Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

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      “Fuck,” says Brenda. She sounds more annoyed than scared. Not me though.

      I’m scared. This is the kind of thing I always knew would happen one day.

      “What am going to do?”

      “You could get in the wardrobe.”

      I rush across the room and tear the coat hangers aside, so I can burrow into the mothballs like a thirteen stone moth trying to commit suicide.

      “My clothes?”

      “Alright, alright,” she picks up my stuff and pushes it into the wardrobe.

      “Here I come, lover.” The voice is about six paces away.

      “Close the door. Ouch!”

      The last exclamation is occasioned by my cock nearly getting slammed in the door. It must have been done a permanent injury, because it’s still standing stiffly to attention like the boy on the burning deck. Try explaining that one away I think to myself as I crouch there peering through the clothes and the half-open doors towards the bed.

      In this situation, I have to hand it to Brenda. You wouldn’t think that her husband was on the point of bursting into the bedroom and finding her boy friend bent double in the wardrobe with an enormous hard on. She drops her nightdress over her shoulders like a tea cosy, hops into bed and is sitting there selecting a marshmallow as ‘The Weasel’ comes into my field of vision. I can see what she means about being sexy. He must be fruitier than a two-ton packet of wine gums. He’s only been shedding his clothes all the way up the stairs and is now wearing a string vest, pants and socks, held up by an arresting pair of yellow suspenders. It is possible that he always goes about like this, but I reject the thought.

      “So there you are,” he says, sitting on the bed and helping himself to a marshmallow.

      “Cor, you’re looking alright.”

      “Help yourself.” Brenda waves at the box on her lap. “Why don’t you take the whole bleeding lot?”

      “You don’t seem very glad to see me. I got away special to come over here. Look, I bought you a little present.”

      Typical, I think to myself. ‘He never buys me anything,’ that’s what she said to me. You can’t believe a word they say.

      The Weasel produces what looks like one coil from a large spring which he must have been hiding in his hand.

      “Where did you knock that off from?” Grateful, isn’t she?

      “I bought it.”

      “Go on. I know you. What is it?”

      “It’s a bracelet. It goes on your wrist.”

      “I know where bracelets go. I didn’t think it went through my nose.”

      Not a bad idea, though, I think to myself. God. but it’s uncomfortable in that cupboard and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand it without moving. Why doesn’t Brenda tell him to piss off and buy her a packet of aspirins?

      “Don’t be like that, Bren,” continues the Weasel. “You know how I feel about you.”

      “Yeah. With your dirty little hands most of the time. I’ve had about enough of it.”

      “Oh Bren.”

      “Get orf me.”

      The Weasel is getting passionate and attempts to embrace Brenda, getting a stiff hand off for his pains.

      “Come on, Bren, give me a little kiss.” One of his podgy hands closes on her breast. “I did buy you a bracelet, didn’t I?”

      You can tell that ‘The Weasel’ is the persistent type and does not take ‘no’ for an answer easily. You may recall my earlier words on how effective this can be. Certainly Brenda is slow to brush the hand away and I can almost see her disgusting little mind thinking that it might be quicker and easier to let him get on with it.

      “You’re lovely, Bren. Ooh, if you knew how much I fancied you.”

      “I get an idea sometimes.”

      Brenda allows herself to be kissed and the rolls of fat on the Weasel’s neck huddle together like shorn sheep. It looks as if I’m going to be right. His hands disappear under her nightie and he’s moaning and trying unsuccessfully to hook off his socks. He looks bloody ridiculous and I hope nobody has ever seen me in the same position. Brenda’s head is on his shoulder and the cheeky bitch raises her eyebrows to the ceiling in a ‘useless’ gesture clearly intended for my benefit.

      “Come on then,” she says. “But you’d better make it quick – still, you usually do, don’t you?”

      She’s a hard case, that Brenda. The Weasel is trying to slip under the sheets but she kicks them all back so I can see right up to her tonsils. She whips off his pants like they’re a corn plaster and lays back with her hands behind her head. It’s obvious that this is all for my benefit. The dirtly little scrubber obviously gets a kick out of being watched when she’s on the job. The Weasel scrambles on top of her with all the grace of a pelican landing on a flag pole and fumbles his way into her. God knows why she calls him the Weasel. He’s more like an over-fed spaniel. Once he’s inside, she wraps her legs round the small of his back and I’m almost jealous until he gets into his stride. What a disgusting sight. It’s like a couple of hairy, white blancmanges caught in a high gale. They wobble and tremble so I think they might end up on the floor at any moment. I promise you, if you saw what it looked like it would put you off for the rest of your life. Luckily, I don’t have to bear it for long, because Brenda is dead right – the Weasel has hardly started before he is finished. He lets out a groan like the end of three weeks constipation and collapses on top of her as if he’s a beach mattress and somebody has taken the bung out. Over his shoulder Brenda is unkindly giving me a thumbs-down sign.

      “Get off, you’re suffocating me.”

      Brenda is not one of those women who need to be gently cossetted after the sexual act. She obviously has not read the book I got at the Junction.

      “Oh Bren –”

      “—Give over, for God’s sake. I’m not in the mood.”

      “Bren—”

      “—Look, you’ve had what you want. Now, why don’t you piss off?”

      “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here with you.”

      Poor sod, I think, you can’t blame him. After all it is his home. If you get off work early and nip back for a bit of the other you expect to be treated better than this. The Weasel must really fancy her because he starts trying to kiss her neck and generally behaving in a very affectionate fashion quite unlike most blokes when they’ve just shot their load.

      “Bren, Bren, oh Bren.”

      “I’m warning you.”

      “Oh, don’t you see, Bren?”

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