by Timothy Lea
And she has led me away with the dome of my dongler between her finger and thumb. Dongler but not dangler. The love organ is still presenting arms in impressive fashion. Hermione leads me through the door of a flimsy prefabricated structure, like the maximum security wing of a Southern Irish internment camp and into a small dressing room. ‘Hand, mouth or boomps a daisy?’ she asks. ‘It’s a question of which is going to get you back on stage quicker.’
‘Actually, I’m a milkman,’ I say.
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ Hermione steps out of a skirt shorter than the Jewish Book of Saints and starts changing the rubber grip on the handle of my cricket bat. ‘The last baritone Rudolph engaged came to read the gas meter. Am I doing it too fast?’
‘Step against the wall a minute,’ I say. ‘I have a better idea.’
Pausing only to guide my throbbing dick out of her looks and lingers and into the area of her hot twat, I jerk the aggrieved portion forward and upwards and let nature take its course. Immediately I enter I realize that I have found a friend. Four hundred velvet vices clam round my prick and Hermione knows how to tighten each one of them independently.
‘Strangle a mangle!’ she gasps. ‘This brute is going to take some throttling.’
I don’t have time to say anything because I am fighting for the creative future of my love joint. Unless I keep it moving, the compulsive grinding of her pelvis and the dynamic tension of her unmention will turn it into a strip of spaghetti. It is like paddling a canoe through the rapids – unless you go faster than the current the rocks will get you.
‘Ooh,’ squeals the owner of the elastic grumble. ‘At this rate I should be in line for a speaking part.’
‘Did you say speaking or squeaking?’ I croak. Some of the noises flying around remind me of a film I once saw on the early stages of sinking an oil well. ‘Cap that gusher’, was I believe, a phrase much used. There is also a persistent throbbing sound which may be the onset of a heart attack or could possibly be caused by the wall we are performing against. This is beginning to come apart at the seams and a whiff of roses mingles with the smell of grease paint and greasy pant.
‘Woodland folk stand by for the grotto scene – oops! Sorry’ The call boy closes the door with a speed that speaks much for his natural sense of modesty and the reverberation races through my body like a forest fire. A familiar sensation orchestrated and magnified by hours of jumbo-sized inactivity erupts from my throbbing gonads and begins to take physical shape in a churning column of chava lava exploding up my mad mick as if the very richness and thickness of the parboiled fluid was responsible for the delicious slowness of its passage. ‘Wheeeeeh!!’ Ten million sperm cells lock shoulders against the walls of my hard-pressed prick and I deal out one last desperate thrust to send them out on their way into the promised gland.
‘Wumf!’ There is a rending noise and the wall behind Hermione drops like the tailgate of a lorry. Unable to restrain myself I lunge forward with Hermione still impaled on my giggle stick like a banger at a barbecue. Her legs are wrapped round my back and her deaf and dumb bears the first brunt of the bushes we crash through. An explosion of blinding light, a quick glimpse of a sea of faces, the horrified expression on the mug of the old bird with the homed helmet and – WOMP! – I am sprawling face down on Hermione, still goolie deep in tonk-throttling snatch. Between my legs I feel a sensation akin to that of an airbed going down in a choppy sea. I turn my head sideways and there is Sue still tucked in behind the moveable bush. The expression on her face combines amazement with something approaching extreme irritation. The warm release is now ricochetting away into the farthest reaches of Hermione’s still twitching body and one of my long standing problems is clearly over.
‘No hard feelings,’ I say to Sue.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Blimey! Look at this,’ says Dad. ‘It’s disgusting!’
‘Don’t wipe it on the tea cosy!’ says Mum.
It is breakfast at the Leas. A meal Dad does not always get up in time for. His cakehole is smeared with Golden Shred and Mum’s concern is understandable. Dad gives Mum an unpleasant look and wipes his mush on the edge of the tablecloth. ‘That better, Miss Manners?’ he says. It isn’t, because the tablecloth is a plastic one. I close my eyes and imagine that I am back at Windsor Castle – I was snatched by gypsies when very young.
‘I wasn’t referring to the marmalade,’ says Dad, ‘though I must say, I don’t reckon they make the chunky bits as big as they used to. A few years back they were like bacon rinds.’
‘Maybe your mouth has got bigger,’ I say.
‘That’s enough from you, laughing boy,’ says Dad. ‘I’m surprised to see you gracing us with your presence. Why aren’t you out on the job? – and I hasten to add I mean bringing milk to those who have need of it, not to mention a few unwanted delicacies to your own hard-pressed family.’
‘It’s my late round today, Dad,’ I say. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting I should nick anything?’
‘Not nick, save,’ says Dad. ‘You’re not going to tell me you sell out everything on that float? Milk and all that are perishables, aren’t they? A lot of it must get bunged away.’
‘It doesn’t, Dad,’ I say.
‘It could do,’ says Dad. ‘Use your loaf. A bit of sun on it and that butter could melt away to nothing.’
‘I have to account for everything, Dad.’
‘Even stuff that gets lifted? I mean, you could be parked at the end of that alley by Holdsworth Road and somebody might nip out of the side door of the boozer and—’
‘I’m responsible for anything that gets nicked, Dad.’
‘Little Lord Fauntleroy,’ sneers Dad. ‘You’d see your family starve to death, wouldn’t you? Typical of the eurasian of fundamental values that pervades public life today. Decadence and cynicism are rampant. When I was a kiddy I’d have given somebody’s right hand to help my old Dad. Look at this paper – it sums the whole thing up. ‘Sex shock horror at opera’. They can’t even do an opera without bringing sex into it! I remember when they had La Balham on at the Streatham Hill Theatre. Your mother and I didn’t go because of the war but …’
I tune out Dad’s voice and take a discreet decko at the paper. For once it is not open at page three. Through the transparent marmalade stains I read: ‘The champagne and caviar audience for the premiere of Rudolph Jagmeister’s new opera “Revels of a Midsummer Night” were hardly settled in their twenty-guinea seats before an orgy of full-scale nudity caused lorgnettes to quiver. Naked men in what was described as “an excited condition” ran round the stage and Renalto Scrubbova’s first aria “Let little pixie folk come out to play” was sung against the background of naked couples performing explicit sex acts’. Blimey, they do exaggerate. And they have completely left out the bit where the big lady sat down on her helmet. The high note of the show it might have been called. I said that to Sue but she didn’t seem to think it was funny. Even allowing for the fact that women have no sense of humour her reaction was disappointing. She said that she was hurt about me having if off with Hermione – she was hurt: Once the last spurt of heady ecstasy had disappeared up the swannee, my condition was more akin to rupture than rapture. You could have knitted my old man into a floppy pullover. In fact, I think Sue really was jealous. It is ridiculous but the moods of women are very changeable. If you lap them up they don’t want to know but if they catch you in a mood of amorous dalliance with their best friend’s grumble then they can begin to reckon you passionately. Of course, passion in a bird is not always revealed in a sexual sense – not directly. Sue expressed herself by kicking me in the crutch as soon as that article was revealed. I would have preferred something less demonstrative myself but it is nice to know that people care.
‘… “Il Travesty”,’ says Dad. ‘That was another one they did. Everybody clothed the whole way through it – and why not, I’d like to know? Audiences didn’t need filthy smut in those days. We were happy with simple things. A good t
une well sung: “Only a rose I give you-u-u-u –”’
‘Yes dear,’ says Mum. ‘Would you like some—’
‘—“I’d bring along a smile and a song for anyone. But only a rose for you-u-u- –’. They don’t compose songs like that these days.’
‘Can I have that in writing?’ I say.
Despite the fact that the theatre critic of Dad’s paper finds ‘Revels of a Midsummer Night’: ‘a cataclysmic blend of the what might have been and the what is to be, suffused with a soft wanton poetry all its own,’ I am not sorry to get back to my float and the problems of putting Meadowfresh on the map. We get a bonus for bringing in new customers but so do all the local dairies. The competition is thus bitter to put it mildly – ho, ho. One of the nastiest nerks in the neighbourhood is the geezer from Universal Dairies who punched Sid up the throat.
Despite the fact that nobody who belts Sid can be all bad this bloke comes close. Not only is he very free with his love lolly but he puts about a lot of nasty rumours concerning Meadowfresh: they are on the point of going bankrupt so one might as well change now rather than suddenly be without milk, local health inspectors are not satisfied with the bottle-washing arrangements, Mrs Phillips at Number 46 found a centipede in her orange juice etc, etc. He is a right stirrer – and not least of all with the giggle stick. Being a window cleaner was tough enough but being a milkman is even rougher because you have to go through the card every day – I mean, they have a daily chance to pop out and grab you. Sometimes, it is like leaving milk outside a spider’s web. You tiptoe up to the front door feeling that eyes are watching you through the letterbox. A careless chink from the empties and the hampton-starved bint on the other side will be alerted to your presence. Honestly, I can tell you one thing for definite – the women of Great Britain are not getting enough. If you don’t believe me, ask your old lady – or for a more honest reply, ask somebody else’s old lady. She will give it to you straight – provided, usually, that you give it to her back in the same condition.
A practical example of this state of affairs – appropriate choice of phrase – is afforded by my contact with the Balham Self Service Society. My first brush with them takes place on a hot afternoon when the bottle tops are starting to curve upwards and the tar sticks to the wheels of my float. It has been hot for days and the sight of birds wearing practically nothing is no novelty to me. I have nearly finished my round and am eager to clock off and get home to a cold bath – even if it does mean the sweat of moving the coal out,
‘Yoo hoo. Milkman!’ The bird is calling to me from across the street and is not one of my regulars. Oh well, I suppose I had better show willing.
‘Yes ma’am,’ I say, coaxing my sticky limbs towards the garden gate. ‘What can I do you for?’
As I get nearer I see that she appears to be wearing a sheet and sandals. Oh well, nothing too unusual about that. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to our milkman,’ she says looking up the street. ‘I don’t think we can wait any longer. Fourteen pints please. Can you manage that?’
‘Certainly, ma’am,’ I say. ‘Delighted to oblige. At Meadowfresh we always carry a bit extra.’
The bird reacts to this harmless statement and another appears in the doorway behind her. She is wearing the bottom half of a bikini. At first I think she is wearing the top half too but then I realize that I am looking at the bits that have not caught the sun – few bikinis have large nipple patterns on them. It is a bit saucy but the sun has a funny effect on some people. They read about topless beaches at St Tropez and reckon they can start behaving like that in Balham. No reason why they can’t, I suppose.
‘Meadowfresh to the rescue,’ says the first bird.
‘Poor dear,’ says the second bird. ‘Doesn’t he look hot?’
‘Anything else?’ I say, grabbing as much milk as I can.
‘Come and have a dip,’ says the second bird.
‘Oh well,’ I say, thinking about it. ‘You got a pool, have you?’
‘Just a little one,’ says the bird. ‘But it’s better than nothing. You can get cool.’
I am in the house now and there is a funny pong which I think is incense. I don’t care for it myself but I have found that people who use it are usually of what you might call liberated tendencies. ‘Where do you want the milk?’ I say.
‘In the kitchen,’ says the second bird. ‘Down the end of the corridor.’ She stands against the wall so that I have to brush past her knockers. ‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘That’s all right,’ she says. ‘We must try it again some time.’
Something tells me that I have not stumbled upon the local Salvation Army headquarters. There is another bird in the kitchen and she is completely starkers. She has just opened a tin of Carnation milk – a blob of which has been fortunate enough to collide with her knockers. As I look at her, the topless bint comes up behind me and bends her head to lick the milk off her mate’s manchesters. I clear my throat and concentrate on putting the milk down without dropping any of the bottles.
‘I’m trying to persuade him to stay for a swim,’ says Topless.
‘Good idea,’ says Starkers, running her eyes over me like my body comes equipped with rails. ‘We’re short of a couple of members.’ They both have a little laugh at that and I look through the kitchen window to the back garden. This is pocket handkerchief size with a kiddies’ paddling pool in the middle of it.
‘Is that it?’ I say. ‘It’s not exactly Olympic size, is it?’
‘It depends on your sport,’ says Topless. ‘I don’t think you probably know about us?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say.
‘We’re the Balham Self Service Society. We help ourselves.’ She flicks her hand against the front of my apron in a gesture that some might consider provocative. ‘Take your clothes off and join us.’
As is my simple, British, uptight way I begin to feel nervous the moment a bird takes the initiative. ‘—Er – it’s a bit difficult,’ I splutter. ‘My float’s in the sun and I ought to—’
‘Move it,’ interrupts Topless.
‘Move it!’ echoes Starkers. She twitches her bum and then starts to circle the kitchen clicking her fingers and moving her bum a whole lot more.
‘The Balham Self Service Society exists to help people act out their fantasies,’ says Topless. ‘That’s putting it broadly. Some people don’t even know what a fantasy is.’
‘We give them ideas,’ says Starkers. This does not come as a big surprise to me and I wonder if it is just the heat in the kitchen that is making me sweat.
‘Fantasies can take many forms,’ says Topless. ‘Some of them are sheer escapism – the helicopter landing on the front lawn and an Arab sheik getting out. But many are much more closely related to the day to day reality of a woman’s existence. She spends most of the time in the kitchen so that’s where her fantasies take place. I love pressing myself against the cool front of the fridge so that the maker’s name plate tickles my nipples and imagining a man’s hand sliding up between my legs.’ She spread-eagles herself against the large white surface of the fridge and I watch the muscles on the back of her thighs tighten and her bum jut out appealingly.
‘Like this?’ I say. I slide my hand up from behind the knee and pluck at the curls peeping out of her panties. Up over the smooth curve and then inside the panties and down to the hot, moist furrow. I grab a handful and push and Topless squirms with pleasure.
‘I like the ironing board,’ purrs Starkers who has come up behind me and slid her arms round my waist. ‘Every time I’m doing the ironing I imagine laying face down on the board. The cover is still warm from the iron. My legs are pulled apart and hang down so that my toes brush against the floor …’ While she is talking, her fingers move expertly to the front of my trousers and pull down the zip. Percy is a hard bar of flesh against my stomach and her mit closes about him as if grasping the handle of a sword: ‘… and then I feel it sliding into me as if it’s never going to stop. Inch after inch o
f hot, throbbing cock …’
She does have a way with words, doesn’t she? Small wonder that a few million sperm cells slightly aft of my shaft start to agitate like snow flakes in a shaken paperweight. The cleft of Topless’s bum pulsates temptingly in front of me and I release my belt and pull down my pants so that percy has more freedom. As if reading my mind, Starkers pushes him forward and down so that he rubs against the silken material that guards the entrance to Topless’s snatch. Her hands go down and release two strings at the side of her panties so that they flutter to the ground. Now, the dome of my dick is rubbing against her juicy pleasure pot. She closes her legs tight and slides her hand down so that she can squeeze my nob with her fingers and push it hard against her twat. I am now a sandwich filling between her and Starkers who is gently massaging my orchestras.
‘What’s your fantasy?’ breathes my testicle-tugging chum.
‘This’ll do until I think of something,’ I grunt.
‘I like it bending down, too,’ says Topless. ‘I like to imagine that when I’m getting something out of the vegetable drawer somebody pushes me forward into the potatoes and pins me so I can’t move …’
She bends down and by an amazing coincidence my old man is quivering against her open passion purse. Do I slip or does Starkers give me a little push? Either way it doesn’t matter because the result is the same – half a foot of hampton willowing into the velvet void like a snake swimming up a narrow creek. I reach forward and feel the heavy fruit of the noble knockers weighing down my palms. Hey ho, this beats plugging your float into the charging machine any day. At moments like this it seems ridiculous that the Timothy Lea set only comes equipped with one prick. Starkers obviously agrees with me because when I glance back it is to see that she has left my goolies for a cucumber which she is withdrawing from the fridge – there are a pile of them in there.
‘The coolest fuck since Jack Frost,’ she says reaching for the vegetable knife. ‘Just dip in sour cream and – eh voila!’