Battle Of The Sexes Ch. 2
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“So what kept you? Give the posh bird a length?” Paul’s pissing himself. I’ve just walked into The Britannia and it’s gone half nine. I’ve missed the football and it’s obvious, as I have to ask the score; Leeds have held them 0-0 away and just have to do the business at Elland Road. I didn’t get back to my place until gone eight, and dived straight into the shower, trying to get my head straight.
I felt the need for company so came straight up the pub once I’d changed. Something’s not right though, as I feel myself blush and feel angry that he’s asked me the question. I realise I’ve got no intention of telling them anything about the afternoon, so I mumble something about being knackered when I got back and having a kip. This is strange, as we normally have a collective post-mortem of all our shags, living it up for laughs. I’m relieved they seem to take my statement at face value and go back to bantering about Leeds’ chances in the European cup.
I try and concentrate on the conversation, the cold lager flowing into me, hoping it will dull my imagination, but all the time a part of my mind replays the afternoon. I’d slept for a bit over an hour, and woke to find her showered, changed and sitting on the bed smiling at me. I felt a tit as I still had the dildo strapped to me, and I felt well self-conscious taking it off. She’d led me through to the shower and got in with me. I was just stood there as she washed me, and made a thorough job of it too, but all I had to wear were my grotty work clothes, which is why I dived in my own shower when I got home. She’d hardly said a word, but I knew I was meant to leave quickly once dressed. She smiled and at one point said “Thank you, Tom” but I had no idea if she wanted a repeat performance or not, and wasn’t sure if I wanted to go through that again, then just as she was showing me out the kitchen door to where the van still stood she’d passed me a card which I put straight in my pocket. I didn’t want to stop and read it there in case it said “thanks and now fuck off” or some such message. I was half-way home before I dug it out of my shorts’ pocket and had a look, whilst waiting for yet another set of fucking traffic lights to decide that I’d seen enough red to be going on with.
‘Jem – 07777 313131’ was all it said. I wondered if it was coincidence that her mobile number was so distinctive, or maybe posh fuckers get special treatment. I couldn’t remember if her Merc had had a personal plate or not, but reckoned it probably would. Turning the card over I saw handwriting:
“Call me now”
Now? How the fuck did she know when I was going to read it? Part of me found it funny, this bird trying to play mind games with me; someone her kind would usually describe as a mindless thug. But despite myself I picked up the mobile, plugged it into the hands-free kit and started to dial the number, one eye on the road, the other making sure I didn’t misdial. The phone rang twice and her voice filled the cab, rich and smooth, making some subliminal link, me thinking of the woman on the Kenco coffee advert. Assured and confident: “You took your time Thomas. I just wanted to arrange your next visit”
Thomas? No fucker ever calls me that; even my mum calls me Tom. And why hadn’t she asked me before I’d left? Not that she was asking, she was telling me that I’d be going back. I felt my pulse increase, excitement and lust competing with apprehension, all combining to release adrenaline into my bloodstream. I had to say something in reply but took a second to muster as much assuredness as I could:
“Yeah? When’s good for you then Jem?”
“Call me Jemima”
Then why the fuck did she have ‘Jem’ on the card. Or was this some way of making me feel different? Special? Or highlighting the fact that I’m not part of her world? It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d demanded I call her m’Lady, and I’m not even sure I’d refuse. This was so far outside anything I’d done before I wasn’t sure what the rules were.
“Ok Jemima, when do you want to meet up? Saturdays are out for me. Football day, lad’s night”
“No, this Saturday you’ll be at mine at eight. But not one minute before. You can be a few minutes late if you like, but not early. I’ll see you then, and wear something nice”
“Look, I told you; Saturday’s for me and my mates, so it’ll have to be some other time”
And she fucking hung up. I got three loud pips over the speaker and it went dead. I was fuming, and knew she’d be sitting there waiting for me to call back. Fucked if I was going to be so predictable. I’d left the mobile sitting on the passenger seat and turned the radio up. Some techno-dance shit on there, but I didn’t care. Just needed something to drown out my thoughts. I used to bring a few tapes with me when I was out in the van but the tape player kept chewing them up, and when it ripped up my bootleg Jam tape I’d decided the radio would have to do. Radio 1 was nothing but pretentious techno-crap and saccharin manufactured pop, and although there were commercial stations that played good stuff you still had radio adverts to put up with, but unless the boss forked out for a new player it was all we had.
“Oi! Dip-shit. Are you on something?” Paul and Andy are staring at me. I realise they must have been talking to me but I can’t tell what it was about.
“Sorry mate, just tired”
“Oh, so you’ve Eskişehir Escort got fucking Aids! Become an uphill gardener have you? A fucking shirt-lifter, and I was about to accept a lager from you”
Andy pitches in, giving me shit, but at least I realise it’s my round and with a grin at him I make my way to the bar. Quite busy for a Wednesday, but the Britannia’s always been popular. I order three lagers and look admiringly at Angie’s arse as she bends down to pick up the glasses then wiggles her way to the pumps. A typical London peroxide-blonde barmaid, she looks good until she opens her gob, at which point a fucking awful squeak comes out. She can shatter glass with one giggle, but most of us have been there at least once. She’s only a year or two younger than us, but she’s always come across as a giggling schoolgirl. She gets turned on by violence and violent men, and whenever we’ve been in a ruck and come in the Brit to lick our wounds and laugh about who got a kicking and who did the business, she’s always there licking her lips and up for a good shafting from anyone who fancies it.
I pay for the lagers and carry them back to the lads. They’ve plonked themselves down at a corner table, leaving me to sit with my back to the room and miss leching at any skirt which may come in. Fucking typical, but I’m not going to whinge about it. The lads are back to the staple subject of our conversations; Chelsea’s chances next season. They’ve fucking blown it for this one again, too much inconsistency. New manager can’t even talk English, for fuck’s sake. My mind drifts again, back to when I’d got home. I’d managed not to pick the phone up and call Jemima again in the van, but as soon as I got into the flat I’d cracked. Been fucking stupid too; only went and used my land phone, so she had both numbers now.
“Hello again Thomas. So you understand about Saturday; not a moment before eight”
She’s unbelievable, I thought to myself, but even as I’d thought it I’d been answering:
“Ok – but why not Friday?”
“Sorry, I’ve got other people to see on Friday. Saturday or not at all. And that’s ever”
Her voice firm, leaving me in no doubt she meant it. It was only later, on my way to the pub that the thought occurred to me that she must have liked what I’d done, if not me for myself, for her to want a repeat performance at all. During the call though I’d reverted to Mr Putty-in-her-hands. Fucking sad really – a confident and proud bloke turned into a fucking rent-boy, except I wasn’t getting paid. She wasn’t finished
“I may have a little surprise for you. I’ll see you on Saturday, and Thomas, don’t be a disappointment, there’s a good boy” and again she’d just hung up.
I drag myself back to the present in time to hear Andy speculating about Saturday’s game against Villa. Not much chance of a decent ruck, not against that lot. No real firm to talk of, although they’ve got a big support base. Fucking whining brummies. Paul’s saying how they play good football, the way it should be played, quick passes and breaks, the way Chelsea do it. We remember a few seasons ago, when we played them up at their place, and they had eleven Englishman in their starting line up compared to our one, and their fans were singing “Eng-er-lund Eng-er-lund” at us. Fucking beat us too. But Villa are a nothing team. Rarely struggle too much, but do fuck all either. Can’t remember the last time they were in Europe. Still living off ’82 when they won the European Cup. Or was it ’81? I’m wondering how I’m going to get away after the game, missing the usual ritual of match, pub, grub, club followed by kebab and/or bird. Couple of weeks ago we got invited to a party at some tart’s place. Student nurses, five of them living in one fucking house. Andy only shagged the bird whose party it was, whilst Paul did the good thing and kept her bloke chatting about the advantages of wingbacks over a traditional flat back four! Fucking funny, looking back. My brain feels like it’s made of cotton wool, can’t think straight, another pint landing in front of me won’t help, but it tastes good and I decide not to think about it until tomorrow. Fuck it!
Thursday afternoon, and I’m getting the thrill again. I’d woken this morning with the germ of an idea. Can’t remember where it came from; a dream, something said on Wednesday night – can’t remember much of that, I’d got well hammered, raised a few eyebrows the next morning and the boss thought I was still pissed as I’d been wandering round like I was in a trance all day, but it wasn’t due to the hangover, it was because I’d been thinking through my idea. I wanted to see Jemima again, or at least to fuck her, but I wanted to do it on my terms. I wanted to be able to look at myself in the mirror without examining myself to see if the weakening was visible. I knew I’d acted like a fucking nonce who gets off on women dominating him. Wearing fucking nappies and being spanked – not my scene at all. So this idea had started to form. I remembered how she’d gone into one when I’d first slipped my length into her, then in the next breath started encouraging me with all that “Tommy knows what mummy wants” shit. I was sure I could get away with this, but I wanted to make it real. For her, at least.
One thing I’d always been good at was accents. At school I’d even been encouraged to do a bit of acting, Eskişehir Escort Bayan but I’d dropped it like a brick when my mates started taking the piss: “One step away from being a fucking ballet dancer, you ponce”, and that kind of thing, so I’d told the drama teacher to shove it, and went back to mugging swots for their dinner money. But I’d never lost the ability to do regional accents, and would practise them when telling jokes. Fucking hard to tell how realistic they are, but I reckoned I could con a posh bird like Jemima, who was unlikely to have been exposed to too many strong accents. Scouse, I reckoned. Fucking pondlife from Liverpool virtually had their own language, and I was sure I could do the voice. Only thing was, would she be seeing her ‘other people’ on Friday at her home or elsewhere? I hoped it would be elsewhere, and when she got home she’d have a fucking shock. If she was in, and I had to wait until her guests left it would be more complicated, as I wasn’t sure what security the house had, but it was bound to be pretty good. I’m no fucking thief, so I’m not exactly skilled at getting into other people’s houses, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to. If it all went pear shaped I could always bin the idea and just turn up as ordered on Saturday, but I didn’t want to. Basically, so long as it went as planned, I’d grab her as she went to open the door, rush her inside, fuck her brains out and leave. I’d want to give her just a hint that it was me, and before anyone starts thinking I’m a fucking rapist, I certainly wasn’t going to hurt her. Well, not in any serious way, but I had a strong idea that this would be as good for her as it would be for me. I still had a balaclava and black roll-neck top from a fancy-dress party the three of us had gone to as SAS blokes. Fucking scream that had been – touching up birds and minesweeping beers, and although the soft cunts at the party had known we’d been normal blokes in costume the balaclava thing had really intimidated them. I had black jeans, but had better wear trainers, as she’d seen my boots and I wanted to leave her uncertain.
Now my plan was sorted I was impatient. I go for a few pints on Thursday evening and the lads are asking if I’m out on Friday. Tell them I don’t fancy it, keeping my powder dry for Saturday. Of course I’ll still have to explain to Jemima why I’m not going to make it on Saturday, but I’ll think of something, and I get the feeling that she’ll have had enough by then.
“Hey Tom, tell Andy that joke about the Scouse kid at school in London”
Fucking Paul’s telepathic. I’m just thinking about getting the accent straight and he gives me a chance. I get Andy pissing himself at the joke. Feel good – being the funny man, but know he wouldn’t be so expressive if it wasn’t for the five pints of lager sloshing around in his gut. Plastic beer, but better than the warm heavy crap that the traditionalists tell us a true Englishman should drink. What the fuck is a true Englishman anyway? The only cunts who ever talk about it have got nothing to do with me or my kind. They always miss the fucking point, going on about some golden age when everyone did as they were told, and there were no hooligans, no kiddie-fiddlers, no unemployment. A fucking dream, a con. It’s always been there, all of it, it’s just no one talked about it and very few heard about it when it did come out. That’s the price of an all-informed public, and it’s hard to keep the news quiet when everyone’s got a TV. Educating the Empire cost us the Empire. Churchill said that. Fucking true Englishman there, even if he was a toff. Knew what he was on about, did old Winston. And we’re still fighting them on the beaches, only difference being the Government hasn’t declared war on them this time. But we know what it’s all about. Flying the flag, keeping the Euros aware of us, scared of us. The English barbarians, proud fighting race. I’m fucking rambling now, and I know it. Realise I’ve been talking aloud as I hear Paul agreeing with me.
“Fucking right Tom! Fat cunts in Brussels telling us how to run our country, growing rich on the fucking curry train”
“It’s called a gravy train, you ignorant wanker” I laugh at him, he’s pissed and cracks up too
“Gravy, curry, what’s the fucking difference? Knew it was something Northern cunts put on their chips”
We’re all pissing ourselves now, Angie giggling along with us even though she’s just walked up to our end of the bar and hasn’t a clue what we’re laughing at. Daft cow. Looks good tonight though. Nipples showing through a white t-shirt – must be on heat. Some other time she might just have got 7 inches of Chelsea up her tonight, but I’m keeping myself fresh for Lady fucking Chatterley.
We grab a kebab on the way home, and I’m wearing half of it by the time I let myself into the flat. Fucking greasy shit, have to be pissed to eat this, although I feel pretty well together. I dig out the black clothes and balaclava and make sure they’re handy for tomorrow night. I’ll take my motor out there and park it a good distance from her house. Hope there’s no intruder alarms in the woods around the grounds, but it’s a risk I’ll have to take. She’s probably got security lights, so I’ll have to be careful approaching the house itself, especially if she’s in. The gravel could be a problem too; fucking noisy. At least I’d seen no sign Escort Eskişehir of dogs. It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know when her husband’s coming home. Could it be him she’s seeing on Friday? But if so, and he’s just come back from abroad, how could she be free on Saturday? Unless he’s one of these weird cunts who gets off on seeing his wife fucked by a stranger. I can’t see it being likely, but I’ll have to give the place a good looking over when I get there. I turn in but struggle to get to sleep, my mind too active to relax. End up having a wank, thinking about what happened on Wednesday, and what I hope will happen on Friday.
Friday evening, and did this fucking day drag or what? I could hardly keep my mind on the job, although Paul, who’s pretty much my best mate and would have sussed something was on my mind was out on the van today, thank fuck. Andy really gets into his work, so he didn’t notice anything, and I reckon the boss thinks I’m a fucking zombie anyway. At least after this week. I made it home in good time, and have showered and put on some aftershave. Dolce and Gabbana; meant to be a bit classy, though probably not to a rich-bitch like Jemima. But it’s all part of the master plan. Give her something to think about, and classy or not, it’s distinctive, and that’s what I want. I put the clothes on, but wear a beige jacket over the top for the journey there. Feel a bit of a twat wearing it, as it’s one my mum bought me to keep me dry at the football. Must be the first time I’ve ever worn it, and I wouldn’t be seen dead in it usually. Before I leave I slip a clasp knife into my jeans pocket; you never know – I may need it to add a bit of steel to my act.
I wander down to the garages which go with my block of flats. As I drive off I’m running through the plan, wondering if it’ll come off or not. It’s nine pm and I reckon at this time of night I’ll make it out to her place in forty-five minutes. Straight down the A22, which is a cast-iron bitch of a road during rush hour, but now it should be a doddle.
Ten o’clock, and I’m at her place. Sneaked through the woods from the road, and I’m standing looking at the side of the house. The end of it I drove around on Wednesday. Looks dead, but there’s a light on downstairs in the kitchen. Just about the only window I can be sure of. No sign of the Merc, but it could be in the garage. I don’t know if she’d drive herself or get a cab. Or a fucking limo more like. I realise I could be in for a long wait, and start to make my way around toward the back of the house, keeping in the cover of the trees, just on the edge. I can’t make out any security lights but it’s too dark now. Should have got here twenty minutes earlier, when there was still a bit of light left. Ah well, wasn’t it some general who said no plan survives first contact with the enemy? I can’t remember who, but he had a point. I’m feeling like some hero soldier, behind the enemy lines here, setting up the ambush. Only my enemy isn’t here, or I don’t think she is. I realise that if she pulls up now I’m too far away. If she spotted me as I cross the gravel she could make it inside and lock the door before I could get to her, so I move further around, until the garage and workshop are between me and house. I creep toward the back of the workshop, on grass still, nice and quiet. Looking around the edge of the workshop I can see a couple of wheelie bins at the back of the house. Right next to the kitchen door. I don’t remember them from Wednesday but then I wasn’t really looking. Making my mind up I race across to them, sure now she isn’t in and they’re perfect. I can crouch down behind them, concealing myself from the door, and I’m only a few yards away from it
Nearly eleven, and I’m getting cramped here, so I stand to stretch my legs. Just as I do I hear a car. Hard to tell if it’s coming up here, but then there’s the crunch of tyres crossing gravel and I’m home and dry. I must check it’s just her of course, but the adrenaline starts to flow and I’m positive this is going to come off. The crunching stops and the engine dies, but I still can’t see the car. Fuck! She’s stopped round the front. Bollocks! I didn’t even think about that. Stupid cunt! I’m swearing at myself, wondering if I can salvage something, and notice lights coming on inside. I’m staring at the garage, furious that the silly cow isn’t parking the car there when light comes pouring through the French windows away to my left. They swing open and I can see her, but she’s talking to someone. Her hair’s piled up and she’s wearing a long dress. Very classy, but I’m getting fucking nervous now. If she looks this way there’s a good chance she’ll see me in the light. Who the hell is she talking to? Relief floods through me as I realise she’s talking into her mobile, bending her head now down to the left to grip it whilst she does something with her hands. Lifting them to her face and she’s got a cigarette in her mouth, but it looks a bit battered somehow. A spark and a flame and she’s smoking – I hadn’t realised she did. Talking again now, and a cloud of smoke drifts toward me as she exhales, laughing into the phone, that musical laugh I remember so well. I can’t believe what my sense of smell is telling me, but she’s smoking fucking ganja! She’s doing a joint – Mrs Rich-Twat is getting high, and it suits me down to the ground. I listen to her conversation, but it’s all giggles and agreement; no way of telling what the fuck the person on the other end is on about. She keeps calling them ‘darling’, but with this lot that could be anyone from a sister to the fucking bank manager. Means nothing, and I’m getting impatient. I freeze as I suddenly hear my name being mentioned:
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