Confessions of a Physical Wrac. Rosie Dixon
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help me and I’ll help you. After all, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?’ He looks around for somewhere to put my panties and ends up by draping them over the peephole. ‘That’s better. Now we can be nice and private.’ So saying, he rips the threadbare, grey blanket off the bed and spreads it out on the floor with a flourish. For some reason the gesture reminds me of Sir Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth – though obviously not in similar circumstances. She would hardly have granted him the patent to make all those bicycles if he had been about to do what Superintendent Nuttley is clearly about to do. ‘Come on, there’s a good girl,’ he says. ‘Lie down and enjoy it. Think what it would be like if you were on probation and you had to come round here every week.’
The remark is presumably meant to offer me some comfort but it fails miserably in its objective. It is with heavy heart and bra lightened by the removal of my breasts that I reluctantly allow myself to be drawn down to floor level. Nuttley continues to snuffle amongst what many consider to be my best feature and again the unhappy analogy with the Airedale invades my mind. I reject it and bite my lip as I feel my skirt being tugged upwards and crude hands forcing my thighs apart. ‘Right,’ says my attacker. ‘Let’s see if the fuzz can tickle your fancy.’
‘Please!’ I say. ‘Suspend your jocularity.’
‘I haven’t worn one since I gave up playing rugger for the Metropolitan Police,’ says the stupid fool. ‘I was a scrum half in those days. Always putting it in. Stand by: “Coming in left, police. Coming in now!” ’
I close my eyes. Why does it always have to be me? I’m certain other girls don’t go through what I go through. Flashers hitchhike half the length of the country to expose themselves to me. If there was a sex maniac on the loose he would end up hiding under my bed. There is clearly something about me that attracts the wrong type of man – and, I fear, vice versa. I do have a habit of falling for rotters. There is obviously something not completely above board about Reggy, or whatever his name is, and I know that he deceived me with Penny. You don’t seem to be able to trust anyone these days.
The only man who has always played the white man with me is my old boyfriend, Geoffrey Wilkes – well, when I say ‘always’ I mean nearly always. There was that occasion behind the heavy roller at the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club dance but I don’t think that anything happened. They don’t come much whiter than Geoffrey – in fact, he is almost slug-like. I know that he wants to marry me. He told me so after he had made love to me at Penny’s house – oh yes. I suppose there was that occasion as well. Though, of course, I was drunk and did not know what I was doing. I probably imagined it in fact. Perhaps I should settle down with Geoffrey?
It is strange, but no sooner has the thought occurred to me than the gross organ straining inside my narrow love channel becomes the harbinger of something not totally unakin to pleasure. (You can tell who got the form prize for creative writing, can’t you?) It is as if some outside force is trying to tell me something. Every probing thrust is saying ‘Geoffrey Wilkes! Geoffrey Wilkes!’ I have noticed something like this happening before but never in association with a specific name. Fate, taking pity on me as I lay writhing beneath the onslaught of some unwanted love lance, has allowed me a taste of the pleasure that will one day accrue when I am cohabiting with my Mr Right – a sort of trailer for the big feature to come, so to speak.
‘How are you liking it?’ pants Superintendent Nuttley. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’
I hurriedly remove the careless hands that have been guilty of pulling Nuttley’s power unit closer to me. I would hate him to get the wrong idea. This depravity has gone on long enough and even though I am transferring my feelings to the distant Geoffrey they are too strong for comfort. I tap Nuttley on the shoulder and pretend to see something behind him.
‘Someone’s coming!’ I hiss.
A long shudder passes through the Superintendent’s body and emerges in a region I would prefer not to to mention. ‘Too true, darling,’ he groans. ‘Too t-r-r-r-r-ue!’
‘Phew, I never thought we’d get out of that so easily,’ says Penny after Nuttley, true to his word, has released us and we are scuttling down the steps of the police station.
‘Easily?’ I say, trying to stop a note of hysteria from creeping into my voice.
‘Yes,’ says Penny. ‘I thought the only thing that would work would be a sweetener. That’s why I tossed in that bit about Gary Cooper. I thought it might get him going but he didn’t bite.’
‘He didn’t bite you!’ I say, feeling the side of my neck which must look like a piece of uncooked steak.
‘Rosie! You don’t mean –?’
‘Yes, dear! You dropped me right in it. He thought I was the one who fancied him. I had to bear the brunt.’
‘Bare the what –?’
‘The brunt, Penny! Do listen. I had to bare the other thing as well but that’s not what I was referring to.’
‘I bet he had a big one,’ says Penny.
‘Is that all you can say?’ I scold. ‘After what I’ve just been through. “I bet he had a big one”. Is that all the sympathy you can dredge up for a close friend who has given her all to get you out of prison?’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Penny. ‘I just wanted to see if I was right, that’s all. Did he have a big one?’
‘I didn’t really look at it,’ I say.
‘So you didn’t go down on him?’ says Penny losing none of her interest for the unspeakable details.
‘Penny!’ I say, feeling my cheeks redden. ‘I’m not certain I know what that means, though I’m certain I don’t want to find out.’
‘I was referring to a blow job,’ says Penny as I might have guessed she would. ‘Otherwise known as “chewing the fat”, “gnawing the nunga”, “slurping the gherkin” or “pork without talk”.’
‘Please!’ I say. ‘I can assure you that nothing so uneatable – I mean, unspeakable – took place. To answer your first question, my tortured senses do suggest to me that the base member was one of the larger variety. Now let us leave the subject alone!’
Penny shakes her head ruefully. ‘You’re a quiet one and no mistake. There I am, trying to find something worth reading in a back number of the Police Gazette, and you’re getting outside another champion marrow arrow. Tell me, what is the secret of your success with men?’
‘I wish I knew,’ I say. ‘Then I could do something about it. You don’t think I seriously get any pleasure out of all these awful things that happen to me, do you?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Penny. ‘You puzzle me. I’ve never met a girl quite like you. You seem innocent but –’
I wait hopefully but nothing happens. ‘Go on,’ I say.
‘Well,’ says Penny. ‘It’s not easy to put my finger on – not like some other things – but I think you sort of ask for some of the things that happen to you. Maybe it’s fate or something like that.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I think you’ve hit on it. Without really knowing it. I’ve been crying out for a permanent attachment and my senses have got all jangled up.’ I can see Penny looking bewildered and I start talking faster. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve sorted myself out now and I think I know what I should do. There’s a boy at home called Geoffrey Wilkes, I don’t know if I’ve talked to you about him?’
‘From what you said he sounded a bit of a drip,’ says Penny.
‘If that’s what I said then I wasn’t being very fair,’ I say. ‘He’s not fantastically