Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

Miss Melody Bay.

      “Talking of winning,” I say with that exquisite sense of timing that has made me the toast of every talent contest in South Clapham. “I take it that you have entered for the Holiday Queen Contest?”

      Her partner snorts. “Holiday Queen Contest! You must be joking.”

      “Shut your mouth,” snaps spirited Else’. “I was thinking of going in for it anyway. You may not find me attractive, but some people do.”

      She looks at me for acknowledgement of this fact which comes with the speed of light.

      “Very,” I observed calmly. “I’m going to be one of the judges and I’d say you had a great chance. Of course, I’m only expressing a personal preference. I can’t speak for the others.”

      “Did you hear that skinny? It shows all you know. Why don’t you get someone to help you lift your ball out of the flowerbed and give over being so bleeding rude?”

      “But Else’.”

      “Shut up!” She turns to me and her eyes hold a melting softness which belies her terrier toughness.

      “What do I have to do to enter?”

      In the next couple of hours I try a number of birds, but though flattered, most of them just giggle and say that they could never do it in front of all those people. Husbands and boyfriends are universally anti and glare at me as if I am recruiting for the white slave trade. It may be possessiveness but I am inclined to believe that the real reason is that they don’t want to bathe in the reflected ridicule that greets their birds’ performances.

      It is not until I join up with the archery class that I find another obvious contender. Athletic Janet is unleashing a shaft as if born and bred in Sherwood Forest and the quiver of her titties is a bloody sight more arresting than the one on her back.

      “Hello,” I say, dropping my voice to a pitch that would have made George Sanders rush out to buy a course of elocution lessons. “How is it going?”

      “Not bad,” she says, “you never told me you were a Holiday Host.”

      “You never asked me,” I say. “I didn’t even know you were coming here at first, so there was little point in mentioning it. I expect you’ve entered for the Holiday Queen Contest?”

      “Ted was mentioning it.”

      “Oh, so you’ve come across Ted?”

      She smiles and slams another arrow into the bulls eye.

      “You could put it like that.”

      I ignore the implications of that remark as being too disgusting and continue: “Yes, well, have you entered?”

      “Not yet. I don’t know if it’s my kind of thing.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous; a beautiful girl like you. You’d be mad not to.”

      “Do you think I’ve got a chance?”

      “Got a chance? Listen, I’m one of the judges. I wouldn’t be talking about it unless I thought you had a big chance.”

      “Oh, alright. I’ll think about it.”

      “Don’t think about it. Do it now. Look, I’ve got an entry form here.”

      Her eyes flash across me and there is a faint smile playing around her lips – not at all a bad place to play, I might add.

      “Have you ever thought of selling insurance?” she says. “Look, I’ve told you, I’ll think about it, and if I fancy the idea I’ll pop round to your chalet and fill in a form.”

      “Do you know where my chalet is?”

      “Yes. It’s three down from Ted’s.”

      The way she comes out with that should put me on my guard but I can be amazingly innocent sometimes.

      I am not on dinner duty in the Potato’s Revenge so I slope back to my chalet for a spot of Egyptian P.T. before facing up to the rigours of the afternoon. No sooner have I settled on the bed, eased my shoes off and stuck my tongue out at my blazer than there is a sharp rat-tat-tat at the door. Cursing gently, I do what is expected of me and find Janet standing on the dorstep. Before I can say “Raquel Welch has lovely knockers” she is standing behind me.

      “I know I’m not supposed to be here, really,” she says, “but I thought I’d enter for your competition after all.”

      “It’s not my competition. I’m just helping to run it.”

      “Yes, but you’re one of the judges, aren’t you?”

      “Yes, but—”

      “So you’re going to have a say in who wins?”

      “I suppose so.”

      “I’d like to win a beauty contest.”

      There is a firm edge to her voice which brings me up short as I fumble for the entry forms.

      “I reckon you stand a very good chance,” I say earnestly. “Ah, here we are. Now if you just fill in your name and …”

      I stop talking because Janet has slipped an arm round my neck and is rubbing herself gently against my action man kit.

      “It was nice in the train, wasn’t it?” she murmurs.

      “Fantastic,” I gulp. “But like you said, you know the rules. I’m a Holiday Host and you shouldn’t be here.”

      “What are you going to judge the girls on?” she says, starting to curl the hair at my temples. “Sex appeal?”

      Blooming heck! I can feel the sweat beginning to prickle under my armpits. I know I should heave her through the door but at moments like this my resolution seems to go all to cock. A very appropriate choice of words, too, because Percy is perking up like he is trying to peep over the front of my Funfrall issue black worsteds. Trouble with me is that the flesh is weak, but strong at the same time, if you know what I mean.

      “I’m supposed to be down at the boating pool in a few moments,” I gibber pathetically. If only my mind and body were under the same management I would not be in this sort of trouble. Even as I speak, my hands are sliding down over Janet’s peach-shaped buttocks and lifting the back of her skirt. The pleasure I get from this act is horrible but I can do nothing to stop myself.

      A few minutes later I am examining her naked sun-patterned body and viciously kicking the fag end of the aforementioned Funfrall issue black worsteds over my heels. She draws up her legs and it is like the breach mechanism of a twenty-five pounder issuing in the shell. I am inside her before you can say Eric Robinson.

      “You will see I do alright tonight, won’t you?” she breathes, grinding away like one of those pepper pots you never know whether to shake or screw. In her case, the question of an alternative does not present itself and I am taken out of myself, as they say, in less time than I would ever want to boast to my friends about.

      “That was marvellous,” I gush before she can say anything. “Now you really must go or I’ll be out of a job. Don’t forget to take your entry form.”

      It seems she has only just gone out of the door when there is another knock on it. This time of a more timid variety. I finish knotting my tie, adjust my smile and open the door. It is the bird who was at the Nipperdrome.

      “Oh, I’m sorry to trouble you but—”

      “Come in,” I say. I mean, why fight it? I am obviously a doomed man.

      She is wearing a white dress with frills round the neck and has slapped on a bit of eye makeup which does her no harm at all. I can’t help feeling she has made a special effort before coming round.

      “What’s the problem?” I say.

      “Well, I’ve been reading the form and I don’t