by Ned Williams
I don’t know how long we remained this way but I suddenly heard a voice from the other side of the room. “Now it’s my turn!” Thankfully, I rolled off the bed and got to my feet.
As he stood up from his lounger, the husband removed a large dildo from his arse. I must have shown my surprise for he said, “Oh, it’s just a little bauble I enjoy dallying with.”
I wondered from where he had produced this rather aggressive looking monster. I then noticed that the casket was open. I don’t remember him unlocking it – but then, I was rather preoccupied. The box was full of the strangest looking clamps, thongs, masks and a selection of objects all of which I struggled imagine as to what use they could or should be put.
He handed the imitation penis to his wife and pushed me back onto the bed. Realisation was quickly dawning on me. I had thought that it was his turn to enjoy his wife – not his turn for me to have. I was not going to be allowed a rest. “You mean you want me to…” I was about to point out that he was going to be out of luck.
“Yeh! Yeh! My turn. My turn. Oh, god! I want it. Fuck me. Fuck me as if I was the last fuck of your life. Go on, do it! Do it to me, baby!”
‘How appealing,’ I thought.
As he was pleading and writhing, I saw that his wife, without even flinching, was ramming the dildo deep inside herself. She then, still holding the thing in place with one hand, walked, bow legged, over to the lounger.
“Give it to me!! Treat me like a whore,” he shouted and lay down on the bed with his legs in the air. “Come on, baby,” he cooed.
‘What the hell,’ I thought. As I endeavoured to perform, I could see in the mirror that his wife was sprawled out and punishing herself with the giant dildo. I must confess that I had difficulty keeping myself erect. My new partner shouted as loudly as his wife had screamed. It was like fucking in a slaughterhouse. I was getting tired and, yes, somewhat bored. Fortunately, unlike his wife, he wanted it to be over quickly. I faked an orgasm and withdrew. He grabbed my cock and licked it clean – he had not adequately prepared for my penetration. I felt ill.
His wife joined us on the bed and they started to play with my limp dick. I pushed their hands away and smiled as I told them it would be impossible. I thought I might have some complaints but they accepted what I said.
Out of the blue, the wife sat up. “Coffee?” She said this as if she were taking an order in a restaurant. I nodded. “Get dressed and come down. We’ll be in the lounge. Bottom of the stairs – first door on the right.” They left me alone to get robed. I sat on the bed for a few moments trying to make sense of the whole scene. I soon gave up. What did it matter? It was their business.
When I reached the ‘lounge’, there was freshly ground coffee and Rich Tea biscuits awaiting me. They had dressed in the respectable clothes one might expect from a distinguished Tory MP and his made–to–order wife. The conversation was inconsequential and I was totally ignored.
“Another cup?” she asked.
“Not fuckin’ likely.” I growled.
“Language!” came the sharp reprimand.
“Sorry.”
When the tea party was over. He gave me a lift back to ‘The Steps’ in his battered, old car and, just as I got out, slipped me an extra tenner. “Well done. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” We never did.
After the earlier panic over the cop car, calm had been restored to ‘The Steps’. It was back to its usual buzzing self. Paolo had also decided to return. The little bugger must have gossiped to the others about the trick for I was greeted with wolf whistles and a slow hand–clap. I grinned, poked out my tongue, made a face, waved my considerable remuneration at them and freely answered their highly probing questions.
A Pregnant Pause
For some months now, Sheba had become ever more broody and moody. Her virginity was really getting on her nerves. Sometimes this unwonted state of purity made her highly depressed. As I was her confidant in the office, she insisted on pouring out her disappointment frequently and graphically into my ever open ear.
One evening, when we were out for an after–work coffee she, once again, gave vent to her feelings. “Oh, Carl, I get so terribly frustrated. It’s all right for you boys. All you have to do is lock yourselves in the toilet and give yourselves a quick hand job. And you don’t even have to make yourself look good to do it.”
I smiled. “True. Don’t you ever masturbate?”
“No,” she moaned. “I tried it once and felt so bloody guilty; I couldn’t relax enough to enjoy it. It’s one of the many curses of being brought up a Catholic, I’m afraid.” Suddenly she wailed, “Oh, why wasn’t I born male and gay?!”
“Sheba?”
“What?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? I don’t think so.” She lit a cigarette and turned the lighted tip over and over in the ashtray. “Everyone else is out there enjoying themselves to the hilt. Why can’t I? I want some of the bleedin’ action for a change.”
Eventually I turned her mind to something else and she allowed the subject to be dropped – but not forgotten.
The next day, during our lunch hour, whilst we were sharing coffee and sandwiches in ‘Alfio’s’, she sighed suddenly and belted out, “Oh, how I loathe, hate and detest being a stupid, blushing virgin.” The buzzed conversation from the other customers dimmed markedly. I tried to get her to lower her voice but, with Sheba, once she was on a roll, she was not to be silenced. “Carl, I’ve decided.”
“What?” I was getting bored with her harping away constantly on the same subject.
“I want you to do the honours.”
“What honours?” I asked in mock innocence.
“I’m asking you to break my virgin knot.”
Choking on my sandwich, I peered around. She could have chosen a better place to proposition me. “I really don’t think this is the sort of place to go into all….” With my eyes, I was trying frenetically to draw her attention to our enthusiastic eavesdroppers.
“Balls!” she aimed at them. “If they haven’t anything better going on in their lives then that’s their problem. They can listen if they want to. I don’t give a sod!”
I smiled across at Alfio who was looking puzzled. “But I do!” I hissed at her. “Please remember, I’m known in here.”
“Darling Carl, what are you worried about? You’re known everywhere.” I didn’t answer. “Well?”
How was I going to stop her? “Well, what?”
“God, sometimes you can be so infuriatingly obtuse.” I didn’t answer but shot more warning looks which she still delighted in ignoring. “Alright, I’ll spell it out.” I looked at her with mounting horror. “I’m begging you to F. U. C...”
“No!” By now we had everyone’s undivided attention. I knew something had to be done. “Let’s go outside. We’ll talk about it out there.”
Leaving behind our half eaten snacks, I dragged Sheba out into the sunshine. We found a quiet, deserted church–yard and she promptly began bombarding me with apparent indisputable arguments as to why it was imperative that I should adhere to her request. To begin with, she wouldn’t entertain ‘No’ as an answer. Eventually I counter bombarded her with my own indisputable arguments. I managed to convince her that I didn’t feel it was right for me to be her first. I fully believed that her precious jewel should be given to someone who was straight and would fully appreciate what she was so eagerly prepared to give up. I half expected her to go mad at my persistence. How wrong I was. She didn’t seem to mind and appeared to understand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not fair putting this on you. I’m just so anxious to get rid of it. I’m willing to clutch at any old straw”.
“Oh, thank you very much! Is that how you see me? As an ‘old straw’?”
“Oh, do shut up,” she grinned. “You know exactly what I mean”.
From that moment on, she grabbed almost every nettle and practically threw herself at anyone and everyone who she believe
d would score the goal in her hungry net. However, things didn’t go entirely to plan as she merely succeeded in meeting all the wrong people. Considering how attractive she was, combined with the desperate lengths she was willing to travel, I would have thought there would have been a queue. But no, every guy she dated was oh, so, moral as each expressed a desire to wait until their wedding night. She seriously toyed with the idea of raping some poor unsuspecting sod in the street just to be rid of it.
I found Sheba’s dilemma highly amusing but I couldn’t give her the full support she believed she deserved. I had more pressing concerns of my own. By now Matthew had been completely marginalised and continually haunted the periphery of my relationship with Marti. Every time I saw him in a club or bar, he would come over and talk stridently to the people I was with whilst aiming his disparaging remarks at me.
“Paolo, my dear friend...,” he once said. Surprised, Paolo, who barely knew Matthew, looked around to see if there was some other Paolo in his proximity. “...still keeping company with the cesspit waste I see?”
After Matthew had gone, Paolo leaned back, sighed, and asked, “Well, my dears, and what the fuck was that all about. Is she on something or what?”
I felt some sort of explanation was required. “I think it was for my benefit.”
Paolo, sniffing a juicy bit of gossip, leaned in towards me. “Oh? What gives?”
I didn’t want him or anyone to know what was going on in my other lives so I lamely replied, “I’m not sure. Let’s face it, who knows what goes on in other people’s heads.” My feeble explanation appeared to satisfy him for he stood up and went over to talk to one of his clients.
A week later I called in on Marti.
As soon as I walked through the door, she asked, “Want a drink?”
“Er. No thanks.” She appeared highly agitated.
Ignoring my reply, she poured me a large brandy, which, at the time I hated – and she knew it, and thrust the glass at me. “What’s this for?” I had a sudden fear that Matthew had taken it into his head to have a repeat clash with Marti and I was about to have to pick up the fragments of her bruised sense of self. The brandy, I assumed, was to fortify me against her imminent angsting.
“Oh, do shut up, sit down and drink it.” She had an odd look in her eyes. I knew it was no use arguing the toss, so I took a sip. “Down in one!” Suspiciously I obeyed. Good God, it must have been a real humdinger of a row.
“What’s happened?” I knew her well enough to spot when she had some news.
“I don’t know the easiest way to say it, so I might as well come straight out with it.” She stopped. I braced myself.
After a pause, during which I could see she was thinking hard of how to ‘come straight out with’ whatever ‘it’ was, I asked, “Well?”
She drew in a deep breath. “Well, – Carl,” she giggled and looked at the floor, “We’ve done it – I’m pregnant.” She gave me one of the most searching stares I have ever received. Time and the world stopped in its tracks.
“Oh.” I was both numb and dumb. This time it was my turn to take a pause. I was shattered. My spinning mind refused to function. It felt simultaneously empty and full. If thought could turn somersaults, mine was shooting up to the stratosphere. Finally I broke the stillness. “Is it mine?” What the fuck was I asking? What foolish, insensitive, unfeeling, tactless, selfish and brutish part of my brain made me pose such a question, I’ll never know. As soon as it left my lips I winced, “Oh, God!” For a split second I could see that Marti flushed in anger. Then, true to her generous nature, she burst out laughing. She had a perfect right to be both furious and hurt and to throw me out on my cold hearted backside. In her position, I believe it’s what I would have done. In my defence, I can only submit that, because I was both sixteen and gay, I could hardly credit that I could or would ever become a father. Even though Marti had immediately forgiven me, I still felt a compulsion to explain. “Look, I...”
“It’s all right, Carl, you can stop digging the hole,” she interrupted, giving me a hug, “I think I understand.”
After a giant shout that went on forever, I finally managed to respond with, “I’m going to be a dad!!” Whooping in pride and joy, I stamped and skipped around her flat like a demented explorer who had suddenly discovered El Dorado.
In an outpouring of exuberance, we began to talk over one another in an outburst of exultant relief. The rest of the evening was full of affection and blissful expectation. For the hundredth time, she reiterated the conditions of the child’s nativity and nurturing but insisted that I would not be totally excluded from the child’s development.
Astonishingly, it was a few months before Matthew heard the wonderful news and, for some incomprehensible reason, chose to become dangerously angry. Some of our mutual friends warned me of his black mood and advised me to stay out of his way as much as I could. This I did but one evening, as I was leaving ‘The Green Goddess’ with Andy and a couple of others, he found and confronted me in the middle of the street.
“So, the stinking rat has dared to come out of his hole in the ground, has he?” His eyes were blazing with barely suppressed rage.
“Matthew…”
Andy and the crowd moved to one side. This was something of which they were ignorant and, as such, didn’t want to become involved. However, because of the ‘welcome’ I had received, they knew that, for my safety, it was advisable to hang around – just in case.
There then followed an almighty altercation where Matthew was determined to allow his feelings full reign. My attempts at reasoning with him only managed to fuel his fire. As he went on, his level of hysteria rose to such an alarming extent that my friends felt duty bound to step forward to my defence.
“So, you think that pitiful bunch of camp cronies and milksops will save you, do you? I don’t think so, matey.”
Naturally, my friends, now stung and true to form, refused to take kindly to this verbal onslaught and, en masse, rounded on him but Matthew was determined not to be thwarted. His final flourish came when he actually challenged me to some sort of a knife duel. What the hell was happening? I seriously felt that I’d entered a parallel dimension. Desperately, I continued to reason with him but he was determined not to listen. My attempts at defusing the situation were joined by the others who didn’t exactly help matters with their belittling remarks aimed at him. Instead of bringing Matthew to his senses, all they succeeded in doing was to rile him further and make him even more determined. As he left, he ordered me to be at such and such a place at such and such a time, or else!
“This is all fucking nuts,” was all I could muster.
After Matthew’s departure, my friends flocked around to comfort me. None of them knew exactly what was happening but they saw a colleague in distress and closed ranks. Tactfully, no one asked what was going on and why Matthew seemed unwavering in his effort to have a ‘face off’.
“What do I do now?” I asked pathetically. No one could give me a satisfactory answer.
Andy, who thought the whole thing ridiculous said, “Unless you can talk him round, it seems pretty obvious.” He went on to say that if the pair of us were stupid enough to go through with it, he didn’t want to know and didn’t care a damn. I must confess that his attitude, though sensible and level–headed, hurt me deeply. I had hoped that he would understand but he wouldn’t. Whatever the row was all about, it was of my own making and, as far as he was concerned, I would have to fix it myself with no help from him. With a disparaging shrug of his shoulders, Andy gloomily shook his head and left.
The rest lugged me back into ‘The Green Goddess’, parked me on a convenient chair and ordered me a coffee. I think that their collective curiosity must have been at full stretch but not a single one of them even so much as dropped a hint that they wanted to know more.
At first, they recommended that the whole thing would probably blow over and that I should lay low for a while.
“That’s what I have b
een doing and look where it’s landed me – in a great pile of shit!”
Inside, I knew that going underground would be impossible. Marti would need moral support so I would have to continue seeing her – and Matthew would find out. When it began to sink in that I would not be able to run away, my friends were stumped – all except Zenda. On his advice, I knew I must get something with which to defend myself. He suggested a flick knife. It was easy to hide and would come in useful in the forthcoming confrontation.
“You still might be able to talk him ‘round. The knife will be there for your security.”
“Have you one?” I asked.
“Good God, no. I wouldn’t be seen dead with one of those.” His choice of words didn’t exactly ease my burden.
So, now I had to locate a flick knife. That was all well and good but I had no idea from where one could be obtained. I pleaded with the rest of my comforters if any one of them had such a weapon, could I borrow it. They were brimming over with empathy but could offer no practical help whatsoever. Either they didn’t have any or refused to let me borrow one as any crime which might be committed could be linked back to them.
I felt dejected and an urge to be on my own came over me. I needed time to allow myself to get this new development into perspective. Excusing myself, I caught the next bus home. My mind was in an acute upheaval.
The following morning I felt no better; in fact, I awoke with a mood of desperation hanging over me. Eventually, at around midday, I had a brainwave.
At my art class, I told my teacher that I wanted to paint a still life based on violence and I needed some props. One vital component of the painting, I went on, would be a flick knife. He put out a general call to the class and one lad who was dim but exceptionally talented reeled off a list of various implements he owned that might come in handy – including the elusive flick knife. Further, he would be delighted to loan me his any other item from his rather grisly collection. As he only lived a short walk away, he scuttled off to fetch the things. When he returned, he was merrily brandishing a particularly lethal looking specimen of weaponry. I didn’t bother to ask why he owned such a vicious looking object.