LITMIR.BIZ

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with Sandra’s knockers, the technicolour wallpaper and Fido, there is precious little space left for me. Nevertheless, I intend to make the most of it.

      ‘Down, boy!’ Sandra is talking to Fido and the brute retires to a corner and starts whacking the wall with its tail. ‘Now, where were we? U-u-u-u-m …’ She leans across her enormous bristols and settles greedily onto my mouth. She is wearing a long cotton skirt fastened loosely at the waist, as I find out when I send my fingers into action. I never stood a chance of getting one of those scout badges for tying knots – but untying them! Her own pinkies are not qualifying for unemployment benefit and she quickly gets to work on the buttons that litter the front of my Fort Laramie Frontier Cords. These open up for pleasure and necessity by means of a trapdoor of material covering the area of my crutch and it does not take Sandra long to get to the hang of how this works.

      ‘Nice trousers,’ she says as we separate for a spot of breathing. She is not the only one to be attracted by them. As they sink gracefully to take up their natural position on the floor, Fido bounds forward and playfully rips them from my person like they are an unwanted piece of sticking plaster.

      ‘Fido! Bad boy! Mumsie is going to be angry with you!’ Dadsie is already very angry and I am thinking what a nice warm rug the perishing pooch would make if one had an elephant gun handy. Artists like myself are easily put off their stroke by such interruptions. Not so Sandra. Her stroke is faultless and speedily brings me back to an awareness of the job in hand. Her skirt is soon at floor level and her cotton-picking fingers have reduced me to the state in which Dad first expressed concern about my resemblance to the coalman, e.g. one of becoming nudity.

      For late-comers, the score is, Timmy: naked; Sandra: panties and tights with off the shoulder blouse nearly off the shoulder. I am about to equal things up when Sandra suddenly grips me rather tighter than has been her wont.

      ‘Did you hear something?’ she hisses.

      ‘Only Fido chewing up one of my shoes.’

      ‘No, something downstairs.’

      ‘Your husband?!’ Those unpleasant stabbing pains have started again.

      ‘I don’t know. You’d better go and look.’

      ‘Me! Why me? Why not send Fido?’

      ‘Fido’s a terrible coward. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, really. You’re not afraid, are you?’

      ‘No. But –’

      ‘Go on. I’m scared. There have been a lot of burglaries around here lately.’

      ‘I’m not worried about burglars. Supposing it’s your husband?’

      ‘It can’t be. I’ve just remembered. He’s in Frankfurt at the moment, at a convention. Go on. Hurry up. Then you can come back to me.’ She gives a delicious little wriggle that makes it difficult for me to consider refusing her anything. ‘Go on.’ She puckers her lips and runs her fingers lightly along my Action Man kit.

      ‘All right,’ I say. ‘But I’m not going to be long.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. You’re not doing badly.’ I ignore that and scamper out into the corridor. The clocks have gone back and it is distinctly dark outside. Dark and foggy. I can see the glow of a street lamp and the outline of trees but precious little else. I would like to turn a few lights on but in my present state of undress it does not seem like a very good idea. I stand still for a couple of minutes but can hear nothing. Good. Sandra was obviously mistaken. I am on the point of returning to the bedroom when there is a sound from downstairs. At least I think it is downstairs. It may have come from outside in the street. Knickers! I suppose I had better go and have a look. If only I wasn’t so brave and noble. I get to the top of the stairs and listen again. Nothing. There is a light switch by my hand and, since I am hidden from outside view, I flick it on, hoping that any intruders will take the hint and make a run for it. Not a sausage. My reservoir of courage has practically dried up, but Iislink downstairs keeping closer to the wall than the wallpaper. The hall is bathed in light and seems empty. Of course it seems empty! But any berk who has ever seen an Alfred Hitchcock movie knows that the mad butcher of Boreham Wood is waiting behind the hallstand with his chopper in his hands. This is virtually all I have to defend myself with and the thought encourages me to indulge in another long spell of listening. All seems well, but, wait! Looking towards the frosted glass front door I think I catch a glimpse of something moving outside. What can it be? A prowler? A peeping Tom? My imagination? The outline of my body will be seen through the glass if I walk to the door so I decide to approach it on all fours and peer through the letter-box which is situated a little above ground level. In that manner I can check that everything is alright and then return to lovely, curvy Sandra. What a little pleasure factory she promises to be. I am practically hugging myself at the thought of it as I sink to ground level and start crawling across the hall carpet. I don’t know if you have ever tried crawling with, your hampton at the stand-by, but it is not an experience I would recommend. It is draughty too. All in all I am glad when I have covered the fifteen feet that separates me from the letter-box. Pausing to listen once more, I pull back the flap and peer outside. Two milk bottles, some leaves, a garden – O-O-O-O-O-W!!

      When Sandra eventually comes down it is to find me with my head and shoulders stuck through the frosted glass panel of the front door just above the letter-box.

      ‘I’ve rung for the police,’ she squeals. ‘Are you alright?’ Whatever happened?’

      My voice has a certain world-weary quality as I withdraw my body and start to shake pieces of broken glass out of my hair.

      ‘Bleeding Fido came up behind me and started licking my balls,’ I tell her.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      ‘OK, Timmy, you can put your plasters back on now. We’ve got all we want.’

      It is the day after my encounter with Sandra’s front door and I have just finished a tiring stint before the cameras. As far as I can make out I am Crispin’s stand-in which does not fill me with great enthusiasm, as I have to remove all the sticking plasters which are holding my face together.

      ‘Can’t take any chances,’ says Mac, the cameraman, ‘although I don’t reckon they’ll show, up there.’

      ‘Up there’ turns out to be a number of terrifyingly high window ledges on which I am called upon to disport myself while Justin collects the outside shots that he requires to string together the twenty-seven different sexual episodes in the film.

      ‘First four films we made, we never went outside the studio once, did we, Mac?’ says Justin breezily.

      ‘We only went inside the studio twice,’ says Mac. ‘The first three were shot in that girl’s flat. You know, the one you fixed up with that apartment in Tangiers. Whatever happened –?’

      ‘Yes, yes,’ says Justin, running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. ‘No need to tell everybody about my munificence. They’ll all want flats, won’t they? I often hear from Sonia. She’s having a lovely time.’ He turns to me. ‘Splendid performance, Timothy, absolutely splendid. I’m certain you have a talent we could exploit.’

      ‘He’ll exploit it, all right,’ muttered Mac. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

      ‘Fail not to record that I have some of the sharpest ears in the business, sweetheart,’ murmurs Justin in a chilling whisper, ‘and that people who take the mickey make me sickey.’

      ‘No offence,’ says Mac quickly. ‘Just my little joke.’

      ‘Make them larger or not at all,’ warns Justin. ‘Now, Timothy, as I was saying, before I was so crudely interrupted, I think that with your physique and appearance you could be a considerable asset to Trion Productions. You’re cast in the same mould as Glint Thrust and it would do him good to know that there was some competition breathing down his neck.’

      I

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