Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman

a few getting-to-know-you drinks Eliza was keen for privacy.

      When she sat on the bed, her knees drawn up under her chin, her Y bone, the colour of tea without milk, was clearly visible. Her blouse was loose and, with the slightest movement, one delightfully large round breast was exposed. She wore no bra and so it burst forth like a melon breaking free from its wrap. My mind wandered to the startled looking Greek styled ladies in the alcoves downstairs and whether they’d have approved.

      My heart picked up a beat with anticipation as I realised her nipple was firm. It stuck out like a little gun turret.

      She saw she had my attention, smiled and spoke slowly. “Most women would rather have beauty than brains.”

      “Why?”

      “Because men can see better than they can think.”

      I tried to look confident while I thought about that.

      After she’d slipped out of her blouse and knickers because I wasn’t co-ordinated enough to do that for her, it couldn’t happen quickly enough. If only she’d removed her own

      stockings and suspender belt, my trouser button wouldn’t have somehow become hooked-up with my giggle stick. Our moment was only saved when I took much needed time out to fumble with a condom.

      “You won’t need that,” she cooed, eyeing me off with a determination that almost killed any semblance of romance within me. “I don’t like rubber.”

      I blinked at her, confused.

      “Okay,” I frowned.

      “I mean it.”

      Until she wrapped her arms around my neck I wondered where she wanted me to put it.

      I kissed her, passionately. She returned my advances enthusiastically, although I almost gagged at her attempt to give me a tonsillectomy.

      Should her weight be her primary concern? Might it be appropriate for me to quantify how much she could lose, should lose, during thirty minutes of active sex?

      I decided that was a bad idea as my manhood might not last the distance.

      With her bare legs over my shoulders my neck was in a Mick McManus scissors hold.

      I hoped she wouldn’t send me spinning across the room like he did his opponents.

      Her eyes formerly alight with passion were tinged by a trace of amusement.

      I enjoyed every thrust. Her body in rhythm with my own. Faster, harder, until I was spent.

      Not a girl to dally Eliza promptly disentangled herself. In a flash she was up and

      jumping up and down similar to calisthenics.

      Propped up on one elbow I asked, “Why are you doing that?”

      She grinned. “I’m getting your two-point-nine seconds out of my dickey dido.”

      I must have looked vacant.

      “I don’t want my boyfriend to see any traces of you on my stockings later. Hand me that towel.”

      Eliza dressed to leave. “I’m off now.”

      “Where to? I hoped you might stay.”

      She smiled, “To spend quality time with my full-back soccer boyfriend.”

      “Quality time?”

      “He takes more than two-point-nine seconds!”

      After she’d gone I attended the bed, checked the room and replaced the towels.

      Dad was in reception and had seen Eliza leave.

      “I can see your need for essentials outside of the hotel. I’ve decided it’s all right for you to take money from petty-cash. But still no salary. Okay?”

      I nodded dumbfounded. “Thank you.”

      Dad continued, “The hotel provides your needs; food, alcohol, cigarettes. Outside of that if you start to take too much I’ll soon tell you. And no expensive women!”

      Maybe Dad thought Eliza was a prostitute. Dressed to shag she looked risqué enough.

      My dreams became disturbed about having unprotected sex with Eliza. I wondered if she’d taken precautions? The birth control pill was new. That worried me until I realised quality time with her boyfriend might mean he didn’t mind batting on a sticky wicket.

      Oh, well, I thought, if she gets pregnant it’s not necessarily mine.

      Eliza liked it rough, I didn’t. I enjoyed the build-up, and a shag much as the next man, but to me shagging was the climax to making love. The full girl-friend experience. Casanova I knew I wasn’t but compared to her, my gentle caressing, the drinking in of senses, and my longing to be taken to a tranquil place where dreams came true was alien.

      I didn’t want only, ‘Come on baby, give it to me,’ which turned me off.

      At best I went from a hard baton to a shy marshmallow. With Eliza I felt like I’d gone a few rounds with Rocky Marciano.

      Next night we had an impromptu date. As soon as the bedroom door was closed and locked behind us Eliza undressed. She lay her plentiful goodies on top of the bed and spread her legs wide.

      “You’ll need to be quick,” she said, her voice conspiratorial, “my boyfriend’s waiting for me outside in his car.”

      She noticed my look of surprise.

      “He thinks I’m applying for a job, silly.”

      That revelation threw me completely. She sighed impatiently, then pulled me towards her. Obediently, I clasped her hips. As we moved together in sync I became strangely

      energised. It’s said the most powerful sex organ in the body is the brain. Thoughts of her boyfriend waiting outside expedited proceedings, until she began with the vocals.

      Fuck! I thought. What if her boyfriend hears her and recognises her howls?

      I attempted to silence her by smothering her in kisses but that meant holding my breath.

      Each time I sneaked a breath she howled.

      Animated we almost fell off the bed onto the floor. That might break more than her mood. It would certainly stop her howls of delight but what if they became screams of pain?

      As my todger died, she arched up and exclaimed to the almighty Lord, but her post

      coital bliss ended fast.

      Again, we had no afterglow.

      After that date we played telephone tag a couple of times, but then when I made a

      deposit at the bank she was elsewhere. I believed she’d lost interest. I could hardly blame her.

      Chapter 15

      One Step Forward – Two Back!

      From a small selection of fringe-dwellers motivated mainly by money and a desire to remain as inconspicuous as possible in Royal Tunbridge Wells, Dad employed a gourmand with a frying pan. Enter Chef Peter a fellow primate from somewhere too far north to comprehend as civilisation.

      A tall man with a prominent paunch, stooped shoulders, open face with bright brown eyes and overly bushy eyebrows danced without effort when he spoke. His mouth was

      hidden in part by a large, expressively bristled moustache, and when you did glimpse his teeth they were crooked, out of proportion for his mouth and stained yellow from smoking. But he was a trained professional, quick on his feet, who’d become a coordinated line cook. For him kitchen life was about consistency and unvarying repetition.

      “Aye, the same splatter of technicolour bird shit on every plate. But I’m keen to expand my horizons,” Chef Peter said in his broad northern brogue.

      Dad was all over his ledgers like