The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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done a permanent injury, because it’s still standing stiffly to attention like the boy on the burning deck. Try explaining that one away I think to myself as I crouch there peering through the clothes and the half-open doors towards the bed.
In this situation, I have to hand it to Brenda. You wouldn’t think that her husband was on the point of bursting into the bedroom and finding her boy friend bent double in the wardrobe with an enormous hard on. She drops her nightdress over her shoulders like a tea cosy, hops into bed and is sitting there selecting a marshmallow as ‘The Weasel’ comes into my field of vision. I can see what she means about being sexy. He must be fruitier than a two-ton packet of wine gums. He’s only been shedding his clothes all the way up the stairs and is now wearing a string vest, pants and socks, held up by an arresting pair of yellow suspenders. It is possible that he always goes about like this, but I reject the thought.
“So there you are,” he says, sitting on the bed and helping himself to a marshmallow.
“Cor, you’re looking alright.”
“Help yourself.” Brenda waves at the box on her lap. “Why don’t you take the whole bleeding lot?”
“You don’t seem very glad to see me. I got away special to come over here. Look, I bought you a little present.”
Typical, I think to myself. ‘He never buys me anything,’ that’s what she said to me. You can’t believe a word they say.
The Weasel produces what looks like one coil from a large spring which he must have been hiding in his hand.
“Where did you knock that off from?” Grateful, isn’t she?
“I bought it.”
“Go on. I know you. What is it?”
“It’s a bracelet. It goes on your wrist.”
“I know where bracelets go. I didn’t think it went through my nose.”
Not a bad idea, though, I think to myself. God. but it’s uncomfortable in that cupboard and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand it without moving. Why doesn’t Brenda tell him to piss off and buy her a packet of aspirins?
“Don’t be like that, Bren,” continues the Weasel. “You know how I feel about you.”
“Yeah. With your dirty little hands most of the time. I’ve had about enough of it.”
“Oh Bren.”
“Get orf me.”
The Weasel is getting passionate and attempts to embrace Brenda, getting a stiff hand off for his pains.
“Come on, Bren, give me a little kiss.” One of his podgy hands closes on her breast. “I did buy you a bracelet, didn’t I?”
You can tell that ‘The Weasel’ is the persistent type and does not take ‘no’ for an answer easily. You may recall my earlier words on how effective this can be. Certainly Brenda is slow to brush the hand away and I can almost see her disgusting little mind thinking that it might be quicker and easier to let him get on with it.
“You’re lovely, Bren. Ooh, if you knew how much I fancied you.”
“I get an idea sometimes.”
Brenda allows herself to be kissed and the rolls of fat on the Weasel’s neck huddle together like shorn sheep. It looks as if I’m going to be right. His hands disappear under her nightie and he’s moaning and trying unsuccessfully to hook off his socks. He looks bloody ridiculous and I hope nobody has ever seen me in the same position. Brenda’s head is on his shoulder and the cheeky bitch raises her eyebrows to the ceiling in a ‘useless’ gesture clearly intended for my benefit.
“Come on then,” she says. “But you’d better make it quick – still, you usually do, don’t you?”
She’s a hard case, that Brenda. The Weasel is trying to slip under the sheets but she kicks them all back so I can see right up to her tonsils. She whips off his pants like they’re a corn plaster and lays back with her hands behind her head. It’s obvious that this is all for my benefit. The dirtly little scrubber obviously gets a kick out of being watched when she’s on the job. The Weasel scrambles on top of her with all the grace of a pelican landing on a flag pole and fumbles his way into her. God knows why she calls him the Weasel. He’s more like an over-fed spaniel. Once he’s inside, she wraps her legs round the small of his back and I’m almost jealous until he gets into his stride. What a disgusting sight. It’s like a couple of hairy, white blancmanges caught in a high gale. They wobble and tremble so I think they might end up on the floor at any moment. I promise you, if you saw what it looked like it would put you off for the rest of your life. Luckily, I don’t have to bear it for long, because Brenda is dead right – the Weasel has hardly started before he is finished. He lets out a groan like the end of three weeks constipation and collapses on top of her as if he’s a beach mattress and somebody has taken the bung out. Over his shoulder Brenda is unkindly giving me a thumbs-down sign.
“Get off, you’re suffocating me.”
Brenda is not one of those women who need to be gently cossetted after the sexual act. She obviously has not read the book I got at the Junction.
“Oh Bren –”
“—Give over, for God’s sake. I’m not in the mood.”
“Bren—”
“—Look, you’ve had what you want. Now, why don’t you piss off?”
“I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here with you.”
Poor sod, I think, you can’t blame him. After all it is his home. If you get off work early and nip back for a bit of the other you expect to be treated better than this. The Weasel must really fancy her because he starts trying to kiss her neck and generally behaving in a very affectionate fashion quite unlike most blokes when they’ve just shot their load.
“Bren, Bren, oh Bren.”
“I’m warning you.”
“Oh, don’t you see, Bren?”
“Right!!!”
Brenda struggles out from underneath him and pulls herself up on her elbows. Her eyes are blazing and she is looking directly towards the wardrobe. What is the stupid bitch going to do?
“Do you want to meet my husband?”
Her eyebrows raise in a question mark but they don’t get as far as my stomach which practically jumps out of my mouth. The Weasel whips round as if his head is attached by a twisted elastic band, and his eyes widen in what I assume is the first indication of insane rage. The bitch obviously wants to see me torn limb from limb. I shrink back into the wardrobe and that must upset its balance because the whole thing starts to tremble and I lose my footing and have to stumble out with my hampton still at the present arms. I put my fists up because I reckon I’m going to have to fight for my life against a justifiably enraged husband but ‘The Weasel’s’ behaviour is a revelation. He leaps off the bed just like you’d expect him to do, and the expression on his face certainly suggests a kind of madness, but instead of hurling himself at me he bursts past and bundles down the stairs as if Old Nick is after him.
At first I’m dead relieved but then I get a bit worried. Perhaps the shock has driven him out of his mind. I hear the front door slam and crossing to the door, see that his clothes are still strewn all down the stairs. The poor berk must be running through the streets of Clapham in the altogether. I am genuinely disturbed but behind me Brenda is pissing herself.
“Oh my God,” she screeches. “What a bloody laugh.”
“Shutup, you crude bitch.” I say. “Are you some kind of nutter, or something?”
But she goes on laughing fit to burst and I find my clobber and start pulling on my jeans. I mean, sympathy is all very well, but with everybody going round the twist you’ve got to look after number one. Maybe he