by Timothy Lea
‘This is what the little goody is supposed to deliver,’ she says, wistfully. ‘Do you think you can fix it?’
I don’t say anything for a few seconds because it is slowly dawning on me what this little masterpiece of Teutonic technology is all about. It is a mechanical dildo – or artificial dick as it might be more generally known. You obviously sit astride the platform, position yourself accordingly, press the switch and – oooh! It is almost too naughty to think about. A few more of those down at the Conservative Club and percy would be on half time. It just goes to show that the Krauts don’t only think about rockets and dirty great sausages all the time – I don’t know though. Maybe that is why they turned out this little number. Their big V2 base was at Penismuncher or somewhere like that, wasn’t it?
‘Um,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen one – er quite like this before. What makes you think I can do anything with it?’
‘Your ad., darling. Reading between the lines, it’s easy to see the service you really provide – or should I say sevices?’ Before I can properly digest her drift, the saucy little minx has started to whip her woolly over her nut. Could it be that there has been some misunderstanding about the nature of the activities undertaken by Home Enhancers? I had better put the record straight immediately. After all the trouble there has been lately, it would be too bad if … cor! ! What a lovely pair of Manchesters! The minute they start doing an Ali Shuffle in front of me I begin to reconsider my position – in fact, quite a few positions. I don’t want to give offence, do I? If there has been something misleading about our advertisement, the onus must be on us to put things right.
‘It may be a loose connection,’ I say as her flushed features emerge from the other end of the sweater. ‘I’ll just pop out and get my screwdriver.’ Light moves at one hundred and eighty thousand feet per second. I think I may be a fraction slower as I duplicate the distance to my hold-all. As her eyes widen in appreciative surprise I whip off the motor housing and see that my original surmise was correct. One of the connections has come adrift.
‘Is it going to be difficult?’ she says.
‘Uh-hum,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘I think the retarded manifold may have sheared off against the percussion booster.’
‘That’s amazing,’ she says. ‘You can tell all that by just looking at it?’
‘It’s only a gift,’ I say. ‘Honed to a fine edge by years of experience’ – I got that from a razor ad on the telly.
‘Is it going to be possible to fix it?’ The look of pleading confidence is something to behold – in fact, I have never seen a girl who looked so pleading confident before.
‘It should go back to the factory,’ I say, shaking my head glumly. ‘Still –’ her face lightens a fraction in anticipation of an arrest of the galloping gloom – ‘if I can bridge the gap between the jump switch and the input-output socket, I may be able to do something.’
‘You’re wonderful,’ she says. ‘Really wonderful. Do you know that?’
‘I’ve heard rumours,’ I say modestly. ‘Keep your fingers crossed and I’ll see if a chance in a million is going to pay off.’ I make the connection, place the contraption on the bed, and press the switch. Immediately, the artificial hampton starts to glide smoothly back and forth.
‘Poetry in motion!’ breathes Miss Finch, popping open the front of her fly. ‘Come to your mummy, my dinky doo!’ She twists a knob and the deadly doughnut-duffer speeds up its action to a rate I would find hard to imitate without battering my balls into discs.
‘Ah hem,’ I say. ‘Now, about this bed –’
‘You’ll find it heaven once you get the hang of it,’ says Miss Finch enthusiastically. ‘It’s super for everything – even sleeping.’ So saying, she wriggles out of her velvet trousers and peels off her panties, revealing a cute little furry grotto situated where you would be disturbed to find a tattoo of a tiger with its mouth open. ‘Hurry up,’ she says. ‘Otherwise I might decide to make do with Uncle Fritz.’ She lies down on the bed and positions herself so that her drawn-up thighs are on either side of the rampant robot.
‘Hang on!’ I say. I can’t take this standing up, can I? The whole world may have gone gadget-mad but there are some things that are still best left to traditional methods. Like somebody has shouted ‘Blast Off!’ I shred my threads and dive on to the bed. This is where I get another surprise. The bed is like nothing else I have ever been on. It ripples beneath me and clings to every contour of my body. As I stretch out towards the delectable Miss Finch, she seems to shimmer beneath my hand.
‘It’s heaven, isn’t it?’ she murmurs. ‘These water beds are fantastic. With one of these and the Multi-Thrust Maxi-Probe at my fingertips, I find that the knob of the television set accumulates dust.’
One of the few knobs within grabbing distance that has a chance to, I think to myself, as Miss Finch’s doughty digits collide with my dongler. I give her the benefit of my mouth and send my hand down to explore her nether lips. One of the surprising things I find with ladies is that experience seems to be unrelated to size. You would think that Miss Finch had seen more Mad Micks than your fat Uncle Arthur has had hot dinners but her ouch-pouch is small and neat as a mouse’s earhole.
The water bed is indeed a new sensation and while I scout round the head of the valley, I get used to the way that it ripples with every motion of my body. Miss Finch’s hand sinks deep between my legs and she runs her forefinger slowly to the head of my action man kit lightly dusting the inside of my thighs with her other fingers. It is not the stuff to make you think of enrolling as a Trappist monk and percy lunges forward twice as eager for action as a fasted ferret. Miss Finch grabs the root of many of my problems and it is clear from her determined efforts to drag the rest of me after it that she is desirous of intercourse. I am not slow to accept the hint and as I rocket into her socket, the miracle of German craftsmanship topples slowly to the floor. From its irritated whirr it seems unhappy about missing out on the action but I am not in the mood to extend sympathy. The only thing I am extending is percy who seems to be responding as if Miss Finch’s snatch has some magic growth ingredient. Four hundred gallons of water swish about underneath us and it is necessary for me to slide my protective mitts beneath my client’s back bollocks in order to ensure that we don’t suffer the same fate as the Magni-whatsit. Once you get used to the challenge, it is something more than pleasant and I sense that my efforts are serving to bring satisfaction to the lady. Little things tell me this – like the way she tries to bite through my jugular vein or her determined attempts to sharpen her finger nails on my backside.
All through this simple unaffected jollity the only bar to my total enjoyment is the noise made by the teutonic tonk. They don’t give up in a hurry, the Krauts, you know. The Multi-Thrust Maxi-Probe probably works under water – not of course, that there would be a large demand for its services under such conditions. Still, with chicks like Miss Finch about, you never know. Now that I have become used to the particular challenges posed by the water bed, it might be a good idea if I tried to silence ‘Uncle Fritz’. Rising to my knees, I lean over the edge of the bed and see that the Maxi-Probe is expending its energies against the bulging polythene. Poor old Maxi-Probe. It looks rather pathetic, really. Especially, now that the knob has dropped off and there is just that metal screw scraping against the side of the – hang on a minute! Before I can take any protective measures, Miss Finch yanks me down on top of her again.
‘Don’t stop!’ she pants. ‘I’m coming! OOOOAAAARRRRGGGGHHH!’
I may have left out a few Hs and Gs but that is roughly what it sounds like. ‘Don’t!’ I say. ‘Stop it! We’re in terrible danger!’ I don’t know if you have ever tried to reason with a woman in a situation like this, but you are wasting your time, take my word for it. Once they get carried away they go faster than a used french letter tossed over the side of Niagara. Of course, I should indulge in a spot of coypu interrupted but you know me, I am so weak. Once I hear the mating cal
l of the Great Crested Furburger I am off like a greyhound from a burning trap. ‘YYYYYAAAAAHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO –’
My happy yodel is interrupted by a noise like someone ripping apart a piece of muslin and the bed disappears beneath me. For a fraction of a second, Miss Finch and I are pressed against the floorboards and then the backwash from both walls tosses us into the air like a couple of puff balls. The treacherous Maxi-Probe has got its revenge for World War II.
‘Oh no!’ squeals Miss Finch. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a cycle repair kit in my hold-all.’
CHAPTER SIX
Unfortunately, the cycle repair outfit is no good. It does not seem to cater for two foot long rips. I suppose they find it difficult to get that length of patch in one of those little tins. Miss Finch is most upset, especially when the Maxi-Probe fuses and disintegrates in a shower of beautifully turned, Kraut nuts and bolts. I think it is the best thing that could have happened because it can’t be good for her to become addicted to a thing like that, can it? I try and point this out but she tells me to piss off – not in so few words but that is the gist of what she is saying. Even when I suggest that we clamber on to the settee for a spot of muff planing she is not interested. Women are so changeable, aren’t they? I suppose the fact that half the other people in the flats are banging on the front door does not help very much. The doors do not have the nice, tight closure they had in the Slobovian Embassy – all the better for sound proofing and picking up pieces of indiscreet chat on the bugging devices, you see – and the caretaker in the basement cops so much water that he has to dive into the flood to rescue his budgie from drowning. In the end, I decide that the only thing to do is present my bill and scarper. At least, I mended her dildo before it blew up. Would you believe that the ungrateful gretchen refuses to cough up and even threatens to sue me under the Trade Descriptions Act? Marvellous, isn’t it? You sweat your balls off for people and what do you get? Two sweaty balls stuck in the top of your socks. I am so disgusted that I leave without collecting my tools. It is only when they hit the pavement in front of me as I step through the front door that I remember. I am dead choked because the bubble in my spirit level is never the same again and my adjustable spanner won’t adjust.
I am worried that Sid will look unfavourably upon my efforts to satisfy Miss Finch but when I limp back to Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman it is to find him with other things on his mind besides a couple of inches of thinning barnet. ‘I think we may have to change that advertisement,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Funny you should say that,’ I say.
‘I was hardly through the front door when this bloke asked me to test his block and tackle,’ continues Sid. ‘I thought it was a bit strange when he asked me to slip on the manacles!’
‘One would,’ I say.
‘Still, he seemed a nice enough bloke. Mind you, I wouldn’t have gone horseriding in a pink velvet leotard.’
‘How do you know he’d been riding?’ I ask.
‘He had this riding crop in his hand,’ says Sid.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Sorry I interrupted. What happened next?’
‘Well, it was a bit funny really. No sooner had the manacles snapped over my wrists than he hauled me into the air so that my toes were just touching the ground.’
‘So the block and tackle was working?’
‘That’s what I told him. “Strap me –!” I said. And, do you know what happened?’
‘I’ve no idea, Sid.’
‘Before I could say anything else, he shipped my overalls down to my ankles and started laying into me with the riding crop!’
‘That’s terrible, Sid,’ I say. ‘What did you do?’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ says Sid. ‘I mean, it’s not easy with your hands manacled above your head. Use your common.’
‘But you must have tried to reason with him?’
‘He wasn’t very hot on the reasoning. I think the only thing he said was “Whoah, my proud beauty!”’
‘So how did you get out?’
‘I kicked him down the stairs of the crypt. I swung back on the pulley and lashed out with both my feet. Caught him smack in the bread basket. Then I managed to hook a chair towards me and –’
‘The crypt?’ I say, ‘They only have those in churches, don’t they?’
‘That’s right,’ says Sid. ‘Didn’t I tell you? This geezer was a fire escape.’
‘Didn’t you think it was a bit strange?’ I say. ‘A vicar wearing a pink velvet leotard and carrying a riding crop?’
‘I thought he was one of those sporting parsons you read about,’ says Sid. ‘I’m always prepared to think the best of people until they prove me wrong.’
The long and short of it is that we change the advertisement: ‘Sidney and Timothy bend over backwards to give you satisfaction. Nothing is too big or too small for us. Our tools are at your command’. We don’t have any more trouble after that.
Where I do have a problem is in the area of bed. After the unhappy incidents at the Slobovian Embassy and Miss Finch’s place I can hardly bring myself to lie down on one. The minute I get in a horizontal position, feelings of queasiness and nausea flow over me. It is just like when you are really pissed.
And when I do drop off, I have the most terrible dreams: being washed down the side of one of the pyramids on a bath mat, being passed out of an enormous pipe hundreds of feet above the sea – only it is not really a pipe as I see when I hit the water – some of the stuff I come up with makes a Ken Russell movie seem like the childhood of Julie Andrews. If it is like this when I am on my tod, what is it going to be like with a bird? Will I ever be able to tangle with a hampton throttler again?
The lady who supplies the answer to this question is called Mrs Butler. The minute she opens the front door a voice inside me says ‘hello, hello!’ She has passed the high peak of her loveliness but is clearly in no hurry to teeter down the other side. There are lines round her eyes but they are well concealed and although she pats her hair nervously, hardly a wisp is out of place.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’ve caught me unprepared. I didn’t think you were coming until tomorrow. My husband will be here, then. He knows all about it.’
He would need to, I think to myself, taking in the lady’s well-stacked frame. She is built like a settee that is just getting to the comfortable stage and you could eat your breakfast off her knockers.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. Do you want me to come back?’ Mrs Butler rests a hand on her bristols and studies me with some care.
‘Er – no,’ she says. ‘I think it will be all right. I can show you what the problem is. It’s rather a messy job, I’m afraid. Are you conversant with blocked up sinks?’
I am not quite certain what she is on about but it does not pay to shake your head in this game so I flash my Teds and follow her into the kitchen. Very nice, it is. Real dentist’s waiting room magazine stuff. I cast an eye over the sink and it is indeed blocked. ‘You’ve tried caustic soda, have you?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes. I tried that and some other stuff. Didn’t do any good.’ Mrs Butler gives me another searching look. ‘If I can leave you to get on with it? I’ve got one or two …’
‘Of course,’ I say. I much prefer it when they piss off. The more they stand around looking over my shoulder, the more inclined I am to make a cock-up. I get underneath the sink and undo the nut on the S-bend. Water pisses down on to the floor and it occurs to me that it would have been a good idea to arm myself with the washing up basin before I started. At least I have proved that the blockage is not between the sink and the first bend which is quite good going for me. Now comes the difficult part. I mop up with a handy tea towel and consider what to do next. While I am in full ponder, a haunting whiff assails my hooter. It certainly does not come from the drain so I order my nut to do a sharp right turn and find myself trading eyeballs with the lovely Mrs Butler. She has not slipped into a s
ee-through black negligee plunging down as if late for an appointment with her belly button but it is obvious that she has been tarting herself up. Her lips sparkle in the thin afternoon sunshine and there is a fresh fall of powder over her upper cheek bones. Above all, and speaking a language more powerful than even that found written on the walls of the karsi at the Notting Hill International Friendship Club is her perfume. Phew! – or, if you prefer it – Cor! This stuff does not take many prisoners, I don’t mind telling you. A few whiffs of that and the elastic in your Y-fronts starts to come out in a rash of five o’clock shadow.
‘How’s it going?’ says the lady.
‘I’m just getting to grips with it,’ I say, absent-mindedly wiping my hands on one of the kitchen curtains. I see the direction in which Mrs Butler’s eyes are travelling and stop hurriedly. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Mrs B. ‘I was going to change them anyway. I’ll leave you to it, then. Give me a shout if you need anything.’ She gives me a little smile and pats her hair again. ‘It would be so much easier if Frank was here. It’s a nuisance him having to go to Birmingham.’
‘Er – yes,’ I say, wondering if they can niff her on the outskirts of that fair city. ‘Well, I’d better get on with it, hadn’t I?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Butler looks as if she is going to say something else and then purrs off like a well-sprung scent tanker. I have been in this kind of situation before and it seems not totally beyond the realms of possibility that Mrs B is flashing out the odd mating call: the tart-up, the scent, the reference to hubby being sixty miles away. Normally, this information would cause a friesian of interest to pass through my action man kit but today I feel nervous – yes, nervous. I know that if I get on a bed with that woman, the ceiling will collapse or a tidal wave burst out of one of the cupboards. I go dizzy just thinking about it.
