by Timothy Lea
“Then there was Rollo. Now, he was a charming boy – absolutely charming. Much too good for Viccy. She treats him so badly it’s incredible. I think he turned to me because of it. At least one can be civil, can’t one, but young people today – I know everybody says it but it’s true – young people are so thoughtless, so ill-mannered, it really does upset me. Anyway, on this occasion they were playing tennis and Rollo falls and grazes his leg quite badly. Do you know, all Viccy can do is laugh at him? It really was so cruel. I was mortified. I took him up to the house to put something on his knee and made him lie down on this very sofa.” She pats it like an animal. “Now perhaps it was the brandy, or me in my tennis things – I don’t know what it was – anyway, poor Rollo suddenly becomes terribly affectionate – I mean you can’t blame him the way that girl treats him. I suppose I should have told him to behave himself, in fact I’m certain I did, but he was such a sweet boy. Nothing happened, of course, I wouldn’t have let it, but Viccy comes leaping through the door – she’s quite a big girl really – and the language. I don’t know where she heard words like that – certainly not from me, though I can’t speak for her real mother. It’s much quieter here when they’re both away.”
All the time she has been saying this, her hand has been creeping along the back of the settee and now it is ruffling the hair on the back of my neck. I turn towards her and she suddenly kisses me, so fast she nearly misses my mouth. It’s more like franking a letter than a kiss really.
“Now, I expect you’d like to see my bedroom,” she says.
It’s all moving a bit fast for me and I try and kiss her just to make sure that we’re both thinking about the same thing. But she pulls away like the Q.E.2 leaving Southampton and stands up smoothing her dress down.
“Leave the tea things,” she says, and glides out. I follow her up the stairs and when we get to the top she points to one of the doors along the landing. “I expect you’d like to use the bathroom,” she says.
I wouldn’t dream of arguing with her so I pop into the onyx palace. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing and when I’ve had a quick sluice down I put my clothes on again. I mean I don’t want to wander into her bedroom bollock naked and find she only wants me to mend the plug on her electric blanket.
But when I get to the bedroom I’m dead certain that isn’t what she has in mind. The curtains are half drawn and there’s an electric fire on by the bed. In it, the bed I mean, is Mrs. A. with her back to me. I can see that she is wearing a slip, the straps nudging in to her fleshy shoulders.
“I can’t abide cold hands,” she says firmly, so I take the hint and warm mine in front of the electric fire. What a carry on. I only wish I felt a bit sexed up about the whole thing, but I don’t. I’ve hardly touched the woman and yet I’m practically in bed with her. I mean, even the best of us need a bit of warming up and at the moment I’m drooping like a wet pigtail. If I had an ounce of self respect I’d tell her to get stuffed and march straight out, but of course, I haven’t, so I take my clothes off and slide in beside her, hoping that once I make contact it’s going to be alright. Her back is still turned towards me and I slip my hands under her petticoat sharpish because that usually brings me on a treat – just the feel of it, you know. She isn’t wearing any knicks, wicked old bag, and allows herself a little groan which might be meant to indicate pleasure. If it is she certainly knows how to keep herself under control. I’m nibbling her shoulders and playing her like a Naafi piano but she doesn’t move.
At last I can’t stand it any more and I wrench her round and start raining kisses on her pruin mouth. This has some effect because she grabs hold of my old man and starts yanking it like it’s something to call the butler on. It’s not having the desired effect though and I’m wondering how to escape when she flings back the bedclothes and suddenly sits up. I think she’s had enough too, but her back arches and her head goes down my body.
“Poor boy,” she says, just before she starts, “it’s always the same, what a good thing the girls aren’t here.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Now so far I’ve been talking solidly about birds and you may recall – if you went skipping to get to the sexy bits – how I described the signs that can lead the average red blooded English boy to a spot of nooky: frustration, boredom, seven year itch, everybody doing-it, old man over the top – that kind of thing.
Now all this pre-supposes that you’ve only got to stand there with your scrim in your hand and they’re all going to start tearing your clothes off. Up to a point this is true. If you hang on long enough you can’t fail to get some bag making a pass at you even if you look like Goofie with a hang over. But there are times when it’s in the balance, and then you’ve got to ram home the message wrapped in a bit of sales appeal. In other words it’s no good recognising the ones that will if they don’t know you can.
What I’m going to tell you now is the fruit of years of experience, observation, and advice I’ve received. I certainly didn’t know it all when I was tumbling about with the likes of Viv, Dot and Mrs. A., but they each helped in their own special way.
First of all, you’ve got to like birds. It seems dead simple doesn’t it? I mean every man likes birds. But he doesn’t! There’s a hell of a lot of them would be much happier danging their floats in the local reservoir or checking over their stamp collections. They only make a token effort so their mates don’t think they’re bent or because Mum is always nagging at them. Look at some of your married friends if you don’t believe me. It’s not just that they don’t fancy the old woman, they don’t fancy any one! The telly, the boozer, maybe a spot of football, that’s their lot. They came in with a dud battery hanging between their legs and it’s too late to take it back to the shop. So: Rule One. You’ve got a much better chance of getting it if you really want it.
Rule Two: Make them laugh. This is where you can’t go wrong. Once you’ve got a bird laughing – and especially a married bird – you can practically hear the bedsprings creaking. Birds want to be relaxed, they want a bit of fun and once you’re sharing a sense of humour – well, there’s no limit to what you’ll be sharing. Considering how much time we spend talking to each other, it’s amazing how bad we are at it. The difference between what we want to say – and what actually comes out of our mouths is fantastic. I mean, take me and that first time with Viv for instance. Diabolical. Whereas, if I’d have been able to keep chatting and thrown in a few funnies, I’d have been there nice and easy, without needing a bloody thunderstorm. Most women, though there are exceptions – in fact when you’re talking about women there are millions of exceptions – like to feel that they are being seduced by you, so if you can chat them up, make them laugh, take the micky out of yourself a bit so you seem a human being just like they are, then you’re guiding them gently towards the front room carpet or whereever else they like to do it. Which reminds me of a bird once who – no, sorry.
Rule Three: Be persistent. If you really want it, go hard for it. Don’t take no for an answer. I had a mate at school who had a face like three warts on a carbuncle but his record was fantastic. I know because I saw photographs of some of the birds. In fact I had to swallow one in the middle of the geography class when the master got curious. How he got them to pose like that I’ll never quite know, because he was only about fifteen – they must have been out of their tiny minds. I believe it was because he went on shaking them, like a kaleidoscope, until he got the right pattern or they got so fed up they decided it was the only way to make him buzz off. He was fantastic that bloke.
So remember, when they start coming all that “Oh, Fred, do you really think we should be doing this?” stuff they are asking to be mastered. Tell them to get them off and get on with it. If you start saying, “well, maybe you’ve got a point there, Edith,” they’ll just think you’re wetter than a used nappy liner.
Rule Four: Keep yourself in good shape. You don’t have to look like Rock Hudson but if your gut is spilling over your Y-
fronts you’re only going to remind them of their old man and that’s worse than useless. So keep your clobber on the tight side and nip about a bit to show them you’re alive. Sid does a lovely line in sliding down the ladder with his feet on the outside, which goes down a treat and his footwork on the high window sill has to be seen to be believed. I’ve got good shoulders so my forte is the deep breath and the rhythmic to and fro with the rubber. I’ve known times when birds have been doing the ironing in time with me.
Rule Five: Be prepared to forget the other four rules. As I’ve already said, birds are funny, so if you’ve got a good line you might as well stick to it. One of Sid’s mates, known as the Magic Dragon, never used to say a word and he had so much crumpet he didn’t know what to do with it. He was a good looking bloke, I know because I saw him up at the boozer once. He used to keep himself brown with a sun ray lamp and do weightlifting so his shoulders gushed out from his waist as if they’d been forced through a three inch pipe. His line was to get out there all strong and silent, letting his biceps speak a language any woman could understand, whilst he gazed down on them like they were drying foot prints. Faced with this rejection most birds felt like knotting themselves but just when they couldn’t stand any more the Magic Dragon would suddenly suck in a mouthful of air, gorge his enormous pectorals (sit down madam!) and breathe all over the window pane, a big one at first, followed by little, delicate puffs like whirls of cake icing. Hence, his nickname, see? ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’. Well, I never saw him in action, but apparently you had to sweep up the pieces afterwards. One bird savaged him so badly he had to have fourteen stitches in his shoulder. Alright, I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true, so help me. You don’t know what seven years of happy marriage can do to a woman.
Then there was Roy. He didn’t say much either. His angle was to have his lower lip trembling the whole time and to be seen frequently blowing his nose.
Well, no woman could resist this for very long and before you could say “Watch it lady” they’d be asking him what the trouble was. “Nothing, nothing,” he’d sob, “sorry to be going on like this” and poor brave fellow that he was, he’d hurl himself back at the job until he suddenly lost his footing and ended up in a crumpled, shuddering heap at the bottom of the ladder. “Jenny, Jenny,” he’d be moaning as they reached him and then it would all come blurting out. How his wife had run away with the milkman, leaving him with six kids, and how it was his fault because he hadn’t been paying her enough attention because he’d been working evenings trying to make enough money to take the whole family to the seaside for the first time. By Christ, it fair broke your heart to think about it, and it was a hard bitch who didn’t put a protective arm around his shoulders and shove the kettle on for a nice soothing cup of tea. Well, of course, the minute they did that they were done for. Roy’s snuffles would dry against their blouses and hands that had once been clutching desperately as if at a straw, were now invested with a new sense of purpose. “Oh no” Roy would gasp, taking the words straight out of their mouths. “I didn’t think I could ever feel like this again. It’s wonderful.” Up till then they’d been getting a bit worried, but with those words they suddenly realised that they were in the exalted position of being able to confer the gift of life on a fellow human being. This creature desperately trying to pull down their knickers and tights at the same time had been wounded near to death and by a member of their own sex to boot. What better way to offer some reparation than by letting him take the simple pleasure he so obviously sought and which they were in the fortunate position of being able to bestow. I tell you, it was diabolical how he got away with it.
Now, you may well be asking yourselves where I fit in all this; you may equally well be scratching your left bollock, but that’s your affair.
I was learning fast but although I soon got the hang of all the dodges, I knew that I was never going to be in Sid’s class. I was too moody. My ability to chat a bird up didn’t just depend on her but on whether Chairman Mao was being nice to the Russians, or the weather, or how Chelsea had been doing lately. Sometimes I was dead on and sometimes I was dead on my feet, there was no knowing how it was going to be.
Luckily, when I met Sandy it was one of my chirpy days. If it hadn’t been I might have done myself a permanent injury.
One of my better jobs was a small block of posh flats down by Wandsworth Common. One of those big Victorian Houses had been steam-rollered and Green Pastures – yes that’s what the berks called it – had been shot up in its place. It was dead simple because it was all glass and you could have wheeled a pram along its window sills, they were so wide. Window cleaning was included in the service fee the tenants payed so I collected my cash from the caretaker and whipped round with my large squeegee in no time.
At least, usually I did. On this occasion, I was moving along the front of the building admiring the brass rubbings and the bookcases full of paper-backs when I saw something that made my blood turn colder than an Eskimo’s chuff.
In this room there was a naked woman tied up on the floor. Not just tied up, but with so much cord round her it looked as if someone had used her to roll up a piece of string. If she had problems they didn’t end there. There was another bird wearing a thigh length black slip and a very determined expression, lashing her with a riding crop. Now you’ve got to admit that that’s a sight you don’t see every day of the week. Talk about “Kinky Kats on the Rampage”. It made Wardour Street seem like Cheltenham Spa on a wet Monday.
At first I didn’t see it. Call me naive if you like or Flossy if it gives you real pleasure – but I thought that the bird on the floor was being attacked by the other one. My basic, decent British reaction was one of outrage, so I banged hard on the window.
Neither of the bints had seen me and the one with the whip looks up and claps her hands to her tits in a gesture of upper class shock a bit at odds with the cold blooded thrashing she’d just been dishing out. Before I got any further let me say at once that she is a very good looking bird. Black gypsy ringlets coiling down around alabaster shoulders – you know all that crap – big long-lashed brown eyes, tits like pomegranates – in fact she’s like the birds on those Schweppervesence show cards I used to knock off from the local boozer. She’s panting a bit and her complexion would make Mr. Yardley cream his jeans in envy. Even before I notice the small watercolours in the thin gilt frames and the chaise longue I realise I am in the presence of a lady.
“Good gracious” she says, opening the window, “you gave me a start.”
“You don’t look as if you need one,” I say, immediately proving to her what a laugh I am. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
“I was trying to give Amanda an orgasm,” she says, matter-of-factly. “It rather looks as if it’s gone by the board now, doesn’t it?”
I have to agree with her because Amanda who I recall as being rigid with effort is now all relaxed and bulging against her bonds like a rolled sirloin. She is a large girl and you wouldn’t find many people outside that African tribe that goes in for fattening up its women till they look like hippos, that would disagree with me.
“Amanda loves being beaten,” goes on the dark-haired bird. “It’s about the only thing she does like. It was awfully lucky we found out. You see Sebastian, that’s her husband, got rather squiffy one night and suddenly started flailing away at her. We were all absolutely horrified and poor ’Basters was really distraught when he sobered up. But what makes it so terribly amusing is that Amanda absolutely adored it and nearly came on the spot. Never been near it before, had you darling? – Oh I am sorry, you haven’t been introduced. Amanda this is – what is your name?”
“Timothy Lea.”
“Timothy Lea – Amanda Browne, with an e.” Amanda Browne grunts a greeting. She really is a very plain girl and the weal marks don’t help.
“And my name is Rachel Devroon, though everybody calls me Sandy because I don’t have red hair. Yes, well, wasn’t it lucky about
Amanda finding out what she really liked.”
This bird is obviously nutty as a fruit cake, but she is very cool. I have to admit that.
“So Amanda’s old man keeps her happy by bashing her up. Nothing unusual about that, it happens all the time round here.”
“If you’re going to do anything, for God’s sake do it,” says Amanda, peevishly, “I’m beginning to get cramp. And do shut that bloody window.”
“Sorry Pet,” says Sandy hopping across the room so her boobs bounce up and down like twins in a rubber baby carriage, “we must get everything right for you.”
Sandy’s thighs are the smoothest way to introduce a leg to an arse I’ve ever seen and when she bends down I can practically hear my mince pies grinding between them, like skinned golf balls. She’s bloody lucky she isn’t tied up on the floor.
“You don’t understand darling,” she says to me, “Amanda doesn’t really get on with ’Basters. Oh, he’s very sweet but he’s a bit draggy at the same time – very ‘where’s my Financial Times?’ – you know? So I find her the most dishy spade who bashes her all over the place.”
“So everybody is happy.” I say.
“No. Racialism rears it’s ugly head. Amanda tries very hard but deep down inside she’s got a thing about coloured men – her grandfather had a tobacco farm in Rhodesia or something, so that doesn’t work either. Spitsville isn’t it?”
“Very,” I say, “So what were you doing just now?”
“Well, Amanda feels that because it just doesn’t seem to work with fellahs, she may be a lesbian and we were just seeing if I could do anything. You were quite enjoying it, weren’t you, sweet?”