LITMIR.BIZ

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attitude is also caused by a chronic obsession with their own sexual adequacy (phew! not bad, eh? It took me about three days to get the spelling right). Few blokes or birds are satisfied with their plumbing and they’re always looking around a bit nervous-like to size up the competition. To be secure they have to believe that no one is getting it more often or better than they are. The very thought makes their stomachs hiss and bubble like a bucket of Epsom Salts. This kind of person is much happier saying that you’re bull-shitting – and trying to believe it – than grabbing a slice of the action for himself.

      I can’t blame them really because the way I go on you’d think I was having a thigh hamburger every hour of the day. In fact it’s like I said at the beginning. Most of them just roll their eyeballs over you and have a little think about it. For every bird that takes you upstairs there’s fifty that don’t fancy it, and five that prefer Ken Dodd anyway. And, by God, if you saw some of them, you’d be bloody grateful for it too. It’s not every day of the week that beauty and lust go hand in hand. I don’t tell you about some of the terrible old scrubbers that tip me the wink because I don’t want to turn you off. I had a mate who used to be a court usher and he told me that if you saw some of the rubbish that came up before the beak you wouldn’t be able to associate them with the tricks they’re supposed to have got up to. You’d think it was six other people.

      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

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