Timothy Lea - The Confessions Collection

I don’t think so at all, in fact it seems a bit disgusting even Dad finding my Mum attractive; though that must have been a long time ago. I start to say something but Mrs. A. rabbits on.

“This Johnathan, I can’t even be certain that was his name. Anyway, he drinks too much at one of their terrible parties and we put him to bed. Poor boy, I know he’s always had a thing about me – I mean it’s perfectly natural, perfectly harmless. I’m trying to calm him down and Fiona comes in. Heavens, you should have heard the things that girl called me.

“She totally lost control of herself. It was so embarrassing. What everybody else thought, I’ve no idea. Poor Johnathan, he was the one I was worried about. He was so upset he never came near the house again – and you can’t blame him.” She takes the empty tea cup out of my hand and sits down next to me on the sofa tugging her skirt down towards her knees.

“Then there was Rollo. Now, he was a charming boy – absolutely charming. Much too good for Viccy. She treats him so badly it’s incredible. I think he turned to me because of it. At least one can be civil, can’t one, but young people today – I know everybody says it but it’s true – young people are so thoughtless, so ill-mannered, it really does upset me. Anyway, on this occasion they were playing tennis and Rollo falls and grazes his leg quite badly. Do you know, all Viccy can do is laugh at him? It really was so cruel. I was mortified. I took him up to the house to put something on his knee and made him lie down on this very sofa.” She pats it like an animal. “Now perhaps it was the brandy, or me in my tennis things – I don’t know what it was – anyway, poor Rollo suddenly becomes terribly affectionate – I mean you can’t blame him the way that girl treats him. I suppose I should have told him to behave himself, in fact I’m certain I did, but he was such a sweet boy. Nothing happened, of course, I wouldn’t have let it, but Viccy comes leaping through the door – she’s quite a big girl really – and the language. I don’t know where she heard words like that – certainly not from me, though I can’t speak for her real mother. It’s much quieter here when they’re both away.”

All the time she has been saying this, her hand has been creeping along the back of the settee and now it is ruffling the hair on the back of my neck. I turn towards her and she suddenly kisses me, so fast she nearly misses my mouth. It’s more like franking a letter than a kiss really.

“Now, I expect you’d like to see my bedroom,” she says.

It’s all moving a bit fast for me and I try and kiss her just to make sure that we’re both thinking about the same thing. But she pulls away like the Q.E.2 leaving Southampton and stands up smoothing her dress down.

“Leave the tea things,” she says, and glides out. I follow her up the stairs and when we get to the top she points to one of the doors along the landing. “I expect you’d like to use the bathroom,” she says.

I wouldn’t dream of arguing with her so I pop into the onyx palace. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing and when I’ve had a quick sluice down I put my clothes on again. I mean I don’t want to wander into her bedroom bollock naked and find she only wants me to mend the plug on her electric blanket.

But when I get to the bedroom I’m dead certain that isn’t what she has in mind. The curtains are half drawn and there’s an electric fire on by the bed. In it, the bed I mean, is Mrs. A. with her back to me. I can see that she is wearing a slip, the straps nudging in to her fleshy shoulders.

“I can’t abide cold hands,” she says firmly, so I take the hint and warm mine in front of the electric fire. What a carry on. I only wish I felt a bit sexed up about the whole thing, but I don’t. I’ve hardly touched the woman and yet I’m practically in bed with her. I mean, even the best of us need a bit of warming up and at the moment I’m drooping like a wet pigtail. If I had an ounce of self respect I’d tell her to get stuffed and march straight out, but of course, I haven’t, so I take my clothes off and slide in beside her, hoping that once I make contact it’s going to be alright. Her back is still turned towards me and I slip my hands under her petticoat sharpish because that usually brings me on a treat – just the feel of it, you know. She isn’t wearing any knicks, wicked old bag, and allows herself a little groan which might be meant to indicate pleasure. If it is she certainly knows how to keep herself under control. I’m nibbling her shoulders and playing her like a Naafi piano but she doesn’t move.

At last I can’t stand it any more and I wrench her round and start raining kisses on her pruin mouth. This has some effect because she grabs hold of my old man and starts yanking it like it’s something to call the butler on. It’s not having the desired effect though and I’m wondering how to escape when she flings back the bedclothes and suddenly sits up. I think she’s had enough too, but her back arches and her head goes down my body.

“Poor boy,” she says, just before she starts, “it’s always the same, what a good thing the girls aren’t here.”

Now so far I’ve been talking solidly about birds and you may recall – if you went skipping to get to the sexy bits – how I described the signs that can lead the average red blooded English boy to a spot of nooky: frustration, boredom, seven year itch, everybody doing-it, old man over the top – that kind of thing.

Now all this pre-supposes that you’ve only got to stand there with your scrim in your hand and they’re all going to start tearing your clothes off. Up to a point this is true. If you hang on long enough you can’t fail to get some bag making a pass at you even if you look like Goofie with a hang over. But there are times when it’s in the balance, and then you’ve got to ram home the message wrapped in a bit of sales appeal. In other words it’s no good recognising the ones that will if they don’t know you can.

What I’m going to tell you now is the fruit of years of experience, observation, and advice I’ve received. I certainly didn’t know it all when I was tumbling about with the likes of Viv, Dot and Mrs. A., but they each helped in their own special way.

First of all, you’ve got to like birds. It seems dead simple doesn’t it? I mean every man likes birds. But he doesn’t! There’s a hell of a lot of them would be much happier danging their floats in the local reservoir or checking over their stamp collections. They only make a token effort so their mates don’t think they’re bent or because Mum is always nagging at them. Look at some of your married friends if you don’t believe me. It’s not just that they don’t fancy the old woman, they don’t fancy any one! The telly, the boozer, maybe a spot of football, that’s their lot. They came in with a dud battery hanging between their legs and it’s too late to take it back to the shop. So: Rule One. You’ve got a much better chance of getting it if you really want it.

Rule Two: Make them laugh. This is where you can’t go wrong. Once you’ve got a bird laughing – and especially a married bird – you can practically hear the bedsprings creaking. Birds want to be relaxed, they want a bit of fun and once you’re sharing a sense of humour – well, there’s no limit to what you’ll be sharing. Considering how much time we spend talking to each other, it’s amazing how bad we are at it. The difference between what we want to say – and what actually comes out of our mouths is fantastic. I mean, take me and that first time with Viv for instance. Diabolical. Whereas, if I’d have been able to keep chatting and thrown in a few funnies, I’d have been there nice and easy, without needing a bloody thunderstorm. Most women, though there are exceptions – in fact when you’re talking about women there are millions of exceptions – like to feel that they are being seduced by you, so if you can chat them up, make them laugh, take the micky out of yourself a bit so you seem a human being just like they are, then you’re guiding them gently towards the front room carpet or whereever else they like to do it. Which reminds me of a bird once who – no, sorry.