by Timothy Lea
I get one shoe off and then manage to foul up the knot on the other one. The birds all love this because they reckon it is a bit of a tease. Little do they know. At least I am wearing a clean pair of socks. That is something they ought to be thankful for.
‘Please!’ I say to the bint who is currently trying to expand the nature of the entertainment. ‘Remember what the man said: don’t touch the goodies!’
‘They have to say that,’ says the bird. ‘They wouldn’t get a licence otherwise. Once the doors are locked, they don’t care what happens. You can do what you like.’
Not with the doors locked I can’t, I think to myself. Gordon Bennett! These women are so cock happy they are delirious. I have never been to a male strip club where the customers got so excited. It just goes to show you what birds are really like. They like it more than you do, most of them.
‘Can I take something off?’ The bird who says this is quite attractive and I reckon that she must be talking about my clobber.
‘Be my guest,’ I say, extending the troublesome Kicker.
Thirty seconds later, the troublesome Kicker is still firmly attached to my foot and the bird is down to her bra and panties. ‘Don’t!’ I say. ‘You mustn’t! No!’
But it is no good. She rips off her bra and shakes her knockers like she is trying to flick drops of water off them. I wish she would not do that. The effect on percy is most distressing. Always on the impulsive side and inclined to show off in front of large groups of people he is coming up a lot faster than Reginald Dixon’s organ. The effect of the bird’s performance on the rest of the audience is also distressing. Never, what you might call, restrained, they are now baying like a pack of hounds at feeding time.
‘Give him one, Doreen!’
‘Get your trousers off!’
‘Get on with it!’
I never thought that bingo sessions were what women really wanted but this is ridiculous. A lot of pent up emotion is threatening to burst in a tidal wave of sexual violence. I know because I have seen the posters outside the cinemas.
‘Come on my lap!’ I think the woman means ‘sit on my lap’ but you never know with this lot. I am being bundled about like a packet of chips at a miser’s convention. Another pair of hands seize hold of me while the frustrated strip-teaser prances about stark bollock naked on the platform.
‘You’re a tease, aren’t you?’ says my new friend. ‘Show us what you’ve got. Go on, don’t mess about.’ She starts fiddling with the zip on my trousers.
‘I’ll help you, May.’ The speaker is not the only one to step forward and before you can say Roger Carpenter both my shoes have been wrenched off – I expect to see my foot in one of them. Strong fingers – no doubt all that work on the looms helps – yank my trousers over my knees.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ I say making one of the most unheartfelt statements of my life.
I am now down to my fleas and ants and it is only with the greatest difficulty that I tear myself free and scramble to my feet. If I have got to sit on every lap in the room I might as well forget any thoughts of ever becoming a father. Better to retreat to the stage. The encumbant bird, is probably only interested in flashing herself about a bit. I expect she does it in front of the wardrobe mirror at home when her old man is on nights. Percy is not exactly playing dormice down the front of my Y-fronts and I have to endure some very embarrassing comments as I hop up on the stage. I don’t know how the professionals keep their emotions under control. It must come with practice – or, more likely, not come with practice.
‘Give him one, Doreen!’
I do wish that woman would belt up. Doreen has got enough on her mind without getting any more ideas. While I try and strike a muscleman pose she willows towards me and slides her arms round my waist. I drop my arms sharpish as her fingers fluster my cluster.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s do it.’
‘You must be mad!’ I hiss. ‘Get off the stage.’
‘Go on.’ Her hands are inside my Y-fronts. It is terrible. I have to pull her to me to stop everybody seeing.
‘Don’t be shy.’ She flips down my pants at the back and a big cheer goes up. I move my hands to deal with the problem and she tugs down the front. Now it is a question of ‘Missile ready for firing, sir’. I try to keep percy hidden but she rolls her body from side to side so he plays peek-a-boo with the audience. Talk about embarrassing. I don’t know where to put myself – or do I? Maybe, to put it in would be the easiest way out. At least I would not have to look at all those birds taking the piss out of me. Even as I gaze into the gloom, another one of them starts pulling off her blouse. Doreen begins to run her open mouth along my shoulder and that helps make up my mind. I will concentrate on her and shut out the rest of them. Maybe that will satisfy them. Who knows? It might even satisfy me. I take her underneath the shoulders and lay her down on the stage keeping as close to her as I can. In the background, I can hear the noise of breaking furniture. I hope I am doing the right thing. At least, one person seems to think I am. Doreen’s mouth jumps open as I dunk my doughnut filler and she closes her eyes.
‘That’s heaven!’ she purrs. Closing my ears to the riot about I proceed with the work that nature intended me for: in-out, in-out, in-out, in—
To my left are the bongos and, presumably, near them is the panic button. Never one to take chances, I begin to hump Doreen towards what I imagine to be safety. The jostle round the platform makes a Rolling Stones concert seem like the vicar’s knobbly knees contest at the village fete.
‘Move over, Doreen.’
‘You’ve had your fun.’
‘I was here first!’
‘Watch it!’
‘I warned you!’
All of a sudden, I find myself trying to do my bit – Doreen, you remember her? – between a forest of female legs, quite a few of them naked and attached to other parts of the body in a very similar condition.
‘Help!’ I scream as hands that have never, I swear, experienced the soft kiss of Fairy Liquid plunder my defenceless body. ‘HELP!!!!’
It is not often that I resort to a four exclamation mark scream but in this situation I have to. What lies between my legs may not be fantasy material but I like it just the way it is – and where it is! ‘HELP!!!!’
For once in my life, a cry from the heart – or, in this case, somewhat lower down – is answered.
‘Get off him!’ That is a man’s voice.
‘He’s not a member of EQUITY. I’ve never seen him before!’ That is also a man’s voice – at least, I think it is. I turn my head to see Brownlow and a geezer in what looks like a butch version of a Batman costume with ‘Mr Show-All’ embroidered across his concave chest.
‘Thank God you’ve come!’ I gasp.
A long drawn-out moan from beneath me suggests that someone else has come as well.
CHAPTER TEN
After that it all gets a bit confusing. I remember Brownlow being raped and Mr Show-All demanding to see my union card but after the woman called Winnie starts to do the incredible trick with the bongo drum – I do hope they get it back – my memory becomes a bit suspect. Why all the blokes started smashing the place up I don’t know. I think at the time I thought it had something to do with them being worried about their old ladies having it away with Mr Show-All. That would account for them throwing him in the canal – not bad when you think that the canal was fifty yards away and that they didn’t leave the room to do it – didn’t even open the window in fact. It’s a good job I was lying under one of the tables at the time.
Of course the really terrible thing is what happens to my load of glasses. Yes, somehow they find their way to them and every single one of them is smashed. Most of the glasses are smashed as well. It wouldn’t be so bad if I’d come to the right club. Awful, isn’t it? All these towns look alike and they all run into each other – they look as if they’ve run into something, anyway. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Balham High Street doesn’t lo
ok so hot on a rainy Monday – doesn’t look so hot on Christmas Day with the sun shining, either.
Of course, Brownlow doesn’t want to know about my problems. I try and have a word with him as they put him in the ambulance but he tells me to – no, I won’t tell you what he tells me to do because if you are sensitive it will upset you as much as it did me.
I could accept it all more easily if it had been my fault. Honestly, there is no justice. I bent over backwards to bring a little pleasure to those women – forwards on a couple of occasions. I know for a fact that Sid will kill me when I get back to London. It was necessary to take out a special insurance to cover the glasses and he didn’t have time to do it – because of the rush nature of the job and his natural meanness. We must be in hock for hundreds of quid, now. Enough to bankrupt the business.
I sweep the last bits of broken glass out of the back of the lorry and wonder what to do. I am supposed to pick up a load of sheepskins from Carlisle and take them over to Hull but in my present frame of mind I feel like packing the whole thing in. Still, you can’t let people down, can you? And at least it will put off my interview with Sid.
In the end, I have a cup of tea and push on up the M6. There is no point in going to the factory so I spend the night in the cab. Bleeding cold and uncomfortable it is. The trouble is that I don’t feel entitled to spend money on a night’s sleep after what happened to the load. It is amazing how pangs of conscience can catch up with you sometimes.
The next morning, the sky is darker than a Hashamite’s hampton and there is a cobbler-creaking wind trying to rush up my trouser leg. It is also cold. Very cold. By the time I have picked up the sheepskins and headed into the Pennine Hills, brass monkeys are conspicuous by their absence. The tops of the peaks are white and there is a coating of the stuff further down the slopes. Everybody on the road seems to be hurrying as if they want to get off it fast and you don’t have to be a BBC Weatherman to reckon that there is a lot more snow in the air. A sports car goes past me with its horn screaming.
‘Get out of it!’ I give him a toot wishing that the button in the middle of the steering wheel worked a missile launcher. I can’t help thinking about Sid and what I am going to say to him. Maybe I ought to ring him? I suppose the blokes who were expecting the glasses must be getting a bit worried by now. Maybe I ought to ring them?
As if I did not have enough on my mind, it suddenly starts to snow. Not a few pretty flakes but a wall of the stuff that shuts out any view of the hills and cuts visibility to a few yards. The windscreen wipers can hardly cope with it. When the wind gets behind it, it travels parallel to the ground. And what a wind! The superstructure of the lorry shudders like it is about to buckle and I can hardly hold Enid on the road. If I had known it was going to be like this I would have joined the French Foreign Legion. I press my face up against the windscreen and decide that I will stop at the next village I come to – if I can get that far. The snow is banking up against the side of the road and rippling across it as if it is fast-flowing water stirred into eddies and currents by the wind. I come round a corner and nearly bash into the back of the sports car that overtook me a few miles back. It must have run out of road. Its front bumper is wedged up against a stone wall and a geezer in a peak cap is standing beside it, hunched up against the bizzard.
I stop and wind the window down. ‘Can you move it?’
The bloke shakes his head. ‘The fender’s bent in against the tyre.’
‘Do you want a lift?’ A figure starts to climb out of the passenger seat.
‘No thanks. I’d better stay here. Stop at the next garage and tell them I’m here, will you?’
‘Right.’
We are both having to shout to make ourselves heard. The snow is stinging my face like grit.
‘I’ll come with you.’
At first, I don’t recognise the bird climbing in beside me. She has a scarf tied round her nut.
‘Are you sure you want to stay?’ I yell at the bloke.
Since I had been talking to him a foot of snow has built up against the side of his car.
‘I don’t want to leave it.’
‘Please yourself. Good luck.’ I pull the door shut and the noise level drops by half. The bird is shaking snow out of her hair and I start coaxing Enid forward. ‘I’ll drop you at the garage,’ I say. ‘You can wait there.’
‘I’m not with him,’ says the bird. ‘He was only giving me a lift.’
I turn and look at her and she stops running her hand through her barnet. ‘Well, well. Small world, isn’t it?’
‘How long can we go on meeting like this?’ I say. ‘Did you have a nice time with the Fuzz?’
Shirl brushes some snow off her scarf. ‘All right.’
There doesn’t seem to be a lot to say to that so I concentrate on the road – or what I can see of it. The whole scene is a detergent manufacturer’s dream: whiter than whiter than white.
‘This is bloody stupid,’ I say. ‘We can’t go on like this.’
‘Are you talking about us or the road?’ says Shirl.
I run up what turns out to be the verge and we both bang our bonces on the roof of the cab. ‘The road,’ I say. ‘We’ll have to stop. I can’t see a blooming thing.’
I pull up as close to a stone wall as I can and turn off the engine. ‘It’s going to be as cold in this as it was in the other one,’ says Shirl, pulling her coat around her.
‘We’ll get in the back,’ I say. ‘I’m carrying a load of sheepskins.’
‘What are you smiling about?’ says Shirl.
‘I was just thinking,’ I say.
‘Oh.’ Shirl raises one of her eyebrows a sixteenth of an inch.
‘We might be here for days,’ I say. ‘Look how it’s building up out there.’
‘Have you got anything to eat?’ I shake my head. Shirl looks in her bag. ‘I’ve got a bar of chocolate and an apple.’
‘We’ll have to spin it out,’ I say. ‘At least we’ll be warm.’
‘Yeah, that’s something, isn’t it?’ We look into each other’s eyes for a few long moments and Shirl leans forward and combs my beard with her finger nails. ‘You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?’
‘In a way,’ I say.
Shirl kisses me lightly on the lips. ‘So am I. Come on, let’s get in the back before the snow gets too deep.’
Also available in the CONFESSIONS series:
Confessions of a Window Cleaner
It always took longer to clean the inside of the windows …
Timothy Lea is asked to be a window cleaner by his brother-in-law Sid, and he helps to satisfy all of his customers … in whatever way is necessary.
Viv preferred a man with experience.
Dorothy was a little careless with her underclothes.
Mrs Armstrong provided tea and cake beforehand.
Brenda consumed marshmallows afterwards.
Overwhelmed by the hospitality of his customers, Tim found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on the job. Soon he longed for the peace and quiet of a steady relationship with his girl friend Elizabeth.
But even the quiet and virginal Elizabeth was full of surprises …
Confessions from a Holiday Camp
Sun, sea, sand … oh, and plenty of sex!
When you’re a Holiday Host at Melody Bay Holiday Camp you’re expected to provide most of the entertainment in whatever fashion the happy campers demand. And some of the demands are distinctly above and beyond the usual call of duty. Not that Timothy was unwilling to oblige what with Janet, June, Elise and the rest of them shattering their fingernails on the door of his chalet.
And then of course there were Nan and Nat, the Camp owner’s nieces, pursuing their own ideas of female liberation through the shuddering chalets …
Confessions of a Milkman
Fresh, creamy and delicious – the milkman who always asked whether they wanted it delivered in front or round back …
‘It’s terrible
what you milkmen do to get business,’ she says, squirting another load of foaming suds into the bath. ‘You stop at nothing, do you?’
I don’t answer her at once because it had never occurred to me that there was a business angle to what I am doing – or about to do. … There was I, feeling a bit guilty about being on the job when I should be on the job, and all the time I am on the job … with this happy thought bubbling through my mind I step forward briskly.
About the Author
Christopher Wood is a British screenwriter and novelist best known for the erotic ‘Confessions’ series of novels and films written under the pseudonyms 'Timothy Lea' and ‘Rosie Dixon’. Under his own name, he adapted two James Bond novels for the screen: ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’ and ‘Moonraker’.
Also by Timothy Lea:
CONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MAN
CONFESSIONS OF A DRIVING INSTRUCTOR
CONFESSIONS OF A PLUMBER’S MATE
CONFESSIONS FROM A NUDIST COLONY
CONFESSIONS OF A WINDOW CLEANER
CONFESSIONS FROM A HOLIDAY CAMP
CONFESSIONS OF A MILKMAN
CONFESSIONS OF A TRAVELLING SALESMAN
CONFESSIONS FROM A HAUNTED HOUSE
Also by Rosie Dixon:
CONFESSIONS OF A NIGHT NURSE
CONFESSIONS OF A PERSONAL SECRETARY
CONFESSIONS FROM AN ESCORT AGENCY
CONFESSIONS OF A GYM MISTRESS
With lots more coming soon!
Copyright
The Friday Project
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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