Confessions of a Window Cleaner

by Timothy Lea

  Talking of tricks reminds me of Brenda; plump little blonde bird with bloody great tits. She was a rotten little tart if ever there was one. She’d strip to the waist to wash her hands in a prisoner of war camp, and the insides of her legs hadn’t touched each other since she left primary school.

  She was another one who was always moaning on about her old man. I don’t like that because I’m happier forgetting he exists. Hearing some bird telling me what a prat her husband is makes me feel sorry for the poor bastard and once I feel sorry I feel guilty and once I feel guilty I don’t enjoy poking the bird so much. So Brenda is doing nobody a favour by beginning to rabbit on about ‘The Weasel’ as she affectionately calls him.

  “You know what I like about you?” she says to me one afternoon, when we’re tucked up side by side enjoying a marshmallow after the first round of our labours. I’m not kidding. Brenda is always stuffing herself with sweets.

  “Don’t be bloody stupid,” I tell her.

  “No, besides that – well it is part of it I suppose. It’s your body. You’ve got a lovely body, Timmy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You conceited bastard!”

  “Well, it’s a fact, isn’t it? I’m stuck with it. There’s no point in pretending I haven’t noticed it myself.”

  “The Weasel looks like a slug compared to you.”

  “Weasels can’t look like slugs.”

  “Mine can. Oh, you don’t know what it’s like when he starts pawing you.”

  “You’re dead right I don’t.”

  “He’s got cold, clammy hands, and hairs growing out of his ears. Trouble is, he’s so sexy. He can’t get enough of it. Every night he’s trying to have it away. ‘Come on Brenda. Just a quickie. It’ll help me go to sleep.’ That’s what he says. I usually give in to him. Just so that I can get some peace.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know somebody cares, isn’t it?”

  “He doesn’t care. I could be half a grapefruit for all it matters to him.”

  You damn near are, I think to myself.

  “And he’s so mean,” she goes on. “Never takes me out anywhere.”

  “He’s frightened of losing you to another man.”

  “Go on. Don’t give me that. If I could leave my twat behind, he’d chuck me out tomorrow.”

  Most birds never mention their fannies by name but Brenda doesn’t bother about such niceties.

  “He’d have a job, wouldn’t he?”

  “You ought to be jealous listening to me going on about my husband.”

  “Doesn’t sound as if I’ve got much to be jealous about.”

  “No. It’s the idea of it. If you cared for me, you wouldn’t want me to mention anybody else.”

  “No. I expect you’re right.”

  “Ooh. You are terrible. You only want one thing with me.”

  “So do you.”

  “I don’t. I’m very fond of you. Much more than you are of me. I don’t tell you, but I am.”

  “You’re telling me now, aren’t you?”

  “If you’re going to be like that, you might as well piss off.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Brenda, you’re such a lady.”

  “That’s not what you like about me. This is what you like—” She picks up my hand and puts it between her legs. It’s like putting it in front of an electric fire. You could hatch ducks’ eggs down there.

  “—and this is what I like.” Brenda’s hands are like a cheese grater and she uses them as if she’s rummaging for a tanner in a sack of potatoes. That’s because she’s a scrubber. A class bird will always treat your property with the tenderness and respect it deserves. However, my prick is so pig stupid it frequently can’t tell the difference and responds to her horrible advances with a speed worthy of a better occasion.

  “There’s a good boy.”

  Brenda shoves another marshmallow in her mouth and scrambles astride me.

  “Where is it? Ah, there we are.”

  She settles down like a chicken on to its eggs and starts a slow circular movement which matches the passage of the marshmallow round her mouth. It’s not bad and I lie back and watch her enormous tits. They’re a bit like marshmallows, too.

  “Come on, aren’t you going to do anything?”

  “I was admiring you.”

  “Go on.”

  “No seriously. You’ve got fabulous tits.”

  I know I said I never call ’em tits, but with Brenda it doesn’t matter. She bends forward so her hair dangles all over my face and her bristols are hanging down like two stockings full of sago pudding. It’s supposed to be sexy but in fact her hair tickles and her tits give me an inferiority complex. That’s why I like small, slim birds. Because I’ve got a penis complex – oh doctor, I thought I’d never tell you.

  I tilt back my head and lick the dust of icing sugar on her lips. Somewhere outside men are digging holes in the road, or adding up columns of sales figures, or selling vacuum cleaners, but Timmy Lea is lying here being screwed by Brenda Somebody and it’s not a bad way to make a living, really it isn’t.

  “Yoo hoo! Anyone at home?”

  I leap about four feet in the air, which is not bad when you’ve got somebody Brenda’s weight sitting on your old man, but bloody painful when you come down again.

  “Fuck,” says Brenda. She sounds more annoyed than scared. Not me though.

  I’m scared. This is the kind of thing I always knew would happen one day.

  “What am going to do?”

  “You could get in the wardrobe.”

  I rush across the room and tear the coat hangers aside, so I can burrow into the mothballs like a thirteen stone moth trying to commit suicide.

  “My clothes?”

  “Alright, alright,” she picks up my stuff and pushes it into the wardrobe.

  “Here I come, lover.” The voice is about six paces away.

  “Close the door. Ouch!”

  The last exclamation is occasioned by my cock nearly getting slammed in the door. It must have been done a permanent injury, because it’s still standing stiffly to attention like the boy on the burning deck. Try explaining that one away I think to myself as I crouch there peering through the clothes and the half-open doors towards the bed.

  In this situation, I have to hand it to Brenda. You wouldn’t think that her husband was on the point of bursting into the bedroom and finding her boy friend bent double in the wardrobe with an enormous hard on. She drops her nightdress over her shoulders like a tea cosy, hops into bed and is sitting there selecting a marshmallow as ‘The Weasel’ comes into my field of vision. I can see what she means about being sexy. He must be fruitier than a two-ton packet of wine gums. He’s only been shedding his clothes all the way up the stairs and is now wearing a string vest, pants and socks, held up by an arresting pair of yellow suspenders. It is possible that he always goes about like this, but I reject the thought.

  “So there you are,” he says, sitting on the bed and helping himself to a marshmallow.

  “Cor, you’re looking alright.”

  “Help yourself.” Brenda waves at the box on her lap. “Why don’t you take the whole bleeding lot?”

  “You don’t seem very glad to see me. I got away special to come over here. Look, I bought you a little present.”

  Typical, I think to myself. ‘He never buys me anything,’ that’s what she said to me. You can’t believe a word they say.

  The Weasel produces what looks like one coil from a large spring which he must have been hiding in his hand.

  “Where did you knock that off from?” Grateful, isn’t she?

  “I bought it.”

  “Go on. I know you. What is it?”

  “It’s a bracelet. It goes on your wrist.”

  “I know where bracelets go. I didn’t think it went through my nose.”

  Not a bad idea, though, I think to myself. God. but it’s uncomfortable in that cupboard and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be
able to stand it without moving. Why doesn’t Brenda tell him to piss off and buy her a packet of aspirins?

  “Don’t be like that, Bren,” continues the Weasel. “You know how I feel about you.”

  “Yeah. With your dirty little hands most of the time. I’ve had about enough of it.”

  “Oh Bren.”

  “Get orf me.”

  The Weasel is getting passionate and attempts to embrace Brenda, getting a stiff hand off for his pains.

  “Come on, Bren, give me a little kiss.” One of his podgy hands closes on her breast. “I did buy you a bracelet, didn’t I?”

  You can tell that ‘The Weasel’ is the persistent type and does not take ‘no’ for an answer easily. You may recall my earlier words on how effective this can be. Certainly Brenda is slow to brush the hand away and I can almost see her disgusting little mind thinking that it might be quicker and easier to let him get on with it.

  “You’re lovely, Bren. Ooh, if you knew how much I fancied you.”

  “I get an idea sometimes.”

  Brenda allows herself to be kissed and the rolls of fat on the Weasel’s neck huddle together like shorn sheep. It looks as if I’m going to be right. His hands disappear under her nightie and he’s moaning and trying unsuccessfully to hook off his socks. He looks bloody ridiculous and I hope nobody has ever seen me in the same position. Brenda’s head is on his shoulder and the cheeky bitch raises her eyebrows to the ceiling in a ‘useless’ gesture clearly intended for my benefit.

  “Come on then,” she says. “But you’d better make it quick – still, you usually do, don’t you?”

  She’s a hard case, that Brenda. The Weasel is trying to slip under the sheets but she kicks them all back so I can see right up to her tonsils. She whips off his pants like they’re a corn plaster and lays back with her hands behind her head. It’s obvious that this is all for my benefit. The dirtly little scrubber obviously gets a kick out of being watched when she’s on the job. The Weasel scrambles on top of her with all the grace of a pelican landing on a flag pole and fumbles his way into her. God knows why she calls him the Weasel. He’s more like an over-fed spaniel. Once he’s inside, she wraps her legs round the small of his back and I’m almost jealous until he gets into his stride. What a disgusting sight. It’s like a couple of hairy, white blancmanges caught in a high gale. They wobble and tremble so I think they might end up on the floor at any moment. I promise you, if you saw what it looked like it would put you off for the rest of your life. Luckily, I don’t have to bear it for long, because Brenda is dead right – the Weasel has hardly started before he is finished. He lets out a groan like the end of three weeks constipation and collapses on top of her as if he’s a beach mattress and somebody has taken the bung out. Over his shoulder Brenda is unkindly giving me a thumbs-down sign.

  “Get off, you’re suffocating me.”

  Brenda is not one of those women who need to be gently cossetted after the sexual act. She obviously has not read the book I got at the Junction.

  “Oh Bren –”

  “—Give over, for God’s sake. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Bren—”

  “—Look, you’ve had what you want. Now, why don’t you piss off?”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here with you.”

  Poor sod, I think, you can’t blame him. After all it is his home. If you get off work early and nip back for a bit of the other you expect to be treated better than this. The Weasel must really fancy her because he starts trying to kiss her neck and generally behaving in a very affectionate fashion quite unlike most blokes when they’ve just shot their load.

  “Bren, Bren, oh Bren.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Oh, don’t you see, Bren?”

  “Right!!!”

  Brenda struggles out from underneath him and pulls herself up on her elbows. Her eyes are blazing and she is looking directly towards the wardrobe. What is the stupid bitch going to do?

  “Do you want to meet my husband?”

  Her eyebrows raise in a question mark but they don’t get as far as my stomach which practically jumps out of my mouth. The Weasel whips round as if his head is attached by a twisted elastic band, and his eyes widen in what I assume is the first indication of insane rage. The bitch obviously wants to see me torn limb from limb. I shrink back into the wardrobe and that must upset its balance because the whole thing starts to tremble and I lose my footing and have to stumble out with my hampton still at the present arms. I put my fists up because I reckon I’m going to have to fight for my life against a justifiably enraged husband but ‘The Weasel’s’ behaviour is a revelation. He leaps off the bed just like you’d expect him to do, and the expression on his face certainly suggests a kind of madness, but instead of hurling himself at me he bursts past and bundles down the stairs as if Old Nick is after him.

  At first I’m dead relieved but then I get a bit worried. Perhaps the shock has driven him out of his mind. I hear the front door slam and crossing to the door, see that his clothes are still strewn all down the stairs. The poor berk must be running through the streets of Clapham in the altogether. I am genuinely disturbed but behind me Brenda is pissing herself.

  “Oh my God,” she screeches. “What a bloody laugh.”

  “Shutup, you crude bitch.” I say. “Are you some kind of nutter, or something?”

  But she goes on laughing fit to burst and I find my clobber and start pulling on my jeans. I mean, sympathy is all very well, but with everybody going round the twist you’ve got to look after number one. Maybe he has a friend round the corner with a shot gun.

  “You must be sick,” I say, managing to catch my foreskin in my zip which makes her laugh all the more. Really, I could belt her, the way I feel.

  “His face, when I asked him if he’d like to meet my husband. Oh my God. I thought I was going to die.” And yours, when you came out of the wardrobe. If you—”

  “What do you mean?” I say, but, of course, the moment she says that I twig.

  “You mean—”

  “Oh no!” Now she can hardly form the words. “Haven’t you got it yet? That wasn’t my husband.”

  “Then why the hell did you make me get in the cupboard?” I scream.

  “I didn’t make you do anything. I mentioned it and you were in there before I could stop you. You must have had a guilty conscience. Come on—”

  She stretches out her hand and tries to ruffle my hair. “Where’s your sense of humour? Can’t you take a little joke? I’m sorry, but I’d forgotten he said he was coming round. Ouch!!”

  I don’t approve of belting women but there has to be an exception to every rule, and with Brenda I really think I was justified. What her old man thought when he did come home I don’t know, but with that shiner he must have thought she did more than walk into a cupboard.

  With birds like that around it was a relief to be able to turn to Elizabeth. I had taken her to the flicks a couple of times and on the second occasion I actually got her into the back row and kissed her. How about that?

  The first time I had to be content with holding her hand during the big feature and her burying her head in my shoulder during the nasty bits. It was a different world I can tell you, and when I went out with Elizabeth I felt as if I was entering an order of monks who had taken the vow of ‘keep your hands off it.’ I was so used to grabbing any part of a bird I took a fancy to that it took me a bit of time to adapt to her standards. And, by God, they were strict. On the way home after our little kissing session in the cinema – kissing, I hasten to make it clear, not necking – she is obviously dead worried that she has gone too far and shies away every time I try and put my arm round her. “I give you an inch and you want to take a mile,” she bleats.

  This is typical and with some birds I wouldn’t bother, but, as I have explained, in a funny way, I rather like it. It amuses me to think that I’m having this wild scene with all those dollies and yet this little virgin won�
�t let me lay a finger on her, She is also a very good-looking bird and I think every bloke needs a steady to tide him over the ups and downs. This thought is particularly sharp in my mind at the moment because Sandy has a big thing going with some Spade – you can take that any way you like – and doesn’t really want to know me. As you can imagine, this is causing me all kinds of little hang-ups.

  So for all those reasons I’m quite happy sitting there in the darkness, watching Elizabeth gaze hypnotised at the screen whilst the Dairy Vanilla Walnut Whip Sundae Special drips off the end of her spoon on to the floor.

  “That was really nice,” she says to me at the end of one epic load of old rubbish when I have broken all records by actually massaging one of her tits for thirteen seconds before being pulled off. She is not referring to my pathetic advances but to the film.

  “Not bad,” I say. “I wish he’d say a bit more, though. I get fed up with this strong, silent stuff.”

  “Well, he was meant to be an Inca prince. Perhaps they didn’t speak much. Anyway, I think he’s smashing. My Mum likes him too.”

  “When am I going to meet your Mum?”

  It’s a fact that I’ve been out with her about six times now and I’ve never been inside the house. Maybe she’s ashamed of it – or maybe it’s me.

  “Well, you won’t meet her tonight.”

  This is no surprise so I start resigning myself to a wimpy and a quick tussle in the porch, with her rabbiting on about the neighbours.

  “They’ve gone to stay with my aunt in Broadstairs for the weekend.”

  “What, your Mum and Dad?”

  “Yes.”

  Now normally you’d expect her to follow that by saying “Don’t get any ideas about coming in and making a beast of yourself.” but she doesn’t. And when she doesn’t the blood starts circulating even faster through my ever-hopeful veins. Perhaps this is my big opportunity. Play it cool and I could be in like Flynn.

  So I drop the subject and take her off for a cup of coffee and some more chat about Charlton Heston and how good he was in “The Big Country” and all that kind of thing. She is less talkative than usual and I feel that there may be something on her mind. I wonder what it is.