Confessions of a Milkman. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ must be an answer to that,’ I say.

      But she isn’t listening. She slips out of her robe, chucks it over my head, and by the time I have taken it off she is in the bath, leaning forward so that her bristols are brushing against her knees – that’s something Wedgwood Benn can’t do. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘The soap’s behind you.’ She is right too. I grab hold of it and work up a nice rich lather. Cor, can’t be bad, can it? I knew there must be more to this milkman business than complaining about the empties not being washed out properly. I kneel down beside the bath and apply my Germans to the lady’s I’m alright. (I’m all right, Jack: Back; Ed) Oh dear. The moment I feel the soft, warm flesh, Percy gets an attack of the space probes. How untoward of him. I am trying to break the tension between myself and this Richard, and the old groin greyhound has to introduce another fifteen and a half centimetres of it – note: a metric-mad mick makes for more majestic mating, men.

      ‘Is that all right?’ I say.

      ‘I’ve known worse,’ says the bird. ‘Did you ever use to clean windows?’

      ‘Yes I did,’ I say. ‘That’s amazing! How did you know?’

      ‘Because you’ve practically pushed a couple of panes out of the middle of my back! Go a bit easy, will you?’

      ‘It’s the effect you have on me,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to be gentle but something about you excites my blood.’

      ‘Blimey!’ says the judy. ‘You’ve seen too much telly, haven’t you? Where did you learn to talk like that?’

      ‘It comes naturally,’ I say modestly.

      ‘Uum. Not the only thing I should think. I’m not surprised you’ve dropped the soap – OOH!’

      ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It slipped.’

      ‘It didn’t slip there, there isn’t room for it! Mind what you’re doing!’

      ‘Perhaps I’d better try the other side,’ I say.

      ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she says.

      ‘Not if you don’t.’ I wack off another handful of lather and slap it onto her knockers – well, not so much slap as get it on before she can complain too loudly. Not that she does complain too loudly – in fact, she doesn’t complain at all. Her nipples turn to large acorns beneath my fingers and she closes her eyes and shivers.

      ‘Ooh!’ she says. ‘I bet you’re going to drop it again.’ A hint is seldom lost on the toast of the Clapham south side crumpet thrashers and I watch the large pink lump bump down the curve of her Ned Kelly. Another large pink lump is coming up from the other direction – though outside the bath. Yes! – percy is making the front of my trousers a lousy place to store a bunch of bananas. My hand follows the soap down below the water line and loses interest in it immediately. Something soft and slippery welcomes my inquisitive fingers and experience suggests that it is not an empty banana skin.

      ‘AAAAaargh!’ I was expecting a reaction but nothing quite so violent. Hardly have I sent my digits motoring up down passion alley than the lady grabs me and nearly hauls me into the bath with her. I wonder how long her old man has been in the nick? I hope he doesn’t choose this morning to come back on parole. There is enough blood on the carpet as it is. ‘I’m making your shirt all wet aren’t I?’

      ‘Well – er yes, I suppose you – maybe I’d better take it – yes!’

      It doesn’t take you long to get the drift with this lady. Once she has decided that she likes you she doesn’t send messages in code. She helps me off with my shirt and three of its buttons and if I did not stand against the wall to take off my trousers she would have the zip out of them as well.

      ‘It’s terrible what you milkmen do to get business,’ she says squirting another load of foaming suds into the bath. ‘You stop at nothing, do you?’

      I don’t answer her at once because it had never occurred to me that there was a business angle to what I am doing – or about to do. It goes right back to Sid’s golden maxim when we were cleaning windows – keep the customer satisfied. There was I, feeling a bit guilty about being on the job when I should be on the job, and all the time I am on the job. If this little session is going to help me wrestle a customer from Universal it is well worth while apart from any pleasure given and received along the way. With this happy thought bubbling through my mind I step forward briskly and discover that my hostess has two bars of soap. One in the bath and the other the one I stand on before breaking a new record for aquatic muff dives.

      ‘Oh, you impetuous fool!’ she says, as I raise my dripping nut from between her legs.

      ‘How do you hold your breath down there?’ And before I can answer she has shoved my crust down again.

      ‘Madam, please!’ I say, struggling to the surface. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’

      ‘What a way to go,’ she says.

      ‘For you, maybe,’ I say. ‘I have plans to die in bed.’

      ‘We’ll try the bed later,’ says the woman, hardly pausing for breath. ‘Come here, it’s lovely when we’re all slippery together.’

      She does not hang about but shoves her arms round me and hugs me to her Bristols – definitely First Division material. She lies back and another couple of gallons of water slop on to the floor. Honestly, you should see the place. It is like the fountains in Trafalgar Square – though without the bloody pigeons, thank God. Water is still dripping off the ceiling from when I dived into the bath and the floor is awash. Still, that is not my problem. Once again, I am succumbing to my sensitive nature. Think of Meadowfresh, Lea. Think of this lovely lady’s snatch wriggling enticingly against the tip of your hampton. Yes, I think I prefer the second inducement. My playmate can’t use a water softener because my tonk is more rigid than a tungsten steel tuning fork. I lunge through the H2O and clobber the clam first go. Dead centre – you can always tell because you don’t meet anything until your balls bang into each other as they lock shoulders in the entrance to the love shaft.

      ‘Ewwwgh!’ Forgive me if I have spelt it wrong but it sounds a bit like that. The contented expulsion of air from the throat of the owner of a barbecued Berkeley. Another tidal wave hits the floor and I get enough suds up my hooter to wash Idi Amin’s smalls for a week – well, half a week. Wishing that I had knees with small rubber suckers attached to them, I try and achieve some purchase against the bottom – excuse that word – of the bath. My new friend has wrapped her legs round me and I reckon she could crack boulder-sized walnuts if she put her mind to it – which in the position she is adopting would be quite an achievement. Honestly, I find the whole performance – and the hole performance, too – very difficult. I read in a book once about this couple having it off in the bath and floating glasses of champagne backwards and forwards between each other but I don’t see how they could have done it. The only way I can screw this judy satisfactorily is with her head under the water and this can’t be very nice for her after the first five minutes.

      ‘Let’s get on the floor,’ she says.

      ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘That’s where most of the bath water is.’ I am not kidding. One of the rubber ducks has floated across the room and is bumping against the door like it is trying to peck a hole in it.

      ‘Who’s СКАЧАТЬ