Meet The Gropers
Some characters will tend to appear fairly frequently in these pages. They are the gropers. without whom...
As the site develops there will be some more added to the list. I already have another three signed up and waiting their turn in the spotlight but for now they will just have to keep themselves amused until I get to them. Sometimes the gropers will work together sometimes alone, but they all have their preferrd zones and their own specialities. I'm also open to ideas too, if you mail me. I can't promise to use them all, 3D art may look simple but it can be very labour intensive
If you need groping and you know which tram to catch, maybe you will meet The G Team!
George Roper, the Tradtionalist
Perhaps my parents had a sense of predestination when Mr and Mrs Roper decided to name their son George. It could easily have been Nigel, then I would have been N Roper but it was George, so I became G Roper, at least in name, for many years of meeting people who thought I might have never made the connection before their giggling insights. Well it was only mildly irritating and no worse than Mr and Mrs Orridge naming their child Peter.
But all that was to change one day in a flash of revelation, as illuminating, if far less holy, as Paul's vision on the road to Damascus.
I was about 50 at the time and unemployed after an ill-considered decision to take the money and run when the company for which I had been working lo, those many years, was downsizing and looking to pay off surplus staff. It had seemed easy at the time to take the thousands, use some to pay off the mortgage and supplement the remainder with easy part-time work until retirement age. However it appeared that others also had similar ideas and the number of others outweighed the number of easy part time jobs. Or even hard part time jobs. So I found myself spending a lot of time on the Metro going to job interviews. Then I found myself spending more time there because it was less constrictive than staying at home watching daytime TV.
It was during one of those journeys that I had my moment of enlightenment. I had a go-anywhere all week ticket and had secured a seat on a circular service which didn't need me to change cars as it never actually reached a final destination. It was also during the busy time, so there were plenty of people standing and I was looking around wondering if any of the girls were wearing a skirt short enough to show off their bottoms, or at least stocking tops, while hanging on to the overhead handles. As the carriage went over a rough spot in the rails, a gap opened up and I could clearly see a guy in the crowd had his hand on the mini-skirted ass of a sexy young woman in front of him.
I chuckled to myself, watching for her to turn around and slap him across the face but to my surprise nothing happened. Well, nothing like that anyway. The gap in the crowds opened and closed intermittently with the rhythm of the train and if I hadn't been focused in that direction I would have missed most of it. Apparently no one else was aware of what was happening either while, in a series of vignettes, I saw him grasping her bottom more firmly and massaging it, then pulling up the short skirt to fondle her ass-cheeks, left naked by the thong she was wearing. I caught one final glimpse, of her profile, her face flushed with embarrassment or maybe arousal but also obviously trying to act as though nothing was happening. Then with another shifting of the crowd my sightline was lost.
That was all it took. A guy older than myself got to grope a sexy young woman and she let him do it. Why shouldn't I do the same? A season ticket for the Metro cost less than it did to heat my house all day. And the activity was far more exciting than facile quiz shows and trite chat with celebrities who wouldn't be seen dead there unless they had a book to promote. I needed to get out of the house more and I needed a cheap hobby. Now out of nowhere, I had both.
I would become a groper in action as well as in name!
But let me explain something. A groper isn't a rapist. The journey is everything, not the destination. Of course, if a woman responds, opens herself up to more, he will take it. Surprising to some, that is not so uncommon. But think about how liberating a masked ball can be. Even back in the days of Marco Polo, the Venetian harlequin masks provided an anonymity that permitted many licentious assignations. A woman could hide in the crowd, free from the condemnation of her social circle. So being groped by a stranger is not always unwelcome.
A groper is above all a seducer; an anonymous seducer who offers an experience which can be exciting while at the same time excusable because the woman 'didn't want to draw attention' or 'was too boxed in to get away or stop it happening'. Whatever the outcome though, a groper enjoys the event because the objective is primarily the fondling of an attractive female without any commitment or romancing. If his hands can roam her body without resistance that is a good result. Bringing her to orgasm is usually the ultimate to which he aspires
Of course he is human though and if he feels a hand exploring himself in return, he will welcome it. If the young woman invites him to enter her, he has a situation he will be able to remember for years when he is trawling through his memories. But whatever it is, from a few minutes of groping her bottom to a mutual fuck, it remains the journey, not a specific required destination that drives him.
And so my training began. There were no teachers. There was no handbook; no introductory texts to start me off. I had to learn for myself the signs to look out for in a female, the correct approach, the timing, and the best sequence of events to suit each type of subject. There were failures along the way and not a few, ranging from a hissed "dirty old man" to a withering glare of contempt as the would-be target moved away. But there were very few raised voices and even fewer slapped faces. Somewhat amusingly, it was more often than not a completely innocent younger man standing close by who was left to figure out what the accusations levelled at him meant. One of the few advantages of growing older.
One thing more, I find a lot of amusement from those emails which claim you can have any woman you want if you only had a bigger dick. I do have a very large one and it doesn't work like that. You still have to meet the girl, go through the stages of a relationship before she gets to find what you have in your pants. And even that can bring mixed reactions. But really, there is no easy way to short-cut a process which is self-limiting if all you want is casual sex. Even nudist colonies tend to be family oriented.
Back in the late 1970's there was no internet, no fuck-buddies, no dogging and toothing and games like that. There was swinging, of course but the essence of wife swapping was that you needed a wife first, then you had to persuade her to be swappable. Contact magazines carried very few adverts from attractive women who didn't charge by the hour and those who did usually wanted to get fucked while their husband watched. Weird!
Even a visit to a beach or a swimming baths failed to attract much attention. Too many guys had put a rolled up pair of socks in a suggestive position and too many women had been disappointed for them to take that at face value. Too young to be a hippie, too old to be a punk, I grew up in a rather tired era where aging rock stars got increasingly pompous and guys sported hairstyles that Tina Turner would have envied, while radical-militant feminists got ever more strident and butch looking.
It wasn't until recently that I felt my equipment was much of an advantage. But discreetly hidden in a crowd, I feel sure that more than one target who has felt it resting in her hand has been driven by curiosity to go further than she expected. Of course, the woman still has to be seduced to that point and it tends to work better with a 30-something than a late-teen early-twenties, but I do consider it an asset, or at least another tool in my inventory, so to speak.
So now, five years after my revelation, I can safely say that I am something of a master of my craft with a high success rate. An average looking man, midway through my 50's, I have had my hands on more attractive women during just the past twelve months than most men have in a lifetime and I have memories that would bring tears to the eyes of most self-satisfied young studs.
And I see no reason why this should not continue.Back to Top
Stan the Sandwich
No that isn't my real name, of course. I never even heard of anyone with that as a surname except maybe the inventor of it as a snack. Stan will be enough I think, an ex-accountant who was a bit too old to get the hang of computers and who was finally replaced by one that no doubt did my job for longer hours and less pay. Such is life.
I've never had the sheer nerve of George in the way he aims for only the most attractive women, but that seems appropriate. Accountants are supposed to be grey, unprepossessing figures who blend into the corporate background. Indeed, a flamboyant accountant is an object of suspicion, someone who never surprises when he runs off to Las Vegas with the petty cash in pursuit of wine, women and, presumably, even more women.
As with a lot of other men who had reached that period known rather optimistically as 'middle age' without having managed to acquire very much by way of a family, or even a social life except when some neighbour needed help with their annual tax return, I took to visiting libraries and museums to avoid the horrors of bridge circles and tango lessons for a healthier life.
I also did my best to avoid the speculative looks of women my own age, who outlived their husbands in increasing numbers. It is one thing to grow old together, quite another to imagine oneself trying to become aroused by a stranger in her 60's. Oh I know, trivial and superficial of me but I was not lonely and looking for a companion.
I will admit I harboured secret dreams of meeting a good looking younger woman of around 30 who preferred older men, but if they existed, they passed by without my being able to identify them. I did my best to dress the part, casual clothing and a rather dashing cap that I thought made me look like I might have been a race car driver or something like that but I suppose 'boring ex-bookkeeper' was tattooed on my forehead.
My visits to museums and other free sources of entertainment, as well as the occasional job interview meant I got to travel on the Metro quite a lot and over time I started to recognise others who did the same. I assumed they were in a similar position and it got to the point where we would exchange a nod of greeting or even the occasional word about the weather. Rather a limited social life but I thought maybe it would develop to acquaintanceships eventually. I was right but not in any way I could have foreseen!
It must have been about six months ago because the weather was a lot warmer and women were wearing fewer clothes; a sort of compelling self-torture to look at the display of low necklines, bare midriffs and thighs in short skirts but I couldn't not look either. I had noticed this one young lady firstly because she was standing next to George; not that I knew his name then, of course, but he was one I had been on nodding terms with for some time. Having seen her though I found myself staring at the cropped top she was wearing. It seemed like there was nothing underneath because the material was pushed out into two definite little bumps. But that didn't prepare me for the shock of seeing the outline of a very obvious hand moving up under the material from the side to wrap around the nearest breast. And even more unbelievably it was George getting intimate with a pretty woman barely half his age.
"Be a good sport and cover me," I could only just hear the words from George and might have missed them if I hadn't switched my eyes to him so as to confirm it really was his hand. But he was looking straight back at me and there was no doubt what he said was to me also. Somewhat bewildered, I stood up and promptly lost the seat to a young lout when I stepped over to see what he meant. "No, get up close in front and cover me while I get her tits out," he urged. "She won't mind."
It appeared he was right. The girl seemed not to even hear what he said, she just stood there leaning against his chest with her eyes half closed and a far away expression on her face when I stepped sideways to do as he directed. Why did I comply? To be honest I think I am a bit of a follower rather than a leader and if someone is authoritative enough I tend to react automatically. Like if there has been an accident I'm usually the only one who takes any notice when the cop says 'move along there'.
Even then I didn't think George meant it literally, though what else he could have possibly meant by the words would have been beyond me if anyone had asked. But it simply didn't happen that women allowed themselves to be exposed in public, right? Apparently I was wrong. I was hardly in the desired position before he had eased up the short top far enough that I could see most of the young woman's right breast and what was hidden was only the covering of his hand as he squeezed it. "Go on, take the other one," George urged me. "There's enough for both of us here."
I had to wonder where his own left hand was and for a wild moment I had thoughts about him poking a gun in her back or something that would put me in prison for years as an accomplice but that didn't explain her expression and it may have been limited but I did have experience of women and they had always told me how maybe it wasn't wild and passionate but it was certainly thorough, and they felt safe with letting themselves go. So I did know she was aroused and not in fear. Of course I also found out later that his other hand was under the back of her brief skirt and inside her panties, working around her intimate bits.
"You have done this before?" he queried.
"Nnnn... yes of course. I'm just usually alone." Maybe it was the first time in my life I had acted on impulse but I really wanted to feel that soft, warm flesh filling my hand. Just five minutes and I would have happily gone to prison for twenty years!
Five minutes of blind groping was about all I got that time, my hand at first tentative under her tee shirt while I watched her face. So I saw her eyes fully close and felt her body shudder while the girl was biting her lip to keep quiet. Soon after she pushed our hands away, straightened her clothes and was gone without a word.
"It was your first time wasn't it." More of a statement than a question from George.
I just nodded dumbly, the memory of soft taut skin imprinted on my palm.
"The Virgin Groper," he laughed but not maliciously. "Well look out for me in the future, I can often use a reliable Sandwich Man."
I looked around, eager to repeat the experience now that I was damned anyway. "Never twice in the same crowd," George cautioned. "If she figured out what you had been doing she would be insulted to take second place. If you ignore her then she might come looking in the future, to assert her own desirability. And never until I invite you," he added as an afterthought.
So began my training as an accomplished half of a sandwich in which the girl was the filling. I rarely manage to initiate for myself but I feel I have earned my place in the ranks even so.Back to Top