Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

‘No, no. That’s fine. It must be very trying for you.’

‘I feel that if I don’t tell somebody about it, I’ll go mad. I can’t talk to my mother. She wouldn’t understand and it would make her unhappy.’

‘You’ve talked to your husband about it?’

‘I’ve tried to, but you see, it’s difficult, because–he can’t, he hasn’t been able to.’ She blushes furiously.

‘It’s probably nerves,’ I say. ‘There have been times when I was all tensed up and I couldn’t–er–you know–’

‘Get it together?’ She manages a smile.

‘That’s right.’

‘But–forgive me asking this. You can tell me to mind my own business if you like–the first time you made love, was it so difficult? I’m assuming that you’re not a virgin.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I say looking at the ceiling. ‘Well, let me see. It was a bit different for me because the bird I was–I mean, the lady in question was what you might call experienced.’ You might also have called her a raving nympho but I don’t want to labour the point. I can still remember us writhing amongst the potato peelings, the rain bashing down outside the kitchen window, my squeegee propped against the broom cupboard–happy days! ‘I don’t imagine,’ I go on, ‘that you have ever? No, of course, you said you hadn’t. And probably not, how shall I put it, fiddled about much either?’

‘My hymen has never been ruptured.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ I say. I mean, it does sound nasty, doesn’t it? My Uncle Harry had a lot of trouble when his–’

What I’m trying to say is that I am still a complete virgin,’ says the bird.

‘Oh. Yes. Well that can be a problem. I don’t think I’ve ever–er–had the pleasure with a virgin, if you know what I mean.’

‘Never?’

‘No, not never. Your husband is one, too, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very ticklish. Like you say. You get the idea there aren’t many around these days. I know that’s wrong, of course. I’ve read those surveys in the Sundays. Most girls are still virgins when they get married, aren’t they? It must be the circles I move in, I suppose.’

‘So you can’t help me?’ Her face goes even redder. ‘I mean, with advice.’

‘Not speaking from experience, no.’

Suddenly, I get an idea which would have occurred to any sane bloke about ten minutes before. I sit down on the bed and put my foot in her saucer of marmalade. That was not the idea, I hasten to add. Just a typical bit of Lea misfortune. I push the tray under the bed with my heel and rub the gunge off against the side of the bedside table.

‘I would like to help you, though,’ I say. ‘I don’t think it would be very difficult, really I don’t.’

I look into her soft, brown eyes and she turns her head away.

‘If you mean what I think you mean, I couldn’t. It would be adultery. I couldn’t commit adultery on my honeymoon.’

‘Don’t look at it like that,’ I say hurriedly. ‘What I’m suggesting is a step towards a complete marriage. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but it seems so underhand.’

‘There’s nothing underhand about it. You’d be doing it for him, really.’

The more I think about it, the more I am convincing myself that it is a marvellous idea. She is a very cute little chick and there is only one of her. Sidney is right. I am getting a bit brassed off with all this group activity. Also, I would be performing a public service–in a manner of speaking. That’s always a nice way to wrap up a bit of in and out.

‘But me being a virgin. That’s not all the trouble. He doesn’t seem to be able to–’

‘First things first,’ I say comfortingly. ‘Let’s get you sorted out then we can think about him. I’m certain that once you know what it’s all about, you’ll be able to help him.’

It sounds such good sense doesn’t it? I wonder if I could volunteer to give it away on the National Health?

‘But I don’t know you. I mean you’ve been very kind and nice but–’

‘What could be better? You don’t want to know me. Just look on me like some kind of doctor who’s about to give you an examination.’

I squeeze her hand tenderly and pull her towards me. ‘You make it sound so convincing,’ she says apologetically. ‘Oh, I did look forward to it so much before we got married.’

‘It’s not always easy at first,’ I say, kissing her gently on the cheek. ‘It’s like learning to ride a bike. You have to be prepared to fall off a few times.’ On reflection that does not seem the best way I could have put it but it is too late to rephrase it now.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’ve got a hairy chest. Just like Roger.’

‘Just think of me as Roger,’ I purr, sliding my arm round her waist. ‘Close your eyes and imagine that he’s come back and is sliding into bed beside you.’

‘Do you mind drawing the curtains a bit?’

‘Nobody can see.’

‘I know but I feel happier when it’s a bit dark. I’m shy, you see.’

She is sitting there obediently with her eyes closed so I half draw the curtains, turn the key in the lock, and whip my clothes off so quickly that one of my fly buttons rolls under the wardrobe.

‘That’s a very pretty nightdress,’ I murmur as I slide in beside her. ‘Very pretty.’

‘I made it myself. Can I open my eyes now?’

‘Of course. How do you feel?’

‘Frightened.’

‘That’s nothing new, is it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Well, I’m not frightened, I’m excited.’ I take her hand and guide it down the front of my body. ‘Feel.’

She touches me gingerly as if trying to remove a piece of cheese from a mousetrap.

‘It’s huge,’ she says.

I shake my head sadly. ‘I wish you were right. It just feels like that because you’re not used to it and you can’t see it.’

‘I could never get that inside me.’

‘Let me worry about that,’ I kiss her gently on the lips and slip my hand under her nightie.

‘Relax. Don’t stiffen up. Come on, you’re very pretty.’

Slowly but surely her tongue darts out and stays pinned between her teeth. Her small breasts seem to grow beneath my hands and her hard nipples quiver expectantly.

‘You like that, don’t you?’

‘Um. Lovely! You have very gentle hands. Are you going to touch me there?’

‘In a minute. There’s no hurry.’

This is not strictly true but I have left the key in the lock in case somebody comes to see what’s happened to me.

‘Oh, that’s heaven.’

I run my fingers over her belly and lightly brush against the soft hairs that nestle below it. Tiptoe to the two lips, in fact. Very gently I plough the moist furrow and–

‘Oh, be careful.’

‘This doesn’t hurt, does it?’

‘A little.’

‘I’m going to move my finger about a bit. How’s that?’

‘Alright. In fact it’s quite nice, really.’

We go on like this for a bit and I am beginning to feel fruitier than Covent Garden. There is a nice pink flush in her cheeks and her eyes are closed contentedly. It must be chronic, if you can’t get your end away, mustn’t it? You forget what some poor devils have to go through–or not go through as seems more the case.

‘I’m going to try it with two, now,’ says kindly Doctor Lea .’Try and grin and bear it. Remember it’s in a good cause.’

‘Think of Roger.’

‘That’s right. Think of Roger.’

‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’

‘Positive. Anyway, it’s a bit late to worry about it now, isn’t it? Now, we’ve got this far.’

‘Ouch!’ Her hands close around my wrists. ‘This is the bit that always hurts.’

‘I know. But we’ve got to do it. Come on. Think how nice it’s going to be later on.’

‘I hope you’re right. Ouch!’

I pull her close to me and make her move her legs around while I offer encouraging noises. It is all a bit clinical for a bloke of my tastes and I can feel J.T. Superstar beginning to get perplexed. It would be a disaster to do a Roger, wouldn’t it? The very thought sends cold shivers down my spine. Luckily, the bird is far from passive as far as the old moaning and groaning goes and this helps to keep me on the boil. I can’t stand the ones who lie there as if they are wondering what shade of brown to paint the ceiling.

At last I reckon the time has come to do some real plumbing and I gently lever myself between her legs. Such a tiny bird, she is. Her nose is practically pressing against my belly button.

‘Here we go,’ I say. ‘Stand by for blast off.’

For some reason I think of one of those old-fashioned costume movies with a battering ram being positioned outside the gates of the castle. At least nobody is pouring boiling oil down my neck.

‘Ouch! Oh, no! Oh!’

‘Hang on, we’re nearly there. There!’

‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ Her voice rises in a series of shouts progressing from the pained to the triumphant. ‘Hurrah!’

‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’

‘Wasn’t too good, either, but thank you very much. You don’t know what this means to me.’

She puts her little hands around my big end and hugs me to her.

‘It’s nothing. All part of the room service.’

She kisses me warmly on the mouth and together we engage full revs and rocket off into the stratosphere–well, would you believe the bed hopped six inches from the wall?

Yes folks, another satisfied patient learns to live again. Just whistle the Dr Kildare theme while I put on my Y-fronts.

Despite the fact that I only did it out of sheer goodness of heart, I am a bit choked when her old man rolls up around tea-time. I had anticipated that the patient might need a bit more treatment that evening. I see them sitting there in the lounge with half a plate of digestives, and their little hands creeping into each other, and I think: that’s it, Lea, close your casebook, zip up your fly, it’s ten bob to a tin of Vaseline that things are going to be alright from now on. Just sit back and wait for your Duke of Edinburgh award.

But, not for the first time in my life, I am wrong. Mrs R. has a strained expression by supper time and at the breakfast table next morning, there are definite signs of tears. Roger is fiddling with his camera strap. Oh dear. It looks as if all my hard work has gone by the board–or bored maybe. No? You’re probably right. Anyway, later that morning Mrs R. approaches me as I am subjecting the silver to a spot of spit and polish in the deserted dining room.

‘No good, huh?’ I say, reading her face.

She shakes her head. ‘If you’re like other men, he’s not like you. Do you think there’s something wrong with him? Maybe he should see a doctor?’

‘Don’t suggest that to him. That’ll turn him right off. No, he just needs a bit of a boost somehow.’

As I speak my eyes wander down to the end of the room to where Carmen is bending over to adjust a table leg. Yeah. That chick could defrost your refrigerator by brushing against it. At the back of my horrible little mind an idea begins to lurch forward.

‘Banging away with his camera, is he?’ I ask.

‘Yes, it’s the–’ she bites back what she was going to say and gives a resigned little shrug. ‘How long is this likely to go on for?’

‘It’s only temporary. I’m sure of that, but–’

‘But what?’

‘Well, just to be on the safe side, we ought to give him a feel-up, or whatever it’s called.’

‘A fillip?’

‘Precisely. I mean, you’re only here for two weeks, I suppose. You don’t want to hang about any longer than you have to.’

‘But surely you can’t do anything to him–I mean physical?’

‘Blimey no. What kind of bloke do you think I am? No, there are pills and stuff like that but I don’t recommend them. They can get a bit out of control if you know what I mean.’ I think of the Shermer Rugby Club and my blood runs colder than an Eskimo’s chuff.

‘So, what then?’

‘I haven’t quite worked out the details yet, but I think he needs a bit of mental stimulation. He’s concentrating on you so much he gets uptight every time he lays a finger on you. If we can broaden his horizons a bit–’

Later that day I get Carmen, June and Audrey on one side and fill them in on my plan of campaign. Being the kind of gay, fun-loving girls they are, they express themselves as being only too glad to oblige. My real stroke of luck is when I find that the apartment next to the Richards’ bedroom is falling vacant the following morning. Not only that but there is a connecting door between the two suites and it opens into the Richards’ bedroom. My cup over-runneth!

A spot more organisation and next morning finds me gliding up behind Mr Richards as he makes for the front entrance clasping his Leica as if it is the only thing left in the world.

‘Oh, Mr Richards. Sorry to trouble you but I wonder if I could ask you something?’ He shrinks away from me as if the only thing I could be asking him is ‘Why can’t you get it up your old lady?’ But luckily my up-bringing has protected me against such crudity.

‘I remember your wife talking about your success as a photographer, and I wondered if I could ask you to give us a few tips. When I say “us” I mean the Cromby Photographic Club. There’s one or two of us very interested in still lives.’

‘Well, that’s very flattering. I don’t see how I can refuse.’ Richards looks happy for the first time in days. ‘Don’t get any ideas about me being a great performer, though. Daphne is inclined to exaggerate.’

‘Daphne?’

‘My wife.’

‘Oh, of course. It’s lighting that is the trouble with us. Use of flash. All that kind of thing. If you could give us a few hints on positioning models. I’ll get one or two of our members along.’

‘Delighted. What time would you like me?’

‘Let’s say midday. Then you can join us for a little drink.’

‘Delighted. Absolutely delighted.’

At five minutes to twelve I have June, Audrey and Carmen draped around the semi-darkened apartment. Audrey is wearing a bikini that looks like two elastic bands with three knots in them and heels so high you could use them for planting potatoes. June is sporting a sheet–cot-size so it does not conceal the fact that she is starkers–and Carmen is wearing a dab of Chanel No. 5 behind the knee caps–nothing else to distract you from her manifold charms. I get her standing in the darkest part of the room and pour half a bottle of brandy into the half bottle of sherry I have nicked from Dennis the barman. If this lot does not get him going, nothing will. Tap, tap! ‘Come in, Mr Richards. Very kind of you to come. Is Mrs Richards joining you?’

‘In a minute, I hope. She’s suddenly decided she wants to change her dress. Very dark in here, isn’t it–Oh, my God!’

I bend down and give June her towel back. ‘Don’t overdo it, dear,’ I hiss. ‘Let’s get a few drinks inside him first.’ I turn to Richards. ‘We’re very keen on life work as you can see. I did mention that, didn’t I?’

‘I can’t really remember,’ says Richards, who is now grabbing an eyeful of Audrey’s knockers.

‘Drink?’

‘Yes please.’ His hand shoots out and he downs a mixture of sherry and brandy–randy shandy I call it–before you can say Cecil Beaton.

‘My goodness me.’ He gives a little laugh and shakes his head like a boxer trying not to let on that he has been hurt. ‘Interested in flash work, are you?’

June is giving him a flash already and it is obvious that she has been at the booze while my back was turned. I will have to watch them because they are quite capable of taking what is meant for another.

‘Get the flash bulbs out, will you, Audrey?’ I say nonchalantly. ‘I’ll start oiling Carmen.’

‘You’ll what?’ Richards is clearly interested and I give him another slug of randy shandy.

‘It brings the body tones up a treat. We’ve had some wonderful results. This is Carmen, by the way.’

The noise made by Richards is like air being sucked into a jet engine. I pick up a bottle of olive oil and pour a little between Carmen’s massive knockers. Richards is now making choking noises.

‘Do you think I’m standing the right way?’ asks Carmen. I think she comes from Walsall and she has a very flat voice–the only thing about her that is.

‘Well, I-er-um-er think it’s er-um, really a-um a question of um-er-lighting.’

‘You get on with this,’ I say pushing the bottle into Richards’ hand. ‘I’ll go and check the equipment.’

This is not going to take long, because we only have one Instamatic and a roll of black and white film, but I don’t tell him that. He is dabbing at Carmen’s body like he is varnishing a butterfly’s wing.

‘Let me fill up your glass,’ Audrey closes to his side and June brings up the rear–one of the best in Hoverton, I might add.

‘I don’t know if I should.’

‘Oh, go on, be a devil. Can you put some on me? No, the oil, I mean.’

Richards is starting to pour his drink down the front of Audrey’s bikini. He is going even faster than I had expected. Too fast, maybe. We want to leave something for his missus. I try and gently remove his drink, but he avoids my hand and takes another giant slug.

‘Remarkable brew, quite remarkable.’ He empties his glass and slams it down on the table so hard that the stem breaks. But does he notice? Does he fucia! ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he yodels. I think he might mean photography but my worries are groundless. He swills olive oil on his mitts and goes at Carmen’s knockers like he is trying to smooth out her chest to plant radishes.

A few moments later he is looking around for more customers. ‘Next!’ he hollers. Audrey’s bikini is torn away as if by a great hurricane and all the girls start giggling and closing in for the kill.

‘You’ve got to get your exposures right, eh?’ Roger nudges me in the ribs and obviously reckons it is the funniest thing anybody has ever said. ‘Who cares about the ball, let’s get on with the game. To think, that for all those years I was concentrating on my camera.’

June has taken umbrage at being left out of the action for so long and presses forward, her mouth an inviting inch from Mr Instamatic. But not for long! Like a lost piglet catching up with its milk supply, he launches himself on to her lips and I can see that in a couple of seconds the whole point of my carefully laid plans will be blunted in another gang bang. Carmen is already beginning to undo Richards’ belt and dear, loyal Audrey is fiddling with mine. Get orf! ‘What about Mrs Richards?’ I pipe above the uproar, pulling her old man off June before they can get any closer involved.

‘I thought she was joining us?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, so she was.’

He tries to turn back to June but I grab her by the shoulder. ‘You’d better find out what has happened to her,’ I say, dragging him towards the door that joins the two apartments. Before he can say any more I have flung it open and bundled him through. There, strictly according to instructions sits Mrs R. filing her nails on the edge of the bed. She is wearing a black bra and panties set with suspender belt and black silk stockings. Gor!! I am on the point of throwing back Mr R. and going myself. Luckily, my native sense of decency gets the better of me and closing the door on my impulses I drop to my knees and peer through the keyhole. Well, I want to see that everything is alright, don’t I? I need have no fears. Mr R. falters for a moment, and then his eyes light upon the goodies spread out for him. In three strides, he has swept wifey back on to the bed and is fighting his way out of his trousers like an angry ferret escaping from a paper bag. Mrs R’s panties whip over her heels and like a bee late for an appointment with its queen he whips into the hive before you can say honeypot.

I would like to watch more, but you have to draw the line somewhere, don’t you? I wish someone would tell that to Carmen, Audrey and June. Regretfully, I turn away from the keyhole to see Carmen tilting the Randy Shandy bottle to her lips. Oh, no! If they have that lot inside them–I spring to my feet and sprint for the door.

‘Oh no you don’t!’

‘But girls–’

‘Getting us all excited and then ratting on us.’

‘Yes, but. Put me down! Stop doing that!’

‘If you’re not a good boy, we’ll go next door. We’ve got a fan there.’

That was the argument that clinched it. I mean. I could not allow my scheme to be spoilt at the last moment, could I? Let Mr R. get used to one bird first of all. Then he can build up later.

‘Is there anything left in that bottle?’ I say, as my jeans hit the carpet.

CHAPTER FIVE

I don’t see the Richards again until they leave the hotel. Nine days and they never leave their room once! When Mrs R. sails through the front entrance on her way out, she looks a changed woman. I mean, she looks like a woman! Her old man slips me a fiver and gives me a big wink. ‘Buy the camera club a drink on me,’ he says, ‘they’re doing a grand job.’

I watch the two of them snuggle down in the back of a taxi and I feel almost moist-eyed with pleasure. Almost, I hasten to add. The last time I cried was when England got beaten by West Germany in Mexico. Oh, that one’s good deeds could always be so pleasurably accomplished. I exclude from that statement the last part of the exercise. Exercise! By the cringe. When I finally escape from the Terrible Trio, my willy wonker feels like a tassel that has been in a hassle with an electric fan.

In the next few days I steer clear of the birds and concentrate on my duties. As a waiter I learn how to order up courses that people don’t want and put them on one side for consumption later. You would think that in a large hotel there would be plenty of spare grub about but often the stall’s food is diabolical and the chefs watch for nicking like hawks. If anybody is going to have a bit of spare, it is going to be them.

My most instructive period is that which I spend with Dennis the barman, or head barman as he prefers to be called. He is a grade one tealeaf and I am certain I only get wise to a fraction of his little dodges. For example: he leaves the spirit measure to soak in a bowl of water. Very hygienic, but every time he picks one up to dish out a drink he makes sure he scoops up some of the water in the bowl so that the booze is diluted and he is getting extra mileage out of every bottle. The number of shots per bottle is an established figure so every tot over the top is money in the barman’s pocket. It is also fairly easy to take the odd bottle from the stock room without signing for it. Provided the books usually balance, nobody is going to get too fussed about the occasional discrepancy. And, if you are catering for a party, why not buy a few bottles of booze from the local cash and carry and sell them as well as the hotel’s stuff? You make a much bigger profit that way. Again, if you have got a bar going at a private party, and you have to do the accounts afterwards, you have to be dozy not to be able to top up a few bottles with what people have left lying about. This way you don’t have to account for so much money and the surplus goes into your own pocket.

The softest touch of all is short-changing people. After a while you can tell at a glance the people who count their change. Any business man buying a large round of drinks for his superiors or potential clients is only going to look at the change in order to select a tip twice the size of the one he normally gives. Some poor jerk taking out a girl he wants to impress is also unlikely to start making a fuss. Whether you add a bit to the cost of a round, or indulge in a spot of short-changing, the chances are that you will rarely be challenged. Dennis’s speciality, I observed, was to serve a round of drinks and keep some of the change back under the bill which he held out on the tray for the customer to see. Like as not the customer would push some more change over for a tip and if he did notice a discrepancy, the missing change would appear from under the bill where it had ‘accidentally’ got lodged. Jumbo-sized grovelling from Dennis and a temporary drop in his fringe benefits.

Quite how much Dennis made out of his fiddles I don’t know but he was rumoured to own a house in the South of Spain, and keep an expensive flat in London. Working with him made me realise that you can never put a stop to all the fiddles but, at least, you can get a bloody good idea of what to look out for if you ever have the misfortune to try and control some of the fly boys who hang out in the hotel business. The trouble is that if you sack one, you stand a good chance of getting someone even worse next time. And it could take you months to get to know all his fiddles! That is what Sid decides anyway, and I reckon he is probably right.