I don’t know if you’ve ever leaned against the wall and been kissed by a girl who has one foot on the floor and one on your shoulder, but it’s quite an experience, I can tell you. And what you can do with your hands is nobody’s business.
After we’ve tried that one for a few minutes, she goes through her whole repertoire. High kicks, the splits, everything. There’s buttons popping like Guy Fawkes night and her dress is open right down the front so I can see she’s only wearing a pair of black lace panties underneath – it’s fantastic. She whizzes round the room about five times and then collapses on the bed.
Well, there’s probably about three blokes in the world who would have tip-toed out to get her an ice pack at that moment but I’m not one of them. I’ve got my clothes off faster than a kid unwraps a Christmas present and in no time I’m guiding her knicks down over her knees while she starts grinding her arse into the bed and baring her teeth.
I would like to be able to say that we made love, but I’d be boasting.
She made love and I tried to keep up with her. What an experience!
Whatever you’ve heard about dancers and muscle control – it’s true. Every bloody word of it. All those ladies you see swinging about on ropes at the circus; I bet their old men are walking round with smiles on their faces. This girl can grip you like she’s got a second pair of hands – and as for what she does when she’s got you. Five minutes with Pat and you know how a table cloth feels when it’s being shaken out of the window. She can do the splits with you inside her so that she’s playing footsie and tickling your ear with her big toe at the same time.
Like I said, I’m just lying back and hoping she doesn’t break it off. The whole room is bouncing up and down in time with me and it occurs to me it might be a good idea to lock the door if only to spoil Drakey’s view, through the keyhole.
I am glancing towards it when I suddenly notice the cupboard door start to swing open and close again. It wouldn’t be a surprise if it fell right off it’s hinges but to open and close. That’s strange. Bloody strange. I watch closely and it actually clicks shut. That’s it!
I leap out of bed nearly leaving my cock behind, and tear open the cupboard door. A bloke I’ve never seen before in my life is cowering behind it with his fly buttons open. I won’t tell you what he’s been doing but, according to my Mum, it stands a good chance of stunting his growth if not actually leading to total blindness.
“You bastard!” I shout and I belt him so he goes down in a heap of shoes and coat hangers.
“I don’t think you two have met,” says Pat over my shoulder. “Timmy, this is Mr. Wiseman who is auditioning me today. Tell me, Mr. Wiseman, have I got the part?”
He doesn’t answer because I kick him in the goolies so hard it sprains my ankle.
“You dirty bitch,” I yell, turning on Pat. “I thought you were the girl who never let any bleeding theatrical monkey touch her?”
“I need the work,” she screams. “Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life in this crummy room? Do you think I wanted to do that? Why do you think I’m drunk? Oh, my God.” And she bursts into tears and throws herself on the bed.
She’s just done that when there’s a furious banging on the door and Drakey starts demanding to know what’s going on. I’m not really in the mood to tell him so I pull on my trousers while Pat’s screaming gets louder, the bloke in the cupboard is sick and somebody else starts thumping on the wall.
It’s getting a bit noisy for me so I pick up my jacket and open the door just as Drakey takes a run at it. He sails past me and ends up on the bed with Pat who fetches him a back hander in the mouth.
“Don’t move,” I say. “I always want to remember you like that.”
You may be thinking that I meet a lot of funny people – well I do. People are funny. When you get inside their homes you find out. How many times have you heard somebody say “ooh, I wish I could have been a fly on the wall.” Well, I am sometimes, just that. I spend my day looking into hundreds of little boxes, some of which have people in. Most of the time nothing is happening but, now and then, very occasionally, something is. Most people still make love indoors, and kill each other indoors, sometimes one after the other. I haven’t seen a murder yet, but I’ve been close to it. People get very worked up, and when they get worked up they look around for something to hit each other with. Once it was me.
Elvie was slim as a boy and flatter than a witches tit. Her hair was cropped close to her head and she had large soulful eyes with dark rings under them. She looked intelligent and intense and as if sex was the last thing she was interested in. She had a self contained flat in one of the big Victorian houses in Nightingale Lane and as it was right at the top I had to ring the bell to get in.
“Window cleaner.” I say cheerfully when she opens the door.
“Oh, yes,” she seems to be thinking about something else, and hardly glances at me. “You’d better come in.”
Inside, the flat is very light and well furnished. There’s a big round chinese lamp that lets down from the ceiling on a kind of pulley; built in bookshelves – some with books, some with ornaments, cream wall-to-wall carpeting and a huge double bed with a white bedspread on it and purple velvet cushions. The curtains match the cushions and are gathered with gold sashes. All in all it’s like something in one of those glossy magazines you find at the dentists. I would like to have a room like it one day. Especially that double bed. It would just about fill the whole of my pad at home.
There is another room leading off which I take to be the kitchen because I can hear the sound of something cooking.
“Excuse me,” she says unnecessarily, and goes into the kitchen. At least she trusts me which is something. You’d be amazed how many people are scared you will start nicking everything in sight the moment their back is turned. I’ve had birds hovering about me I was certain were hungry for a bit of the other, only to find out they were worried about their Post Office Savings book.
There’s a small balcony outside and I hop out and have a little wipe around with my mind idling happily in neutral. The sun is shining and there’s that faint hint of warmth in the air that reminds me of spring – for two pins I’d start whistling the score of Snow White.
In this mood, it is therefore a disappointment and a surprise to find the girl who opened the door kneeling by the bed and crying bitterly. In my simple way I imagine that she must have been trying some new recipe and made a cock of it, as opposed to the French version of the same thing.
I spring into the room and place a friendly hand on her shoulder and enquire what the matter is. From her reaction to my touch you would think I was the Beast from Fifty Thousand Fathoms or John Wayne in drag. She twists away from me and starts chewing on her knuckles.
“What’s the matter?” I say, feeling a bit of a tit. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what the trouble is.”
You can see what a bloody good child welfare officer I would have made can’t you? The girl still won’t answer so I am forced to continue with my kindly uncle Timmy routine.
“Is it something you’ve messed up in the kitchen? I know, you’ve just got married and you’ve burned the apple crumble. Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.”
At the mention of the word marriage the bird redoubles her sobs and I decide to bury the kindly uncle Timmy routine. Also, and it’s a bit naughty to say this, I find women very sexy when they start crying. I love the way their bodies heave when they’re sobbing; and their wet little faces and moist lips; and the thought that beastly, rugged, brutish old me did it and is so masculine that he might have to kill himself. Terrible isn’t it? But there you are. So, I really have to watch myself when a bird starts crying. Luckily, I know the signs and I’m turning to