Confessions of a Pop Star. Timothy Lea
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of my north and south against Daffers’ soft, warm lips. At the same instant my right hand glides smoothly but purposefully between the lady’s thighs. She stiffens for a minute and then relaxes, sliding her arms round my neck.
‘Naughty,’ she says approvingly.
I don’t rush things but gently chew her lips whilst brushing my fingers against the fragile fabric guarding the entrance to her spasm chasm. At basement level percy is rolling out like a fireman’s hose and I have to effect a quick readjustment of my threads in order to rearrange the accommodation. Daffers is not slow to diagnose my problem and her thoughtful fingers arrive like a batch of flying doctors. As I hook my pinkies under the rim of her panties her own digits ease down my zipper and prepare to take percy for walkies.
We are now profitably involved in two areas of mutual interest and as our fingers glide and caress a certain urgency invades our actions. I slide my hand under Daffers’ back bumpers and with a little help from my friend tug her knicks towards an appointment with the carpet pile. For her part, Daffers is equally swift to expose my parts and percy soars upward like a twenty five pounder field gun released from its camouflage netting.
‘We mustn’t!’ gasps Daffers, eagerly. Even if your only experience of birds is helping old ladies across the road you soon get to realise that the hot flushes often coincide with the cold feet. They don’t mean it, of course, but a word of reassurance is always appreciated.
‘You’re beautiful,’ I breathe. Not the most original words in the English language but they pull more birds than a fleet of tugs. The steam is now running down the inside of the windows and it joins my impulsive lips in drowning any more of Daffers’ half hearted objections. I settle back into my seat and pull my passionate playmate towards me. With encouraging haste she scrambles across my knees and suddenly the car is a very small place. In the circumstances the best thing to do seems to be to make use of every inch of space and I slot into Daffers with a speed that would bring tears to the eyes of any woodwork master in the country. My hands close about her back buffers and we thump happily while I watch the misty outlines in the mews rise and fall in time with the car springs.
‘Heaven!’ breathes my new friend. ‘Oh, it’s good.’
I am in no mood to disagree with her and as the warm currents stirring through my loins race towards the rapids I sense that a small weight loss in the Y-front area is imminent if not even nearer.
‘What the Devil!’
That didn’t sound like me? And it’s not the kind of thing I say.
‘What the hell are you doing, Daffers?!’
With a sense of extreme irritation I realise that Algie has woken up. Some people have no feelings, do they? What a minute to choose. Just when I’m–
‘A-a-a-a-a-a-’
‘Daffers! You swine!’
‘-a-a-a-a-a-gh-!’
I stretch out an arm for the door handle and – oh dear! – stand by for another Lea Golden Rule: always leave the vehicle in gear when you’re having feels on wheels. That way you avoid releasing the hand brake and rolling backwards into all those dustbins. What a good job I had just put down a deposit, otherwise there might have been a nasty accident. Terrible to be snapped off in your prime.
‘Take that, you–!’
Algie is obviously feeling much stronger and I think it is probably safe to leave him and Daffers to sort things out. I open the door and fall into a sea of bottles – well, it is difficult to be light on your feet when your trousers are round your ankles and you have got some bloke thumping you in the earhole.
They do all right for themselves in this mews, I can tell you. The contents of all the dustbins scattered about would stock a boozer.
‘What the Devil–!?’
This time it is a geezer leaning out of a window. He is probably fretting because Algie’s sharp little motor car has dug itself into his front door. I am feeling decidedly fragile at knee level and am grateful that Plonkers is only just round the corner. Even a glass of red wine will go down a treat in my condition. I am but a few feet from the door when a human body emerges from it at an angle of forty-five degrees. This trajectory is maintained for about six feet and then the body descends sharply into the gutter. By the cringe, but it is a night for violence, isn’t it? It is amazing that anyone dares to step out for a drink these days. No doubt some undesirable scruff is being given the bum’s rush from Rosie’s posh clip joint.
In a manner of speaking I am correct. The stream of filthy lingo rising from the gutter could issue from only one cakehole.
‘What happened, Sid?’ I say, seizing the arm which is swinging back into punch-up position.
‘No bugger talks to my old woman like that and gets away with it.’ Sid surges towards the door but I manage to hold him back.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he was going to liaise with her the weekend he got back from Amsterdam. Imagine that. He’s hardly through the door and he’s off with someone’s wife. I bet he’s got some lovely kiddies at home, too.’
‘Liaise isn’t a place, you berk,’ I say helpfully. ‘It means to get in touch with someone.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Sid. ‘Are you sure? No wonder Rosie got so worked up.’
‘What did you do?’
Sid looks down at the pavement. ‘I punched him about a bit. Nothing too strenuous. It was only when they all went for me that I had to defend myself.’ Before he can say anything else I hear the shrill note of an ambulance approaching at speed. I do not have to consult my crystal ball to know where it is going.
‘I think we’d better get out of here,’ I say. ‘I don’t reckon it’s one of our evenings. Not unless you fancy our chances of finding a load of talent in the local nick.’
Sid thinks hard for a minute. ‘It’s a nice publicity gimmick,’ he says slowly. Poor old Sid. If the Indians gave him beads he would be grateful.
‘Come on!’ I say. ‘Take me home, I’m knackered.’
‘You can stay with us,’ says Sid. ‘There’s loads of room and we can talk about the proposition in the morning.’
‘Is that going to be all right with Rosie?’
Sid says words to the effect that he is not going to be over-worried whether it is all right with Rosie or not. Furthermore, that if Rosie does not like it she knows what she can do with herself. It is obviously a subject that Sid enjoys talking about and he is still going strong when we get back to trendy Vauxhall.
‘Fancy a night cap?’ he says, advancing to the booze tray. I refuse and am directed to the third floor while my brother-in-law fixes himself another large scotch. He drinks too much, there is no doubt about it.
I am feeling dead knackered and the prospect of a bit of kip is very welcome. It has been a day rich in experience if not in achievement and I will have much to think about before the sand man dusts my mince pies with – knickers! For some reason the light in the room Sid directed me to is not working. Not to worry, I will do something about it in the morning.
I feel my way to the bed and start to strip off. I will have to sleep in the buff but that is no hardship. A bit chilly to start off with but – that’s funny. It seems quite warm as I slide a leg inside. Warm as the hand that grabs my action man kit.
‘Mr Noggett. You naughty man!’ The voice is full of East European promise and is not unknown to me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I squeak – and I mean squeak. ‘It’s not Mr Noggett. It’s me. I thought this was my room.’
‘Is my room. Everything in it is mine.’ Something about the way she says that makes me fear the worst – that and the way her mitt is still anchored to my hampton like it is a try your strength machine.