“Don’t do that,” says Sandy, “you’ve got a super body and I like looking at it.” She takes the shirt between finger and thumb and drops it over her shoulder.
“I think you’re bloody fantastic,” I say, and I mean it.
“I think I’d better go,” Amanda drags herself to her feet. “Can I have a bath?”
“Yes, of course, but why didn’t you have one before I put the cream on you?”
“I didn’t want one then,” Amanda goes out showing you that from behind she looks like two shetland ponies on the job.
“I’m thrilled about this,” says Sandy.
“What, about her being satisfied?”
“Yes, you don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“Well what a way to come. Being beaten till your back is like a corrugated iron roof. I’d rather do without, myself.”
“I bet you wouldn’t. That girl couldn’t even give herself an orgasm by masturbating until today. Every woman is entitled to an orgasm and if a man can’t give it to her, she has a perfect right to get one by any means she can.”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts,” Sandy obviously feels strongly about this, “women are fed a lot of twaddle about how marvellous sex is and when it isn’t they feel let down. Some of them don’t even know whether they’ve had an orgasm or not. They get worried. They think it’s their fault. Men don’t have any trouble having orgasms, why should women?”
“They’re built differently,” I say helpfully.
“You’re damn right they are. Sexual discrimination starts right here in our bodies. Whoever designed us would put the handle on a door so you couldn’t reach it standing on tip toe. And men don’t help with the old ‘thank you dear, that was very nice, now let me go to sleep, I’ve got a busy day at the office tomorrow,’ mentality.”
“You don’t seem to have any problems.”
“That’s not the point. I’ve liberated myself. I’m one of the lucky ones. I want to help people like Amanda who have resigned themselves to having rotten sex lives.”
“By beating them?”
“By doing anything to them that doesn’t offend either one of us and stands a chance of giving them what they have a right to. Surely you must believe that anything people do when they’re having sex is O.K. as long as they both want to do it?”
“Yes – but?”
“—There you go ‘butting’ again. I think you’re a hypocrite. You got jolly sexed up when you were watching me and Amanda didn’t you? You found that dirty, or kinky, or whatever you like to call it – and because of that it gave you a sexual appetite. Now you didn’t feel guilty about that, did you? You just responded to a certain stimulus and got satisfaction from it. Can’t you see that that’s what I’m trying to make happen with Amanda? I want to find something that turns her on. They give mental patients electric shocks, don’t they?”
I can’t follow everything she’s trying to say but I agree with a lot of it. She certainly comes across as being sincere and the way she talks to me I might be Malcolm Muggeridge instead of a window cleaner. In short, I’m impressed. She’s so direct she’s like a man, but I find I can accept that.
“I take it from your silence that you’re in total agreement with what I say?”
“I was just thinking that I’d never seen a woman with turned up nipples before,” I says.
“They’re retroussé and recherché,” she says, and because she knows I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about and wishes she hadn’t said it she leans forward and puts her hand between my legs and kisses me on the neck.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she says.
“I hope so.” Down in the forest something is stirring and I take one of those delicious nipples between finger and thumb and give it a friendly squeeze until it feels like a hot bullet.
“This time very gentle please,” she says, so we nibble each others lips for a few minutes before I flip her over onto her back and she flicks her legs up against my shoulders.
“Goodbye cock,” I say as I watch it disappear.
“Remember, darling,” she says, “you’re not losing a cock, you’re gaining a vagina.”
She’s funny, see, and you don’t meet many birds with a sense of humour.
They’re very much worth having.
Take my word for it.
Of all the birds I had about that time Sandy was the most memorable. I admired her and I felt quite honoured to be having it away with her. She was always dead straight and never talked down to you. Not like some of those upper class birds who could never resist telling you they were slumming, just so they didn’t feel too bad about it the next day. They really wanted a spade but they couldn’t quite stoop to that and you were the next best thing.
I even used to ring Sandy up outside business hours and I went round to her flat in the evening a couple of times. She was always very breathless on the phone as if she was terribly busy and trying to remember all the things she had to do. “Hallo-yes-who? – oh yes – sorry. No of course, I do. Yes that’s fine I think – wait a minute – no sorry. What is today? Thursday? Good God. No I can’t I’ve got some other fellah coming round. Better make it another time. Do give me a ring though because I’d adore seeing you again. ’Bye luv.”
I know its bloody stupid but I was a little jealous of all those other blokes I imagined trooping round there. I knew they existed, of course, but all the same I’d look at my watch a few hours later and think now they’re on the job; now some other lucky bastard is stroking that smooth creamy brown skin; now her pepper mill arse is grinding him into small fragments of ecstasy; now – God! It really choked me I can tell you.
Of the other birds. I steered clear of Viv because I didn’t want to rub Sid up the wrong way but I kept in touch with Dorothy and Mrs. Armstrong. It was always the same with them. Every time I left the house I vowed it would be the last time but a couple of months later I’d be back again and quite looking forward to seeing them.
Before I went back to Dorothy I bought her an outrageous pair of panties from Marks and Sparks which must have made her old man sit up if he even noticed them. Also, a pair of fishnet tights. Once she saw those it didn’t take me long to wonder what they would look like on, we organised a little fashion show upstairs. This proved that the panties were perfect but that the tights weren’t quite long enough in the leg – she had very long legs did Dorothy. This didn’t matter too much because the tights got torn anyway. We were in a bit of a hurry getting them off.
Mrs. Armstrong was more of a puzzle. Everytime I went through the back door I’d start thinking I must have dreamed it the last time. Mrs. A. smelling like the ground floor of Debenham and Freebodys and looking over my shoulder as if she had double vision. But it was always the same. I’d be squeezin’ out my chamois and the old trolley would go rambling past. “I thought you might like some tea”: “Thank you very much.” Into the sitting room and a load of chat about her bloody stepdaughters or how the country was going to