Confessions of an Ice Cream Man

‘’Ere we are.’ I blink and look up. Amazing how times flies when the mind is wrapped in thought. I am certain it was the same for Isaac Newton and the rest of the boys. They must have felt as if they hardly lived.

‘Very nice,’ I say.

Actually, it is just the same as all the other semi-detacheds in the street but one likes to appear willing, doesn’t one? The front garden isn’t a patch on the one next door but then you don’t expect the eyeties to go a lot on gardening. They are probably busy teaching the kiddies to hold a mouthful of spit until the referee’s back has turned. Valentina carefully locks up the car and then produces another key for the front door. I start to get a funny feeling in my stomach as I see it turning in the lock – the key, not my stomach. Will I be able to come across with the love offering? What started out as being solid and turning to liquid now seems to have converted itself into air. I don’t believe there is anything there at all. How embarrassing when I take my trousers off. ‘And I always thought you had to have an operation,’ I can say with a light laugh. Of course, she might cap it by being a bloke in drag but somehow I don’t think so. Those curves look as natural as the ones that stop the moon from being a square.

‘Nice places you have here,’ I say mesmerised by her knockers. She does not reply but looks at her face in the mirror of the hallstand and pushes a few wisps of hair into place. I pick up an electricity bill and give it to her. ‘It keeps going up, doesn’t it?’ I say. Of course, I am referring to the price of electricity but from the way she looks at me I wonder if she understands this. Better not try and explain or I might make matters worse. She puts the bill on the hallstand without a word and starts up the stairs. Half way up she turns and looks down at me.

‘Come on. You want to come, don’t you?’ I follow her without saying anything and she pauses on the landing and points to a half open door. ‘Bathroom.’

I take the hint and go inside. Very nice pong and Jesus holding a soap rack. First sign of the Catholic influence. There is also a bidet with an attachment for directing a jet of water at your balls. It is a shame I have to find this out by turning on the hot tap. I nearly flatten my nut against the ceiling. I have a squeeze of toothpaste and rub it round my cakehole with a finger and contemplate a spot of lily of the valley over the gonads. In reality I am playing for time. Putting off the evil moment. Evil moment! I must be round the twist. Millions of blokes would give their mother-in-law’s right arm to be in my position. What is wrong with me? Why am I cursed with this ultra-sensitivity when the chips and knickers are down? Why can’t I be like the kind of people who read these books? I will really have to examine my scruples. Having said that I sprinkle some talcum powder over them and stand further back from the wash-basin so that I can take a good gander at myself in the mirror. Uhm. Three and half inches at a rough guess and shrinking fast. It is most disturbing. Usually a spot of hot water and a gentle tug brings it on a treat. When I look down my body I can hardly see anything. It is like overlooking a wren’s nest in the ivy. Honestly, I can’t go up there like this. It would be letting down the British Empire – and if you let it down any further it would be in Australia. Pull yourself together, Lea. Tuck your socks in your Hush Puppies, sling your dicky dirt over your arm and get in there. A big boy like you shouldn’t be frightened of an Italian ice cream vendor’s niece. I look out of the window and see that it is raining. That could be nasty. Supposing Uncle Pietro decides to chuck it in early and pop round to see how his niece is bearing up under the strain of having nearly garrotted somebody? That might put a very unhealthy strain on Anglo-Italian relations. Oh dear, I wish I hadn’t thought of that. It does not help in my present condition. I look down at Percy and there is a slight movement towards the window. I think he wants to get out. Well he can’t! I set my jaw for three thirty and march towards the stairs. A man has to try and do what a man has to try and do. Which room is she in? Another feeling of panic grips me. We don’t want one of those jokes in which you open the door stark bollock naked to find the local Women’s Institute settled down for a talk on ‘Soil Erosion in the Southern Hebrides’.

‘Valentina?’ I am almost whispering but there comes a muted ‘Si’ from behind one of the doors. I open it and go into a room with the curtains drawn. I am grateful for that for a start. Maybe the darkness will bring my old man on like it does with tomatoes. At least the shrinking menace of the miniscular Mad Mick will be concealed from her eyes other than by the shoe I am holding in front of it – it could be snitched from a doll’s house and still do a good blot-out job the way I am shaping up at the moment.

Valentina is lying in bed with the sheets pulled up to her chin and I am grateful for that as well. Her clothes are hung over the back of a chair and there is a pleasing pong of perfume in the air. ‘Come.’ She means get into bed and I do just that making her wince as my cold hand brushes against her back. I should have soaked my mits in hot water. They are always a bit like fish fingers to start off with. I lie there between the sheets and wonder what to do next. Valentina seems poised and expectant even though her back is to me. She is waiting too. I put my hands between my thighs and wince. They are cold.

Valentina turns her head. ‘What is the matter? What are you waiting for?’ She sounds suspicious.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’m just getting used to you.’

She shrugs her shoulders and says something under her breath in Italian – probably ‘what a berk!’ I advance a ginger finger to see how Percy is responding to the romantic surroundings. Not a sausage – not even a blooming chippolata. In the realm of foodstuffs he is more like a soft roe waiting for a small bit of toast to make a cocktail snack for a midget. I raise my fingers slowly to my mouth and start blowing on them. ‘What are you doing now?’ This time Valentina sounds irritated.

‘My hands are cold,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to warm them up.’

‘Typical English,’ she says. ‘Cold ’ands, cold ’eart.’

‘We say cold hands, warm heart,’ I say.

‘Why?’

‘It means if you have cold hands you have a warm heart.’

‘Why?’

I think hard. Yes, why? ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It’s like lucky in love, unlucky at cards.’

Valentina sighs and lies her head back against the pillow. ‘I never understand the English,’ she says.

‘No,’ I say. ‘It does take a bit of time. It’s not easy to get inside another person.’

Valentina turns her head and I can see her eyes glistening in the darkness. ‘No,’ she says with feeling. She moves over onto her back and holds out her wrist towards the curtain so that she can read the time. ‘Look. I think you want to make love to me. That is what we agree, no?’

‘I do,’ I say. ‘I just don’t want to rush it.’ I put my hand on her shoulder and she winces. ‘See?’

She looks up at me and then suddenly pulls me on to her mouth so hard that our teeth grate. Without taking her north and south away she rises up and presses me back against the pillow. She is stark naked and her breasts flop against my chest. In goes her tongue and her spare hand dives down to the root of my problems. ‘A–a–a–a–h!’ she says. ‘This eez what we are waiting for. No?’ She makes a growling noise and disappears under the sheets. I watch her billowing down like a snowball turning into an avalanche and then with another growl she parks her molars round my hampton. By the cringe! This is romance with a capital ‘Argh!!’ I have heard of blow jobs but this is more like a testicular typhoon. This girl’s suction power could put Hoover out of business. I only wish that I could say that it was having a positive effect on my growth potential but it isn’t. This is terrible. Normally a bird only has to blow my old man a kiss and it rakes the skies like an anti-aircraft gun. Now it is slacker than a trainee wolf cub’s granny knot. What has happened? If a blow job fails then what help is there for me? This must be the beginning of the end – or the end, more like. I might as well start looking for a hobby – like diving off Nelson’s column with a Mills bomb in my cakehole.

‘Gentley, Bentley,’ I say. ‘There isn’t a fire, you know.’

‘You can say that again,’ says the bird unkindly. ‘I ’ave never known a man like you.’

‘That’s your bad luck,’ I say. ‘I can’t help having a bit of refinement of feeling. I’m a roman candle not a bleeding thunder flash.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says.

‘I don’t expect you do,’ I say, swinging my feet off the bed. Frankly, I am pissed off and the first satisfaction of the afternoon comes in knowing exactly what I am going to do next – get dressed and get the hell out of it. I am not really angry with her, just myself. I was a prick to ever get mixed up in this scene. I feel in the Hush Puppies and recover one of my socks. ‘Bugger!’ I say.

‘What’s the matter?’ She sounds genuinely puzzled. I turn and there she is. Sitting up in bed with her hair over her eyes and one of her breasts sticking out at an angle so that you can see its silhouette sharp as a knife. She looks like somebody else. I wouldn’t recognise her. I don’t recognise her. She is someone else. Not the bird I was getting uptight about but a warm, curvy, screwable chick who is suddenly popped up and propped up kissing inches away from me. I move my head forward and her mouth twists and opens fractionally. I pause and a great relief surges through me – all through me. We twist a little more and like two pieces of a lock clicking together to a predestined pattern we kiss. It is so nice that we do it again. And when we break for breath we nuzzle each other. She rubs her nose up and down my cheek and I push my lips into her hair and brush against her ear. The tips of her breasts touch my chest and because it is unexpected and delicate and very, very teasing it is far more exciting than the blow job – the big blow job, the hurricane blow job, the sensational suck that yielded no sensation except despair.

‘Hello,’ I say – because I am meeting her for the first time.

‘’Allo,’ she says.

She tilts her mouth up and gently takes one of my lips, her eyelashes lying flat against her cheeks. I slide my arms round her and encase her thin frame. How powerful I feel when I see my forearms near hers. How like a giant dealing mercifully from strength. I place my hands tenderly on either side of her cheeks and kiss her gently, marvelling at how easy it all suddenly is. I have stopped thinking about my body as a separate entity from my feelings and am just coasting, letting things happen. I move my chest from side to side so that I can feel the nipples hardening and tug back the sheets that form a skirt round Valentina’s waist. She moves so that she is kneeling and I drop my hand and raise my finger pads under the moist arch of her parted legs. Uhm! That responsive, wanting slipperiness charges me like a battery. I kiss harder and glide two fingers deep as they will go. Valentina shivers and tightens her teeth about my lower lip. She makes a noise at the back or her throat and closes her hand about my cock. Yes, my cock. I had forgotten that. Now it is primed. Hot. Furled. Eager. Valentina pulls at it impulsively and sinks back against the bed drawing me with her. How strange that it can now be so easy. Perhaps the strangeness is that it was so hard before. Valentina is now breathing deep and irregularly as if suffering from a fever. Every breath seems to be launched in uncertain anticipation of what is now inevitable.

I lie over her and enjoy the feeling of warmth that binds me to her. Physical, mental, everything. Very natural. Like the position of my body. Where it ought to be. I rise up and start to slot myself into her. Very slowly because the pressure of her arms on mine and her half-open, tilted mouth tells me she likes it that way. Inch by inch till she sighs, purrs and folds her arms to me. I leave it there and then start to rock. Very, very gently at first. She nods with the rhythm and as she presses her lips together I feel the muscles tightening about my cock. She can grip like velvet fingers and I feel myself being drawn Out as if strong threads run deep into my body. She fastens herself to my mouth and her tongue drives in and out in time with my cock. Up and down my back run her fingers and they slip down to dive between the cleft of my arse. The orgasm is building and I clamp my hands to her and impose my own rhythm. Her mouth breaks free and she digs her nails into my back calling out in Italian. I start to yelp as the juice runs through me and we gasp, groan and sigh until we lie hot, sticky and contented in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER TWO

In which Valentina’s mum arrives and an unexpected love idyll is rudely interrupted.

‘Boum!’ The noise comes from a long way away, echoing through the house. I don’t take a lot of notice of it but burrow deeper into Valentina’s warm, friendly body – but Valentina’s warm, friendly body suddenly isn’t there any more. It is sitting up and looking anxiously towards the door.

‘Basta!’ she hisses. That is not very nice, is it? After all we have been through. It is only afterwards that I find it doesn’t mean what I think it does. ‘Mamma!’ Now I know what that means – trouble. The sound was the front door slamming. Suddenly I am very much awake. For the second time I swing my legs off the bed and start searching for my clothes.

‘Valentina!’

She has her sweater over her head in half a second flat – not flat, very curvy. ‘In the cupboard!’ she hisses. I grab my shoes and scuttle through the door. She picks up a sock and throws it after me. The door closes with a scraping noise. It is not a clothes cupboard but more like a stock room. There are shelves with piles of stationery and pieces of advertising material ‘Frascati’s original blend old Italian ice cream’. I must say, the stuff does taste good. I remember it as a kid. Still, flavour of the month is not my preoccupation at the moment. I hear the sound of the door flying open followed by a babble of Italian. Blimey! Valentina’s mum goes on like Vesuvius in full spate. She is obviously having a go at her little girl and wanting to know why she is having a kip in the middle of the afternoon. I hope Valentina is a good talker. She can hardly get a word in edgeways at the moment. I lean forward to get a better idea of what is going on and my elbow brushes against a pile of pamphlets. I spin round to stop them falling and knock a wadge of notepaper on the floor with a loud ‘crump!’ Mamma’s voice cuts out like you have lifted it off the turntable and my stomach drops. The cupboard door is nearly torn off its hinges and I am looking into a pair of blazing eyes fringed by ragged jet black hair. Valentina’s mum clocks the unpleasant sight before her for a few long seconds and then turns to her daughter. Wham! Biff! Sock! – and anything else you used to read in your favourite comic book. Poor Valentina cops some terrible right handers and runs out of the room in tears. I take the opportunity to get one of my feet in my trousers but this turns out to be a bad mistake as Mamma turns on me and starts chasing me round the room. She would be a difficult person to dodge at the best of times – but hopping? It is out of the question.

‘Ani-mal, ani-mal!’ she shouts. ‘You bring dishonour on our family. My daughter will never be married in white!’ Well, I don’t know about that but if Valentina was a stranger to the one-eyed bed snake then you can call me Johann Cruyf.

‘Think of the money you’re going to save on the dress,’ I say. ‘Ouch!’ She is strong, Valentina’s mum, there is no getting away from it. Much bigger than her daughter and with knockers like the corners on a cement bag. She snatches my shirt from my hands and rips it in half. ‘Hey! Watch it!’ I say. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry – well, I was just going to.’

She is working herself up to a terrible state and when she picks up a pair of scissors I start to get really worried. ‘And now I cut it off!’ she shouts.

Oh dear, what a way to go. She picks up my trousers and starts hacking through the bit round the zip. Very symbolic. You don’t need to watch a lot of Wednesday plays to get the drift. I can just see the headlines in the Balham Courier: ‘Stop me and buy one. “I wanted a cassata not a castrata”, squeaks Clapham youth.’ More like ‘I scream’ than ‘Ice cream’. ‘Y-a-a-argh!’ Blimey! It is like a Jewish wedding when they find that the bridegroom’s Barclaycard is out of date. God knows what the neighbours must think. She is going to do herself an injury before she does me at this rate. She throws me back on the bed and dives on me so that the scissor blades are inches from my throat. Cancel my last statement.

I struggle desperately and succeed in getting the scissors away from her. I throw them across the room and she drags her nails down my chest. ‘Youch!’ Now she is biting me. I wrestle myself on top of her and pin her arms out. My face is inches from hers and she spits into it. Charming! I bet Barbara Cartland wouldn’t carry on like this if she caught you dunking your doughnut with Lady Lewisham. What huge knockers she has got – I don’t mean Lady Lewisham. I mean Valentina’s mum. They are performing a seismic eruption beneath me.

‘Ani-mal! Ani-mal! Dirtee ani-mal!!’ She struggles to free her wrists but I am too strong for her – just. How long can this go on? I only have the strength of three men.

‘Mmmmmmm!!’ She hooks her legs over mine and suddenly arches her back and delivers a plonker on my rose hips. It is not so much a kiss as an attempt to rearrange the whole architecture of my face beneath nose level. What is so amazing is that it seems to have the stuff of genuine passion in it as well as all the natural juices. That is without the panting and morning. Is she on the level or trying to make me loosen my grip so that she can practise more mayhem? There is only one way to find out.

I let go of her wrists and she clasps her powerful hands to my nut and starts manoeuvring it round her mouth like it is some kind of mechanical love aid. She is wearing a cardigan over a blouse and I ping open the buttons and feel the ribbed pattern of her bra rough against the palm of my hands. The unexpectedness of everything has had a very salutary effect on my old man and I can feel it poking uncomfortably against the restraining web of my y-fronts. I slide a hand down and quickly free it while Valentina’s mum pulls a sheet about us. Her eyes are closed and I reckon she has purposely worked herself up into a kind of trance so that she can cop the consequences without feeling any guilt or responsibility. Her hands move to her side and she unzips her skirt and arches her back so that she can pull it off beneath the sheet. I don’t think she would like it if I started looking at her body. I slip my arms round her and fiddle for the catch on her bra. It comes apart almost first time and I can stick my head under the sheet and start guzzling. Ooh! That really turns her on. Some women seem to have very sensitive breasts. Often the ones with the big, soft, knockers. Stands to reason, I suppose. And talking of standing – yes, Percy has remained in what one might describe as rude good health. As hard a hombre as ever rode out of Gonad Gulch.

Still snorkelling in the valley of the boobs, I get my hand down underneath the sheet and establish contact with the quivering quim. This fun feature is pulsating against the smooth sheen of the silk panties like a traction engine with its motor racing. The moment my fingers touch it Big Mamma digs her nails into my arm and I get the message that this is a very, very sensitive lady – mind you, she wasn’t going to great lengths to conceal the fact. And, talking of great lengths – yes, fifteen and half centimetres of metric monster is waiting impatiently for an introduction. It would be positively uncivilised to restrain the impulsive pair for longer than is necessary to tug down the fabric fence that divided them. I hook my thumbs over the elastic and move my mouth up so that we kiss while I push the panties down. Kiss? I suppose you could call it that. Catch as catch can with mouths, cakeholes at twenty paces, assault with a deadly gob. I knew that female spiders are inclined to eat their mates after mating but I don’t think this bird can wait that long.

I move my head down underneath the sheets in order to steer her knicks over her heels and she immediately stations her mits over her pussy. I think she is terrified that I am going to give her a muff job. I suppose it figures. If you are that sensitive, a touch of tongue over the velvet void could destroy you. Still, what is sex without violence in some shape or form? I remove the panties and then start licking the fingers that guard the nether nirvana (look it up. For what a paperback costs these days you are entitled to an education). After licking I start nibbling, and after nibbling, biting. After that there is not a lot I can do as I forgot to bring my sticks of dynamite with me. I prise two fingers aside and sink my tongue into the gap.

‘YeeeeeeeeeeeH!!’ Big Mamma grabs me by the hair but has to take away a hand to do it – that’s the problem with only having two, folks. I seize my chance – I’m seizing hers, really, but she doesn’t seem to appreciate that – and delve into a passionate guzzle that would force a cynical truffle pig to slap its trotters in unwilling appreciation. ‘Yee-owch! !’ Light the blue touch paper and retire immediately. Her fanny quivers above the bed like a hovercraft taking off and she lets out a noise like I am hurting her.

From all the signs it does not look as if she gets a bucketful of the Larry Adlers and I wonder what her old man does during the long winter evenings. From what I have heard the eyeties are handier with the chat than they are with the oil drilling and it seems as if Signor is no exception. Valentina’s mum has now removed her other hand and I have complete freedom of the ball park. Up and down goes my tongue like the pound on the foreign exchange market and the enraptured lady makes noises like Dean Martin’s mum hearing that Jerry Lewis has fallen down a well.

I continue until the withholding of proud Percy becomes something that should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention. Drawing myself up her body I surmount the barrier of the mighty knockers and receive the enraptured benediction of her lips. What more could she ask for and what less could I give her? Once again, my hampton with its uncanny sixth sense – or should I say, sexth sense? (No, you shouldn’t, Ed.) (All right. No need to be like that, T.L.) – has taken up position perfectly at the mouth of the love shaft and it only needs a quick flex of the knees to be in the honey. I drive forward and the lady’s hands clamp round my bum like bear traps. There is no chance of me nipping across the road for the racing results – not that it matters because the only hot tip I’ve had this afternoon is the kind you can’t put money on. Her snatch is not as tight as Scrooge but then it isn’t as soft as Bob Cratchit either. Well preserved for a lady who has steered her passage half way through life and is clearly only too happy to hand over the helm to me for a few minutes. I pull Percy out to the dimple in his dome and then wang him in until my bollocks jangle at the entrance to her snatch. Slow and regular – like Desert Island Discs. She clearly likes it not a little because the noise she is making makes me wonder if the cracks on the ceiling were there before we started. Then Valentina comes in.

Oh dear. You should see her face. Like Mr Callaghan studying the results of the latest by-elections – or bye-bye elections as far as the Socialists are concerned. She goes bananas. I thought her Mum was bad but she has improved on the routine. She starts whacking me on the back and trying to scratch Ma’s eyes out. Big Mamma uses me as a human barrier and the whole scene has a very unproductive effect on my love life. It is like trying to have it off during a log rolling contest. Such a shame as I was just beginning to warm to my work. Still, why should I jack it in because of this impulsive entry? Valentina had her golden moments without interruption. Why shouldn’t Mum? I hunch my shoulders and cling to the lady in question like I am Lester Piggott and she is odds on favourite for the four fifteen.