Confessions of a Milkman

‘It’s the effect you have on me,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to be gentle but something about you excites my blood.’

‘Blimey!’ says the judy. ‘You’ve seen too much telly, haven’t you? Where did you learn to talk like that?’

‘It comes naturally,’ I say modestly.

‘Uum. Not the only thing I should think. I’m not surprised you’ve dropped the soap – OOH!’

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It slipped.’

‘It didn’t slip there, there isn’t room for it! Mind what you’re doing!’

‘Perhaps I’d better try the other side,’ I say.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she says.

‘Not if you don’t.’ I wack off another handful of lather and slap it onto her knockers – well, not so much slap as get it on before she can complain too loudly. Not that she does complain too loudly – in fact, she doesn’t complain at all. Her nipples turn to large acorns beneath my fingers and she closes her eyes and shivers.

‘Ooh!’ she says. ‘I bet you’re going to drop it again.’ A hint is seldom lost on the toast of the Clapham south side crumpet thrashers and I watch the large pink lump bump down the curve of her Ned Kelly. Another large pink lump is coming up from the other direction – though outside the bath. Yes! – percy is making the front of my trousers a lousy place to store a bunch of bananas. My hand follows the soap down below the water line and loses interest in it immediately. Something soft and slippery welcomes my inquisitive fingers and experience suggests that it is not an empty banana skin.

‘AAAAaargh!’ I was expecting a reaction but nothing quite so violent. Hardly have I sent my digits motoring up down passion alley than the lady grabs me and nearly hauls me into the bath with her. I wonder how long her old man has been in the nick? I hope he doesn’t choose this morning to come back on parole. There is enough blood on the carpet as it is. ‘I’m making your shirt all wet aren’t I?’

‘Well – er yes, I suppose you – maybe I’d better take it – yes!’

It doesn’t take you long to get the drift with this lady. Once she has decided that she likes you she doesn’t send messages in code. She helps me off with my shirt and three of its buttons and if I did not stand against the wall to take off my trousers she would have the zip out of them as well.

‘It’s terrible what you milkmen do to get business,’ she says squirting another load of foaming suds into the bath. ‘You stop at nothing, do you?’

I don’t answer her at once because it had never occurred to me that there was a business angle to what I am doing – or about to do. It goes right back to Sid’s golden maxim when we were cleaning windows – keep the customer satisfied. There was I, feeling a bit guilty about being on the job when I should be on the job, and all the time I am on the job. If this little session is going to help me wrestle a customer from Universal it is well worth while apart from any pleasure given and received along the way. With this happy thought bubbling through my mind I step forward briskly and discover that my hostess has two bars of soap. One in the bath and the other the one I stand on before breaking a new record for aquatic muff dives.

‘Oh, you impetuous fool!’ she says, as I raise my dripping nut from between her legs.

‘How do you hold your breath down there?’ And before I can answer she has shoved my crust down again.

‘Madam, please!’ I say, struggling to the surface. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’

‘What a way to go,’ she says.

‘For you, maybe,’ I say. ‘I have plans to die in bed.’

‘We’ll try the bed later,’ says the woman, hardly pausing for breath. ‘Come here, it’s lovely when we’re all slippery together.’

She does not hang about but shoves her arms round me and hugs me to her Bristols – definitely First Division material. She lies back and another couple of gallons of water slop on to the floor. Honestly, you should see the place. It is like the fountains in Trafalgar Square – though without the bloody pigeons, thank God. Water is still dripping off the ceiling from when I dived into the bath and the floor is awash. Still, that is not my problem. Once again, I am succumbing to my sensitive nature. Think of Meadowfresh, Lea. Think of this lovely lady’s snatch wriggling enticingly against the tip of your hampton. Yes, I think I prefer the second inducement. My playmate can’t use a water softener because my tonk is more rigid than a tungsten steel tuning fork. I lunge through the H2O and clobber the clam first go. Dead centre – you can always tell because you don’t meet anything until your balls bang into each other as they lock shoulders in the entrance to the love shaft.

‘Ewwwgh!’ Forgive me if I have spelt it wrong but it sounds a bit like that. The contented expulsion of air from the throat of the owner of a barbecued Berkeley. Another tidal wave hits the floor and I get enough suds up my hooter to wash Idi Amin’s smalls for a week – well, half a week. Wishing that I had knees with small rubber suckers attached to them, I try and achieve some purchase against the bottom – excuse that word – of the bath. My new friend has wrapped her legs round me and I reckon she could crack boulder-sized walnuts if she put her mind to it – which in the position she is adopting would be quite an achievement. Honestly, I find the whole performance – and the hole performance, too – very difficult. I read in a book once about this couple having it off in the bath and floating glasses of champagne backwards and forwards between each other but I don’t see how they could have done it. The only way I can screw this judy satisfactorily is with her head under the water and this can’t be very nice for her after the first five minutes.

‘Let’s get on the floor,’ she says.

‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘That’s where most of the bath water is.’ I am not kidding. One of the rubber ducks has floated across the room and is bumping against the door like it is trying to peck a hole in it.

‘Who’s a nice clean boy?’ says the bird as we flop on to the floor. ‘I could eat my dinner off you, couldn’t I?’ Without more ado she drops her nut and starts on the first course. Very arresting it is too. I reckon she would have a water ice down to the stick in about thirty-five seconds. Not that I am grumbling. I would rather have her lips round my hampton than a swarm of bees any day of the week.

‘Ooh!’ I say. ‘Ah! No! Don’t – don’t – don’t – DON’T STOP!’

‘You’re sex-mad,’ she says, looking up from my gleaming knob. ‘You’re an animal, aren’t you?’

‘Do you like animals?’ I say.

‘Ye-es’ says the lady and she starts again.

O-o-o-o-o-o-o-H! Talk about thrills running up and down your spine. Mine are travelling by motor bike – and I wish my old man was wearing a crash helmet. If she goes on like this much longer there is going to be a nasty accident. O-o-oh! Another few seconds and she stands to cop the cream off the top of my bottle. This cannot be in the best interest of ultimate client satisfaction and my astute business brain wakes up to its responsibilities. Removing my dick from the lady’s cakehole – it is rather like trying to take a bone away from your pet pooch – I measure the bird’s length against the slippery lino – five foot two and eyes of blue – and give her rose hips a gentle going over with my brewer’s bung. She is clearly not averse to this treatment and squeezes my hampton like it is one of those gadgets for strengthening your grip.

‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘I know what would be nice now.’

A few years ago I might have thought she was talking about a cup of tea but wise men find time an instructive mistress (good that bit, isn’t it? Gives the whole narrative a touch of class) and I have a pretty clear idea what she is getting at – or rather what she would like me to be getting at – a touch of the old cunning linctus, or whatever they call it. I know it sounds like a cough mixture – and you can need some of it if you get a few hairs wound round your epiglotis. Anyway, I have got to be nice to her if I want to convert her to Meadowfresh and after a nifty muff dive she should be putty in my hands. No point in throwing it away too lightly though. I might as well weigh in with a bit of sales chat. I expect Fred Glossop would in my situation – though, come to think of it, I can’t really see Fred Glossop in my situation.

‘Oh yes!’ I breathe passionately. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Notice the clever way I get her thinking in terms of the affirmative. She is practically nodding as I close my Teds gently round her strawberry ripples. ‘Have you ever thought of changing?’

She raises her head slightly. ‘You mean, being a fellow?’ Fortunately I stop myself from grinding my teeth together.

‘No!’ I say. ‘I mean, no. I was talking about changing your dairy. Meadowfresh has got a lot to offer.’ I drop my nut down to her tummy button and start eel-darting my tongue into the dainty little dip.

‘Oh yes?’ she gasps. ‘Ooh.’

‘I was wondering if you would be interested?’ I say. ‘You could keep the milt – I mean, the milk – as a free sample. I think you’ll notice the difference. Rich, creamy …’

I get my tongue down till it is nearly part of the pattern on the lino and bring it up slowly.

‘Oh, oh, OH!’ The lady’s backside lifts off the floor like my tongue has the power of levitation.

‘Would you like me to give it a try?’

Her hands go into my barnet and for a moment I wonder if she has Red Indian blood. ‘Oh yes!’ she says. ‘Yes! Yes!!’

What a satisfying moment. A contented customer and she hasn’t even tried the product yet. This must be my best ever start at any job.

I give her dilly pot a few more tongue tickles and then reckon that the time is favourable to give Percy his head – well, he has had her head, hasn’t he? Rising to my shapely knees I prepare to drive proud perce home – and I don’t mean back to 17, Scraggs Lane, ancestral home of the Leas. As it turns out this task is unnecesary because Meadowfresh’s latest recruit has her greedy mits round it like she fears it might disappear if exposed to the light. With the speed of British Leyland going on strike she has whipped my action man kit into her snatch and clamped her ankles over mine. ‘Wheeh-ouch!’ Unfortunately her bum catches on a ridge where the lino is breaking up but the floor is so slippery that we don’t stay in one place for long. I try and brace my legs against the door, but end up sliding the length of the room and nearly fracturing my nut against the washbasin holders.

‘This is no good,’ I say. ‘Come on!’ I sit on the edge of the bath and the bird is on to my lap like your moggy on to Dad’s favourite armchair. The aim is what you might call unerring. I bet she is a minor miracle at quoits.

‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘This is the third time I’ve come. Do you do deliveries on Sundays? That’s when Edwin goes to his Gran.’

‘Not every Sunday,’ I say, beginning to calculate that I could be on the way to an early grave if all my new customers appreciate the same line of sales technique. ‘Ooh! Ow! Eeh! Ah!’

Fortunately, release in the form of sending a few million sperm cells to a better place and falling backwards into the bath comes to my aid and I am eventually able to limp away with an assurance from Mrs Nyrene Gadney – for that is the lady’s name – that it is Universal out and Meadowfresh in! What a triumphant start to my new career. Fred Glossop will be pleased with me. I do not exactly dance but my step is light as I emerge from the staircase and find the man himself standing by the empty milk float. ‘Where in the name of the Lord have you been!?’ he says.

‘Just signed up a new customer, Fred,’ I say. ‘A Mrs Gadney. Nice lady. I’ve got her down for—’ I break off when I see that Fred is staring at the empty float and shaking. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘You had to finish the round by yourself, did you? I didn’t know it was going to take so long. It took a bit of time to get her interested in my bollocks – I mean, products!’

‘You stupid half wit!’ shouts Glossop. ‘I haven’t delivered a drop. While you’ve been frigging about, the whole bleeding lot has been knicked by kids!’