Monday, 21 February 2011

Home Truths, Chapter 9

A 21st century tale
By Eve’s Rib


Leo walked to the Working Men’s Club. He noticed a pretty young woman approaching him down the road. She wore tight hipsters and a halter top in which her large breasts formed two great erotic bulges. Eh eh, he thought. He waited until she was close before offering her a winning smile. “All right, babe?”

He was expecting a glare or curse, but to his surprise she turned and grinned at him as she went on her way, and he sneaked a look at her ample arse as it rolled magnificently in her trousers. They responded to confidence in a man. It was always the same. There was no escaping genes.

However, rounding the corner and crossing the street, Leo almost stopped in his tracks at the sight before him. Forming a noisy but orderly queue outside the rather shabby club building was a handful of chattering women, dressed to the nines in crisp shirts and sharp suits. On the sign, some bright spark had put up a big WO at a jaunty angle to make it read: WORKING WOMEN’S CLUB.

“What’s all this then?” he asked himself aloud.

Trigger appeared on the opposite corner, hands deep in his jeans pockets. He jerked up his nose to acknowledge Leo and shuffled over.

“Bloody hell,” he said when he saw the women.

“Looks like some sort of corporate night out,” said Leo. They could hear music thumping inside. “Want to go down the Cock and Maid, Trig?”

Trigger looked determined, still on a high from the meeting. “I ain’t letting them chase us away. Come on, mate. One pint, at least.” He started towards the club. “What, you scared of them birds?”

Men matter, thought Leo. He shrugged and followed Trigger, a little reluctantly. The Working Men’s Club full of women! Last century, women weren’t even allowed inside it. This was the very place where Leo and Trigger, in their teens, had spent beer-swilling nights watching tarts peel off their undies to Hot Chocolate records.

“Just go through, lads,” said the bloke on the door. “That lot are all together but it’s not a private do.”

Feeling cocky, Leo remarked to the women nearest them: “You waiting for me, then?”

“Yeah...” said the nearest. “...To piss off.” Her companions roared.

Leo decided not to pursue it. He hurried after Trigger into the smoke-filled bar room.

The noise and heat hit them in the face like the blast from an open furnace. Illuminated by flashing strobe lights from the little stage, more women had filled the bar. They were crammed in at the bar and tables, chatting and shouting and shrieking with laughter. On the tables lay ashtrays mounting with dog-ends, pint glasses and mobile phones. A video screen was showing a football match from some sports channel: seemed like the Dutch and German women’s teams. In the hot smoky atmosphere, the women had stripped off their blazers and were sitting with their ties unknotted, their shirts open at the neck, pinpoints of sweat glistening on their skin. The sexual energy was palpable. Leo couldn’t take his eyes from the intimidating scene in front of him. Women, a good two or three score of them, radiating confidence. It was an exhilarating and fearful sight. He was almost hypnotised by the music, the noise and the oestrogen in the air. It was as if he had stumbled upon some tribal gathering that might tear him to pieces if it noticed him.

Trigger arrived with two pints. “Barlady says they’re from some sort of conference. Bloody yuppie do. Oi, watch out!”

“Fuck off!” yelled the woman who had bumped into him. Her face was pink and shiny with perspiration, her short blonde hair plastered to her head. “Can’t you read? It’s a Working Women’s Club!”

“Get yer cocks out for the girls!” shouted her companion. She put her hand on her crotch to make an obscene pumping gesture and the women roared with laughter as they went into the loos.

“What’s the matter with them?” wondered Leo. “They’re in a right mood.”

Trigger’s blood was up. “It’s a men’s club! They should keep out.” He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. They leaned against the back wall, balancing their pints on a ledge around a wooden pillar. “That ain’t me being ‘sexist’, Leo. It’s a question of respect. They have their spaces and we have ours.”

Leo explained how he had stood up to Gina. Trigger slapped him on the back. He was trying to share words of encouragement, but suddenly the music went down. A roar went up from the women. “The show’s on!” shouted someone. Some kind of showtune music started, the strobes on the stage turned yellow, and a tall figure glided onto the boards. This newcomer wore a long, tight dress of pink satin, opera gloves and a diamond necklace, but the two men quickly saw that it was a youth of barely eighteen. One hand holding a feather boa to his neck, his other hand running seductively down his sheaf of satin, the performer put one foot forward. Through a slit in his dress the audience saw stockings and high heels. The women screeched in delight.

The boy kept flirting with his audience a little longer. He pouted, put a finger to his lipsticked mouth, bent at the knees. The tight dress tugged across his legs as he picked his way delicately to the front, almost within reach of the nearest women. Was he going to sing a song? The women were baying for blood. “Off! Off! Off!” The boy, visibly nervous in the face of such aggressive libido, took his boa, drew it back and forth across his shoulders, and twirled it away across the stage.

“Christ, it’s a stripper!” said Trigger. “That’s a bloody disgrace that is. That’s shaming, that is.”

Leo was feeling queasy, watching the Barbie-boy cavort for the businesswomen’s pleasure. It was disturbing and somehow erotic at the same time. He was terrified that the women would notice the other two males standing at the back of the room. He excused himself and hastened to the loo.

At least he would be safe in the gents’ for a while. He locked the cubicle door, dropped his trousers and let out a long breath. He and Gina hadn’t had sex for a few weeks now — for some reason, the desire had seeped out of their relationship. Right now, though, he really missed that. He felt like having a terrific shag with some gorgeous bird. It didn’t have to be Gina. Wasn’t he asserting himself from now on? All those sweaty female bodies out there were making him extremely horny. Taking hold of his cock, he gave it a stroke and felt it stiffen under his fingers.

The main door banged open and to his shock he heard two or three drunken women stagger in, giggling.

“I’m not waiting in that bloody queue,” said one, a Scot, in a voice slurred by too many gin and tonics. She crashed into the cubicle next to his and he heard her urine tinkle into the bowl.

“Ooh,” giggled another. “I’ve always wanted to peek at the men’s toilets.”

Leo flinched as a body rebounded off the wall of the cubicle nextdoor and squatted on the lavatory bowl with the door open, shouting, “Get that fit bit of skirt, eh, Fiona?” The voice rattled around Leo’s cubicle, so close he began to tremble. He felt a bit like a voyeur spying on the girl next door as she undresses.

Fiona was emerging, zipping up her flies. There was a coin-sized hole in the door and Leo saw her body pass by. “It’s what they do with their big stiff cocks that counts, Bea.” There was a shuffle of feet, then a terrific banging. Leo’s heart nearly stopped working till he realised it was directed at Bea’s cubicle door and not his. “Come on, we’ll miss him.”

“You remember that boy who was serving tea during the Femina shares deal?” said a new voice that sounded familiar. “The one in the tight skirt? Did you hear that Bea felt him up?”

“You never!” shrieked Fiona.

“Fondled his bum,” said Bea. “I love to see the young lads in their skirts and their blouses, painting their nails! They fucking turn me on, the trollops!”

“Well, what can he do?” Christ, it was Kelly! “Complain? If he dares I’ll fucking fire him.”

“Like it or lump it!” roared Fiona.

“Hey, you know how to handle them if they get prissy,” Bea went on. “Get a grab of their balls and give them a squeeze. Just to let them know who’s wearing the trousers. The prissier they are, the harder you squeeze.”

“Look, those are our treasured employees you’re being disrespectful about,” said Kelly, her voice mock serious.

“Our treasured cock!” sniggered Fiona. “We know who you’re into, Kell.” She started singing a mock song. “Leee-ooo, do you want my body...”

What was that? Leo pressed his eye as close as he could to the hole in the door. He could see Kelly now in a pinstripe trouser suit that flattered her lithe figure. “Here,” she said, “this’ll crack you up.” She swaggered over to the urinals on the wall, hiccupping and smirking back at her two mates. Unzipping her trousers and pulling down her briefs, she thrust her hips forward, moved her hands to her groin and started to urinate. Leo squashed his face to the peephole in wonder as a stream of yellow urine hit the wall directly in front of Kelly and trickled to the drain below. He couldn’t believe his eyes. She was pissing standing up, just like a bloke! Fiona and Bea collapsed into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

“Now let’s see that tart get his frock off,” Kelly yelled over her shoulder. “We don’t earn the money for nothing!” She did up her trousers again and the three of them crashed out of the toilets, still laughing at her great party trick.

Leo, his leg jerking like crazy from some kind of cramp, swallowed hard and hoped Trigger was still alive out there. He felt wobbly at the knees, what with the fear of being discovered and the shock of what he’d seen and heard. Whatever had happened to demure femininity? He slipped timidly out, leaned over the sink and peered at his thirty-year-old reflection in the mirror. Did Kelly really fancy him, then? Her workmates certainly had reason to think she did. He’d wondered. Always assumed her mild flirtation meant nothing. His face looked dull and a bit podgy in the unflattering light. Not looking his best. He hoped she didn’t spot him coming out.

The crowd had started a slow hand clap as the stripper — who had taken off his dress and gloves and was down to a tight basque and stockings — ground his pelvis to the music belting out of the speakers. He probably hadn’t done this very often, the poor lad, and he looked even more nervous than before. Women were coming up to shove five-pound notes down the front of his lacy knickers. There wasn’t much of a bulge there. It was as if his masculinity had retreated as far from notice as possible.

“Took yer time,” said Trigger, his breath stinking of booze. He’d got himself another and had already nearly finished it. Hunting for Kelly, Leo saw her hard at it near the front, on her feet and dancing, her tie undone and slung over one shoulder. Pummelling her arms in the air, she roared lasciviously as she went to the stage, put out a hand to pull the boy’s knickers wide open, and shoved a fiver inside. Then, she instead of drawing back, she made a grab for his crotch. Her fingers missed their hold on the satin material, but she clearly made contact with his balls, because the boy suddenly creased up, his hands darting to defend his scrotum. Broken out of his rhythm, he looked mortified with pain and embarrassment. He tried to scoop up his dress with one hand as he backed away from the front of the stage. The beer-soaked women loved it. They erupted into a storm of taunts and catcalls, demanding he go the full monty. The chorus quickly became a predatory chant: “COCK! COCK! COCK!”

Frightened by the change in mood, Leo grabbed Trigger and bundled him out of the Working Women’s Club into the night.


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