Coming Up The Stairs
She was at the other end of the bar. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She wasn’t wearing much and what she was wearing hardly fitted her. A purple and silver glittering dress, short at the knee, hips that could grind a man into a soulless pea shaped lump of shit, her large breasts almost busting the zipper of a tiny lemon leather jacket. Her head like a mini Xmas tree, bows and tassels adorned and hung from her hair and ears, bright red lipstick and Kohl laden eyes. She was like a little plump toffee that someone had opened and then haphazardly wrapped back up again. He would like to unwrap her and nibble on what was underneath and indeed, accept all consequences.
He moved a little further down along the bar, she was talking to the barmaid and he wanted to hear what she was talking about. It was no use entering a conversation with someone if he didn’t at least have an inkling of what they were like. He hoped she was talking about sex but she was probably talking last night’s TV or god forbid, car insurance. It sickened him when a girl he liked the look of turned out to have no personality. It was like when he was a kid with the lucky bags, there was never anything in there that was worth the anticipation.
He would get within ten yards. Ten yards was the distance that he knew he could hear a conversation. He knew this from many hours of standing around old people in his job as a salesman in a Stannah stair-lift shop. At ten yards he was noticeable, approachable yet not intruding. At ten yards he could hit the bulls-eye with a dart. Anything more than that, he was out of the picture. Anything less, he was committed to going ahead. He would be in like a panther on a mouse, claws out and teeth clamped into the flesh. Well, he would at least introduce himself first. Of course, there was no point in him telling her anything of his real life. She wouldn’t be interested in that. He never had any kind of success when he told the truth. He had learnt the hard way. The truth was bland and unattractive, like a cold plate of pasta. No one wants the truth; even he didn’t want the truth. His mother, like all mothers, had told him to always tell the truth and he had, until he realised he was going nowhere. He had learnt to become a convincing liar. All salesmen were liars. And most of them were cunts. He was no different.
He shuffled the bar along incrementally, not noticing until he was at the required threshold, that he had drawn the sleeve of his new jacket across a puddle of ale as he moved down the bar. He was a little annoyed; he had only bought the cream linen jacket that afternoon and the dark stain had probably now ruined it. He knew he should have gone for the black one. He cursed himself under his breath and shook his head, he turned and looked at the woman, there was a phone ringing and she was hunting through her little clutch bag that was sat on the bar. She dug out her phone and answered it, her voice, a sweet and inquiring,
‘Oh, hello Derrick.’ She said, her voice suddenly becoming hard, plasticised and weary as she looked around the bar, her eyes briefly landing on him before turning away. She had seen him now. He wondered what kind of information her brain had subconsciously taken on in that moment. Had she noticed the side parting? The narrow blue eyes? The thin delicate nose that suggested he was sensitive? He undid another button on his shirt and sucked a lump off the cherry that he twiddled between his fingers, nonchalantly dropping it back into his glass of John Collins. He looked over at her again with a wistful intense gaze; out the corner of his eye he could see the barmaid at the other end of the pub wiping tables. The hot lady was telling Derrick that he was wasting his time.
‘Not only that, you are wasting mine’ she added, the phone clamped between her shoulder and ear as she fiddled with a ring on her finger, it was silver, in the shape of a rhino. He could see her bra strap, a black lacy thing, slight impressed into her skin, she pulled a little compact mirror out of her handbag and flipped it open, began examining her face. He liked a girl who could multi-task. She pouted her lips as she applied some lipstick then flipped it shut, her lips remaining in a pout and it was clear she was starting to get a little annoyed with Derrick. She began shaking her head, stirring her drink with the straw before taking a tiny little sip.
‘I don’t care whether you’re in hospital or not. In fact, nothing would please me more if you never came out.’ She shook her head and looked down at her fingers. This lady was tough. Upon striking up a conversation with her, he had intended to present himself as an actor, resting at the moment waiting for a production to start in Manchester. Now he knew that was a folly. Derrick was obviously a sensitive whining type and it was getting him nowhere. He thought perhaps he would lay on her the brutal world of boxing promoter shtick. A dangerous uncompromising world of men, real men who could put up a fight. ‘Blood sweat and shit, that’s my world honey’. He moved along the bar another couple of yards, picking some change out his pocket and counting it to disguise the subtle decreasing of distance between them. She didn’t notice, she was looking the other way. He was now at seven yards and according to his own conventions, he was at what he called the dropped lighter zone. Even though he didn’t smoke, he always carried a lighter specifically for that purpose. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to work this time.
‘Given up smoking? I don’t give up anything Derrick, I’ve stopped, and that’s all.’
She picked up her glass and took a long slurp through the lime green straw, drained it as she listened to Derrick. She rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion.
‘I don’t care if you haven’t been jogging for a month, try walking faster you little shit.’ The barmaid was back behind the bar, the hot thing slid her glass over to her and mouthed the words, ‘same again.’ For him, It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, to get closer, his feet hardly leaving the ground, sort of moonwalking as he moved in another four yards. He was now within distance of offering to pay for her drink. Three yards for him was the magic marker, he was now fully committed to making himself known to her. It didn’t go unnoticed. She took the phone away from her ear and looked him up and down, her face, it could have been marble, registered no change at all. She went back to the phone and her conversation. There was no doubt about it; this wasn’t going to be easy. Women always gave away something when he was this close, a flutter of lashes, a slight grin. He turned to the barmaid and told her that he would be buying the ladies drink. He hooked a twenty out of his chinos and slid it across to her, told her to get herself one too. The barmaid smiled, she was quite cute and he thought that if he didn’t pull the girl on the phone, he wouldn’t mind having a go at her. He could feel the penis in his pants as he pocketed the change, it had woken up. It was as stiff as a baseball bat, albeit half the size. The Viagra had kicked in. He was going to give her a right seeing to.
She was still talking to Derrick. He was sort of only half listening, lost in the thought of what he was going to be doing later with this woman.
‘Just because you’re ill Derrick don’t have a go at me. You know I don’t write anything down, you are the one who is supposed to write things down. I do all my work in my head….. and…oh there you go again….interrupting.’
She picked up her drink and lazily sucked through the straw, took another look at him. He shrugged and smiled, she raised her eyebrows, went back to the conversation.
‘I understand what you’re saying………… but I can’t forget what happened in Luxembourg, just like that. Anyway, I’m sorry Derrick, it’s over, and I’m through with all your shit and bollocks, leave me alone.’ Nothing like catching one on the re-bound, he thought as he edged in even closer. She took the phone away from her ear and looked at it, clicked a button, opened her clutch bag and dropped it in. She picked up her drink, the straw in the corner of her lovely red lips and she smiled at him.
‘Thanks for the drink. What’s your name?’
He smiled. What was his name? His brain scrolled down the list of tough masculine names, Colin, his real name just wasn’t going to cut the mustard with this girl.
‘Brandon.’ He replied.
‘What’s that, American or something?’
‘Yeah, my mother was born in LA.’
‘LA, nice place. You been over?’
‘Oh yeah, loads of times. I still got family over there and I go over a lot on business. I practically live there.’
‘Oh yeah, what kind of business you in?’
‘I’m a boxing promoter.’
‘So where’s home when you’re not in L.A?’
‘What you doing in Sheffield then?’
‘I had a meeting this afternoon, thought I’d kill a few hours in the boozer before heading back. What’s your name?’
‘You have beautiful eyes.’ He told her leaning in, catching a scent of mint about her hair.
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘In fact, you’re downright fucking beautiful all over.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I wanna fuck you.’
‘Yeah I know.’
She picked up her glass and drained it, pushed the glass over to him. He took it and pushed it over to the barmaid.
‘Same again,’ he said, not taking his eyes off Molly.
‘So, you fancy going somewhere, hotel or something?’ He asked, touching a small silver brooch on her jacket.
‘Yeah, why not, you look like you want a good fucking over.’
He took that as a compliment. It wasn’t. They finished off their drinks with more small talk before heading out into the street, hailing a black cab within minutes. Brandon/Colin knew a small hotel, ‘Maggie’s’ on the outskirts of town. He’d taken quite a few ladies back there. It was clean enough and the woman who ran it was stone cold deaf, perfect if you wanted to make plenty of noise.
The cab twisted through the dark poorly lit streets, bumping over the pot holed streets. He was nuzzling at her neck, slightly salty, he could feel her hand going over his thigh and into his crotch, she whispered in his ear.
‘Are you any good with this thing?’
He whispered back, told her he was like a fruit machine, on every third pull she’d hit the jackpot. She laughed at that, collapsing back into the seat in a fit of giggles. He smiled, it was good to make a girl laugh.
They arrived at the hotel, a small dishevelled place with a single lamp illuminating the entrance.
‘Are you sure it’s open?’ Asked Molly, as she adjusted her skirt.
‘It usually is,’ he replied.
They scurried across the car park, rain had suddenly broken out, sheet lightening illuminated the sky and a clap of thunder smacked across the hills as they entered ‘Maggie’s.’ It was a dimly lit reception area. The carpet looked like the baize of an ancient snooker table. To the left of the desk was a dimly lit lounge/bar. Molly hit the bell on the desk, she smiled and giggled. Brandon/Colin took a couple of steps over to some double doors where he observed an elderly gentleman taking down the packets of peanuts that hung behind the bar and methodically wiping the packets with a dishcloth, before putting them back. There was no one else in the bar. He walked back over to the desk and gave the bell another couple of dings, put his arm around Molly and kissed her on the neck, God he was desperate to fuck her, she smelt of warm summer meadows. A few seconds later, Maggie appeared out of a side door, she was dressed from top to toe in tartan and walked with the aid of a silver cane, her hair like lumps of blue marshmallow piled up on her head. She was chewing something, swallowing as she reached them, dusting down a stray noodle from the lapel of her jacket. She nodded and took up her position behind the desk. She smiled, her eyebrows pencilled in, arching high into her forehead.
‘We’d like a room for the night please.’
She started scribbling on a pad of paper, pushed it over to them. Brandon/Colin turned it around. He nodded and took a wad of twenties out of his wallet, handed them over to Maggie, who didn’t even bother counting. She just rolled them up and pocketed them. She took the pad of paper back and scribbled a room number, passed it back and then handed them a key. She then made a tiny little fist, burped into it and disappeared back through the door she entered.
Before heading up to the room, Brandon/Colin suggested that they got a bottle from the bar. Molly agreed and they went into the tiny bar, the man behind it was doing a crossword, he looked up suspiciously from behind his glasses, then rose to his feet and firmly planted his hands on the bar. He smiled but not with any great enthusiasm.
‘What can I get you? I haven’t got anything fancy.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Brandon/Colin, ‘We’ll just take a bottle of your finest Vodka, a bottle of tonic and a bucket of ice.’
‘And a sliced lemon, do you have lemon?’ asked Molly.
‘I do have lemon, I always have lemon.’
‘You like lemons do you?’ joked Brandon.
The bartender sighed as if he had been dealing with these kinds of fools all his life.
‘It’s not that I like lemons, it’s just that I like to go sailing, and every sailor knows the importance of a lemon, at least they should do.’
Molly and Brandon/Colin, quite drunk already, looked at each other and giggled. This outburst didn’t faze the bartender.
‘You’ve obviously never heard of James Lind?’
They shook their heads, trying to stifle their laughter.
‘Scottish, born 4th of October in Edinburgh, 1716 He was the first man to do any kind of systematic experiments on the causes of scurvy, of course, he wasn’t the first to suggest that a lack of fresh fruit and vegetables may be the cause but he was certainly the one who was pragmatic enough to get on with the experiments. An admirable man, saved many lives. Thus, in honour of Mr James Lind, I always have a lemon about myself. End of history lesson, will you be wanting straws?’
‘Ooh yes please,’ said Molly. The bartender smiled and began putting the requested items on a small tray printed with a rose pattern. He began to whistle, nothing familiar just a sort of nervous tuneless melody, perhaps because of the way that Brandon/Colin was groping inside Molly’s jacket and rolling his tongue over her ear. They were suddenly quite engrossed with each other, it continued all the way up the stairs, Molly carrying the tray, giggling as Brandon/Colin, like a lamprey, sucked at any available flesh.
The room was small and the bed was big, Molly kicked off her shoes and unclamped her lover from her breast, she put the tray down on the small table and began to prepare a couple of strong drinks, she looked over at Brandon as she did so, he was stripping off, his clothes going off in all directions, his body was white and slightly flabby, his face red, with a large vein prominent on his forehead, she made a mental note off all these details, she would certainly be able to use him. She watched him pull off his pants, sipping at her drink through the straw, amused at the way he was holding his cock with two hands, as if it might suddenly detach itself from his body. He was coming towards her with it. She picked the half slice of lemon from the glass and nibbled on the rind, sucked on a pip and swallowed it. She smiled as he took her drink and placed it on the side, lifted up her chin, her lips parting to accept the beast. He groaned and pulled her into him, she couldn’t take all of him that was impossible. He was groaning, telling himself to behave. She laughed although it came out as stifled muffle; it felt like she was eating a pillow, there was just no air. She pushed him away; his eyes were wide, alert and bulging. She took off her jacket, blouse, bra, he helped with the shoes, skirt, tights, pants, and then he pushed her onto the bed, promptly flipped her over and took her from behind.
‘Jesus ‘she cried, she could really feel him now, he was driving hard into her, hands clamped to her hips. She could hear him shouting, between the gasping and grunting, it sounded like he telling himself off again. In a way, he was, for every time he fucked a woman, he went back to that day, to the day that the only girl he had ever loved humiliated him. He had loved her but she never loved him back. And she had truly humiliated him but not before she had teased out of him every little secret, every tiny desire. That day in the farmer’s field. He had led here there, a tiny little ring in a burgundy crushed velvet box that nestled deep in his trouser pocket. She had laughed when he gave it to her. She laughed so hard that the cows at the far end of the field turned around. Yes, he was kind of telling himself off, warning himself against any kind of emotional attachment. But to completely achieve this state of detachment, it was also necessary to enter another zone.
This zone was called sales patter and it was entrenched and deeply ingrained within him. It was delivered in a staccato whine
‘Over the years/we’ve developed/ a reputation/ for honesty, integrity and commitment/ quality/quality/pro–ducts. Our fucking fucking experience of the lift industry is virtually unsurpassed/quick-to-install and rate fucking easy-to-use stair lifts we sell more stair fucking lifts than any other company in the whole fucking world!!!!!!’ He was panting like a dog in a hot car.
Molly had been with lots of men but she never quite encountered this kind of sex talk before. Which was good for her, it meant she would have something to write about. She lifted her head and shouted out to him.
‘Sell it to me you dirty bastard!!!’ Then she buried her head in the pillows trying hard to stifle the giggles,
‘You want it! You can have it’ he groaned, gripping her hips tighter.
‘Personally I would go for the SAXON!!!!!! Easy on the eye and quiet as an owl, fully fitted by our very own engineers, 12months guaranteeeeeeee’ he barked out.
‘It’s perfect for a narrow straight staircase, velour seat, brushed aluminium, one of our best sellers Madam’ he groaned and spluttered wildly, slapping Molly’s arse.
‘I fucking want one’ she screamed.
‘Yes yes yes!!!!!!, of course, what colour do you want, we have a choice of fabric, blue red or black, height adjustable seat, manually powered swivel feature turns the seat to face the landing for easy access, from only nine hundred and ninety five pounds fully fitted!!!!!!!!!!!!’He was now screaming as he hit her with all the financial details.
‘Just give me that fucking stair-lift you dirty fucking shit!!!!!.’
‘It’s coming, it’s fucking coming!!!!!’
‘Fucking Hell!!!!’ screamed Molly, as she felt an orgasm erupt, rippling throughout her body and momentarily robbing her of the feeling of legs.
‘Here it is!!!!!!’ he groaned, shovelling his thing into her.
‘Free delivery, just nine hundred and ninety five pounds over three years minimum cash deposit of 10 per cent, 36 monthly repayments at 35 pounds a month, typical APR at 22 per cent, agreement subject to status, we are regulated by the financial services, terms and conditions apply!!! Terms and conditions apply!!!!!!’ He groaned and shuddered, as he yanked his huge penis out of Molly and shot his load all over her back, collapsing into a heap beside her.
They lay there recovering, the smell of sex and sweat rising off their bodies like a thin farmyard mist. Outside there was the sound of an owl hooting. Minutes passed as they stared up into the ceiling.
‘You are not really a boxing promoter are you?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘And your name isn’t Brandon is it?
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘What is your real name?’
‘And for a living, you sell chairlifts, is that right?’
‘That’s right. You know, you should come over to mine sometime, I had special chairlift, it’s more like a Chaise Longue, with a tiny cocktail bar that pops up out from under the seat. It goes up the stairs real slow.’
‘You’re a dark horse aren’t you?’ said Molly, as she slid under the sheets.
Colin laughed, pushed himself up and walked off into the bathroom; she could hear him pissing into the toilet. He shouted from the bathroom.
‘I have to admit it, I am a lying fuck.’
‘It doesn’t bother me.’ She said. He was drying his hands on a towel as he came back into the room.
‘I thought that you would be angry? After hearing the way that you trashed your boyfriend on the phone, I can tell you don’t suffer fools.’
‘Boyfriend? That wasn’t my boyfriend. That was my agent.’
‘Agent? What do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a stand- up comedian.’
‘I thought you were funny’
‘Oh yeah, I’m hilarious.’
She smiled at him. He touched her on the knee as he poured a couple of vodkas.
‘You’re not so tough after all are you? You’re like a little lamb.’
She smiled. Oh yes, she was like a little lamb. Except, it wouldn’t be her getting slaughtered next week. She was looking forward to working tonight’s events into her show. She reckoned she had at least two sketches, possibly even three, out of this fruitcake.