Читать книгу Confessions of an Ice Cream Man - Timothy Lea - Страница 6

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

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

‘Valentina!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way things are building up I reckon I could come into the straight before she does. Wwwhhhh! Steady, boy! Don’t get carried away. But it is no good. Pink Beauty is undoubtedly galloping towards an appointment with orgasm and I am just there for the ride. So, apparently, is Valentina. She jumps onto my back and starts belting me round the lugholes. Looks like it could be a photo finish because Big Mamma is making a noise like the death rattle of a King Cobra caught in a cocktail shaker – ‘and the winner, Big Mamma with Timothy Lea up’. I can hear Clive O’Sullivan – wait a minute! No I can’t. Clive O’Sullivan doesn’t shout up the stairs in Italian. It could be Katie Boyle but she is not a man. We are narrowing down the possibilities fast.

‘Pappa!!’ Yes, that seems likely – WHAT!!? Somebody’s Italian daddy arriving at a moment like this. How thoughtless and blooming typical. Pausing only to slim down to my escaping weight by the release of a few million sperm cells, I rise like the first stage of a moon rocket and send Valentina crashing off the back of the bed. I don’t mean to do it but her untoward behaviour did deserve redress – and talking about redressing – yes, the sooner I get some threads on and the window open, the better. I dive off the bed and start scrambling into these items that Big Mamma has not carved up. A pile of leaflets has flipped out of the cupboard and I read ‘Frascati Recipes – Secreto’ before sweeping the pages up with my jacket.

‘Thanks for having me,’ I say obligingly and head for the window.

Valentina is refusing to give back her mum’s knickers and the ladies are getting very heated. Best not to repeat my farewell but test the sash cords. I have got one leg over the sill when the door flies open and I cop a gander of a short, thick-set man with greasy black hair swept back from his mug. I catch a glimpse of a few gold teeth grinding together while he takes in the scene and then launch myself into space. I am wearing one sock and a pair of trousers and trying to hang onto everything else. Slumf! That is the noise of Timothy Lea landing up to his ankles in rain-sodden flowerbed. ‘Aaaarghouch!!’ That is the noise of Timothy Lea discovering that he has a piece of split cane stuck up his bum. Fancy the Frascatis bothering to tie up their petunias. I limp onto the lawn and head for the fence at the end of the garden. Behind me I can here screams and the sound of the window being forced wider open. I chuck my stuff over the fence and start to scramble after it.

‘Woof! Woof!’ Bugger! I should have looked before I chucked. There is a bloody great alsatian waiting like I am teatime. Bye, bye clothes. I jump down and turn to one side. ‘Boom!’ Just as well. A shotgun blasts a jagged hole out of the top of the fence. Blimey! Don’t say it’s the fifth of October already. I fly towards the fence on the left-hand side of the garden and immediately break the British pole vault record. This is tremendous news because I don’t even have a pole. Maybe our training methods are all wrong. I don’t have time to worry about it because another shot rings out and a burning sensation peppers my back bumpers. Murdering wop swine! Fancy wanting to commit murder just because you find someone in bed with your wife and daughter. Some people have no sense of proportion. I drag my maimed body over the fence and drop onto the rockery. Yes, the rockery. Fantastic, isn’t it? After all I have been through, some stupid herbert has to slap his rockery right up against the north-west corner of the mad wop’s garden. I hope the cabbage whites gnaw his cauliflowers down to the roots.