The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

As I passed through the living-room and decided to warm my hand by the fire, I asked my Dad, “What are you watching?”



It transpires he had been watching, ‘Money’ on BBC2; the first of a strand of threee programmes. This one dealt with exploring our inner desire to accumulate wealth, looking at wealth-guru’s like Robert Kiyosaki and T Harv Rker who preach and that seems the right word, ‘financial freedom through the cultivation of a “millionaire mind.”’ The programme showed them at work and, some of their ‘disciples’ here and how their seminars spread their word.



Since I became embittered again, after a cheating ex, I sought a new path, which had included my own personal self-development, much as I’d looked to counsellor, after the first cheating ex.



So, I listened to their words and, I heard the words I heard coming from a counsellor, from a tutor teaching counselling skills, from a psychologist showing how greed works on human motivation. And, I saw illustrated basic assertion skills, with a little hypnosis thrown in the mix.



As I watched with him, I was reminded of characters like him in the 1980’s, the fellow’s who preached ‘Greed Is Good.’



The only one’s I feel, who ever make money out of those things, are the speakers themselves… and, they remind me, of two things; those who sold cure-alls in the Old-West, panacea’s for all-ills; and, a Rich Priest, working amongst the poor.



Well as I write, this is November 2011 and Europe and USA seek aid from China.



If Capitalism was so good, why are communists being looked to for financial help?



Incidentally, I decided what an entrepreneur is. It’s someone who can’t really do anything themselves; but has the acumen to recognize and use the talents of others, to make themselves rich.

the doctor, who's the same one I saw at clatterbridge as it happens, well he gave me the stats as to failure.. wasn't worried till then. an, older I get.. the more ops I have.



the shoulders were the most drastic. tho I got my mobility back... back??? ah, I hear bout that , this week.

Here I am on M1 Ward,

sittin on my bed –

And, I’m not bored.



Although I’m in here

and it’s sunny outside –

I’ve thoughts to quell

of discord and fear.



I know what to expect –

I’ve been here before.

So the unknown it isn’t

Yet, in a way

That is the problem –

I know what to expect.



And the staff I’ve met,

who know me

from last time

didn’t run away

as I walked through the door.



What was good,

was noting the

welcoming smile

wasn’t fixed.



It was, to me,

proof evident,

if it were needed

that the staff here

are real –

and treat the person,

as just that.



At least I think so –

I’ve got another

Two and a half days to go!



My Primary Care Nurse was

filling in reams of paper,

in reference to me…



And while she talked

and took my pulse and

temperature, the fellow

with the walrus ‘tache,

in the next bed, had visitors.



He’d smiled and said,

“I’ll let you make up your own mind

on the food…” adding, “I’ve just had

one meal since I got here…” and

“I’m sure we serve better food to the

cons…”



As my opinions on the green

differs from the law,

I’d picked up on what was said

as it was said.



It was also of note, I’d thought,

That this fellow, the one with the

‘tache, was the son… of my ex-

headmaster, at Secondary School.



Now, call it

me being me –

But, having learnt what I had…

I had to do something, say something;

I just had to…



Well… on my brief tour

of the ward,

when talking of art and stuff,

with my smiling Primary Care Nurse,

I learnt that she liked,

the written word.



So, on our return,

I recited my poem

‘Bunk Bed Blues’ –

about bricks, little space; and the

confinement, of four walls.



For me, there was no surprise,

When the fellow in the next bed,

[the one with the ‘tache]

went quiet ~ his nose in a book.



I’ll lay odds, the fellow

doesn’t smoke the green…

of that, I’m fairly sure.



At just after seven,

a long-legged

short-denim-skirted

vision in pink,

stood at the entrance

to the ward.



More than once I’ve

Thought ~

“I’d like to take

a photograph of her.”



Britney Spears was the

image, that my friend

had chosen for me!



Knowing I’d at least

Two shots left on a roll

of film, of twenty-four,

she’d suggested I bring

my camera with me.



At her suggestion

and my request

my friend had

taken her jacket off.



All legs and twirling

blonde hair, in a top

that just about was –

she’d stood by a tree and,

I’d taken my shot,

with a grin on my face,

stretching

from ear to ear.



“Where are the toilets?”

she’d asked, to which

I’d replied,

“You could’ve used

the one’s on the ward.”



“Oh no,” said she,

“I’d wanted to change…”

then pointing to a pink

carrier-bag, she’d added,

“for your surprise!”



So, I’d minded her

handbag, sitting in the

bus-shelter style

smokers corner,

while she’d gone

to change.



As I’d waited,

a fellow in a wheel-chair,

with just one leg,

came out for a smoke.



As we chatted

an rambled

about something

and nothing,

until she returned.



When she did

I realised,

she’d recalled a fantasy

I’d told her of:

of a very male imaging – and

a very sexy sixth form

schoolgirl.



And there she was,

minus jacket,

once again –

dressed in a very

short wraparound

grey belt, masquerading

as a skirt;

white shirt, tie

and golden ring-e-lets.



Again by the tree

my friend posed

to tease, looking

down, with her eyes

directed, straight to the lens.



I’d taken the shot,

pleased with the

light, being as

bright as it was –

at that time of night



Having taken the shot

I’d wound on the film

and to my delight,

found another shot left.



She’d turned, her

left side toward me;

dipped her back,

then pushed outward

her pert derriere.

Short grey skirt,

long, smooth legs

and a pose

that said to me –

‘I am sweet and sexy,

you can look, at me.’



I did more than look.

I held the camera steady,

(although I know not how) -

as I used that last shot.



Then we’d sat awhile

and talked – and

she’d flipped apart

that short, short skirt,

to display the legend,

in pink, on white, ‘cutie.’



As I sighed,

My eyes opened wide –

And she’d said to me,

“Well, you had to, it was

part of your surprise.”



That was my friend’s visit:

and though there was more

I could say – it wouldn’t be,

just couldn’t be, enough…



She’d wanted to

make me smile,

before my op –

and… she had.



But, by then it’d

been quite late,

nearly eight: and it

was getting quite dark.



At least I knew

the 410 bus would

get her home –

and that she’d get from

just across the road.



So, we’d hugged our

‘goodbyes’ and

I’d returned to the ward,

for a hot drink and

an antiseptic bath.



And, I’m first on the list

tomorrow, I am told:

and that is good –

less waiting around.



The only thing –

and it isn’t a problem,

is that, at about six,

I’ll be bathing again –

so, I’ll be ready for my op…



And it is with a smile

I still remember the face

of the fellow, in the

wheelchair…



And I’m sure, that

he appreciated

her appreciated

her surprise, for me,

as much as I do –



For with a grin, he’d

Said to me, “No nurse

had better come for me

to take my blood pressure now!

It’ll be well high!”

COMMENTS

-

---

NoctusAngelusProcella
01:08 Nov 21 2011

I love this very poeticly penned

---

POST COMMENT

As a treat to myself, I went for a

drink on my own, to a lap-dance bar

that I like; to watch a scantily clad

young woman dance, for me.



It was dark and dank on the street

As I walked toward the venue I liked:

and the streets had filled with office

workers, who’d finished for the day

and were on the way home.



I’d walked straight down the wooden

stairs once there, to the bar, where I’d

paid my ten pound entrance ~ that

included my first dance.



I’d paid for my entrance; and ordered

my drink, a whiskey, a double of a double which I’d taken across to a small copper-top table, overlooking the small dias and pole and sat on the red leatherette bench seating

that surrounded the room, the mirror behind

me.



As I did, I met May, the Thai, whose smile always enchanted, who had been the first to dance for me at Atmosphere, at The pen and Wig.



May was dressed for the season, in a red top and abbreviated skirt, which covered from her hip to her crotch and no more; and displayed more than it hid.



The top and the skirt were red, with a mock fur trim; and she also wore knee length black zip-up boots.



It mattered not that May’s use of English is not as good as some; it was sufficient for me that May smiled easily, when she saw me.

I liked that.



And, I also liked it that she joined me where I’d chosen to sit, at her instigation, not mine.

And, I’d even liked it that she’d been able to tell me roughly, when she’d seen me last.



I’d really liked that.

It meant, a pretty young lady, that I had enjoyed seeing naked, remembered me well, to judge by the smile on her face.



At my bidding she had sat with me; and as I had looked around I had noticed her steal the occasional glance at me, as I did her.



I had given her the house-dollar, paid on my entrance and said to May,

“Wait until there’s a track on you want

to dance to!”



And, as we sat in an easy silence, I looked to my right more than once; just to be sure she was there ~ really there.

As I’d sat, in such pleasant company,

I began to survey the lounge



There hadn’t been many customers in;

and enough dancers at that time of the day to please me, as several slim ladies, scantily clad, had passed where we were to go to the ladies



Then Pim walked past: May’s friend,

with skin a little darker than her olive tone: and, Pim’s smile, bright and wide, is the feature of hers I recall first.



Pims outfit was in blue and white candy stripes, a sort of abbreviated nurses outfit, that ended a t the top of her thigh’s; complete with apron and cap, each resplendent with a red cross.







Pim walked to the left, where a fellow sat several tables away, his back to the wall.



She had asked the fellow if he wanted a dance; then turned his rebuttal into a show, as Pim had danced with the pole; ‘To suggest,’ I had mused,

‘just what the little, pudgy fellow

wearing gold rim glasses had missed.’



Altough, thinking back, it might’ve been just to keep warm:

as a few minutes later, she’d gone out,

wearing a coat, telling May where she’d gone.



When I’d asked my companion where she’d disappeared,

I’d been told she was cold and gone for a hot chocolate…



And in companionable silence, May at my side, I’d looked around the room, aware she was watching me.



Across the room, a natural blonde, danced to a table of three eager young men, each spellbound by her distinct enthusiasm and attempt to please.



And, we’d sat, as she’d listened for a

favourite track, smiling and still looking toward me, once in a while.



Then, hearing a song she liked, May had stood, looking down toward me, smiling broadly, wordlessly saying to me, “I dance now?”



And, in silent answer, I’d put my hands to the sides of my thighs, as May had brought a chair toward us; and moved the table a little, so as to make space.



Then, with her hands on the back of the chair, May had dipped her back, her firm buttocks swaying gently

back and forth, to music she’d chosen to dance to.

Using the chair as a prop, she had thrust her pert derriere toward me; and as it had risen and fallen to the music, I’d gazed, with delight.



And, as she’d begun to find the music’s rhythm

May had begun to strip to the beat.



I’d just sat there, my hands obediently at my sides, staring at her lovely young body, as she danced, for me.



As May had removed her top, to display her upthrust young breasts, I had learnt that I’d still found May quite

fascinating; her body, her golden skin, so perfect to behold.



And, it’d been that brief material covering her firm buttocks she’d dropped to my left,

as she stripped to the beat.



Then, her crotch but a foot away from my face, May hooked her thumbs in the elastic of her panties; and, looking at me, lips pursed, May slid them down her smooth golden thighs, then

off her legs.



Then, when she’d unveiled her shaven split peach, inches before me, I had looked up to her eyes, as

May realized, just where I stared.



Her hairless sex held my attention but a moment, before I’d looked back to her beautiful face, as she had smiled at me.



I recall her eyes, looking toward me over her left shoulder as I observed her cup her left breast, pinching that rosette teat between finger and thumb.



At first she began by just shifting her weight from one foot to the other, then back again, swaying gently from side to side.



Then, as she began to find the music’s rhythm, May began to strip to the beat: and I just sat there, my hands obediently at my sides as I stare at her lovely young body, as she danced, for me.





With her hands on the back of the chair, she dipped her back, her firm buttocks swaying gently, to the music she’d wanted to dance to.





As she danced, May transformed, from

the demure young woman I’d met on my entrance, into a sensuous diminutive tease.



I’d watched the pretty Asian, absolutely baked, bar long white socks and calf length zip-up black boots,

dance for me, my whiskey and any problems forgotten.



And, as she had reminded me, it’s been months since I’d last seen May.

And, “I won’t have to wait so long, next time,” I’d thought, as the track ended.



Then, she had turned to stand before me and taken my cheeks in her hands, to kiss me on the cheek, before seeking her clothes and beginning to dress.



I remember I had paused her movement, a moment,

To say to May sincerely, “Thank you.”



Then, once more we had sat in that easy silence, as I’d sipped at my drink, just pleased to have her company.





And we sat and talked as the room filled with one after another, all seeking female company and a drink



Then, looking to my right, my attention was taken, by the blonde with the shoulders, I had noticed earlier.



She was finishing a dance, for a fellow who sat in a small enclave, just off from the dance floor.







As the blonde had dressed, May had asked of me, “Do you see someone else you would like a dance from?”



She’d smiled her understanding, as she had noticed my gaze, then stood and walked, across the room, to talk to the blonde, for me.



“I’ll just be a minute,” May said, standing and walking across the room; and, the young woman I’d been staring at.



I watched them talk, as the blonde continued to dress; feeling very aware that May was telling her of my desire, to see her dance.



I’d sipped on my scotch and dragged on my smoke, as the two spoke,

my nerves beginning to fray.



They had chatted a minute or so, that dragged; and, it was then, I had seen both girls smile, that I began to relax, as they walked my way.



As the blonde walked toward me with her, I had taken in and appreciated how tall she was, in comparison with May.



She was tall, with a generous bust, a flat stomach and a narrow waist, which flared into wide hips atop her powerful looking thigh’s and very long legs.



She strode across with a smiling May;

And I’ll confess, my heart beast as fast as it does with May; which just doesn’t happen with every semi-naked woman I meet.



And, having brought her across, May straightened her skirt a little, before bidding farewell; and, saying once more, how good it had been to see me.



After the tall long-legged blonde had sat to my right, where May had,

I’d asked her for her name, as I stared at her face:



With her straight hair worn in a centre-part; the colour of sun-ripened corn; and cut to emphasise her long neck and oval face, inset with beautiful pale blue doe-like eyes.



She had told me, ‘Yvonne’ with a Slavic accent that had intrigued,

so needless to say, I’d had to ask

“Where are you from?”



“From Poland,” she’d answered,

speaking over the music, her lips close to my ear; (the scrap of material, she might call a skirt, draped across her right knee.)



Yvonne had told me she’d been in Britain just over six months; a Pole who’s English was better than some I’ve known.



She had answered the questions I had made with ease; whilst I’d been aware, very much so, of her naked right thigh pressed tight against my right.



As she spoke in that gentle Slavic tone, I listened intently, as Yvonne told me how long she’d been in England, aware of her legs, crossed right over left, her thighs but a foot from my gaze, as I’d proffered my ear to her.





“Will you dance for me now?”

I’d asked, interrupting her: although not, I must say, because I’d wanted her quiet.

But, having seen how she could move, I wanted to see that, there and then.



She had nodded and stood, a trifle nervous at first I’d thought.

Yet, as she found the feel of the piece that she danced to, Yvonne quickly relaxed, moving with grace, despite her Junoesque charms.



As Yvonne twisted and turned, I’d sat rapt by her every move; watching her, as she gyrated her body to the music; and, unclasped her black top, to unveil two breasts of a generous size; albeit just right for Yvonne; each tipped with a small nipple, set midst an aureole of a delicate rose pink.



With a thumb hooked in the elastic of her panties, Yvonne wriggled briefly, to ease the removal of the fine black nylon drawn tight over her curvaceous buttocks.



And, I’d caught my breath briefly as Yvonne faced me, her shaven mound but inches from me: and, I’d looked up to her eyes; then, back to her thighs, as Yvonne turned, caressing her flesh.



Any nerves gone, she had appeared to take pride in my arousal, as Yvonne stared over her shoulder, as she teased her left nipple to hardness.



Then, with her back dipped, her belly rose and fell, her magnificent buttocks raised: and, Yvonne had smiled, as she smacked at her right cheek with an open hand.



And although it is arrogant of me to assume I’m correct, I felt a moment’s contagion between us, as my fervour for her, seemed to fuel her eagerness to please, to entice.



And, Yvonne had continued her dance with fervour until finally the track ended – Yvonne had kissed the left side of my face, saying, “Thank you.”



“Thank you,” I’d repeated parrot-like, suddenly feeling quite gauche; much as I had when I’d first met May.



I had interrupted her dressing, for a moment, to kiss her hand, as is my custom to do.



Then, staring deep into her eyes, I’d allowed her fingertips to slowly drift from mine; and I sat back in my seat, to watch Yvonne as she continued to dress.



She had sat where she had earlier, to my right; and, once more we had chatted of this and that.



I recall her telling me “You’re a nice man” and I remember that I’d said, “I do dislike meeting people, like you … and not seeing them, ever again.”



And, she had relied, “Sometimes it’s not always the case.”



Then after awhile, with my whiskey gone and no more smokes in my tin; and many more customers coming in, I’d stood, to take my leave, saying, “I’ll hope that I see you again.”



An, I’d gone to the Pen for it’s Atmosphere, being lucky enough to acquire the muse needed.



And, I’d left that night, I’d wondered,

“Now, how could I ever objectively write of all of that?”

It is a warm sunny day and the trees that grow high around the Mere find their existence mirrored in darker hues upon its still water.

The man sits, as he has done recently, on one of two bench seats with a clear view of the mere.

He takes from a jacket pocket a decorated tobacco tin and takes out a ready - roll and lights it.

Lighting up, he closes his eyes momentarily, as he tastes the bitter sweet smoke.

With his third and fourth inhalation, the man allows his mind to wander, until finally he mutters aloud,

“Time factor ... now minus ten ... “ and calmer once more, he opens his eyes fully, his mind at peace,

as he looks at the vista around him, his recent problems receding into nothingness ...

In front of him , the road splits into three: the right turn, a small road leading to the farmhouse of the mere’s owner, who also owned much of the land in the surrounding area; to his left was the road leading to the rest of the greenbelt community and forking from it, the road to town; whilst ahead the road disappears beneath a canopy of trees, as hill rises upward, past a scattering of fine old houses, into a housing estate and the road into the village, then town. Everywhere he looks the man sees trees, of every size, genus and possible variant of green and he is entranced by it all ...

And lowering his field of vision through his glasses he continues his study.

To his left, about twenty - five yards ahead are the white double gates to the old Mill House.

The building is white - washed, with a traditional thatched roof, and though it is a little obscured by the surrounding greenery, its man - made beauty serves as a perfect counterpoint to his view of the natural beauty of the Mere itself.

The open stretch of water was covered on three sides by trees and on it live the ducks, moorhens and the visiting birdlife and it is a quiet idyl away from the world’s ills and thus attracts many visitors of varied types ... that was why he came here.

From the base of the hill, to the turn to his right that led to to the farm, a wall of stone roughly hewn surrounds the mere. There are six concrete bollards after the walls end and the steps and a path leading to a locked gate and fence; where pleasure boats used to be hired from and where fishermen now sit.

When people come, with bread for the ducks that live on the mere, he watches them ...

Today his gaze was drawn to a red sports car, parked across from where he sits, it’s top down.

In front of the car, sitting either side of the last bollard before the steps were two women, their feet dangling but inches from the dark waters surface.

The woman to the right has the build of a slim young man, ‘with curves in all the right places, ‘ he thinks.

Both women wore similar clothing, checked shirts and light blue jeans, cut tight.

The brunette, the bigger of the two wore a blue shirt and her friends is an orange brown in colour.

The lighter built woman has fair hair, wears small gold frame glasses, ‘and looks just like a librarian ... ‘

he muses, watching her smile, her body relaxed toward the brunette, who talks a lot.

From the corner of his eye he watches the pair, as car after car passes, it’s occupants occasionally stopping to feed the ducks bread, or simply admire the view.

He watches couples with young children; he sees the odd lone parent with child, both male and female;

as well as the occasional cyclist and walker stopping to rest awhile before continuing on their journeys.

And all the time he finds his attention is drawn again and again to the two women, watching, as they exchange banter, eating crisps and drinking beer.

A long haired blonde stands but feet away from them, smoking a cigarette and feeding the ducks.

The blonde wears a loose - cotton fabric dress and a light breeze catches at the fabric, billowing the skirt upward to expose an expanse of shapely leg and thigh and for a few moments their attention is not on one another, as they both turn to watch a blonde. Both the women, the fair - haired and the more muscular brunette return their gaze to one another after the momentary flash of skin and they both smile,

‘at a secret that only they know of ... ‘ he wonders, idly.



Then, as time moves on and the temperature becomes less warm, the brunette stands, extending a hand

to assist her companion to rise. ‘They look so in love,‘he considers, as they get in the car.

The brunette looks toward him a second, smiles, then turning to her friend they kiss briefly and suddenly the car is gone.

With little to watch and the sun no longer on his face, the man stands, brushes himself down and starts walking homeward. He walks with purpose, anxious to relate all that he has seen to paper, so he ignores the traffic and the occasional returning commuter.

‘It has been a pleasant sunny day, ‘ he thinks, a meal waiting at home and a story to tell.



* * *



Toward him a young woman strides, small of build, her exposed limbs well - tanned, her long dark hair parted in the middle and tied back in a bushy tail. She is wearing a green tee - shirt and khaki shorts,

in addition to tan ‘walking shoes’ and the small rucksack that she carries on her back.

As they approach each other on the narrow path, he notices her staring, with large, brown, doe - eyes

and as he moves to allow her to pass she says to him, at the end of this beautiful sunny day, directly and

quite charmingly, “Good afternoon. “

His mind races, until finally he finds voice, to return her greeting with “ Er, er ... Good afternoon.”

And once she has passed around him the ageing hippie continues home, still wondering whether the girl's accent was Germanic, or not ...













Fin.

It is 3:20 and the bar is filling with solitary men,

all ready to gaze...

upon the girls, three in all; who will strip and tease,

for their allotted slot, (fifteen minutes, or so;)

on the railed off dais…

and now my bitter costs an extra twenty six pence.



The music is now louder and there is an impatient atmosphere, as men take the best spec, so as to enjoy the show...



Now, it is just a few minutes to go...

and what was an empty bar, is filling still: as places are taken by men, in working attire, casual dress and the occasional suit.



Where I sit, at a table to the right of the dias,

I look through the rails and across the stage - to the heavies now standing by the door, ready to restore order, (it seems,)

if any man takes liberties... with the girls.

It is now past show-time - and anxious faces look around...

all of them waiting - with five minutes to go...

and what was an empty bar, is filling still, as places are taken by men, in working attire, casual dress and the occasional suit.



It is now past show-time and anxious faces look around...

all of them waiting, (with evident anticipation) for the girls.

And men gather at the wooden rail, round the small, slightly raised stage,

as if aware, that soon ... very soon, their patience will be rewarded:

and another cigarette is lit, as my pulse quickens and I know that I am now part of the expectant crowd, all waiting.



"We dream the same dream, we want the same thing..."

is played whilst during this intermission -

and somehow the song seems very appropriate...



The lights suddenly dim throughout - except for the bar

and the spotlights that point toward centre-stage -



And the first girl comes on, dressed as a cowgirl, in chaps, waistcoat, boots and a hat ... Strutting across the stage, cracking her whip.



She wears cut-down jeans, worn as shorts, pulled tight to the crotch...

and she strips to the beat and ... she squirts Gillette onto her hands...

blue eyes surveying - the faces of the men as they leer...



The blonde smacks at her pert breasts and against her ass...

and a John Major look-alike, all in grey, stares wide-eyed, shaving-foam dripping down his beer glass; and all before her are enthralled as the cowgirl stimulates the crowd - as she simulates sex with the whip butt...



And she leans forward now, her glistening folds dripping with oil, liberally applied... with a finger teasing at the entrance... and she smiles,

for her part in this now of the crowd, has just ended.



There is silence, (then,) there is applause, as the spotlight becomes dim -

and... the blonde can be seen, collecting her fallen clothes.



And once more we wait...

So, I visit the toilet 'coz the beer is going through me:

and I read the scrawl on the wall...

before taking my seat once more.



And we wait in the darkness, till music blares... the next girl,

again a blonde, stands before us on the stage, dressed as a schoolgirl,

her hair worn in braids, that loosen and fall as she dances and prances... across the small railed off stage.



She is wearing a uniform that she will not have been in, for about ten years, or so, white blouse, shoes and socks and a grey-pleated skirt,

with shapely-legs stocking-clad... she disrobes very slowly...

playing the baying animals in front of her with an air of mockery...

and they love it.



Licking her lips the girl pushes forward her hips and toward

a little man's thick pebble glasses... and the crowd applaud him,

much to his delight and embarrassment.



Then the blonde busty Barbie-doll... bumps and grinds her way...

to the rail opposite; turns her back to a man in a rugby shirt and… bending over…

thrusts her backside toward the man and… laughing,

she finally drops her skirt;

then returns to the middle of the stage and continues to strip...

away her remaining clothes.



Now the blonde sits on a chair, it's back facing front,

her legs spread either side - as a man, stands in the middle of the crowd, between the two rails and before the steps to the dias:

he is large and bulky, with little round glasses and is wearing a light tan mac, his hands are deep in the pockets.



He has thick pursed lips and as the act proceeds… the man impersonates a goldfish... drawing in his breath - and - saying the word 'more'...



As the girl - young woman I should say...

begins to move, her actions are old, indeed practised... and…

She is confident, in her control of the men, looking up at her...

and the ribbons are not tight any more and her braids hang loose ...

as she takes out from her rolled up towel ... Johnson's cream milk

and her head back, in mock ecstasy, she takes some into her mouth ...

dripping it slowly, down the mounds of her young breasts.





She looks down, at the rail...

then smiling, she watches her audience

and repeats this part of her act... again and again.



Then the blonde moves to the front and poses naked... for the fish ...

and as the man in the mac draws breath, to show his affection,

she laughs and turns, to resume her strip... and continue to tease.



She looks at the audience before her, sparkling eyes wide,

with white lotion trickling from the corners of her mouth...

before standing and bowing, her act finished...

And – the lights dim once more.



With my coat and case, I reserve my place, as I seek the bar and a beer,

before finding my seat ... and I light a smoke, sharing a joke...

with my neighbour, who has also finished work early, so as to be here.



The last of the three takes to the stage - and - this redhead is older,

than the other two girls, both puppy fat

and eager to play the mechanics of the strip ...



Though she is the eldest by far...

she stalks from one half of the stage to the other…

with an arrogant swagger:

an American police woman, in her blue shirt, grey skirt and peak cap; wielding her night staff as if it is a club...



She looks at the audience sternly...

from beneath the brim of the cap – as she walks,

stepping high in her heels, as she looks at the men,

as if they are the prey, that she stalks ...







As she undoes her shirt buttons one by one - parading the stage,

flaunting her legs, her body, her smile ...

each button is undone with measured ease, every movement guaranteed,

to emphasise the tease...



She removes the cap with a flourish and her long, lustrous, red hair cascades loose and she shakes it... as she whirls in a circle, twisting her hips.



The tie is removed and finally the skirt and long legged and toned,

the redhead moves to the music in white bra and panties,

suspender-belt and fine black hose.



On all fours now, she prowls feline,

then lowers herself, she pumps with her hips...

and makes love to the stage, eyes like slits, (in apparent pleasure,)

as she observes the eye’s... of the men watching her ...







As she undoes her bra, directly looking at a man, clasp held tight ...

she turns to another, cupping her breasts in her hands,

as the bra hits the floor... the redhead stands centre stage,

to lift her arms and display her charms.



And standing, she struts over to one man, middle-aged,

laughing with his pal next to him ... and she turns her back to him and her firm cheeks to the edge of the rail…

peeling off her knickers slowly, halting and looking around,

at the crowd of ogling men, all intent on her every move...



And when she does slip them from her long legs.

he looks down to his pint, blushing...

and a man shouts, from near to me, 'Hey we're missing out!'



So with an intricate turn of her hips and a few steps,

to where we sit 'neath the rail...

the redhead bends again, to pose as before, showing her slit peach and brown rose… looking at us, from upside down… and she winks...



Then her breasts gently sway, as she stalks the stage floor...

and then, then redhead lies on her back... running her hands over herself, teasing us ... with this display.









And she turns and sits, facing the group of men by one rail,

twisting and turning her legs, to sit again... legs wide…

facing the other side… then does the same again,

to face the crew by the steps to the stage,

so every man has the chance to view her, all of her...



And she takes to the middle of the stage once more... and kneels,

wearing only high heels and a smile, running her hands over the swell of her breasts...

as she hardens the nipples... with her fingertips...

And then, as she runs one hand over her belly - and picks up a bottle of Boots Baby Oil with the other.



She eyes her body, as the oil drips down ... and looks up, just once or twice, running oil-clad hands over her flesh ...

till finally she sits cross-legged, with one hand gently resting on her bush... her eyes all a flutter... and she stands looking around... then bows thrice to the men, as the house light come on...

And she picks up her clothes to a great deal of applause.



'The next set starts in half an hour,' I am told.

But I'm not sticking around, 'coz it's time for my train and I'm sure,

that my supper will be getting cold ...





– 0 –

On Saturday, the 16th May, the fellow presenting the morning show on Radio Merseyside had starting by talking of ‘Coronation street’ and how Dev, the corner-shop lothario had finally had his come-uppance for his philandering ways, when a naked picture of him was displayed in the street, by his now ex-girlfriend.



He then asked for the listeners’s to phone-in with their own stories of vengeance attained. So, I had phoned in, with a story of my own, which dated back to 1976.



I say that, it had actually started in ’72, when a boy had stood up and betrayed a secret. The person the secret belonged to had been me. The other, the boy who had been so-mean, had seemed charming and very plausible: and my friend, till then.



Cut the chase, to two to three years later and the Geography room, which several of us fifth formers were using as a common-room during break-time.



Well, Yvonne had walked into where we were. Or the other Neil had, my memory isn’t clear on that. What I do recall well is the conflict that followed: and the order of those events, which is ironic considering what happened later and the opportunity for vengeance I was presented with. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.



Yvonne, had curves and though not tall, those curves were Junoesque: meaning she was very curvaceous and got the piss taken out of her goodstyle, by the mock-charmer.



She hadn’t taken his untoward remarks well and slapped him, somewhat justifiably in my opinion. But that hardly matters, as he blocked the move, then when she went to slap him a second time, the charming fellow head-butted her.



When she left the classroom she was fine, albeit tearful. But, she hadn’t been crying, not until halfway down the corridor and she pretty well walked into the Deputy Headmaster ‘Pop’ Roy. Then the tears had flowed: and needless to say, ramifications had followed.



‘Pop’ Roy had taken the two of them to the Headmaster’s Master and then the whole of the fifth year students, who Neil had said were present at “the incident”. And, soon there we all stood in a group before where the fellow sat behind his desk, reminding me somewhat of Captain Mainwaring from ‘Dads Army.’



Yvonne had said what had happened, when pressed. Then Neil had been questioned and his response had been, “She started it.”



‘Pop’ Roy is a stentorian and was the fellow who would generally do the caning’s for the Headmaster Mr. Bamforth: and, when he spoke people listened.



One by one he began to question the fifth year students. He had asked one fellow who Neil had made fun of his sister being killed on a bike. That guy took real pleasure in saying he knew nothing and said so with a straight face, as had each of the others.



Finally, ‘Pop’ Roy had got to the always smartly dressed fellow who Neil had considered his best friend at school. He too had said he knew nothing.



Then, both Mr. Bamforth and ‘Pop’ Roy had turned their gaze to me: “So what do you know Neil? Is he telling the truth when he says she started it?” I’d been asked.



Around me there’d been an air of expectation; people knew there was animosity between that scrot and me. So there wasn’t too much surprise I suppose from the fifth formers, when I’d looked Mr. Bamforth squarely in the eyes and said, “I don’t know anything about it Sir, I was talking to someone. I wasn’t paying attention.”



In essence, I had lied completely, just like several of the fifth year.



‘Pop’ Roy had turned to Neil and reminded him of the seriousness of the offence.

Then, after a moment’s deliberation they decided he would get the maximum punishment that a student would have had, during their tenure in their roles: six strokes of the cane, every day of the week.



So, as it happens, I had been presented the chance to obtain my vengeance, passively.



There, I finally told the tale. And though it’s taken awhile to do so, I think it was a good tale to tell…

Earlier that day he had wandered into the small study that they once shared and stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly, surveying the several small heaps of salvage littered around.

Stuffed between one stack of her books and the skirting board he found a small red hardback book, with the word 'DIARY' embossed in gold on the front.

Dusting the months of dust front the small book, he had crouched down to read it, with the spine resting on the palm of his right hand, his fingers holding the cover.

And as he looked at where the book had fallen open, his eye's caught a line of text ...

'...and he just touched the back of my hand. It was at that moment I knew that he and I would ...'

He could read no-more, as his eye's had slowly filled with tears at the sweet memory of the short years that they had spent together.

He had been her first, she had told when they had met that fine summer in Cornwall ...

They had met on the beach, as the sun had slowly set.

His shirt was loose, he had shorts on and was carrying three cans from a six pack.

Walking toward him, a girl with copper hair, sarong skirt, small blue bikini top and a decidedly tacky pair of Dame Edna style sunglasses.

"Give us a go ..." she had said smiling, as he had opened the can.

'She is all of seventeen, or perhaps eighteen,' he had said to himself.

He had thought long and hard before giving his answer, all of ten seconds 'and gorgeous,' he had thought, passing her the opened can.

"Thanks," she had said smiling brightly.

She had drunk heartily, then handed him the can, saying, "Thanks, I'm Charmaine Masters. I'm here for two weeks ...with my mum and dad."

"This is my second week," he had said, noting the freckles across the bridge of her pert nose and covering her shoulders.

He then recalls the sunset and how they had sat in the sand dunes, sand in their toes, watching it slowly set. And, with his eyes misting over, he slowly closes the book.

She had moved to study Humanities at the local University and their relationship had blossomed. And, it had seemed sensible for her to move in with him, to save money.

She had been his life and world and just knowing Charmaine had given his life meaning; her kisses made even his bad day's good.

Then, one day he had got back from work to find that she had gone, leaving just a note, saying ...

Don't be bitter !

I had to.

Take care,

Charmaine



Suddenly, the flat they had shared seemed empty and the future he had planned for them was gone.

Yet he had his job and that gave him a reason to get up in the morning ... and that was enough, just.

Then, with tears rolling down his cheeks he places the book back on the shelf, to join the many dust-covered volumes already there, wishing that he could close the book on their relationship, as he had the diary and her description of that first meeting with him.

He had sat with the radio before him, crackling into life once or twice through the hours, as the night-driver had called through his response to the jobs given out.

There had been one or two base fare's, mainly stragglers from the Casino, closing at three o'clock.

'Other than that, it was a quiet night,' the young man mused, as he sat in his usual seat, in his usual bar, dwelling on the events of the previous night, sipping on his early morning whiskey, that he hoped might help him sleep.

Absorbed with thoughts of work, he did not notice the changeover of bar staff take place.

As he looks up to ask for a refill he is momentarily taken aback by the face of the young blonde before him. "Don't I ... know you face?" he asks, aware how lame this sounds.

The blonde smiles, brushing at a loose strand of hair with her right hand, whilst twitching her pert nose.

"I don't think so ... " she says, a little doubtfully, then says brightly, "What can I get for you sir?"

"Er ... a whiskey." He answer's. 'Her face is very definitely familiar,' he decides.

The young man turns and finds a seat at a small table opposite the bar, to nurse yet another 'bedtime whiskey.'

Granted, he thinks, it's a bad habit, but it does help me to get to sleep.

He looks over to the barmaid again, musing, I can't be wrong, I know her face, I'm sure of it.

He left the bar after ten minutes, very tired, still feeling that he knew the girl ... certain of it.



It had a week before he had had seen the barmaid again, as he hadn't returned to 'his bar' since, in fear of further embarrassment.

He had been working nights for four weeks and his body-clock still hadn't returned to his accepted norm and was totally out of synch, hence the early morning drink, 'to help him sleep.'

He sat, nursing his second glass, dreading returning to his flat, that was so cold and empty now.

The blonde catches him staring and smiles, quite automatically.

That smile, he thinks, I know that smile.

And he recalls the weekend previous and the stormy night, when a soaked and shivering base fare had pushed open the door to the taxi-office ...

The building was located near the middle of town, so attracted a lot of club-goers on their homeward journey's, whether on their own, or with the respective partner they had met that night.

She had found the middle of the three chairs, opposite the perspex box that Kevin Foster sat inside, where he sat on an old swivel chair, a single-bar electric heater inches away from his feet, with the crackling radio and two telephone's on the counter before him.

She had a pale complexion, a small face with high cheekbones, slight freckles over a pert nose and piercing slate blue eyes. She has her hair centre-parted, drawn behind the ears into a foot long, bushy pony-tail and two errant wisps of hair fall down her cheeks, which she toys with, as she speaks.

"Wanna go home ..."

"Okay love, I'll get you a car," he says, then asks, "So where's it going?"

She tells him and then was gone.

Then day's later, as the as the last of the basefare's had been picked up, there she was again and she was the same blonde and she was very drunk ... and she even sat in the same seat.

"I can't go home and face my parents, not in this state ..." she had said, placing her hands to her face. And, he thought, she looks so forlorn, then finds himself thinking of the motherless young deer Bambi, from the Disney film of the same name.

Then the young woman had started crying, softly at first, then louder, as she sobbed from the heart.

He immediately found himself feeling protective toward the young woman, perhaps in her late teens;

with tears in her eye's, her thin rouged lips quivering.

She had looked small and vulnerable, as she sat, all hunched up, cold and wet; and, he wanted to take her in his arms and say, "Don't worry, it'll be alright."

He arose from his seat and walked toward the girl saying, "How about I make us a coffee and you can talk to me?" then adds, "if you wish, that is ..."

She had looking up at the mention of coffee and smiled.

As the blonde looks up at the sound of his voice, Kevin looks at the young woman's face and she wipes at her tears, saying to him, "Thanks, that'd be nice of you ..."

He had gone to make the coffee, leaving the night driver with the address 10 Rossington; the last job that was left outstanding, from a list of three, each person being quoted with a time of 'within ten to fifteen minutes.'

The young man walks across the room and turns to the hall, just off the waiting area, where there is a sink opposite the back door; and, at the end of the passageway, what some ... in humour ... call a toilet ... and Kevin fills the kettle, switching the power on at the wall, noticing the blonde twirl at her hair quite unconsciously and he smiles, appreciating her 'little girl lost' look.

Rinsing out two mugs, he asks, "one sugar, or two ?"

She looks directly at him, through tear-filled, piercing blue eyes and replies, "Just one please, I'm ... "

'I know ...' he says to himself, the very moment before she says each word, 'I've got to look after my figure.'

He turns the kettle on, wondering, how she can wear a dress so short, on a night as cold and drizzly as this ?

"You don't gave to worry about your weight," he says ... embarrassed when she says through a sniff or two, "Pardon ?"

"I'd said that you didn't have to worry about your weight," he told her nervously, putting a good heaped teaspoon of a good instant coffee into the two cleaned two mugs that he had found and gives the young woman the un-chipped mug.

As he stirs the coffee Kevin, hears wracking sobs coming from the blonde. He walks across the waiting area, to where she sits, asking, "C'mon love. What's the mattter ?"

She has her face in her hands and pressed to the chest, sobbing loudly, "C'mon love, it can't be that bad. Just talk ... it might help ... "

The blonde drops her hands a moment and looks squarely at Kevin, through tear-filled eyes and asks,

"And what would you know ?"

"Well you're right, I don't know what you're problem is," he begins, "but, I figure I know enough to guess that it's a man ... "

"It is," she replies, sniffling into a moist hanky, "how'd you guess ?"

"Had to be ... that's all. So go on, what's the matter ?"

"What's your name ?"" the young woman asks, slurring her words a little.

"Kevin ... Kevin Foster," he had told her.

"Well Kevin," she had begun, sitting up a little, to show how little of her the bugundy slip dress she wore hardly covered, "take it from me," and she made an expansive gesture with her left hand in the air, to emphasise her words, "never, never go out with an ex ..."

"Why ?" he asked knowing that was the question that he was supposed to ask.

" 'Coz they tell everyone that you've together again and just 'coz you dress to look nice they spend the whole night pawing you and ..." she has finally runs out of words, until she sniffs again, looks up and adds, "I don't often drink like that, but it wasn't a good night ... and he ..."

"And what's your name ?" he asks the young woman, smiling gently.

"Jane ...." She replies and sniffs again.

He stands, finds his small backpack and locates a small bag of kitchen roll sheets, "Here," he says to her, "take what you need." And he offers her the bag.

The blonde takes a tissue blows her nose, wipes her face with a second, then looks at Kevin with wide eyes and says to him, "You're nice, you know ?"

She smiles a little and reaches out to gently stroke his left cheek.

"And you're drunk," he replies, blushing a little in embarrassment.

"Let me get you that taxi ..." he had said, standing and walking to the small booth he worked from.

Kevin had picked up the set's mike, keyed it and spoke, "Zero Seven .. Les?"

Seven Les was in his fifties, a big man with a kind manner, that endeared him to many of the punters.

'And,' Kevin thought, 'if you were to need an Uncle figure at a given moment like this one, then who better?

There is a crackling of static from the speakers, then his drivers voice, "Seven ... go on Kevin?"

"Les, that last job, it brings you near to the base ..."

It didn't, they both knew it didn't, but the two had worked together long enough to realise that if a favour were being asked, then there had to be a valid reason.

"Er ... yes. So what do you want Kevin?"

"Seven, Les?"

"Yes?"

"Will you put it on the door for me ... and take a young lady home?"

"Certainly ..." he had said, then added, "couple of minutes, no more."

And pleased that the young woman would get home, Kevin smiles and says, "Cheers Les ..."

The next day he had gone to the pub, as had become his custom ... and he had sat trying not to stare ... and, failing miserably. Then, taking his glass back to the bar, the young man notices a loose strand of hair fall from the bang hanging in front of her left ear.

He places his glass down and says, 'thank you,' then almost as an afterthought, he leans forward and then brushes the loose strands back behind her ear.

The blonde steps back towards the stand of optics behind herself, saying indignantly, "Excuse me ..."

He blushes madly and replies fast, "I'm sorry, I'm ... I didn't mean to annoy you ... I just saw the loose hairs ... and ..." He stops talking , realising how foolish he sounds and looks at the blonde, who is now smiling and says to him, "Don't worry none. I've known far worse, believe me ... "

And embarrassed, by his own forthright behaviour, Kevin leaves the bar, to return to his empty flat.

He felt a little foolish, but still, in his heart he knew that he knew her.

He was sure of it: it was a simple as that, he thought to himself and so, did not sleep for hours, as he tried to recall the girl's name.

Kevin played music, counted sheep, even did both, though he was sure that it would work ... and the 'leccy would run out: but he did not need to worry, as he stayed awake to turn his sounds off ... just before he set off for work.

That night, his mind very weary and needing sleep ... he had sent four bookings out an hour early ... those from the second page in the bookings book ... and totally ignored any that might have been on the first page.

'And what is her name ?' he had even wanted to bellow into the mike, but he hadn't.

He hadn't visited his usual haunt once he finished work, as he couldn't face her again. But, once home a myriad thoughts had whirled through Kevin's mind ... the majority of which centre on his dislike for his own bad memory. He lies back on his bed, with his hands behind his head, mising, "Sheesh, ... I should remember her name ... pretty face, nice legs and, she was no plain Jane ..."

And Kevin opens the thick curtains to his bedroom, allowing light to flood in ... he looks at the clock and notes that it is two thirty; she will be working.

So, lighting a cigarette, he rises from his bed and pads to the dinette, to make a coffee, or three ... before he finally says aloud, "That's it ... I've got it."

He walks to the bar with a degree of assurance that he hasn't felt for awhile, not since ...

Kevin asks for his whiskey and sits at his usual seat, pleased that at last he knows her name.

From where he sits, he has watched the bar on several occasions, trying to wrest memories from the back of his mind ... but, not today though.

Today he sits at ease, his frustrated memory satisfied ... and, he sips at his whiskey slowly, savouring the taste and revelling in his new found memory ... while behind the bar, Jane stands confused, trying to recall the name of the tall, slim fair-haired young man at the table before her ... and she thought, 'I know him ... I know I know him.'

Then, when Kevin finished his drink, he left the bar, smiling brightly, saying "Bye ..."

and the blonde brushed at a stray hair, looking at him leaving, still somewhat perplexed.

It took him twenty minutes to walk home, and for some reason his empty flat didn't feel quite so lonely ... And finally he was able to sleep, for the first time, in such a long time ...



Then, once more, as the as the last of the basefare's had been picked up, she was there again, the same blonde and in the same seat.

But there was something different, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

This time she looked different and he couldn't fathom out how ... as she sat up straight and smiled brightly, straight at him. Gone was the little dress that covered little and left even less to the imagination. Instead, she was dressed in a white blouse, tight black jeans and black Doc Marten boots, with bright yellow laces.

She smiles again, then says to Kevin, "Hi, do you remember me?"

The blonde asks the question, one hand over her mouth as she giggles nervously.

Did he remember her? Of course he remembers her, he thinks.

I remember everything about you and how you twirl those strands of hair and how we spoke and ...

"Yes, I do ..." he answers, unable to put into words how he actually feels and how he would adore to spend more time in her company.

But all he adds is a very feeble, "You were a bit squiffy lass."

"A bit squiffy, is that what you call it?" she says giggling once again.

Then she adds, "I didn't remember that much about the night, but, I did remember talking to you and when you used my name the other day ... I finally remembered where I'd met you. So here I am."

"Er ... why?" Kevin asks.

"You listened ..."

"It was nothing."

"Don't say that ... Kevin, " she tells him, suddenly recalling his name; "because not enough people are prepared to listen ..." she stands up and walks toward his both.

"but," she says opening the door, "you did listen ... I remember that, very well indeed."

"Er ... did you have a good night ?" he asks nervously, as the young woman walks toward him and runs gentle fingers down his cheek, saying, "I had a good evening ... and, thank you for asking."

"Er ... do you want a taxi ... Jane ?"

"So you do remember my name."

"I couldn't forget it, Jane. Or you," he says automatically, then immediately regrets being quite so open, as it isn't at all normal for him to do so, but he found there was something about her ...

"Aw, that's sweet, " she says, running fingers through his hair.

"Do you want a taxi ?" he asks again, quite embarrassed now.

"No," she tells him smiling, "I've got the car, so there was no drinking."

"So why are you ... "

"... here ?"

"Er .. yes."

"Ah, you are sweet," she says, kissing his forehead, "I'm here because I wanted to be. Simple as ..."

"Pardon ?" he replies, stunned at the woman's forthright approach.

"I'll try again," she tells him slowly, "I'm here, because I wanted to know, what time

With wide open eyes, his mouth opens, as he asks, "So it you don't want a taxi, why are you here ?"

Again she kisses his forehead saying, "You're sweet."

Once more she strokes his face, "Because I wanted to say thank you ... and well, maybe we could go somewhere when you finish work ... and have a coffee, or something to eat?"

She then adds quickly, "If you want to, that is ... ?"

"Er ... " he gulps audibly, then says, "are you sure ?"

"I'm sure," she tells him, smiling, "so how about it?"

"Er ... where ... when?"

"Like I said, after work, if you'd like. You could come straight to the bar, have a coffee and ... chat."

He thinks quickly, unused to a woman taking the lead like this, then after a few moments pause says to her, "Yes thanks, I'd like that."

"Good," she says to him opening the door to leave, then adds, "I'll be expecting you then, okay?"

"Er ... okay." He says to the closing door as she leaves, his heart thumping so fast he wonders momentarily if it will burst.



* * *



Work finished at seven in the morning, when the other operator took over.

When he had been late coming in, Kevin's heart sank.

He lit a cigarette, took a booking and looked at the door: still no-one.

"I'll give it another five minutes, 'an if there's no-one here by then, well ... I'm locking up, booking or no booking." Kevin knew the at it had to be passed over, but he also knew that she might, just might actually be waiting and he had to find out, he just had to.

He found it difficult to believe that someone liked him, just for him and not for ... what he could provide,

'like some I've known,' he thought quite cynically; remembering Debbie, who'd got the house; and Val, who'd got so much of his money.

He smiled thinking, 'someone wants me ... for me ...' as the door opened, drawing him from his reverie.

"Why haven't you got your bag packed?" Mark, the day-operator asked, looking at him with a beaming smile on his ageing cherubic face.

"C'mon, outta my seat," he said, running his right hand over his forehead, toward his remaining, greying curly hair, "and it's warm outside, so you won't want your coat on, okay?"

"Okay Mark ... Thanks Mark ... I'm gone." Kevin said, packing his bag, with his tapes, pens and flask, then disappearing out of the front door.

Jane had told Kevin that she would meet him at the bar when he finished; but, that would be early.

'Had she realised just how early he finished?' Kevin wondered, as he knocked on a closed door, minutes after leaving work.

When the lock sounded and the door opened he was relieved to find that Jane was there, waiting for him, a smile on her face.

She is wearing a sleeveless white cotton blouse, tight-cut faded blue denim jeans, and on her feet she wears black suede zip-up boots, with pointed toes and a half-inch heel.

The blondes hair is tied, as usual, though worn a little more loose than is custom; and, she is wearing just enough make-up to emphasise her features, rather than detract from her natural beauty, he thinks.

And, though tired, Kevin finds himself feeling more alert, very quickly.

"Hi," he says, in a small quiet voice.

She stands at the private side door to the bar, smiling.

"C'mon in, I can't hold this open much longer." Then she adds, "Anyway, the coffee's on,"

And already he can smell the rich aroma of freshly brewed filter coffee wafting toward him.

"Thanks," he says simply, still unused the mere idea of a woman making the running, like this.

But, he follows, as Jane leads him to a quiet alcove in the bar, where she already has a full jug of the steaming brew waiting for them, 'with cream and sugar, if you want, he is told.

"Thanks," he says again, feeling very self-conscious, as he sits on the cushioned corner bench seat behind the table.

The young blonde sits beside Kevin, to his right, smiles and saying, " shall I be mother ?" pours the coffee.

As she pours their drinks, Kevin asks, "So, how come you're here now ?"

"To see you," she replies.

"Yeah, but ..."

"Go on ... why?"

She asks for him.

"Er ... yes," he responds, hesitantly.

"So we could talk ... and, perhaps get to know each other ..."

"Oh ..."

"Is that it ... ? Oh ... ?"

"Well yes ... I'm ... well, surprised would be an understatement to say the very least ..."

"Look Kevin," she says slowly, "I got the keys to open up so we could talk, okay? Nothing complicated, alright?"

"So talk to me now ..."

"Er ... what about?" he asks, feeling very foolish.

"Anything," she replies, teases him, smiling, then she adds, "... so okay, you're a little tongue-tied. So, how about trying a little word association then ...?"

And the blonde smiles a broad smile, that leaves him feeling quite breathless.

"Okay," he replies, "now, that's were you say something and I say something in reply, isn't it?"

"Well, something like that." she says, "I say something and you answer with the first thing that word makes you think of ... For example, good, bad ... Okay ?"

"Yeah, okay ..." he says to her hesitantly, "I'll give it a go, so. Good ... bad that sort of thing, eh?"

"Yes," the blonde tells him patiently, "that's right, now try ..."

And Jane pauses a moment for effect, then says, "Light?"

"Er ... dark ?"

"Okay Kevin, now you've got the idea, let's try a few more ..."

"Okay."

"Oh c'mon, at least try and sound a little enthusiastic then ..."

"Er ... okay," he says a second time, in a lighter, brighter tone of voice.

"Well, at least that sounded like you're a little interested ..."

"I am ... I am ..." Kevin tells her quickly, in his own defence.

"Okay then, she says smiling, "Sun ?"

"Er ... Moon ?"

"By George," she says, throwing her head back and laughing aloud, "I think he's got it!"

"Er, Jane?" he asks quietly, in a serious voice.

"Yes Kevin?" she asks in similar tone.

"Are you taking the Michael ?"

"Me ?" the blonde exclaims in a tone of righteous indignation; after which she smiles and asks of him,

"Now would I do that ?" She smiles, then adds, "Now would I ?"

"I'm claiming the fifth amendment, on the grounds that it's answer might cause me problems,"

Kevin says with a wide smile on his face.

"Uh-huh," Jane says, "so, while we've got you talking, let's try another one, eh ?"

"Yeah okay ... go on !"

"Venus ?"

"Mars ?"

"Good one," she commends, "so let's try another then ... love?"

"War ?"

"Okay ... Blake?"

"Uh-huh ... Avon !"

"Very good ... so, what about, experience ?"

"Ha ..." he exclaims, quite loudly, "I've got one for that ... me and my ex ... I'd say that was definitely an experience !"

And as she slowly pours two more coffee's Jane says, "I guess that's a lot like the others, really ..."

"Huh, explain that one Jane, please ... ?" Kevin inquires, his curiosity piqued.

"Well, I suppose that in a way, they all down to a matter of conflict - all life is about conflict and the many tensions created by conflict ..."

"Explain that please Jane ?"

"Look," she begins, "naturally most significant pairings revolve around the tensions of light and dark; the metaphysical, morality and immorality ..."

"Huh ?"

"Good and bad, basically ..."

"Oh well, if you'd used a few less big words, then I might of understood that."

"Ouch ..." she says, "sorry."

She smile's gently at him and touches the back of his right hand with feather light fingertips.

"And we're talking now, aren't we?"

"Er ... yes ," he answers, gulping a little in embarrassment at her touch ... yet, still enjoying it nonetheless.

Then sensing his discomfiture, Jane withdraws her hand and sits back a little against the seat asking,

"Do you mind if I smoke

"Of course not," he replies, "I smoke."

"Okay ..." she says to him, beginning to search in her black shoulder bag, emblazoned with white logo.

Jane withdraws from it a packet of twenty Regal King Size and a yellow clipper lighter.

"Want one?" she asks, offering the opened pack.

"No ... er, yes ..." he says, pausing before accepting a cigarette.

"I don't usually smoke these ..."

Immediately, Jane picks up on what Kevin has said and asks him, "So, tell me then, what do you normally smoke?"

"Er ..." he begins, then says after a delay of a few seconds, "rollies ..."

"Is that all ?" she asks, with an engaging smile on her face.

"Er, like I said earlier ... I'm claiming the fifth ..."

And at almost the same moment in time they both start laughing, at an openly shared secret.

He accepts the cigarette and places it between his lips.

The blonde flips at the wheel of the lighter, ignites it and lights her cigarette, then offers him the flame. Kevin leans toward her to light his cigarette from the small flame, smelling the light scent of vanilla as he nears the young woman.

Sitting back in his seat Kevin inhales on the acrid smoke, "You know ... ?" he begins.

"What ?"

"This is ..." and he smiles wistfully as he speaks, "one of the best ends to a day that I've had for awhile ..."

"Thank you kind sir," she says to him, "I think I'll take that as a compliment."

"Please do ... please do ..." Kevin tells her, looking straight into her eyes and smiling.

With a small grin on her face, Jane replies, "Alright then, I will take it as one, if that's how it was meant ?"

"Er ..." he begins, "that's how it was meant."

"Then, I thank you Kevin."

He looks at her, then downward, his face flushed, very embarrassed: he finds it difficult to take to women he finds, but this was all so fast ... so different and unexpected, that the young man now found it it difficult to say anything more, let alone instigate further conversation.

She can sense his unease, which is also made apparent by his close body language, as he hunches his shoulders and clasps his hands in his lap, with his knees pressed tightly together ...

There follows a long period of awkward silence between the couple, until Jane broke it by touching the back of his hands gently with her own and saying softly, "Kevin ..."

He looks up at the sound of his name and Jane asks, "There's a lot of pain still, isn't there ?"

Looking down into his coffee Kevin answers, "Yeah, I guess ..."

"Me too, sometimes," she tells him, the smile lost from her face.

And, looking up and straight in the blondes bright blue eyes, he asks, "Why are you being so nice ?"

"Hmmmm ..." she says, the smile on her face once more, "why am I being nice?"

Jane looks thoughtful a moment, then smiles; and, twirling her hair with her left hand, she tells him,

"Because you listened, when I needed someone to listen."

Dumbfounded by the answer, Kevin opens his mouth a little, as he cannot think how to cope with the very simple honesty of her statement; she is being so open with him and he is unaware, after all this time.

Such honesty from a woman, for it is completely against all his current expectations.

Finally, he looks down at his caffeine again, then back to his companion and asks uncertainly,

"Do you like me?"

She sits back against the cushioned seats padding and claps her hands together laughing, "Kevin, are you slow, sweet, or stupid ... ?"

Feeling a little deflated by her response to his question; he opens his mouth to answer, but finds once again, no words are forthcoming.

Jane leans forward, saying in a quiet, almost conspiratorial manner, "They're going to open up soon."

And, he looks at his watch and the time, wondering, 'where on Earth has the time gone?'

He says quickly, "Please Jane, you didn't answer my question ?"

"Maybe just sweet," she says in response.

"Kevin," she continues smiling, her fingertips on his, "let me explain this you slowly, I like you."

Again his mouth opens and closes twice, as Jane clasps her hands together, saying, "C'mon, coffee-bars closed ..." then she stands, standing to usher him to the door he had entered hours earlier; and she says,

"C'mon, they'll be opening up soon."

"He rises, saying, "But ... but ..."

"What is it?" Jane asks him, standing by the open door.

"You can't do this ..." Kevin tells her, dejectedly, as he stands in the doorway to the street.

Earlier, when he had arrived, the street had been empty, now it was already milling with people passing-by.

"I can't do what ?" Jane teases.

He steps onto the street and looks back at her saying, "You can't tell me you like me, then just ..."

"Just what?" The blonde enquires, with a broad smile on her face, as she stands in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Well he continues, "just get rid of me like this ..."

Kevin looks as dejected as he feels, until she giggles, twirling a loose strand of hair, saying ...

"So you're not coming for coffee tomorrow then ?"

He turns toward Jane and smiles, saying just, "Oh."

Then after a pause Kevin adds, "So you do want to see me again ... ?"

"Sweet ... and stupid. Of course I want to see you ..." Jane tells him, as he walks into a bright blue day, a broad grin on his face ... and, he turns back toward her, saying confidently, "See you tomorrow !"

Kevin walks down the street, listening to the twittering bird-life, as he returns to his home and bed, still smiling; and wonders at whoever could have written this meeting for him and this beautiful blonde ... not thinking of his own behaviour and attentive nature, that had attracted her ... and looks at the sky above, mouthing quietly, "Thank you, whoever ..."

Although physically tired, he felt more alive than he has for many years and walks home to his flat feeling good about himself, for the first time, in many months; struck by the fact that she had listened to him, in a way that no-one has previously.

... And he sleeps well, looking forward to seeing his new friend again.



* * *

A Beginning ...

Between Llanbedrog and Abersoch is a headland, over which, that fine summer I had decided to walk. I had decided to find a short-cut. So, after an ice-cream at the small café by the beach, I had walked along the tides edge and onto the rocks that had been exposed by the receding tide. Slipping and sliding on mussel and seaweed covered rocks, I had negotiated a path of the larger rocks, over which I had intended to climb, to take me round the headland and back onto the Warren Beach.

Finally I had reached them, only to discover that the incoming tide then prevented me from getting any further.

I had decided to then see if I could get from where I was on the rocks, with the water lapping over my feet, to climb over the headland instead.

It was getting late in the afternoon, there had been few people in the clear water of Llanbedrog Bay and little traffic on it, as I started up the shoal incline that led toward the top of the headland.

It had been a steep climb and as I had neared the top and the stones beneath my feet got smaller and smaller I had found myself using my hands more and more to advance any higher,

Then my feet had lost traction and there had been nothing to use as a firm hand hold.

Scrambling for my life, two-thirds of the way up the slope, with rocks looking up at me, my heart had beat faster and so loud I had thought it were audible to all.

At that moment I had looked downward and noted the red two-man canoe in the water, twenty-five yards or so away. Aboard the canoe, a man and a young boy, were pointing toward me and were both laughing at my misfortune.

‘I wish you dead,’ I had thought, momentarily, at the idea of them finding my situation amusing.

I had managed to move sideways a little, before finding that once more I could go no further.

Knowing I was slipping and about to fall, I had found myself thinking quite inexplicably of the smoked Mackerel my mother had intended to cook for tea.

Suddenly I had slipped and tumbled very fast down the slope until I stopped just short of the rocks.

The light blue denim jeans I had been wearing had become green from the grass and red from myself.

I had stood a little unsteadily, checked myself over and found that except for some scrapes and bruises there had been no real damage. However, I had decided not to attempt any further short-cuts that year and, instead I had chosen to walk back to the Warren Caravan Site via the road.

And, sure enough, back at the caravan I had eaten smoked mackerel for tea.



Two days had passed and I’d been in the site shop looking at the latest Spiderman comic, when I overheard two elderly women gossiping. It seems that a couple of days previously, late in the afternoon, a man and his young son had drowned in Llanbedrog Bay, whilst out in their red canoe

Between Llanbedrog and Abersoch, in North Wales, was a long golden beach, a part of The Warren Caravan Site, or so it was back then.



My brother was about three or four, or so I recall and already, been heading toward a colour that suggested he was from somewhere in Australasia: he had browned so fast, in just a day or so, whilst I’d retained my usual pale complexion.



I’d kept pale, in part, as I stayed in the caravan reading, when the folks’s went out.



That day had been different though. We’d been out for a walk, ‘as a family’, as my father had insisted. “Join in, for a change,” I remember being told.



So we’d been out together, the four of us, my stoic, seemingly humourless Father; my jovial, attentive Mother; and my somewhat outgoing, younger brother.



I recall those holiday days, as always sunny, with perpetually blue skies.



The beach was long and we’d started our walk by ‘the rocks’, near the Llanbedrog headland, a pile of granite workings, the remnants of nearby mining, from years gone by.



We’d then headed down the beach towards the first of two outcrops, before Abersoch and the Abersoch headland: passing ‘the ice-cream shop’. Just before that first outcrop.



My parents had walked hand in hand, with me trudging slowly behind them, my brother running ahead, occasionally kicking at the water’s edge.



We plodded on, as the tide moved out.



“The ice-cream shop!” He’d shouted excitedly, running yet further ahead, much to our Mother’s chagrin, little legs going ten to the dozen, totally heedless of her call to “come back.”



Then, I’d watched my parents talk closely a minute or so, before my Father had called us both to heel and begun telling us a story.



“A bay like this…” he began, with a sweeping gesture, to illustrate his words as he spoke, “is where they’d come to bury their treasure.”



Ian and I had heard his story spellbound, my brothers mouth falling open as he listened.



At the word ‘treasure’, his eyes had opened wide.



Ahead of us, there’d been the aged, seaweed-covered ribs of a boat, exposed by the receding tide.



“If you dig over there, you might just find some of that treasure,” My father had suggested with a light smile, as he pointed to the ‘wreck.’



My brother had run ahead.



He had got to one of the ribs and began digging with his hands, into a small pool of water at its base.



I too had reached the remains of the old boat and begun to copy his actions, at the base of another rib, near to where Ian dug ferociously away.



He had dug, for minutes, enlarging the pool, as he dug deeper and deeper.



Then after several minutes, he’d shouted, “Treasure!”



He’d looked over his shoulder toward and towards my folks, who smiled for him, as he shouted again and again, “I’ve found treasure!”



I recall he’d found a thrupence, a couple of pennie’s, a sixpence and I’d found a few coins as well.



For awhile, we had dug together, to try and find more ‘treasure’, before my Father had suggested that we take our money, and visit the ice-cream shop.



And, just a short while later, we’d sat on our tall stool, before a white counter and we’d counted our treasure onto small palms menu’s before us, then ordered our treats, Ian a banana split and me with sundae.



Then recently, I heard the rest of the story. What we’d not realised then, had been that our Father had paid for the ice-creams, by pitching coins overhead, and into the holes we’d been digging into: for us, his junior treasure-hunters.

*suggested, for Mature readers



His right hand cradled his head upon the pillow – and fragmented memories swam into mind for the young man, as he lit a cigarette... and the sun shone through the barred window and directly on his face… recalling that days events.

Four burly men had rushed headlong into the poolroom shouting.

It had resembled a violent scene from the seventies cop show, ‘The Sweeny.’

For moments time had frozen for the young man as two of the men had run toward him. Then he had found himself beaten and kicked, till finally he had been thrown backwards onto the pool table. A bearded face had leered into the bloodied young mans face and the aggressor had said: “We’re the police, you’re under arrest.”

Handcuffs had been put on him an he had been sat out of the way awhile, as the man whose cannabis he had sold and his son were also arrested.

*

The police drugs raid had been costed for thirty days: a high tech operation.

Several micro cameras had been employed, four plain-clothes officers and about ten uniformed officers.

There had been three cameras located in the poolroom, where the operation had centred; one in the dartboard; another in the plaster feature above the door, whilst the last was located in the fan.

The pub manager’s husband, already in trouble with the law over a motoring offence, had persuaded his wife to let the police in the pub, to ‘get the dealers.’

The operation had been geared up for someone selling speed. But, for a couple of weeks prior to going to the bust he had stopped going to the pub, instead allowing someone to sell in his place.

Then, on the last day of the surveillance, they had struck, early in the afternoon.

Four officers had kicked and beaten a postman in his late forties of slight build; and a young man who was a care assistant ‘on the sick,’ with a stress-related disorder, due in part to his relationship ending, to his best friend, as it turned out.

Perhaps the police had waded in as they did because they wanted to portray a good image for the Granada television cameras stationed outside the pub, as was evidenced by several passers-by at the time: or, perhaps, their overt aggression was due to the four hours of drinking upstairs, which had later been corroborated by the ex-barman.

Either way, both the men sustained quite a kicking and were soon subdued and in handcuffs.

None of the footage taken by Granada television of the bloodied suspects led out of the pub, their heads covered by blankets, ever made it to the television screen.

None of the kicking was on any of the one hundred and ninety two hours worth of videotapes surveillance, surprisingly.

In fact, there was a man-made blank on a tape just prior to it ending, just after they entered the pool room and one officer is seen to lift a polythene bag of foil wrapped weighed eighths of cannabis resin up to the camera above the doorway.

The police had also arrested the father and son who were also charged: and then eventually, after serving time on remand the young man had found himself out on police bail.

The charge had been ‘conspiracy to supply cannabis resin’ and the young man wanted to oppose the charge as it stood, for while inside on remand, he had read up the book Archbold, one and two and had decided to go ‘not guilty.’

But, The Crown Prosecution service would not accept a lesser charge and pursued that of ‘conspiracy.’ Yet in Archbold, a legal textbook, he had read of how one had to have ‘intent to commit a criminal action.’ There had been no intent to supply and this was how he would argue, he had decided, there had been no ‘conspiracy.’

Granted, he was guilty of ‘supply;’ but that was not what he had been charged with.

Plus, on the depositions, it had been stated that sixty-eight wraps of cannabis resin had been found, whereas only forty three had made it into forensics … and, officers had hurt him, using ‘undue force’; he wanted that known; he wanted his day in court.

And, the young man, who I shall call Kevin, had returned to the place he grew up, for it was his parents who had stood surety for his bail; and, he was determined to make the best of every day of his freedom, until he had to go to court again.

*

Mrs L… or, Mrs Robinson, as I will write of her, was forty-seven when they had met.

As the young man had learnt, her husband had been involved in an auto accident that he had recovered from, but that he had sustained some irreparable damage, that had left him impotent, or so he had been told…

There were three children to Mrs Robinson, the eldest girl was married, the younger at university, whilst the lad was at college.

She had a good home, comfortable, with every modern household convenience that could be used to ease her workload.

She even had a part-time job, which gave her a break from the house and a little extra in her purse: and an interest in all things Italian, which manifest itself in her cooking and apparel.

Being well provided for, she wore her expensive wardrobe of designer label clothes to their best advantage, wearing long flowing dresses that billowed like sales as she strode out on her walks, clinging to the woman’s slender body and long shapely legs.

As the young man had been a boy the woman had strode past his home and he had heard his father remark, “There she sales, the galleon.”

The comment had amused the boy, who had thought it appropriate, but a tad inaccurate for the long-haired, straight backed woman had reminded him more of a tea-clipper out on the high seas, as she strode along the pavement.

Yet, he hadn’t seen her for many years: Until that particular sunny afternoon.

The young man had only just returned to his hometown and it had been on his third day out and about that he had met her again.

The last time he had met her she had been the mother of the girl, her eldest, who had followed him everywhere, with the eyes of an adoring puppy.

But, this time it had been summer and she was wearing light clothing.

He was sitting near the back of the bus on the top deck when the slim brunette had stumbled up the stairs and down the upper aisle and toward him.

He was on his own as she had stumbled a little on her high heels, giggling to herself as she did so…

She was wearing a light tan summer jacket, white blouse and a dark coloured tight-fitting skirt that hugged her derriere and thighs.

“Hello,” he had said to her, smiling brightly.

Her heels had skittered slightly as the bus started up; and, grasping a support pole, she swung into the empty place next to him, sitting heavily, giggling girlishly.

“Do ‘scuse me,” she’d giggled, adding, “we had the office party and I think I may of drunk a little bit too much…”

And she had giggled once more, putting a hand to her mouth to stifle escaping wind, a burp; “Oops… pardon!?!”

The young man turned to her at the sound and found he was looking down the brunette’s blouse, his gaze drawn to her deep cleavage. Her mauve lacy chemise fell away a little from her left, allowing the slightly drooping breast and the erect nipple to be fully in view.

He was entranced by what he’d seen…

With eyes slightly downcast, the older woman had turned towards him and caught the direction of his eyes.

“You like what you see?” Elaine Robinson had asked Kevin, who had not heard the words, at all, only the sound of her soft voice.

She was aware of him looking at her and with inhibitions loosened by the effects of alcohol, she had giggled once more, thrilling with the delight of the attention shown.

“Haven’t seen you go past for awhile,” he said in turn and her voice turned sad a moment as the brunette responded, “My dog died.”

As she spoke, the young man heard little, for he was interested not in what the words said, but rather, what her body said, which showed her interest, as the nipple stood firm and erect: blood engorged and firm.

As if it that had not been arousing enough, he had realised she had been wearing suspenders, extremely aware of the suspender clasp pressing into his thigh as the bus turned a corner and Elaine pressed against him.

“Good way to get to know one another,” he had said, smiling broadly.

And, their eyes had met: her brown, his blue; as he had noticed her lips part, just a little, lips that looked oh-so-moist.

They had stared into one another’s desires and he knew that she wanted him, as he wanted her; with a physical yearning for the contact of the others flesh.

She shivered, with thoughts of anticipation, of possible pleasure of the flesh; and he noticed, asking her, “Are you cold?”

“Oh no,” she had replied, aware that she was hot: burning with suppressed lust.

The two looked at one another again, their eye contact steady; and the little distance between their faces closed further still.

“I’m married,” she had said, very softly.

“So?” He had replied, staring into her eyes.

And, their lips had touched; only touched, at first.

Then the kiss had developed, as the couple’s lips ground together, as his hands had sought to traverse every contour of the brunette’s slim body.

Brushing material away, he had taken the nipple between forefinger and thumb, as their eyes connected and her body thrilled with delight at his touch; his hand on her stocking-clad knee, till they had parted as she had said, “This is my stop.”

He had followed her backside down the stairs and they had both disembarked, then walked in silence towards her home, until she said to him, “Don’t come any further.”

She had been worried the neighbours might see her with a young man.



*



Though rebuffed, Kevin had walked home, on a fine spring day, with passion on his mind and thoughts of how her body felt, providing the fuel that stoked the fires of his desires…

And then several days later, he had increased his pace as he noticed her walking before him, a heavy bad full of shopping in either hand.

“Can I see you again?” He had asked brightly.

He had taken the bags from her and they walked side by side, as he carried her shopping much of the way home for her.

“Why don’t you come in for a cool drink?” she had asked, fully aware that he had been devouring her with hungry eyes.

They had entered the house and with the back door to the garden closed, the couple stood in the middle of the kitchen, very close, looking at one another.

He had reached out his right hand and caressed her cheek, sliding his fingers into her hair and clasping her head in his hand.

Kevin found her dark brown, almond-shaped eyes feline: and quite entrancing.

They had stared deep into one another’s eyes; and in that moment, both realized they knew the physical yearning that each felt was reciprocated by the other.

He had drawn her to him and they embraced, kissing deeply, their tongues entwined; as they turned and twisted, their passion unbound, as they fell against the table, the door and finally the cooker.

Their tongues meshed together, Kevin had hoisted her skirt high, to reveal her long, stocking-clad legs and bare thigh.

Gently pushing her against the cooker-top, he withdrew from her arms a moment and sank to his knees, drawing down her black silk panties.

She was trimmed and clean tasting he had discovered with his eager tongue, as Elaine ran long manicured painted nails through Kevin’s hair, saying, “Mia amore, that’s so nice.”

Her eyes closed, as she had centred her mind on the tongue opening her, licking and pleasing her and Kevin took his hard, cut length out of his trousers slowly with his left hand, his right caressing nylon-clad flesh.

Then he had stood, lifting the brunette’s legs up and wide, so her backside rested on the cooker-top and he sank into her moist warmth.

With intercourse, each sighed; he with pleasure at his conquest, she replete with the fulfilment that the pleasure of flesh upon flesh gave…

As the svelte mature brunette had lain back eyes closed, Kevin viewed the delight that she demonstrated with her wanton behaviour with relish, realizing that this might not be the one-off that he had thought it might be.

And then Elaine had opened her eyes, reaching down her index finger of her right hand, toward her glistening pubis, coating the digit with the young mans fluid: and Kevin watched this older woman, his own Mrs Robinson, savour with obvious pleasure, his ejaculated fluid.

Panting with exhaustion, he had helped her stand, sliding his hands over her nylon clad legs and the naked thighs, to grasp her buttocks firmly.

“Let me?” She told him; sinking to her knees and licking clean his now flaccid manhood of any fluids left.

Only when she’d drained the young man did the sated Elaine L. stand, a little unsteady on her black stiletto high heels.

“Was that nice?” Elaine asked the young man, as she smiled and licked at her lips lasciviously, while Kevin finished dressing, smiling broadly.

“I do hope I can call again?” He had asked.

“Yes,” she’d replied, “and if you ring first I’ll try to arrange things for you...”

“Arrange things? Like what?” He queried, as he had opened the door to leave.

“Like dressing-up for you. That sort of thing… if there’s anything special you’d like?” she informed him, suggestively.

“Anything special?” He’d repeated, mind racing, with imagery floating through his minds-eye; “I’ll phone,” he had assured her, and then closed the door behind himself as he left.

Kevin smiled a lot, as he’d walked home – already looking forward to calling again.

And so, a pattern had been established: Kevin would have his lunch with his parents, then walk past the post-box and toward the telephone box on the green.

He’d phone Elaine and say he wanted to ‘call round.’

She would dress as a schoolgirl, naughty secretary and whore, for him: anything he might want. And as time passed, they shared many fantasies, revelling in this, as they enjoyed the pleasures each sought to provide for the need of other.

Elaine didn’t deny how she felt, revelling in his attention – almost needing it.

She’d considered her time spent with him special, acting as it did to mask her sexual repression. Besides which, she’d enjoyed herself, as she pleased him.

Thus, the summer had passed. He had told him of her crime and his expectation of ‘doing time:’ holding her hand and watching her eyes as he did so, ever-so pleased when she’d chosen not to reject him. Instead, she had squeezed his hand and told her lover, “Let’s just enjoy our time together.”



*



So, toward the end of September they had gone for a walk on a sunny afternoon and; they had enjoyed each other one final time, at the bottom end of a cornfield which broached woodland.

Her summer dress hiked up, she had wrapped her long legs round him, nails raking his naked shoulders, her heels digging into his lower back.

They had both known it was to be their last time together: their kisses filled with fervour, as he thrust deep, driving them toward that final, sweet orgasm, his seed filling her; that he had drunk from her splayed thighs, as her closed lids fluttered.

He had stood, helping Elaine rise: and then they had walked homeward.

The summer had ended and his court case was due the next week: Kevin even had his tobacco and radio, ready to take with him from court, upon a ‘guilty’ verdict being given. And, they had kissed one final sweet kiss.

I spent most of the night dwelling on the photo I had seen of my birth Mother and her first-born, my brother, fully grown, an arm around her shoulder, as they both smiled for the camera.

Like me, his sperm donor was the same as mine, a married Catholic, with four children already.

And yes, even as I write this I find I am angry ~ oh not at her, but at him.

It is difficult to explain. But, when I’d lived in Kirkdale years later, which is on the same line as where they’d lived, I’d constantly looked at every man I saw on the train, to see if I could see someone of the right age, who bore similar features to mine.

She I could understand.

But, he’d been a different matter.

Despite the fact that he’d been a married Catholic, with four children himself, I found it very difficult to understand how a person could just leave someone, who needed them.

That, in later years become a prime motivator; and would form part of a flaw in my character.

But, I digress.

I had spent too much time dwelling on an image and had felt that I had to do something, to learn of who I was; and, where I came from.

Yet, all I knew was an area of Liverpool, which she had talked of; and the name of the pub, where he drank. He is my brother, the natural brother of my bloodline and I’d needed to know more about him.

I’d spent the night thinking of that photo, after which I’d finally fallen asleep, only to wake early the image still embedded in the forefront of my brain: my brother, an arm around our Mother, as they both smiled for the camera.

So it was I’d risen and dressed smart with the intention of playing private detective and following the few leads I’d heard in my conversations with her, to try and find him.

Perhaps I’d drunk too much coffee before I’d left home, but I was extremely hyper when I’d got the train, to a part of Liverpool I’d not visited before.

I’d recalled the name of the pub, where she’d told me he drank: that would be my first point of call.

“As good a place as any other,” I’d mused.

Then after a nerve-wracking journey on the train through the tunnel into Liverpool, where I’d made my connection, I’d walked into the pub full of bravado, picturing myself as Sam Spade, or Phillip Marlowe.

I’d walked across to the bar and ordered a double Pernod and black, then asked for my ‘brother’ by name.

“Piss off,” the barmaid, who’d thrown in his name after the curse, had told me.

Apparently the woman had thought I was him.

I’d finished my drink then left the bar, with little in mind of where to go next.

I was stumped: Phillip Marlowe, the greatest private eye I wasn’t.

So I’d wandered, aimlessly, down one street of terrace houses, then another.

Then after awhile I’d got to an end property and its blank wall on the next street up.

From the street at the back, parallel with where I’d walked a figure emerged.

Dressed all in denim he’d walked toward me, fists clenched ans stoppedjust a foot or so from me.

Puzzlement had shown on his face, as he’d looked at me. There’d been long seconds of silence, then finally he’d said: “Don’t I know your face?”

It’d been chance of a lifetime – the opportunity to use perhaps the ultimate cliché.

So, I’d used it.

“You should do, you see it every morning when you look in the mirror.”

“Ah,” he’d said, then called me by my birth name and added: “I think you’d better come home and meet your Nin.”

Now, I had a Gran and a Nan, but a Nin?

That’d been new to me: and, I’d quietly followed as I’d been led to where he lived.

And, when we’d got there, we entered the back way, as family do; to be met by a woman in her late eighties, I’d guessed.

She’d come up to my chest in height, although just; and, she’d had a skin texture that had reminded me of a wrinkled, dried-up prune.

Tears in her eyes, she had called me by my birth name, ass she had thrown her arms round my waist.

And then, moments later, she’d pulled away and took my hand and led me through to the back room, where the rest of the family were watching a cartoon, ‘the Return to Oz’ I think, with Liza Minelli as Dorothy, I think.

“I think you’d best say ‘hello,’” she’d said.

Inside the room that I recall as comfortable as a parlour is supposed to be: with an open fire and family warmth.

For a second time I’d met my birth Mother; and a young half-brother; and a half-sister, with long dark wavy hair and brown doe eyes.

The girl had fascinated me, as I recall as a child asking my Mother why she’d not adopted a sister for me, instead of the brother she had, who I’d not gone with then.

And they’d made me welcome; even my brother, who’d seemed very wary of me at first; who I’d learnt had my tastes on most things.

I had looked at him, at me, brought up so differently: sounding like a Scouse version of my gentler tones. It was almost surreal, a dream almost, which hadn’t ended there.

Later, I’d been taken out to an orange lodge, where the fellow she’d married worked.

Again I’d found it surreal, being called by my brother’s name; and, treated as if I were him – and that’d been strangeness indeed.

Yet all in all, I’d been pleased that day had ended so well, when like the previous day when I’d met my birth Mother, it could have all gone so badly. And so it was I’d much of the train journey homeward, inebriated from eight or so Pernod and blacks, a smile upon my face.

I wasn’t a policeman long. Eleven day’s, that’s all. But, reasons for leaving aside. When I joined, there’d been a a bit on the form that had asked for my name at birth. So, I gave it. And, just doing that had been the catalyst for a whole ‘nother story and an adoption agency in Rodney St., Liverpool and Mrs Bellis. She had helped.

I recall her sitting in an armchair in a small room overlooking the street, net curtains on the windows, the long heavy drapes partially drawn.

I remember her as the archetypical little grandmother image: being small and round, with white hair; and, wearing small, round gold-rimmed spectacles.

I’d introduced myself, explaining why I was there, as my eyes had accustomed themselves to the gloom of the small room: the only furniture other than where she sat that I’d noticed was an old roller desk and chair, which I’d drawn forward at her suggestion, as I explained who I was and that I’d been assured that she could assist me with my search for my birth mother.



Mrs Bellis had informed me, in a gentle voice that she would see if she could help, “After all,” she had reminded me, ‘”a long time has passed and perhaps it wont be a good idea, as you might be disappointed…”

She’d said more: but, it was sufficient for me that she was willing to help.



Then, on a chilly afternoon, with a cloud free blue sky above, I’d gone back to Rodney St.

Mrs Bellis had greeted me warmly.

Then, as sunlight filtered through the partially drawn curtains, I noticed that there were two chairs before the armchair, where she sat.

In one of the chairs sat a woman with dark hair, in her early sixties, I guessed.

“This is …” I heard Mrs Bellis said, as we’d found each other’s arms, as if pulled by magnet.

There were tears in her eyes – and mine.



“I’d wondered what you looked like…” I recall her saying, as we parted and stood apart a little, so she could ‘get a good look’ at me.

And then, I’d sat there with my birth Mother explaining why I’d sought her; to learn who I was; to find out where I’d come from.

She had been single; and he had been married, with four children of his own she had told me.

She’d been single, and already had one child by him. It’d been 1959 and like them, I’d been born Catholic.

“Considering the times they were then for a single mother, I couldn’t keep you both.” Economics.

It was an explanation and something I could understand.

Besides which, she was a ‘nice lady.’

Through my adoption she’d tried to acquire for me the future she’d felt she couldn’t afford. She had even tried to ensure a different life for me, by requesting, that if at all possible, I went to non-Catholic family.



I also recall her telling me that although she’d wanted to know who I was and even how I was doing, she had not acted on this herself, for fear of hurting my parents, especially my Mother, as she had imagined the position in reverse and how she’d have felt herself.

I had thought that considerate, particularly in light of the face my Mother had pulled when I’d initially told her of my intention to find my birth Mother.

She had been filled with trepidation, at the thought of losing me: and, it had taken a lot of reassurance and explanation, for her to feel a little better about my intent.

Even then, her acquiescence was grudging, I feel.



Simply put, I’d liked meeting her and, been pleased we’d met.

We’d talked of many things, she and I; and as we had talked, it was like there was a constant pleasurable back thought, ‘She was there, she was really there.’



But, I remember three things most vividly from that meeting with my meeting with the woman who gave me life: and, all had impressed me.

She seemed a really nice woman, who had done the best for me that she could, at the time; I appreciated the understanding she showed toward my Mother, who had brought me up and taught me right from wrong; and the photograph of her and my natural brother she had shown me, who had looked just like me.



Or, I should say in retrospect, I look like him, as he’s two years older than I am.



Either way, I’d had to meet him.

‘After all,’ I’d reasoned, ‘we’re the same blood – and, the only ones.’



And, when I finally left those two ladies, in that small office on Rodney Street, it was mid-afternoon, the sky was blue; yet it was just a little chilly.



And, I couldn’t stop thinking of that photo, my birth Mother had shown me, of …

Bridge Over Remagen



There are certain events in ones Life that changes you forever. One of mine occurred one Saturday afternoon, half-way through a showing of the afternoon matinée; the film, ‘Bridge over Remagen.’



I’d been sitting in my armchair, in the sunlit backroom, which had then been my bedroom.



As I recall, the Americans had been defending the bridge: but, at that point of the story, I’d had my eyes closed, as I’d held the chairs arms tightly, with Deborah Jane, sweet Deborah Jane, knelt between my splayed legs, her hands on my thigh’s, as she sought to pleasure me with her mouth.



“Oh God, you’re good,” I’d cried out, then added; “How did you get to be this good?”



Kneeling back onto my haunches, she’d looked up at me and replied with utter innocence, “My Father taught me…”



Well, that’d killed the mood somewhat.



Pots and Pans



Debbie and I had got a home in Kirkdale Liverpool, so as to be near where she worked as a nurse and, on a train route that would take me over the water, to Hoylake as a care assistant



Just before we’d closed the front door of our terrace-home on the world, her Father had brought the last of belongings to us: a pile of pot and pans.



Shaking my hand, he’d looked me straight in the eyes and said to me, “Look after her, as I would…”



And, taking in mind all I knew of how he’d looked after his daughter, my gut reaction had been a strong desire to hit him, square on the nose.



But, that wouldn’t have gone down well with Deborah Jane.



So, I hadn’t…

I'm an ex-policeman of 11 days, who served time, for selling weed and had five attempts on his life: It transpires that when you get inside, they don’t like coppers, even those who were only in there for eleven days, like me. That said, the best bit of my time with Greater Manchester Police was seeing Spiderman, for real, as I looked out of the window in my first week of training. But then there’d been my reason’s for leaving, all of which had been cited for Bruche, the training centre I went to in Warrington being closed down about fifteen years later.

Just one of those reasons I had for leaving, during training, as many of our class did, was the attitude of some of our tutors, for example, Sgt: Broughton: -

"Don't expect any help from the public. It's you against them and they’re not going to win." He’d said, in a gruff voice. So I left the police, after eleven days.

But, back to Spiderman: We were in the classroom environment & he was on the flat-top building across from ours, Central A Division Manchester. It was only months later that I found out why Spiderman was having his picture taken, in all the traditional Spiderman poses, when the comic was released. It turns out Manchester was being the backdrop for the publicity work, as it's one of the few cities in England with New York style buildings.

Since I was seventeen, when I had attended two foundation courses in psychology and sociology, I have studied learning styles; initially my own, but also those I came into contact with.



This interest has proved useful throughout my working life, whether it be working with my care work; or when I worked in a care environment, or users if I.T., an area in which I am qualified in.



Initially, I’d been going to teach yet divergent interests allowed me to follow other paths. I had let teacher training, as I didn’t like working with those who didn’t want to learn; but the older learners I have worked with did; thus it was a real pleasure to help them each achieve their own personal little goals.



I had continued to listen and learn, so it was that when I was working at The Basil Hulme Community Learning Centre I filled the role of Teachers Aide, finding myself in a position where I would help ‘older’ clients get up to scratch with a part of their lessons in CLAIT or ECDL, so that they could rejoin class.



I had become, as I had joked, ‘a computer software facilitator.’



I recall working with an ‘older lady’ of eighty-plus, who wanted to break paragraphs; and a fellow three quarters blind, who wanted to access the website for Tranmere Football Club and, much more.



Currently I help a young man with dyslexia, who progressed to University and firmly believe will achieve much with their computer studies.

I began voluntary work in 1976 after the death of my grandmother. This had led to me doing voluntary work, with Bebington voluntary services, with their Co-ordinator Will Redfern, doing all the jobs, that no-one else wanted to do, an interesting time.



Around this time I started doing voluntary work at Bebington Handicapped persons unit, where I met some very interesting people, and forged some relationships that have stood the test of time.



Then in 1993 after my fiancée dumped me for my best friend, I sought relationship counselling, which after a time led to me returning to my voluntary work, after a period of employment.



I worked ‘in the office’ with X-US, a drug-users self-support group, under the umbrella of Arch Iniatives in Birkenhead. There I did the office-work and dark-room tuition, as well as some advocacy work, when required.



In 1996 I did a management course at Europa Boulevard in Birkenhead. During the course of I did a study that was both pertinent and useful. I chose the subject title, Dual Diagnosis: the correlation between drug abuse and homelessness.



I found things interesting, the lack of statistics; and the very fact that Websters had the word aftercare in it, while the English dictionaries I could get my hands on didn’t.



After attaining the qualification I sought, I presented my report to HIT in Liverpool, the drugs resource centre. And, as I’d covered a subject little known of at that time, my report was retained as part of that resource.



When my second fiancé cheated on me, after a similar period of time to the first one, I was left bereft; so felt I needed to do something positive: so, since 1999 I have been part of a team of community-based volunteers, working in a soup-kitchen, cooking a meal every Thursday evening, currently based at St: Brides Church, Toxteth, Liverpool.



We have an open door policy, so that we can draw on as many clients as possible, whether they are homeless, in a hostel, etc…



And, throughout my working life, I have sought further qualifications; and continued with my voluntary work, ‘to make a difference.’

Four and a half I would look up to my Mother, as we walked up the tree-lined Allport Road, crossed the green space with trees on the corner that we knew as The Common, then plodded onward, holding my Mum's hand, a shock of blonde hair and inquisitive bright blue eyes.



I had walked to the school everyday, pleased to see people like Nicholas Butt, who could draw Thunderbird 5 better than me; and Linda Peters, who I would adore with love-struck eyes, over the sandpit.



I also recall a lad named Steve, the first to bully me, with all that entailed.



And, though there were many things I liked about that school, being bullied by that lad certainly took the shine of each day.



Then, all big brown eyes and dark hair, with chubby cheeks, my little brother had joined the same school: and, on his first day decided home was for him.



The reason for his decision had been a portion of baked beans on his plate at luch-time. And even now, I recall well the sound of his voice as he said, 'Ugh', in a rather loud voice, eyes wide as he'd stared at his plate, before yelling the walls down of the main hall, where people sat eating.



Yet little brother and friends aside, my days were made awkward by Steve, who would twist flesh, punch my arms and extort sweet money.



After a year or so, a new primary school had opened up near where I lived and no more did I have to trek up the road and my jumper turned from red to blue, with a change of uniform.



And, school was okay. I had my hassles, but nothing like I'd previously known. And, time passed, as it does...



One day I had been called to the Headmasters office. It seemed that a lad of eleven crying over his eleven-plus, when 'everyone' expected him to breeze-it through didn't sit well with this little man, with heavy-framed glasses and a woollen green suit, who sat in a small office, with two understanding teachers standing by.



"So what do you want to do?" he had asked. "Do you want to go to a Grammar school, where you'll probably be in one of the lower streams and have lot's of pressure put on you? Or, do you want to go to a Secondary School, which is less academic and you'll have less pressure put on you?" He had asked a very nervous, pale-faced boy, who was somewhat confused by these questions: "And, if you go to the secondary school," he'd added, "you'll be in one of the upper streams."



To me, phrased like that, the answer was obvious: and, at eleven, I had chosen the least academic choice offered, the Secondary School.



Then, when I began as a first year at my 'big school', already very nervous, just to learn that on my first day, that Steve the bully I'd known, was there to meet me, as I'd walked through the gates.



Acre Lane was a Secondary School and it didn't do to speak well, or take pride in the blazer, your Mother had made for you, in this case black, not blue like the second primary schools, unlike the first, which had been red..



It didn't do, to speak proper ['properly'] and carry a brief-case, when everyone else carried a haversack. It was also particularly awkward, if you didn't like sport, or the latest pop-music.



And, the bullying I had got used to at Primary School had continued and, I remember a bully, who lived round the block from me passed by our bungalow one day on his way home: and, when I told my Mother about him, she had marched straight out the front door, collared him by the ear and took him to task. That had been one fellow who had never bothered me again.



Oh the school, like many, talked a good talk, about having an anti-bullying policy. In fact considering I am writing of the seventies, they were quite ahead of their time, for doing so. But, who wants to report someone, when after it's dealt with; their mates will get you?



But the actual scale of the bullying escalated: a wooden cross tip fired into my 'testicles', is the worst I recall. Yet, the games master checking me out, 'to see if you're okay' had augmented the pain and humiliation that sunny day during P.E.



But, I was still a loner, with a briefcase, a sheepdog haircut and stack shoes that made me even taller than I was, yet they were the fashion of the day.



There were many other incidents, but one afternoon in my fifth year, as I was hassled by a group of fourth years and one of them in particular, the cock of his year.



All those years of being picked-on had got to me, just a little bit too much: and, I'd exploded goodstyle.



I got beaten, once then twice, as people had gathered round and around us many shouted, "don't get up', but I had. Then I had dragged myself up the metal basketball goal posts, blood pouring from my face.



Turning to him, I had raised my fists again, in the stance that my Father had taught me. I wasn't going down easily: that I'd decided.



And, though I got my face bashed yet again, so I ended up looking somewhat like a squashed strawberry - that was the day that I stopped being bullied at school, such was the respect I gained from those around me, including the one who had bashed me to the floor again and again, till the tarmac yard had been spilt by my blood.

COMMENTS

-

---

NoctusAngelusProcella
17:15 Nov 15 2011

I was bullied horribly in school til I finally cold-cocked a boy in my class. sometimes it pays to stand-up for yourself.

---

POST COMMENT

am currently removing all ignorant senior admin from my friends list one by one. wonder if any of them will notice, or care?

colonoscopy next week, painclinic the following day in regard of my spine. was 52 as of fifty minutes ago... seems a long day, every second of the day...

COMMENTS

-

---

philosopher
03:48 Nov 10 2011

So, a friend of mine told me this rather unfortunate but hilarious story of his dad's colonoscopy. Maybe this will bring a smile to your face.



So, the father went in for the procedure and the doctor asked him if he was willing to help out the up and coming med students by giving them some real world experience. The father sportingly agreed. At the end of the procedure, when that flexible probe with the lightbulb on it was almost out, one of the students said, "Wait. Could you go back so I can take another look at (I think it was some kind of polyp)?" And, so, the doctor threaded the thing back in. O.o

---

POST COMMENT

This isn’t a recipe, it’s more of a tip, regarding cutting onions, which is a bugbear for many…



Clean out a margarine tub, or two. Take an onion, chop up the one you’re using. Or, just chop it in half, then put a half onion in a tub and pop it in the fridge for future use.



Then, when you need use the onion, it will be crisp and one will have no tears.

So… there the Billionth child has been born. That is over-population. Somewhere in the world, there is a woman having a baby, every thirty-seconds. Please… someone, find that one… and, introduce her to contraception!