Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

I guide her round to the pub and I can see that the lads are impressed. With this in mind, I steer her into a corner and get her a lager and a cheese roll – fast. You can’t leave a bird like that alone for long without reckoning that some other bleeder will be chatting her up.

“Your real name isn’t Kismetta, is it?” I say as I shove the drink into her hand.

“You must be joking, dahling.” She blows smoke over her left shoulder and I can see her lapping up the way everybody is slopping the beer down their bibs because they can’t take their eyes off her.

“No, it’s Pat. Pat Hatchard. That other rubbish is just a stage name.”

“What are you trying for this afternoon?”

“I don’t really know. Theatre in the Round in Streatham or something. Doesn’t really matter; it’s always the same: Right Miss – um Miss Hatchard. Thank you. Very nice. Now there’s a chance that we’ll be playing ‘The Birthday Party’ in our birthday suits this season so I wonder if you’d mind taking off your knickers. You would? Too public, eh? Well, supposing you came round to my flat this evening, more informal you know. No? Thank you, Miss Hatchard. Next please.”

Now, everybody in the boozer hears her going on like this and I’m getting a bit embarrassed. I mean, women don’t say those kind of things round here. Not in the local, anyway. I’ve never heard anything like it since Sid’s mother told Dad to stop squeezing her tits; and that was on Christmas Eve, so there was some excuse. I mean Mum would have done more than just break a soda syphon over his head if there hadn’t been.

“It’s no good if it’s like that,” I say hurriedly. “Maybe you ought to think about doing some other job? Can you type?”

She knocks back her drink and pushes the empty glass toward me expectantly.

“Type? God no! I’d rather go on the streets. Much rather.”

She glances round to see if anybody agrees with her but now they’re shying away as if it costs you five bob to catch her eye. I buy her another lager and the barman looks at me as if I’m a ponce. This is not quite the image-building job I was after. I can’t stand women who are crude in public. Still, having made an investment of two lagers I’m not prepared to quit now.

“Tell you what,” I say to her all casual-like. “If you get the job why don’t we have a little celebration tonight – or even if you don’t get it? It’ll cheer you up either way.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I dunno. A few beers and then we might take one of those Chinese meals back to your place.”

“To my place?”

“Well, I live with my Mum and Dad.”

“Very nice. But, I mean why don’t we have the Chinese meal in a Chinese restaurant. You can do that, you know.”

“I thought it might be more cosy, more intimate,—”

“—more chance of getting your end away.”

She says that so loud that even the bloke playing darts down the other end of the public bar can hear her. I know because he nearly pins his mate’s ear to the board.

“Oh, come off it.”

“What do you mean, ‘come off it’? You come off it. I don’t mind. I just wish you’d be honest about it. Now, let’s get out of this place. It gives me the creeps. I’ve never seen such a load of fish-eyed old syphilitics in my life. Haven’t they ever seen a woman before?”

And she stalks out leaving half her lager behind. I’m tempted to finish it but my reputation has already suffered enough as it is so I follow her outside sharpish.

I should give it a miss then, but, as I’ve said before, the old bulldog spirit is half the battle in this game, so I eventually get her to agree that I should give her a ring around six so we can decide where to meet. She doesn’t seem all that wild about it but at least she doesn’t say she’s got to visit her grandmother or something.

So at six o’clock I ring the Fitz and – surprise, surprise – Pat has got the job and is as chuffed as a dog with two cocks. “Come on round,” she shouts – “and bring a little bottle with you.” She sounds so cheerful that I don’t mention the pub crawl and go ape with the after shave lotion before blowing 47p on a very nice Spanish Sauternes, which I am confident is a shrewd investment with a bird who’s obviously been around a bit. Six forty-five and I’m striding past Drakey who always pops out like a spider the moment he hears a footstep. The poor sod has opened the register before he recognises me. I put him in his place with a curt nod and sail upstairs.

Rat, tat, tat and – blimey! When Pat swings the door open I wonder why I’ve bothered with the Spanish Sauternes. She smells like a perfumed brewery and has obviously had a few to celebrate before I got there. “Dahling – hic!” she husks. “Come in and let me devour you. Oh! You’ve brought a bottle. How kind. Lovely Spanish Sauternes, as drunk by the Greek gods.” She giggles weakly and falls back on the bed.

Frankly, my feelings are mixed. Obviously it’s on with her, but she’s pissed out of her mind and could start slinging her goloshes out of the window at any moment. I don’t mind, but at the first sign of activity Drakey will be beating his tiny knuckles white against the door panelling.

I don’t have much time to think about it because Pat tears the wine from my hand, sucks out the cork – she must have, she did it so fast – and sloshes half the bottle into a couple of mugs so it’s slopping over the sides.

Her dress had buttons all down the front which I thought were just for show but I can see now they aren’t because the top fifteen or so are undone.

“Come here, you beautiful bastard,” she yodels and gives me a smacking kiss on the lips and half her Sauternes down the front of my trousers. She finds that very funny and starts chanting “Get ’em off! Get ’em off!” loud enough to get herself free membership of the Chelsea F.C. Supporters Club.

Now, I can see that the longer I leave things, the worse it’s going to get, so I grab hold of her and seal her mouth with my lips. This calms things down a lot and she wriggles into my body like she’s trying to find a way through it. She can certainly kiss can Pat and what with that and her fingers running up and down my spine and ruffling my hair it’s easy for the lower half of my body to suddenly decide it’s deeply in love with her.

“So you got the job?” I say when we come up for air.

“Fuck the job,” she says, “Wheeeeee!”

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever leaned against the wall and been kissed by a girl who has one foot on the floor and one on your shoulder, but it’s quite an experience, I can tell you. And what you can do with your hands is nobody’s business.

After we’ve tried that one for a few minutes, she goes through her whole repertoire. High kicks, the splits, everything. There’s buttons popping like Guy Fawkes night and her dress is open right down the front so I can see she’s only wearing a pair of black lace panties underneath – it’s fantastic. She whizzes round the room about five times and then collapses on the bed.

Well, there’s probably about three blokes in the world who would have tip-toed out to get her an ice pack at that moment but I’m not one of them. I’ve got my clothes off faster than a kid unwraps a Christmas present and in no time I’m guiding her knicks down over her knees while she starts grinding her arse into the bed and baring her teeth.

I would like to be able to say that we made love, but I’d be boasting.

She made love and I tried to keep up with her. What an experience!

Whatever you’ve heard about dancers and muscle control – it’s true. Every bloody word of it. All those ladies you see swinging about on ropes at the circus; I bet their old men are walking round with smiles on their faces. This girl can grip you like she’s got a second pair of hands – and as for what she does when she’s got you. Five minutes with Pat and you know how a table cloth feels when it’s being shaken out of the window. She can do the splits with you inside her so that she’s playing footsie and tickling your ear with her big toe at the same time.