him take the doctor at his word.  Once a week he would close his eyes and think of a parade of tits, ass and thatch, no one specific, and no one that reminded him of either Shelley or Sandra.  He would tug, rub, and stroke himself to climax.  His orgasms were intense, but he remained oddly empty.  He wondered sometimes if that was just what happened after a certain age.  Even sex became meaningless.

Another woman strode by now, outside the shop, then paused checking through a hand bag.  She was shorter and stouter than the previous woman, short black hair with a great set of tits.  She stayed there, having pulled out a cell phone to talk.

Phil considered.  Brian was out on a date.  No one was in the shop but him.  No one need know.  And in a rare change of events, he actually felt like tossing off.

He peeked through the shades, knowing no one could see him except from the chest up.  In the twilight, with the shop interior dark, no one could really see in anyway.  He unbuttoned his trouser placket and began to tug on his cock inside his pants.

The tips of his fingers were work calloused, but the roughness felt good to his prick, especially when he fingered his foreskin and rubbed it between thumb and two fingers.  The moist interior of his prepuce rubbed along the head of his cock and made him shudder slightly.  It felt so fucking good.

He pulled his cock and balls out now, adjusting his trousers so they pressed his balls up, maintaining a pleasant tension.  Then he began frigging his cock in earnest, fingers firmly pressing the underside, thumb toying with the uncovered glans as his foreskin withdrew.  Soon his cock grew thick and heavy and, as he watched the lady laugh and toss her head back, still chatting on the phone, he felt a surge of pre-cum seep out.

He rubbed it into the glans, shuddering more at the sensation.  This was *so* fucking good.

The woman was nodding, moving from one foot to the other which accentuated her hips.  Phil's hand moved faster now, chasing the sensation down his cock.  *So* good...

Suddenly the woman turned, looking at the shop.  He pulled quickly back from the shades, instinctively holding his breath and suddenly felt his orgasm boiling up and over.

Spurt after spurt of heated strands of pearly white splatted his tidy floor.  He grit his teeth, shut his eyes, and gripped his cock hard as it churned through him.  It felt like he'd come forever.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself holding himself up with one hand against the wall, the other holding his cock, still dripping semen down his hand and onto the floor.  The smell of sex permeated the atmosphere of his shop.

The smell was both comforting and familiar.  He remembered how his shop used to smell like that sometimes before... before his divorce.  The smell of hair spray, shampoo, blow dryers and sex.  At the end of the day.  After the customers went home and he and Shelley would...

He shook his head and forced the thought away.  He'd just had a fantastic orgasm.  Why waste his formerly good mood?

Maybe he could recapture it at the pub.  Some cheese on toast and a pint.  A chat with the local lads.

He smiled at the thought and got the towel in his pocket and wiped himself off, tucked himself away.  He bent down to wipe off the floor near the window.  (_been a long time since you came standing up, old boy_)

He smiled.

Then he took off his work jacket, pocketed his wallet and keys, and headed out for the pub with a light step and a light heart.


~ FINIS ~