It is, actually, remarkably simple: I am sick and tired of having pieces like this taken out of circulation. In no way is it graphic. It suggests and implies. It is funny!
He beckoned her over. The party pulsated and jiggered and screeched all around them. Two semi-sober islands in a sea of frothing drunkenness, they had been connecting through covert glances and subtle gestures all night.
He had taken up residence in the only armchair, a vast elderly article, a very dowager of furniture, widowed by the death, by Civic Amenity Site, of the gigantic armorial sofa – and left to fend for itself, herself, in this house rented out to, and regularly trashed by, the students who flocked to the town during term times.
Ben had noticed Laura almost immediately term started, and had watched her flirting and giggling, sighing and writing copious notes, in the Classical Studies and Philosophy lectures they shared. She had a Significant Other. She always had someone, this one a Rugger Bugger from some minor public school whose skill at scoring tries was far in excess of his IQ, Ben suspected, but who seemed to conform to the type the Lovely Laura went for.
Now, beached in the sagging chair, he watched as Laura sashayed over. Her legs, long and firm in pink fishnet tights, scissored the dope-infused, alcohol-rich air carving, in Ben’s mind, a path between just them. He had surprised himself: One of the young poets who affected white collarless shirts, waistcoats and the obligatory Military Greatcoat, Ben would not, in the normal course of events, have given the colourful parakeet swaying before him more than a single glance. The shimmering purple of her tight dress, which barely cleared the fraction which separated decency from its opposite, clashed gloriously with the shocking turquoise of her long hair and the bright emerald ribbon tying bits of it back.
But he had watched, as her Tight Head beau went into a spontaneous ruck with the wobbling record player and a small Spanish student, causing Cat Stevens to judder out the lyrics of ‘Can’t Keep It In’ for several long minutes before the stoned host noticed and kicked the now-scratched vinyl into clumsy touch.
Since then, the inebriated, and lusty, Front Row Monkey had certainly been scoring something – and it probably involved balls, one way or another – but Ben was spared the revolting details by the colourful wash of sweating bodies cavorting about the room, now attempting pathetic examples of the Pogo to ‘Eton Rifles’.
Laura, a human lighthouse winking out her radiance to warn ships about the rocks, had set her course, had made her decision – though what it was Ben could not see through the escaping cobalt locks and the exquisitely-painted face. She could, for all he knew, be bent on revenge, a scatter-gun of fury aimed at any man because of her simian lover’s treachery with the tiny Senorita.
But Ben was indifferent other than physically, sexually. This was a party, not a Wedding Palace. He wanted a brief encounter, not a lifetime’s commitment. She excited him, always had. So different to his usual intense, Bloomsbury girls; so free in her own way, so proud and evasive. So worthy of netting – just for a second or two! With her, he sensed, he would not have to recite his latest poem, or analyse Beckett’s plays, as a kind of intellectual foreplay before he was allowed to get the first touch and taste!
‘Ben,’ she said. ‘Room for two?’
There was, just – and she docked beside him, her shimmering beauty folding into the chair’s deep crevices. He turned. The spices of her body – fading scent, sweat, celery and brackish heated moisture – aroused him immediately. She rested one small hand, the nails brittle with chipped polish, on his thigh. Then, in a complicated manoeuvre, which she made appear effortless, her long dancer’s legs, her pliant hips, swivelled round and up and over, so that she was sitting upon his lap and facing him.
So blatant! So cheeky! So sexy! Anyone could see. Many did. There was not the slightest desire to hide, to sneak off upstairs. She eschewed the traditional Coupling Nooks and Bonking Crannies – the coat-strewn spare bed, the bathroom, the back garden – for this frontal approach, this head on, and head down, by God, delicious assault upon his most primal senses! The vixen!
As she wriggled into position, Ben realised that the tights were, in fact, stockings – and that she was dressed (or should that be ‘undressed’?) for ease of access beneath the vibrant violet frock! Naughty girl! She must have had the Grunting Humper in mind, Ben thought, planned this little treat for him. Still, the sporting moron’s loss was, without a shadow of a doubt, Ben’s gain!
Thoughts ceased. Sensation triumphed. Hands groped, found. The oldest dance of all! As she rose slowly up and corkscrewed down upon him, his ear caught the merest whisper of the music now playing: ‘Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll.’
How apt! Go, Ian Dury!