franny

I bought a packet of condoms from the Pakis shop in Great Western Road , the one across the road, from Winterskills, near the other pub. I didn’t get embarrassed. I felt it was cosmopolitan to be buying rolls, bread and milk and suddenly fling in, ‘oh, yes and a packet of condoms’, in my best west of Clydebank accent. I almost hoped that there were others in the shop so that they could see and appreciate what kind of guy I was. This was not a Sean Connery- James Bond, but me. The condoms were not to prevent Fran getting pregnant. They were to make sure that I got my hole.

I usually left it up to her. I mean, I didn’t want to force her. We had done we shouldn’t be doing this kind of thing dance many times before. We were friends. I always waited, got a little bit drunk, before I called.   She’d ask where I was, but she’d know that if I phoned that I’d be somewhere close by, maybe the Halt Bar. Part of me didn’t want her to come, but the other 99.9999% did. It was childish. I knew it was. Maybe that was just me being paranoid.   I could almost hear the click of her brain on the phone making the calculations.

‘I’ll be about 15 minutes’ she would say, in that husky tone. Sometimes she would call me sweetie. ‘I’ll be there in about 15 minutes, sweetie’. It was all a carry on, a bit of banter, but she would be there in about 10. She didn’t take long when she had made her mind up. Sometimes I was with a few of the boys, other drinkers, like me.   Part of her attraction was that she didn’t know that she was beautiful. She bent her back a bit to make herself shorter and more inconspicuous. Her hair was never girly perfect. She had it cut so that from the back she looked like a boy with her shorn black, almost cobalt blue, hair. She accentuated this by wearing baggy shirts and a sometimes her old Wrangler denim jacket, but always with denim trousers. I’d never seen her wear a dress, although she did have the kind of figure that could carry it.     My bit on the side, that wasn’t my bit on the side one eye brown one blue, God’s perfect judgement on me. But we were just friends.

At the end of the night we would walk down Great Western Road in that traditional boy meets girl, arm in arm, kind of way, bypassing the Hyundi motor bike showroom.   We always kissed at the bus stop for some reason. At first it was a friendly kiss, an adieu kind of kiss, one which you would give to your great aunt, but on the lips instead of the cheek.   But this was always a kind of tester, a shot at being grown up and responsible.     That soon changed.   I would taste the tobacco on her tongue, for the first time that night, grabbing her behind the head pushing my tongue into her mouth, tying myself up with getting more. Then we would break apart, red faced and excited, breathing heavily. Slightly embarrassed.   Just friends.

  I would always need a pee in the tenement close, just as she fiddled for what seemed like a life time with her keys and locks on the door. The flat was hers, now her flat mate had left. I liked that. It made it feel more mine. My mind jumped from one thing to another. I’d need to phone a taxi soon get up the road. Home. She had a phone in the house. It was much better, phoning from there, than hanging about pathetically waving your arms about   and worse than that getting ignored by taxi drivers, looking at how drenched you are and driving on with no one in their cabs. You could almost hear the bastards laughing.

I’d have my second tobacco fix in the kitchen. She would be making us toast and tea. She knew I was there, but she would let me sneak up and put my around her. I had to be careful with my hands. I wanted to feel at her soft big tits, grab at them, ruffle them up like pillows, even if it was through her jumpers. But I couldn’t do that. I had to stand behind her like a stranger and wait until the time was right and gently touch her shoulders. It was like one of those trust games. She would lean back into me and let her weight gradually fall against me. I’d tilt her towards me like a fruit machine. I’d kiss her neck, with butterfly kisses, stitching together all the things I wanted to do. She liked that. And because she liked it I liked it. But we had to be sensible the toast was getting cold. I had one simple rule. I’d never lie to her, unless it was completely necessary.

  We were friends. That was it. She’d make a bed up for me in her flatmates old room, which was now the living room, pulling down cushions from the settee, hunting out bits of blankets and quilts and putting them together like something resembling a child’s idea of a bed, all jumbled heaps with no hospital corners and the smell of spilt Kestrel lager.

I stripped of down to my Ys,, like a child getting ready for bed, a little self conscious, but showing off in equal measure.   I needed another pee. She could see that I had a hard on, but she chose not to see it, tilting her head away, watching something, watching nothing.   I always had a hard on when I was with her. She couldn’t mistake the feel of it poking against her as we got into clinches.   My whole body was waiting, primed, sensitive to her touch and slightly musky smell.

She was watching something on the TV when I got back, something funny, because she laughed. I didn’t know where to sit. The settee was spread out on the ground like a jumble sale and there was only one chair. She had her feet up on it, curled under her. There was something catlike about her, in the way she sat, the way she was so at ease in her own company, in her own terrritory. She moved her feet, so that I could sit beside her. Her big toes stuck out of her woolly socks. They were painted red. I laughed at that, one of those false laughs that said look at me laughing. She laughed with me.

’emm,’   I said as if I she had said something. She kept watching the tv while I tried to angle myself into a non space and kiss her neck while she smoked. I felt her relaxing into my body, moving her head from side to side so that I could nip and bite and lick another part of her neck. I got my second shot of tobacco, our tongues locking in combat, pushing and pulling for dominance. One hand pushed at her head, forcing her forward to feed me and keep her preoccupied. The other tried to force its way from the bare flesh at her back up and under her bra to her tits. She nipped her fag in the ashtray and just leaned back in the chair so that my hand was jammed like a life between floors.   So I tried pushing down my fingers underneath her Levi denims and up over and into her hole. But her denims were too tight. However much I pushed and shoved I couldn’t get past her panties. I felt a bit of give in the denim and pushed harder until my hand almost cramped up, but it was on bare flesh, bare bum. I thought I was going to pop out of my pants and come on the cushions without anyone touching my cock. I was too excited to be embarrassed. But I couldn’t get any further. I pushed and pushed and felt carefully for her small hole and gently eased my big finger in.

She jolted away from me, almost breaking it.

‘What the fuck you doing?’

I didn’t know what to do or say. She expected some answer. I had none. I wanted time to be reversed for a minute, or even half a minute, to make everything all right.

‘Put the telly off and the light, when you go to bed, or when you go.’ She was cold and angry, her voice cutting, as hard as flint.

That was it. She was away. I thought the best idea would be to get a taxi up the road, but even the thought of that tired me out. I realized how drunk I was and how much easier it would be just to go to bed and wake up. Everything would still be shite, but better. At least it would be morning. But first I would have to tell her I was sorry. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or how I was going to say it, but I knew I had to do that much.

Her door was open slightly. There was no light. She had big blackout curtains on the window that kept out both light and noise so that it was like being in a cave. I didn’t know what to do. I stood there waiting, my mind ticking over the options as audibly as a grandfather clock. I thought I heard her crying. I didn’t know what to do. I was in default mode, so I went for a pish and came back shivering at the door, like some nocturnal creature.

I heard her shifting, sitting up in the bed. I couldn’t see her I tracked her with the movements that she made. I build up a picture of her feeling for her fags and matches on the table beside her bed. She coughed, as if to make her lungs ready for her next smoke. I felt like coughing too, to show that I wasn’t some kind of ghost or Peeping Tom. I didn’t have time to retreat. She saw me standing there when she lit the match.

I saw her too. She didn’t do that lets pull up the blankets thing that women do.   She knew I was there, but this was just confirming how pathetic I was. She had no bra on. Her tits were big, bigger than I thought. I turned away quickly and a floorboard moved, in the way they do in old tenements and I almost tripped myself up in my hurry to get away.

‘Fran’, I said, ‘I’m really sorry. I don’t know what came over me’. I could see the red glow of her fag and knew she was listening, but I didn’t know what to say next. I’d run out of excuses and things to say my mind emptying out like an upturned bottle on a draining board.

I heard her patting the bed beside her. I raced across, like a dog, summoned by its master that needed to be petted and forgiven. I stumbled on something soft like a toy and stumbled onto the bed. She turned the bedside light on, her body framed like a question mark. I felt caught out in the light. Unmanned. But she laughed. For the first time I felt that everything would be all right. She turned the light off and lay with her back to me. There was a gap of inches between us, but it felt like miles. I willed myself to sleep, but couldn’t.   I could feel the heat from her body almost taste it, but couldn’t touch her. She turned around and I could see her watching me, watching her.

‘Go to sleep,’ she said.

‘I can’t sleep’.

‘Why not?’ she asked.

But I’d no ready answer other than: ‘I’m too warm’.

‘Poor baby’ she said turning the light on and pulling back the sheets. She put on a housecoat, careless now with the whitenss of her tits and the brown nubs of her nipples as if I was some kind of fluffy toy as she clattered down the hall to the toilet.

            I pulled the blankets up tight over my cock, to try and disguise my hard on and wondered if I had time to have a quick wank before she came back and caught me, but I didn’t have any hankies and didn’t want to make a mess. I heard the toilet flushing and turned over and feigned sleep.

            I watched her through what I thought were appropriately sleepy looking eyes, take her house coat off and carefully place it on the chair. She’d a yellowish plastic bottle with her that looked like washing up liquid, which she placed on the bedside table beside her fags. I’d another good look at her tits. There were two or three handfuls in each, her aureoles were brown, almost a rough red colour, with nipples like a new born’s finger. She’d always kept them firmly strapped down, covered with bras and shirts and thick, woolly, baggy ski jumpers, so that they seemed to stand out even more. I finally realized that she was proud of them, that she was showing them off. She carefully stepped out of her white pants. I had a quick glimpse of what we used to call a hairy beaver, before she threw back the sheets, washing away all pretence of sleep.           

            We lay beside each other in starched linen, like two corpses in a sarcophagus, a sword’s width separating us, frightened to touch, frightened to move, taking only shallow breaths, but the heat between us was flammable. I was sweating so much that a pool of water ran like rain into the sheets and soaked into them making me cold and uneasy as if I had pissed the bed. I was shaking. I tried to stop, to will myself to stop, but I couldn’t.   I eased my hand across, a centimetre, then waited and moved it another, like a spider playing dead and rolling into a dot, when it thought that someone was watching.   She coughed. I could feel her moving   away to the other side of the bed and my whole world tilted with her. My hand darted across and tried to translate what part of her it had touched.

            ‘Don’t’ she said. It had the note of command, but there was no anger in her voice. She was chastising a child.

            She had two pillows. I had only one and was looking up at her.   My eyes had grown accustomed to the dark so that I could see that she was lying on her stomach, as if she was on the beach, trying to get some dark sun on her bare back, showing nothing but a hint of bare breast. Her arms were an extra pillow for her head. She was lying on them making a cross of her body. I couldn’t see if she was awake or sleeping and I couldn’t tell by her breathing. I meant to playfully touch her on the small of her back, to try and re-establish some kind of physical contact. She moved away. I touched her round about her bum again. This time it was a mistake. But I didn’t apologise.

            I could smell different parts of her, give them different chemical weightings. One part fag to one part booze to one part toothpaste. One part sweat to ten parts pussy juice. I’d dutifully licked my wife their, of course, before lying on top of her, but I’d never actually thought of it having a musk primeval smell. I wanted my wife. I wanted to plunge into her hard and fuck her prim little hole, whether she wanted to or not.

            My hand darted across again with the same result.

            ‘Don’t’, she said again resignedly, as my hand lingered, brushing and gliding, one side of my hand and then the other, across her skin, feeling the whiteness of its softness.

            I grew bolder, moving my hand from the cheeks of her bum up back as if I was giving her a massage with the outside of my hand.

            I tried to kiss her, but she laughed and turned her face away.

            I kissed her again and again peppering her hair and cheeks and face with my love, until I found her lips and it was the first real kiss, as her hand clamped on my cock, wanking at it up and down furiously as our tongues clashed. I spunked inside my Y’s and on her hand almost immediately, but she just kept wanking as if nothing had happened, until my flaccid cock grew hard again. Then she stopped as suddenly as she had started. Her tongue no longer probed mine. I felt her withdrawing and moving away from me, to her side of the bed.

            That’s how I thought of it now that I’d come. My bed and hers. Her side of the bed and mine. It was ownership, pure and simple. I no longer sweated or shook or felt uptight.

            ‘It’s not your problem’ she said, ‘it’s mine’.

            I wasn’t really sure what she meant by that. I didn’t really care. I was just tired and wanted to get some sleep.

                ‘Uhu.’ I said in the most convincing voice that I could muster.

            ‘You know, of course, that I was abused. ’

            She’d told me that before. It was a big secret between us. She had told me that she had been abused one drunken night when there was only me and her in the world. It was closing time and nobody really gave a fuck, except for me and that was because I wanted to fuck her. It was one of those things. Everybody was abused in one way or another, but we didn’t make such a big deal about daddy shouting at us or mummy buying us the wrong type of jumper so that other kids laughed at us. We just go on with it. Grew up.        

            I turned around, lying on my side, with my face towards the door.

’Yeh,’ I said, ‘That’s a shame’. ‘A real shame’.

She caught me a good one right in the back, between the frame of the rib cage. That absorbed most of the blow, but it jolted me forward. Instinctively, I grabbed for her arms as she tried to punch into my face, dig her nails into my eyes. I dragged her on top of me. She tried to knee me in the balls, but caught the top of my leg. I didn’t know what to do with her. She was a fucking psycho.

I felt all the fight go out of her. It was like turning off a current, all that energy dissipated. There was just me and her. I didn’t believe in those kinds of things, but I felt as if a devil had gone. She was like a small girl, lying on top of me, wanting to be treasured and held.

‘I need a fag,’ she said.

‘It’s ok.’ I stroked her hair, gently patting her head and ‘shyyyyyyinnnngg’ her as if she was some kind of animal that needed consoled.

‘I’m ok,’ she said.

‘I know’, I replied continuing to stroke her hair and face.

She moved a bit closer, shifting her weight. I could see one of her breasts hanging down like an earring. I pushed my head down to it and licked at it like a dog on heat.

She watched me feeding on the nipple and tit. She fed me one, then the other and then I tried pushing both tits together so that I could get both nipples in my mouth at once. She put one nipple in her own mouth and let it plop down to my hungry tongue.

‘Is this what you want?’ she said, her face subtly changing, her eyes dilating, the angry girl, back once more.

‘Yes.’ I said, knowing that I had won. But I edged forward cautiously, lifting myself up into a press up position, ready to protect myself by slumping down.   I waited. She held the softness of her tits together and I pushed up. My cock was as eager as a young puppy to get between them. We changed positions a few times until we got it right. I was lying on top of them and her, riding them, getting a diddy ride, as she watched, I knew the gap between us was lengthening with each stroke.

‘I’m going to come’, I said trying to re-establish some rapport, my breath quickening.

‘What do you want me to do?’

I meant did she want me to come on her tits of did she want to get a hanky to catch the spunky mess.

‘What do you want to do first?’ she said, ‘Do you want to come on my tits and nipples and rub it in and make me lick it off, or do you want to come on my lips and nose and cheeks, or do you just want me to suck you off and come in my mouth?’.

It was too late. Every word was like an aphrodisiac, like one of these things you read about, but just can’t believe in. She said ‘first’, but I’d already come on her tits and neck by the time she had got to the second suggestion. My wife wouldn’t even put my cock in her mouth, because she didn’t like the fucking taste.

‘Yeh’, I said, ‘Rub it in to your nipples and put them in your mouth’.

Like this she said, taking a strand of spunk and stretching and weaving it into a kind of glue and putting it in her mouth as I watched.  

I licked her lips, rather than kissing her, tasting myself and her. I wanted more. But my cock had begun its long retreat back into its little shell, shrivelling up and dying. Even as we spoke I felt myself nodding off. I’d fuck her in the morning or get her to suck me off or something. Those big tits that I had sweated over and wanked over and imagined in my fantasies were now just two fat white dead bits of flesh. I’d have quite happily gone up the road then and there to my wife. Fran just bored me now with her clingy, whinny voice and needs.

It irritated me that she sat up, taking heat and some blankets away, creating a cold valley in the bed whilst she lit a fag. I moved over to my side of the bed. It was still cold and clammy, but was heating up.

‘What was the bottle for?’ I was almost sleeping, but felt I had to make some kind of conversation.

She paused and had another drag on her fag. ‘That’s lube,’ she said, ‘it’s too sore if you don’t use it there.’

I could almost see her pointing down with her head. She didn’t like words like cunt or cock.

‘Where?’ I said exasperated.

‘My bum’. She said it primly, as if she was going to upset us both by using such a word, almost biting her lip and crying

‘You don’t need to’.   I said, but my cock was already at half mast. I’d only ever screwed my wife and never there. She hardly even let me fuck her cunt.  

‘I know’, she said, ‘but if I don’t use it you’ll need to be real careful and just inch your cock up a wee bit at a time. When its all in you can screw me harder and unload in me, if you want’.

She didn’t like that word, but she had said it and was not going to say any more. She turned around as if she was going to sleep on her side, with her bum pushed out, towards me.

It was cold, but I didn’t care. I pulled down all of the sheets, leaving her body exposed and isolated. She still had her night gown on.

‘Take that off,’ I said.

I started kissing her back, just above the hips, working my way down to the gap between the tailbone and her bum. I plunged my mouth in, licking and kissing all the way down the cleft. Her bum cheeks were a ghostly white. My tongue found the nub of her little hole. As it began rooting about I plunged one finger then another up her other hole as she writhed about seemingly trying to escape my grasp, as she made little animal noises. I didn’t know where to start or finish. My whole body was a massive hard on.