Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

your name?’ She holds up her gong and I see that it has Penelope Brown engraved on it.

      ‘Call me Penny. What’s yours?’

      ‘Timothy Lea.’

      ‘Do you mind being called Tim?’

      ‘I don’t mind at all. How’s your glass?’

      ‘Fine. I don’t think I should have any more. I’m feeling a bit squiffy as it is. Tell me’–she tugs my sleeve, ‘are you fixed up yet?’ She looks around the assembled swingers and I follow her eyes.

      ‘You mean–?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well,’–her hand slips into mine and she rests her head against my chest–’how about you and me …? I don’t want to put the key in.’ I should think not, it sounds dead uncomfortable. ‘The last time I ended up with a pervert–there’s no other word for it–a pervert who put. “These Boots are Made For Walking” on the record player and started unpacking a pair of Wellingtons. I mean, you can imagine how I felt.’ I nod sympathetically. ‘I don’t want to have to go through that again.’

      ‘No, of course not.’ I begin to see what she is talking about and my impression is confirmed when Sam the Ram makes with the vocal again.

      ‘Greetings, dream-fodder,’ he murmurs, swaying from side to side in such a way that his pendulum seems not to be moving. ‘I’m interrupting the Mellow Mingle because it is time for the Ceremony of the Keys. Gather round, those of you with a burning yearning for nude feels and postures new.’

      ‘He’s so cool,’ breathes Penny.

      ‘Who, Sam?’

      ‘Big Sam,’ she gives an ecstatic little wriggle and I wince. ‘Come on, I want to watch this.’

      We press forward to where a circle has formed in front of the Ram and what looks like a black velvet pillow case is lying on the ground. About twenty birds step forward and put their room keys into the bag and there is a feeling of excitement in the air. Quite a lot of straightforward feeling too.

      ‘Everybody done? Then let’s start swinging!’ Big S. whirls the bag about his head and a bunch of blokes press forward when he stops. Like kids with a lucky dip, they dive their hands into the bag and draw out a key. ‘Forty-seven’, ‘twenty-eight’, ‘sixty-nine’–that one gets a laugh. As the numbers are called out so the blokes pair off with the bird whose room key they have got. All except one man whose voice rises in cheated outrage:

      ‘Oih!’ he shouts, ‘I’ve got my wife.’ The unhappy accident is quickly remedied and couples drift back to the bar and off to amuse each other. Disgusting, isn’t it? Yeah, but a bit of all right as well, eh? I wonder what my Mum and Dad would have been like if they had gone in for this caper? They could not have been much worse off, I will wager that.

      ‘I didn’t think much of Christopher’s,’ says Penny as she takes my arm.

      ‘Christopher’s what–oh, you mean his bird.’ I don’t really want to know which one is Christopher. I am old fashioned like that. If I am knocking off the missus I don’t fancy a game of darts with hubby afterwards. I am more interested in seeing what has happened to Sid. Oh, dear! Sam the Ram is leading off Butterfly Specs, and Sid is looking like a kid who hid his lolly ice in a warm oven. I consider issuing a few words of good cheer, but decide against it. Sid can turn a bit funny sometimes. With this thought in mind I quicken my pace as we leave the ballroom, and study the key that Penny has thoughtfully pushed into my mitt.

      ‘It’s fantastic to meet someone new,’ she murmurs. ‘You get tired of all the old faces.’

      At the very least, I think to myself. Blimey, how many couples in the hotel? Two hundred? She should write a book about it. Perhaps she has.

      We pad along the corridor and there it is. Room number one-eight-two. I take a deep breath as I unlock it because I have a nasty feeling that Christopher is going to be on the other side with a shot gun. Sometimes I think I belong to another age. Every time I get my end away I think I am doing something naughty. Does make it more exciting though.

      ‘Nobody here,’ I say, my voice sounding a bit strained.

      ‘Of course not, darling. You weren’t expecting a gangers, were you?’

      ‘A what?’

      ‘Gangers bangers, darling.’

      ‘Oh, yes. Of course not.’

      ‘Tomorrow night. Now, that’s another story. You weren’t with us at Bournemouth, were you? We united with a working sub-committee of the British Foundrymen’s Association–and I mean united.’

      ‘Sounds a great scene,’ I say, trying to appear as if I experience it every day of the week before the Epilogue. ‘Christopher won’t come barging in, will he?’

      ‘Good heavens, no. We won’t see him till kipper-time. We have eight hours to amuse each other.’ She sways towards me and I wonder if eight hours is going to be long enough. I have always been partial to a bit of tit myself and this bird is not particularly well favoured in that direction, but she has a slinky quality that more than makes up for it. Her body ripples like a flag in a hurricane and she plants herself against my body like she is trying to turn herself into a laminate. I push the door shut with my foot and immediately feel able to deal with the situation. At least I think I do. I allow Penny the access to my lips she so obviously demands and rub my hands gently over her curvy hind-quarters. No need to hurry things. Mrs Brown has other ideas. Her fingernails dig into me like she is probing for a 50p piece that has slipped down the lining of my jacket and her mouth performs as if it is trying to douse a forest fire. ‘Come on, oh no, baby! Please! No, yes. Oh–o-o-o-h! Do it to me. Please! Ple-e-e-ase!’ Well, you don’t have to be a boy scout to respond to a plea like that and I set to unzipping her like a starving cannibal welcoming a new missionary. Her own hands are not idle and her assault on the front of my trousers would qualify for the finals of the World Turnip-Picking Championships. Once again, I wish I had the services of Ejecta pants as I try and struggle free from the clinging embrace of my jealous underwear. These fits of passion can be murder on a young trendy’s wardrobe for the modern satins and velvets are not well-equipped for displays of sexual violence. Sit down a bit sudden and you could rip the seat out of seven quids worth of flare-bottomed invitation to sensual mayhem. Get down to a real bit of sweaty slap and tickle and you might as well resign yourself to five quids worth of invisible mending or a quick conversion to faded denim.

      ‘Gr-r-r-h!’ Mrs B. is now making growling noises. Her bra and panties set is really something. Midnight blue with little red flowers scattered everywhere. You can see she has chosen her wardrobe with real care. I am now naked except for my socks and so look like a refugee from a dirty photograph. I always feel a right berk in this condition and attempt to cater for Mrs B.’s increasingly excited demands while hopping from one leg to another trying to hook off my Wolsey grip-tops. Only a mountain goat–and I have seen very few of them about tonight–could achieve the necessary standard of footwork and it is seconds before I crash back across the bed with Penny on top of me. Luckily my equipment is wangy enough to withstand the impact and I lie back as my excitable friend struggles to her feet and whips off her bra and panties.

      ‘Don’t move, Lancelot,’ she yodels, giving a long ecstatic wriggle that makes me think she is trying to shed her skin. ‘That’s just the way I want you.’ I have no plans to cross-index my stamp collection, so I continue to lie back and wait for her to vault into the saddle. But not a bit of it.

      While I watch in amazement she gets a large cardboard box and starts emptying some white powder into the washbasin. What is this? Is she going to rinse out her smalls or is it some kind of Ajax demonstration? Is a fast-talker with a microphone and forty-two Birmingham housewives going to appear from behind the curtains?

      ‘I’m going to add you to my collection,’ she says, turning on the cold tap. ‘Did you see W.R.