Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea
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she says.
Back in my room half a million assorted insects are circling the light bulb which must work on a wattage low enough to ripen green tomatoes. I pour us a couple of shots of whisky and advance towards the tap. This, when turned, yields half a tumbler full of liquid rust and then dries up. Carmen shakes her head.
“Water no good,” she says and grasping her throat with both hands, sticks out her tongue and shows me the whites of her eyes. This is a gesture I have no difficulty in interpreting and I hand her the glass of neat whisky.
“Better,” she says.
“Better,” I echo.
“Skin off your arse.”
“Skin off your arse.”
Really, those Americans! She knocks back the Scotch like it is wrapped round an aspirin and extends her glass for another shot. I give her one and she marches into the bathroom jerking her arm at me to follow. To amuse myself, I try the bath tap which gurgles reproachfully.
“Bath?” I say.
“Tomorrow, maybe,” she says. “Maybe the day after. Water bad.”
I nod and she opens the bathroom cabinet – or rather she removes the door of the bathroom cabinet which comes away with the knob. Inside are five bottles which she holds up proudly. They all seem to be for stomach disorders.
“Good?” she says, asking for praise.
“Very good,” I say. “I use mucho, I think.”
“You bet your sweet life.”
“You, beautiful girl,” I say, feeling that it is time to dispense with the medicine chest and get a lot closer to the one that is heaving temptingly before me. “You have beautiful body.”
“Built like concrete shit-house,” she says proudly, “everybody say so.”
“I wouldn’t dream of arguing with them. And beautiful hair.”
“And here, too,” she says pointing to her bristols. “You see?”
“Smashing.”
I slip my arms round her waist and her mouth comes up to meet mine like it is late for an appointment. She tastes of peppermints. I wonder what the rest of her tastes like. I run my hand over her comfortable arse and she starts probing the small of my back with her fingers.
“I like you,” she says.
I think she means it, too, because she keeps trying to bite little pieces off me as souvenirs. This is something I am not very partial to but I don’t say anything; mainly because both my lips are being nibbled like lettuce leaves in the mouth of a highly-strung rabbit. I advance my tongue but this is thrust back firmly in its place by an organ of greater power.
“Bed,” she says firmly and walks me backwards in a clumsy tango step. I am about to topple on to it gratefully when she releases her grip and seizing the bedstead, rattles it viciously until two bolts and a large cockroach zig-zag across the room.
“Squeakee too much,” she says, and before the dust has settled she has torn off the mattress and thrown it on to the floor. By the cringe! Talk about ripping telephone directories in half. This bird would make Joan Rhodes trade in her chest expanders. And she looked so bloody docile in the Fooderama, too. Appearances can be deceiving, I think to myself as she smiles encouragingly and starts tugging her jumper over her head. Underneath she is wearing a bra that might have been made out of two U.S.A.F. parachutes – and brother, there could not have been enough material left over to knit your kid sister a thimble cosy. What a pair! Spain’s answer to the world melon shortage. Just to be in their presence is an honour but to actually touch them! My greedy hand stretches out and disappears into the cleavage up to the wrist. Caramba! Or whatever they say in these parts, this girl is a flesh avalanche!
Maybe avalanche is the wrong word, because they are usually cold, aren’t they? Little Carmen is not cold, oh dear me, no. I have hardly closed with her before she chucks me on the mattress like it is the final of the Spanish Open Judo championships and I have been lucky to get this far. Queen Kong isn’t in it as she stands over me and starts gyrating her tits like a lady gorilla trying to tell you something. Her skirt is dignified calf-length but it soon drops a damn sight lower than that as she pulls the ripcord and reveals a minute pair of silk panties adorned with an American Sergeant’s stripes pointing to her you-know-what. I would like to be able to whistle “God Bless America” but I am getting a bit short of breath.
“Now: Lovefock,” she says, and she drops on me demonstrating a technique that would turn Mick McManus Hughie Greene with envy. Her hand dives down the front of my jeans like she has left her pet ferret there, and all the lights go out. At first, I think I have fainted, or that ten years as the slave of the five fingered widow have caught up with me, but Carmen is quick to offer reassurance.
“Crappy generator pack up again. We do it in dark.”
I don’t know where she gets the “we” from. Every time I try and get in on the act, I am slapped down like a cheeky puppy. I don’t know whether it is intentional, but she starts to pull my jeans off over my suedes, and you don’t run a hundred yards in that condition, I can tell you. Maybe she thinks I am going to try and sneak off under cover of darkness. Her fears are groundless because, though wary, I can still think of five million other things I would less like to be doing – or being done by as is more nearly the case.
“Aah,” she breathes, drawing forth the fruits of my jockey briefs. “Now we have fun.” Before I can tell her where I packed the paper hats she clambers aboard and snuffs out Percy with a flick of her hips. Where her panties have gone I don’t know. Maybe she has a release mechanism.
“Hold tight, cookee,” she breathes. “It ees going to be a bumpee ride.”
She is not kidding and I can understand why she did not reckon the bedstead was up to it. Have you ever seen one of those electric do-das that workmen use for pounding down road surfaces? Well, imagine two of those side by side, and you have some idea of the punishment her big end is dishing out. In the moonlight I can see her tits swinging dangerously near my head and it is getting so I am terrified to move. God knows what they must be thinking next door because the noise is terrific, even without the bed. Carmen is not a silent lover and her voice, well lubricated by my Scotch, is belting out a few traditional Spanish chants. They have a very persistent beat which is soon more than can be said for me as the minutes tick by and the mighty pelvis continues to batter down on my sensitive body. Even the realisation that I am poking for England is insufficient to make me hold back. Patriotism is not enough, as I remember reading somewhere. A few more ferocious wriggles and I am adding my own delighted gurgles to the general uproar. Bang! Bang! Bang! The noise of somebody bashing against the wall ripples over our gasping bodies and I run my finger down Carmen’s sweat-slippering backbone and whisper self-protectingly in her ear.
“That was wonderful but you must not miss the ferry.”
“Ferry gone,” says my love comfortingly. “I stay here with you tonight. Where is the whisky?”
Blimey! Talk about “A Night on the Bare Mountain”! That composer bloke had obviously never tangled with our Carmen. What an appetite! By the time dawn breaks I feel like I have been run through a combine harvester a couple of times.
Somehow I break away from her and, mumbling that I am going for a swim, make for the door.
“When you come back, I bring you breakfast in bed – Spaneesh style,” she calls after me. That is all I need and I am practically running as I approach the beach. A nice swim is just what I require to pull myself together and prepare for the day ahead. It looks as if it is going to be hot, too.
Just how hot I have not realised. I have no sooner discarded my shorts and am prepared to dunk sizzling Percy in the briny when I hear a sound calculated to strike terror into the bravest heart.
“Well, if it isn’t my favourite male chauvinist pig posing for the cover of Health and Efficiency.