Confessions of an Ice Cream Man. Timothy Lea
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the stuff does taste good. I remember it as a kid. Still, flavour of the month is not my preoccupation at the moment. I hear the sound of the door flying open followed by a babble of Italian. Blimey! Valentina’s mum goes on like Vesuvius in full spate. She is obviously having a go at her little girl and wanting to know why she is having a kip in the middle of the afternoon. I hope Valentina is a good talker. She can hardly get a word in edgeways at the moment. I lean forward to get a better idea of what is going on and my elbow brushes against a pile of pamphlets. I spin round to stop them falling and knock a wadge of notepaper on the floor with a loud ‘crump!’ Mamma’s voice cuts out like you have lifted it off the turntable and my stomach drops. The cupboard door is nearly torn off its hinges and I am looking into a pair of blazing eyes fringed by ragged jet black hair. Valentina’s mum clocks the unpleasant sight before her for a few long seconds and then turns to her daughter. Wham! Biff! Sock! – and anything else you used to read in your favourite comic book. Poor Valentina cops some terrible right handers and runs out of the room in tears. I take the opportunity to get one of my feet in my trousers but this turns out to be a bad mistake as Mamma turns on me and starts chasing me round the room. She would be a difficult person to dodge at the best of times – but hopping? It is out of the question.
‘Ani-mal, ani-mal!’ she shouts. ‘You bring dishonour on our family. My daughter will never be married in white!’ Well, I don’t know about that but if Valentina was a stranger to the one-eyed bed snake then you can call me Johann Cruyf.
‘Think of the money you’re going to save on the dress,’ I say. ‘Ouch!’ She is strong, Valentina’s mum, there is no getting away from it. Much bigger than her daughter and with knockers like the corners on a cement bag. She snatches my shirt from my hands and rips it in half. ‘Hey! Watch it!’ I say. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry – well, I was just going to.’
She is working herself up to a terrible state and when she picks up a pair of scissors I start to get really worried. ‘And now I cut it off!’ she shouts.
Oh dear, what a way to go. She picks up my trousers and starts hacking through the bit round the zip. Very symbolic. You don’t need to watch a lot of Wednesday plays to get the drift. I can just see the headlines in the Balham Courier: ‘Stop me and buy one. “I wanted a cassata not a castrata”, squeaks Clapham youth.’ More like ‘I scream’ than ‘Ice cream’. ‘Y-a-a-argh!’ Blimey! It is like a Jewish wedding when they find that the bridegroom’s Barclaycard is out of date. God knows what the neighbours must think. She is going to do herself an injury before she does me at this rate. She throws me back on the bed and dives on me so that the scissor blades are inches from my throat. Cancel my last statement.
I struggle desperately and succeed in getting the scissors away from her. I throw them across the room and she drags her nails down my chest. ‘Youch!’ Now she is biting me. I wrestle myself on top of her and pin her arms out. My face is inches from hers and she spits into it. Charming! I bet Barbara Cartland wouldn’t carry on like this if she caught you dunking your doughnut with Lady Lewisham. What huge knockers she has got – I don’t mean Lady Lewisham. I mean Valentina’s mum. They are performing a seismic eruption beneath me.
‘Ani-mal! Ani-mal! Dirtee ani-mal!!’ She struggles to free her wrists but I am too strong for her – just. How long can this go on? I only have the strength of three men.
‘Mmmmmmm!!’ She hooks her legs over mine and suddenly arches her back and delivers a plonker on my rose hips. It is not so much a kiss as an attempt to rearrange the whole architecture of my face beneath nose level. What is so amazing is that it seems to have the stuff of genuine passion in it as well as all the natural juices. That is without the panting and morning. Is she on the level or trying to make me loosen my grip so that she can practise more mayhem? There is only one way to find out.
I let go of her wrists and she clasps her powerful hands to my nut and starts manoeuvring it round her mouth like it is some kind of mechanical love aid. She is wearing a cardigan over a blouse and I ping open the buttons and feel the ribbed pattern of her bra rough against the palm of my hands. The unexpectedness of everything has had a very salutary effect on my old man and I can feel it poking uncomfortably against the restraining web of my y-fronts. I slide a hand down and quickly free it while Valentina’s mum pulls a sheet about us. Her eyes are closed and I reckon she has purposely worked herself up into a kind of trance so that she can cop the consequences without feeling any guilt or responsibility. Her hands move to her side and she unzips her skirt and arches her back so that she can pull it off beneath the sheet. I don’t think she would like it if I started looking at her body. I slip my arms round her and fiddle for the catch on her bra. It comes apart almost first time and I can stick my head under the sheet and start guzzling. Ooh! That really turns her on. Some women seem to have very sensitive breasts. Often the ones with the big, soft, knockers. Stands to reason, I suppose. And talking of standing – yes, Percy has remained in what one might describe as rude good health. As hard a hombre as ever rode out of Gonad Gulch.
Still snorkelling in the valley of the boobs, I get my hand down underneath the sheet and establish contact with the quivering quim. This fun feature is pulsating against the smooth sheen of the silk panties like a traction engine with its motor racing. The moment my fingers touch it Big Mamma digs her nails into my arm and I get the message that this is a very, very sensitive lady – mind you, she wasn’t going to great lengths to conceal the fact. And, talking of great lengths – yes, fifteen and half centimetres of metric monster is waiting impatiently for an introduction. It would be positively uncivilised to restrain the impulsive pair for longer than is necessary to tug down the fabric fence that divided them. I hook my thumbs over the elastic and move my mouth up so that we kiss while I push the panties down. Kiss? I suppose you could call it that. Catch as catch can with mouths, cakeholes at twenty paces, assault with a deadly gob. I knew that female spiders are inclined to eat their mates after mating but I don’t think this bird can wait that long.
I move my head down underneath the sheets in order to steer her knicks over her heels and she immediately stations her mits over her pussy. I think she is terrified that I am going to give her a muff job. I suppose it figures. If you are that sensitive, a touch of tongue over the velvet void could destroy you. Still, what is sex without violence in some shape or form? I remove the panties and then start licking the fingers that guard the nether nirvana (look it up. For what a paperback costs these days you are entitled to an education). After licking I start nibbling, and after nibbling, biting. After that there is not a lot I can do as I forgot to bring my sticks of dynamite with me. I prise two fingers aside and sink my tongue into the gap.
‘YeeeeeeeeeeeH!!’ Big Mamma grabs me by the hair but has to take away a hand to do it – that’s the problem with only having two, folks. I seize my chance – I’m seizing hers, really, but she doesn’t seem to appreciate that – and delve into a passionate guzzle that would force a cynical truffle pig to slap its trotters in unwilling appreciation. ‘Yee-owch! !’ Light the blue touch paper and retire immediately. Her fanny quivers above the bed like a hovercraft taking off and she lets out a noise like I am hurting her.
From all the signs it does not look as if she gets a bucketful of the Larry Adlers and I wonder what her old man does during the long winter evenings. From what I have heard the eyeties are handier with the chat than they are with the oil drilling and it seems as if Signor is no exception. Valentina’s mum has now removed her other hand and I have complete freedom of the ball park. Up and down goes my tongue like the pound on the foreign exchange market and the enraptured lady makes noises like Dean Martin’s mum hearing that Jerry Lewis has fallen down a well.
I continue until the withholding of proud Percy becomes something that should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention. Drawing myself up her body I surmount the barrier of the mighty knockers and receive the enraptured benediction of her lips. What more could she ask for and what less could I give her? Once again, my hampton with its uncanny sixth sense – or should I say, sexth sense? (No, you shouldn’t, Ed.) (All right. No need to be like that, T.L.) – has taken up position perfectly at the mouth of the love shaft and it only needs a quick flex of the knees to be in the honey. I drive forward and the lady’s hands clamp round my bum like bear traps. There is no chance of me nipping across the road for the racing results – not