tinylittlelovestories are a series of short stories, dumb-dumb. I mean: obviously. They are by Joel Golby and just hellaciously pretentious but jeez, they're only short. At least there's that.

Hugh Hefner’s Final Orgasm

“Crystal?” he said. “Crystal!” He padded around his house in soft slippers, in silk pyjamas, in a velvet smoking jacket so exposed to sex over the years that it smelled fundamentally of prawn cocktail crisps. “Crystal, y’home?” She was not home. She was in the playhouse, getting slammed by her tennis instructor.

Hefner, he was Hugh Hefner. He was sad and old and floppy and stood in blood-red pyjamas and he was Hugh Hefner. Like someone drew Popeye with their left hand and gave him erectile dysfunction. Like the devil damned a corpse to live forever, agonizingly tumescent, as punishment for all his many rapes. Hefner. Hugh Hefner.

Crystal was Hefner’s latest wife, his third, his blondest. She was literally sixty years younger than him. At the exact moment of her birth he was 60 years old, spread-eagled on an examination table and with two medically lubricated fingers up him, having a prostate exam. While she was toddling about in dungarees he was exploring the quiet luxury of pissing through a catheter. The day she graduated high school he started taking serious gout medication. He was old, you know. Dying.

He looked out of the window and heard tittering. He had slept with hundreds of women in his years, thousands. He had watched blondes with legs and no pubic hair grind on each other for decades. He was jizzed out. He hadn’t had an erection without medicinal and mechanical support for more than 30 years. But now was the time. Now was the time. Like a Wetherspoons-brand Cumberland sausage slowly greying as it defrosted, he removed his dick from his jammies.

“Unf,” Hugh Hefner said. “Ug–uhh.” “Ungh.” “Yeah.” Six seconds later, he weakly jizzed, on and in and down his trousers. And with that he felt the life drain out of him, like he had watched it drain out of so many models’ eyes before him, splayed in front of a camera, smiles hollow, hearts empty; and he felt his legs go light as air, and his old, ploughed face softened, and he threw his arms to the sky. He would be found soon, his knees buckled beneath him, his raw pink old man-legs exposed for the world to see, jizz all over the place. TMZwould have the pictures up in eight minutes’ time. “I knew I would die like this,” Hugh Hefner thought, finally. “I deserve to die like this.”

The Spaceman

“Nnngh,” he was saying. “Nn–hnngh.” He was a space-man, doing a space-wank. “Nnngh,” he said. There were some strangled oxygen sounds in there, too. “CRSH–nngh,” you know. “CRSH–CKRSH.” That sort of thing.

A space-wank, for the uninitiated, is a special wank done in space. Conditions in space that do not especially allow for a wank, a list: zero gravity, the constant threat of a genitally lethal vacuum, the cold and unending infinite, the juddering uneroticism of a laminate safety sign saying, in big bold capital letters, ‘ALWAYS BE STERILE’.

There are some little-known facts w/r/t space-wanks, especially when it comes to equipment: as well as oxygen tanks and suicide pills and special patches of in-helmet velcro on which to scratch your nose, NASA also issue each astronaut with a special sort of wanking apparatus, a kind of big sandwich bag with a hi-tension drawstring. (Down at HQ they jokingly refer to it as a ‘missile protection device’). Astronauts are encouraged to do their wristies into that and then jettison the whole sorry mess into the dark yawning abyss of space for aliens to find and do with as they will. That is the plan. 

But then so we find Commander Durkden 288 days into a solo mission orbiting the earth, and he was all out of wank-bags, and so he had jerry rigged something together out of a rehydrated pea packet and a length of floss, and was going quite royally ‘at it’. “NNGH,” he was saying. “GAH–AH! AH!” He’d done it. He’d space-jizzed.

Immediately, red lights started flashing; a burning brightness filled the sky. “Captain, come in,” said Ground Control. “Your entire dashboard has shut down.” He looked around in horror. Round cold globules of spunkum filled the air. “THE PEA PACKET FAILED,” he said, grasping at them with his hand. “THE PEA PACKET FAILED.” Zero gravity jizz balls were shattering in his grasp, shooting spooge spinning in all directions, smudging the portholes and gamming up switches. “WE HAVE A MAJOR INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT HERE, CAPTAIN,” Ground Control was saying. “YOU’RE SPIRALLING TOWARDS THE EARTH.” A collision, a gasp; wreakage flamed and fell into the sea.

Anyway long story short someone did a wank so hard we don’t have a Tunisia anymore.

The Latch

“Hey, you heard of latching?” he said. They were in a pub, talking pub things. “It’s like, this new way of getting bummed off dudes?” He explained latching: latching is this new way of getting bummed off dudes where you, via Grindr or whatever, where you send a picture of a map with a pin in it – all mysterious, all evoking of mystery – and then you leave your key under the doormat to your own personal home and you go and arrange yourself artfully and tastefully on a bed, and then the plan is someone follows the directions and lets themselves in and then anonymously bums you and then goes home. “Ah!” they all said, the pub men. “Ha! Man. Sounds good.”

Only it isn’t good when you send your map and you place your key and you light candles and put on mood music and then you wait, with your hands bound with a jumper cable and an orange in your mouth and a tube of GlideRite®–brand lubricant in and around your tulip, and you wait there for half an hour, 45 minutes, your butt-cheeks growing cold and clammy, your legs growing stiff and warm, until eventually you give up and put your jogging bottoms on and sit on a towel and check the TV guide and see that you’ve missed Deal or No Deal. It’s not so good then. 

The Pagan

Due to a pagan ceremony gone wrong she was accidentally married not to her fiancé, Simon, but instead to a furious and raging ancient god called Radglat, Arbiter of the Old World and the New. Total mix-up, but what can you do? They’d already opened the box that the toaster her mother sent came in. Warranty’s fucked on that.

'RADGLAT WILL BRING THE DEATH OF A THOUSAND SUNS DOWN UPON THEE, MORRISON'S FISHMONGER,' he said. They were in Morrison's, buying fish. 'I WILL TEACH YOU FOR LEAVING THICK BUT TRANSPARENT BONES IN MY SALMON FILLETS, AND BY FIRE I WILL SEE YOU UPON THE SEVENTH LEVEL OF HELL.' He was: intense. The Morrison’s fishmonger vanished into a pile of ashes. The rest of the staff were especially keen to help them carry their shopping to their car.

“Radglat,” she said, one evening. “Radglat, do you ever think that you should not destroy people down to component parts and ash quite so much?” She was knitting some booties. Radglat had magicked a baby into her body and they were expecting. “I miss getting our post since you evaporated the postman. I miss hearing weather reports on the radio. I miss our dog. Can you, you know, not?” He shot both hands into the air and destroyed Jupiter. The earth’s weather patterns immediately changed; snow enveloped the northern hemisphere, rocks pelted down upon the south. She sobbed on the phone to her mother about it and then, later, when she had calmed down, asked her if she’d seen Strictly. Her mother had seen Strictly, yes, and she was utterly disgusted. She thought that brunette one looked ‘very cheap’.

The Ghost

“Yo,” he said. “I wanna fuck a ghost.” He’d just watched Ghost and he wanted to fuck a ghost. And so he tried to: walking through a graveyard at night, dabbed with Joop! and wearing tight trousers; growing hard in front of a mirror before chanting ‘Bloody Mary’ three times. He phoned Derek Acorah so many times Derek Acorah changed his number. Nothing worked. He could not figure out how to fuck a ghost. “How do you fuck a ghost, father?” he said, resorting to religion. The vicar or whatever paused. “They say only one man ever achieved what every man dreams of and fucked a ghost,” he said, all scary, all sinister. “And what happened to him, father?” he asked. The vicar or whatever paused. Organs played; a choir sang in the background. “He died,” he whispered. “He died. His dick died and then he died.”

The Toblerone

“And what seems to be the problem, Sir?” he asked him. A doctor, he was a doctor. The man could not answer due to medical issues. “He dislocated his jaw, doctor,” a nurse said. “He dislocated his jaw by deepthroating a big Toblerone.”

We’ve all eaten a big Toblerone. They are difficult to eat. They are big.  They are angular. And he was not trying to deepthroat the aforementioned big Toblerone – which he had bought along with him, by the way, lying half torn out of its foil and smothered in chocolate-y saliva – he was not trying to deepthroat the big Toblerone for any erotic reasons; he was just trying to get as much Toblerone into his body at once. His uncle had bought him a four-foot Toblerone from the duty-free on the ferry over from France and he wanted to eat it, all, at once. He really liked Toblerone.

“ENH ASN’T AH, YING TO DEE–AH IT,” he said. “AH ASN’T.” They fused his jaw shut with lasers and sold the x-rays to the ‘Funny, Peculiar’ section of the Metro. His mammy did not invite him over for Christmas that year, nor any year after that, and before long, started straight-up telling people he was dead. 

The Name

His name was Fred, so he was delighted to meet, woo and marry a woman called Wilma. “WIL–MA!” he started saying, when he came home. Wilma is a very rare name these days, is the thing. “WIL–MA!” Not many people name their kids ‘Wilma’. “WIL–MA!” That was basically the only Flintstones quote he knew. “WIL–MA!” he used to say. “WIL–MA!” She would be doing the ironing or something. “WIL–MA!” Microwaving a big lasagne. “WIL–MA!” Smoking a cigarette while pretending to take a shit. “WIL–MA!” 

“I’m leaving you, Fred,” she said one day. “I’m leaving you.” He was hammering holes in the floor of an old Fiat 500 ahead of a planned gag he was going to do where he would try and run it to his mother’s house with his feet. “For…?” he asked. “For Barney?”

“No Fred,” she said. “No. We don’t know anyone called Barney. I’m leaving you for a dude called Joe who fits radiators and doesn’t talk about racist old cartoons from the ‘60s.” Anyway long story short: later that day he hung himself with his Flintstones tie. 

The Handjob

What do you do when another dude is getting a handjob while you are also getting a handjob? This is a question. This is a question that has probably hounded dudes since olden times, since Back In The Day. Imagine it, picture it: a Neanderthal-ass bro in a leather sort of tunic thing, stealing some moments with a Raquel Welch–type behind a crop of windblasted sandstone. “ME UM GIVUM EXQUISITE GIFT TO YOU OF HANDJOB,” Raquel says. A ram’s bone is threaded cartoonishly through her hair. “ME GIVUM YOU RIGID-ARMED EYE-ROLLING HELLA CRAZY HANDJOB,” she continues. “ME READUM IN OLDE TIME-ASS VERSION OF COSMOPOLITAN THAT I CAN USE TWO HANDS IN A TWISTING MOTION TO MAKE YOU COME ULTIMATE NIRVANA.” And so you let her, even though she seems to be wetting a shoelace in her mouth and looping it around the base of your unit, as though she is about to start a fire on and with your sweet dick. Has anyone at Cosmopolitan done a handjob before? Has anyone at Cosmo heard of the concept of friction?

But lo, over the way a little, behind some scrub: another dude, with a beard and chest hair and a kind of leopard-print toga thing, and at his knees a blonde chick with a firm grip, and his kind of leopard-print toga thing is pulled and hiked up fully, so much so that he is pinching the main of it under his chin to stop it from flopping onto his junk and getting in the way of the wristy, and suddenly you notice him and he notices you and your Neanderthal-ass eyes lock, and… then… is… is he— is he giving you the first thumbs up in history?

This is what happened him, while he waited in a car at Make Out Spot after the prom. His date was chewing gum and breathing in his ear and giving him a wristy, and then he glanced across and saw another dude, across the way, his eyes rolling back with curious familiarity – from the same school maybe. Were they in science class? Didn’t Mr. Richardson make them pair up to dissect a frog that one time?

And then at that moment exactly two things happened: one, he locked eyes with the aforementioned dude, who flashed him a smile and, crucially, winked; and then he sadly and unexpectedly jizzed, in the air and in an arc, all over himself and his rented tux. He drove home in silence and was up until three in the morning going at it with a toothbrush, but in the end admitted defeat. “I’m just spreading it around,” he muttered. “I’m just spreading it around.” £50 soiling charge; incalculable dent in his dignity.

The Titman

“I just don’t know if I’m an ass man or a tit man,” he said. “I just don’t know!” This was unacceptable, this was unheard of. He was the only human man alive still on the fence about whether he liked asses or tits better. “Asses!” the Ass Campaign For Britain said, campaigning outside his house, all placards and shouting. “As–ses! As–ses!” The Tit Men sent him cakes in the post. “You can’t buy cakes the shape of asses at the supermarket,” the note said. “Enjoy these tits in the shape of a cake. With respect, The Tit Men Collective.”

Finally, a scientist came to the rescue, strapping him to a dentist’s chair and applying electrodes to his Dickinsons. “Do you like this one,” he said, a Powerpoint presentation of some tit-heavy women projected on the wall. “How about this one.” A parade of asses, oiled and gleaming. He was in there for hours, until he was crying and dehydrated, until his legs grew grey and numb, a smorgasbord of machinery making dings and beeps. “Make it stop,” he wept. “Make the asses and titties stop.”

Finally, in a press conference to an awaiting press, he was declared a Tit Man. He was presented with a big check and a laminate certificate saying he loved he some milk balloons, and then Peter Stringfellow tightly shook his hand. “I like them both,” he said, slowly winking. “That’s my little secret: I like them both.”

The Muscle

How many muscles does Hulk Hogan have? “Over 60,” says Hulk Hogan. “All of them strong. Apart from one: my heart.” 

He explains: “Seriously, doctors tell me my heart’s all fuck up. And if I fall in love – with a woman or my reflection or a vegetarian lasagne – I could collapse and die like a mountain falling into the sea.” Does that impact his sex life? Not one bit. “Not one bit,” says the 12-time champ. “I still take Cialis and fuck two strippers at the same time, every night without fail, no matter how rough they look or smell.” He jokes: “I just hope I don’t fall in love with one of them!” We do too, Hulkster! We do to. Please be alive forever.


READER’S NOTE: ‘Squelching it to’ is a fun new euphemism I invented that means ,‘sex’.


“Ungh!” he said. “Ah!” He was squelching it to his girlfriend, during daytime no less, and right by an open window, to boot. “Ah!” he said. “Mm!” A dog licked him on the bottom. A dog licked him on the bottom. A dog – his dog, specifically, a Labrador named Benji – dog-kissed him on his secret rose. He jizzed extraordinarily.

The ensuing experiments to get Benji to ring his prostate like a church bell mainly failed. One day he offered himself up in a frog pose, front-side-up, his tassle coated in peanut butter and mince; another evening he performed lewd squats over a tin of Pedigree Chum. He tried to get the smells Benji seemed to like – garbage, chicken wings, cats – on and up his tender estuary. But Benji would not lick him. He would not lick his butt.

Months went by, seasons changed, the years turned into dust, and still Benji would not lick his butthole – until finally he was old, his tired little dogs’ legs folded underneath him, his eyes sad and white. Benji was nearing the end. “I will miss you, Benji,” he cried. Benji slowly, carefully, stuck out his tongue. “Do you–?” Benji seemed to nod. He reverently dropped his trousers and turned. Lick. He jizzed extraordinarily, tears in his eyes, then wrapped Benji’s body in two bin bags and hid him in a skip. “Goodbye, my old friend,” he whispered. “Goodbye.”

The Murderer

He was Prisoner #64–614 in letter after letter after month after month until they met, finally, hands smeared against the protective Plexiglass, kisses on the screen, in a Correctional Facility a four-hour drive from her home. “It’s good to finally meet you, penpal,” she sobbed. “Please,” he hissed. “Please. Tell me you bought cigarettes. Please.”


They romanced through the medium of biro-written letters on folded lined paper and bi-quarterly conjugal visits until, a mere seven years after they first met and on good behaviour (he shivved: zero humans, while in prison), he got out. They moved immediately in to a trailer and started having that kind of howling, harrowing sex that only the very drunk and destitute can have. All shouts, all sweat so heavy in the room you can slip on the air. Two sets of genitals locked in an essentially loveless wrestle for supremacy. Like two horses fixed to a wall with hooks, desperately racing to flay themselves to death.


But as with all love between a HotMurderers.com power user and a hot murderer, theirs was a doomed one. “Lance,” she said (his name was Lance). “There is an awful lot of unmarked meat in the freezer, Lance.” And then: “Lance,” she said, “Lance, where is the newspaper, the one with the headline about all the disappearances? I hadn’t done the ruddy crossword!” And then: finally, when he came home at 4am with blood under his fingernails and scratchmarks on his face, when he dumped a shovel with unnerving finality on the porch and walked in, she lost her own personal shit. “LANCE,” she said. “YOU’RE STOMPING BLOOD THROUGH ON THE FUCKING CARPET. I JUST CLEANED THAT FUCKING CARPET.” She really loved that carpet. She stayed at her sisters for the weekend, sobbing throughout, calling him a “pig” and “just like every other man” (i.e. ‘a pig’), and in the meantime the police shot him to death with guns.

The Pumpkin

"Hmm," he said. He picked her up by the stalk. "Huh." Someone had carved an especially sexy jack-o’-lantern. Let me explain: ‘especially sexy’ is the exact word pair he used when questioned by the police. "She had a perfectly round mouth and rouged cheeks and sultry, if hollow, eyes," he told them. "She was an especially sexy pumpkin.” He fucked that pumpo dry, fucked it for one straight month before neighbours complained about the wet compost smell plus the grunting plus low, rhythmic, persistent murmurs of “hm” and “oh yeah” and “oh hell yes baby gourd-like squash”. The police broke his door down with a violence and destroyed the pumpkin on the spot. Council burial. Five-to-ten years.

The Love Bench

The Love Bench is a little old place where, after an especially exhausting fingering session, someone in a tracksuit and with a permanent marker once wrote the words ‘love bench’ – strokes firm, carved deep into wood, a wobbly and post-orgasmic heart drawn around them. And thus The Love Bench was born; a haunt for local teenagers to lose their second base virginities on, favoured spot for especially low budget proposals. If The Love Bench could talk, it would say “please, for the love of God and all else that is holy, for the love of Shiva and all those dudes, wipe me down! Wipe me down with surgical spirit and a coarse cloth!” But The Love Bench cannot talk. It can only sit there, stolid, while couples smooch wetly, passing a chewed and unchewed piece of gum from one mouth to the next, hands in pants and knickers, The Love Bench dreaming always of the day that a tramp would come and shit himself to sleep on it, dreaming of a day when it is too rainy for teenagers to try to unpeel their first condom wrappers on top of it. The Love Bench stood for 17 years and was host to three conceptions before the council came and destroyed it with a flamethrower. R.I.P., The Love Bench. A memorial bench has been put up in its honour.