Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver

I wait expectantly for her to say ‘hot dinners’ but she doesn’t.

‘What exactly do you do on board?’ I ask, peeling off the remains of Sid’s jacket. A card falls out of one of the pockets which says ‘Everything slashed!’ I don’t think it referred only to the prices.

‘I am Comfort Officer. I ensure that revolutionary fervour is maintained at high level and that crew have spotski of in and outski on Saturday night. Here, I do it.’ So saying she briskly begins to peel off my sodden clobber like she is removing washing from a line.

‘Blimey,’ I say. ‘All on Saturday night?! Have you considered staggering?’

‘I don’t have to consider,’ she says with feeling. ‘I stagger!’

The feeling I am referring to is what might be termed a brisk massage and richochets through the lower half of my body like honey bullets. The lady is obviously well-equipped with the physical wherewithal to withstand the passionate demands of the crew and it occurs to me that the work is probably no hardship to her. ‘I do not know what has happened to Boris,’ she says, whipping down my Y-fronts. ‘Maybe you like to lie down. You like bunk up?’

‘I beg your pardon!’ I say. I mean, I am not used to girls being so forward. This isn’t a Young Conservatives’ dance or anything like that.

‘You like bunk up or bunk down?’ The Russian lady is now pointing to the two bunks in the cabin and her meaning becomes clear to me.

‘The bottom one’s fine,’ I say, grabbing a blanket and adjusting my shapely limbs in a horizontal position.

Before there is time for any more sparkling interchanges the cabin door opens and Boris reappears with a bundle of clothing. ‘Is that all, Excellency?’

There is a note of pleading in his voice that goes unheeded.

‘Yes Boris. Go and read the library book.’

‘But Olga, Excellency. I know the life of Karl Marx backwards. I have other needs.’

‘They will be attended to, Boris. Now leave us.’

The door closes on the resentful Boris and Olga looks at her watch. ‘So,’ she says. ‘It is now Saturday.’

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to keep the conversation bubbling along. ‘I like the weekends.’

‘I prefer the strong ends,’ says Olga. ‘They make my job so much easier.’

‘I don’t think you quite understood what I mean,’ I say. ‘I was referring to – oh well, it doesn’t really matter.’

Olga has suddenly pulled her shift over her head to reveal that my hopes for her knockers were well founded. Naked as nature intended they lunge forward like a couple of gently curved hunting horns. The angle of dangle is tempting and my own horn starts thinking about doing a bit of hunting.

Olga picks up a bottle and a couple of glasses and sits on the edge of my bunk. ‘Now you are one of us you are entitled to take pleasure from my body like any other crude member’ – I think she means crew member but I don’t say anything. You can’t go on picking people up all the time, can you? It is very clever of her to be able to speak English as well as she does.

‘That’s very nice of you,’ I say. ‘But—’ I am about to say that there has been some kind of mistake and that I am not running away from anything and that I don’t want to join the crew when I remember the expression on Boris’s face as he went out of the door. It was not projecting a lot of human warmth and affection in my direction and could easily suggest an unbalanced personality with a quick trigger finger.

‘Yes?’ says Olga.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking.’

Olga pours some colourless liquid into a glass and hands it to me. ‘Maybe you think too much. From now on, we do thinking for you.’

‘What is this?’ I say.

‘Just straightforward party philosophy.’

‘I meant the drink,’ I say.

‘Wodka.’

‘You mean vodka?’

‘I mean wodka.’

I take a sip and she is obviously right. It is wodka. Potent too. I have already consumed a bellyful of booze earlier in the evening and this stuff races through me like a flaming brand in a paraffin factory.

‘You like?’ Her knockers are now brushing against my bare chest and the sensation serves to short circuit the current already pumping through me from the wodka – the stuff must be pure anti-freeze.

‘I like.’ I put my glass on the floor and allow my mouth the freedom of Olga’s cakehole. With a gentleness for which I am grateful she returns the pressure and presses her warm bristols against my chest. I don’t know if you have ever seen a carp sucking at a piece of bread on the surface of a pond but that is rather her kissing style. A lot of gentle chewing and the occasional gnaw of the lower lip.

We go on like this for a while and she wriggles on to the bunk so that she is stretched out on top of me. It is very good for the warming up and after a few minutes of our nibble fest the last icicles have thawed and percy is rising like an early crocus from the melting snow. In fact, when I say crocus I do man’s best friend a disservice. He is coming up more like a scarlet cucumber.

A woman like Olga is clearly no stranger to the effect that she has on men and it is not many seconds after percy has thrust himself between us that she lets out an exclamation that sounds like the name of a new Japanese motor bike and begins to sew kisses on my chest like they are mustard seed. I watch her tawny barnet taxiing down to the root of many of my problems and it occurs to me that something very pleasant is about to happen to Timothy. ‘Oh!’ That is me responding to Olga’s snake tongue trying to undo my belly button. ‘Oooh!’ Olga’s right hand has now coasted up the inside of my thigh and is gently squeezing my niagras like they are the bellows which inflate my already straining Mad Mick. ‘OOOH!!’ Olga has now done something very volga that you seldom see unless you watch the chocolate bar commercials on the telly. How shameless and enjoyable it all is. As the minutes pass and Olga’s bobbing nut becomes increasingly in danger of bashing itself against the upper bunk, I decide that is is about time that I did something to repay the hospitality that I am being offered. It is no good lying back and expecting to have everything done for you. Do as you would consider yourself very fortunate to be done by is one of my mottoes.

Not without some regret, I draw Olga up my body and reapply myself to her lips whilst attempting to remove the garments which lumber the lower half of her body. They obviously do things up differently in Russia because I am not getting anywhere until my friend jumps from the bed, tears open her breeches, tugs off her boots and leaps on top of me again. Such eagerness is touching, as are most parts of her body. With some difficulty, I press her back against the wall and adjust my cakehole to the nearest available knocker. This treatment is well received by the lady and it is with little difficulty that I persuade her to enjoy every knocker’s favourite meal – guzzle and tweak. I dish out a second helping to each Manchester and then head south like a migrating swallow – or dipper, more like. It is funny how birds – I mean the human kind – work themselves up when a muff job is in the air, isn’t it? Backs arch, heads twist from side to side before you have even licked your lips. Olga is no exception. By the time I have found a way of propping my legs against the far wall of the cabin and swept the hair out of my eyes, you could run a model railway under her back. Mind you, it would be a terrible waste if you did. You can play with your model railway any day of the week. A girlchik like Olga comes along only when Sid casts you adrift on a double bed. And that, thank God, is not very often. As Olga quivers I set my tongue to work like it is a bow playing a musical instrument. I can’t say I recognise the tune that comes out but it is certainly a very cheerful sound. Ideally, I reckon that a muff job is a horse’s duvet (hors d’oeuvres? – Ed.) It should whet the appetite for what is to come and get the old gastric juices flowing. I don’t think it ought to become a meal in itself.