Confessions of a Window Cleaner (9 page)

Rule Two: Make them laugh. This is where you can’t go wrong. Once you’ve got a bird laughing – and especially a married bird – you can practically hear the bedsprings creaking. Birds want to be relaxed, they want a bit of fun and once you’re sharing a sense of humour – well, there’s no limit to what you’ll be sharing. Considering how much time we spend talking to each other, it’s amazing how bad we are at it. The difference between what we want to say – and what actually comes out of our mouths is fantastic. I mean, take me and that first time with Viv for instance. Diabolical. Whereas, if I’d have been able to keep chatting and thrown in a few funnies, I’d have been there nice and easy, without needing a bloody thunderstorm. Most women, though there are exceptions – in fact when you’re talking about women there are millions of exceptions – like to feel that they are being seduced by you, so if you can chat them up, make them laugh, take the micky out of yourself a bit so you seem a human being just like they are, then you’re guiding them gently towards the front room carpet or whereever else they like to do it. Which reminds me of a bird once who – no, sorry.

Rule Three: Be persistent. If you really want it, go hard for it. Don’t take no for an answer. I had a mate at school who had a face like three warts on a carbuncle but his record was fantastic. I know because I saw photographs of some of the birds. In fact I had to swallow one in the middle of the geography class when the master got curious. How he got them to pose like that I’ll never quite know, because he was only about fifteen – they must have been out of their tiny minds. I believe it was because he went on shaking them, like a kaleidoscope, until he got the right pattern or they got so fed up they decided it was the only way to make him buzz off. He was fantastic that bloke.

So remember, when they start coming all that “Oh, Fred, do you really think we should be doing this?” stuff they are asking to be mastered. Tell them to get them off and get on with it. If you start saying, “well, maybe you’ve got a point there, Edith,” they’ll just think you’re wetter than a used nappy liner.

Rule Four: Keep yourself in good shape. You don’t have to look like Rock Hudson but if your gut is spilling over your Y-fronts you’re only going to remind them of their old man and that’s worse than useless. So keep your clobber on the tight side and nip about a bit to show them you’re alive. Sid does a lovely line in sliding down the ladder with his feet on the outside, which goes down a treat and his footwork on the high window sill has to be seen to be believed. I’ve got good shoulders so my forte is the deep breath and the rhythmic to and fro with the rubber. I’ve known times when birds have been doing the ironing in time with me.

Rule Five: Be prepared to forget the other four rules. As I’ve already said, birds are funny, so if you’ve got a good line you might as well stick to it. One of Sid’s mates, known as the Magic Dragon, never used to say a word and he had so much crumpet he didn’t know what to do with it. He was a good looking bloke, I know because I saw him up at the boozer once. He used to keep himself brown with a sun ray lamp and do weightlifting so his shoulders gushed out from his waist as if they’d been forced through a three inch pipe. His line was to get out there all strong and silent, letting his biceps speak a language any woman could understand, whilst he gazed down on them like they were drying foot prints. Faced with this rejection most birds felt like knotting themselves but just when they couldn’t stand any more the Magic Dragon would suddenly suck in a mouthful of air, gorge his enormous pectorals (sit down madam!) and breathe all over the window pane, a big one at first, followed by little, delicate puffs like whirls of cake icing. Hence, his nickname, see? ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’. Well, I never saw him in action, but apparently you had to sweep up the pieces afterwards. One bird savaged him so badly he had to have fourteen stitches in his shoulder. Alright, I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true, so help me. You don’t know what seven years of happy marriage can do to a woman.

Then there was Roy. He didn’t say much either. His angle was to have his lower lip trembling the whole time and to be seen frequently blowing his nose.

Well, no woman could resist this for very long and before you could say “Watch it lady” they’d be asking him what the trouble was. “Nothing, nothing,” he’d sob, “sorry to be going on like this” and poor brave fellow that he was, he’d hurl himself back at the job until he suddenly lost his footing and ended up in a crumpled, shuddering heap at the bottom of the ladder. “Jenny, Jenny,” he’d be moaning as they reached him and then it would all come blurting out. How his wife had run away with the milkman, leaving him with six kids, and how it was his fault because he hadn’t been paying her enough attention because he’d been working evenings trying to make enough money to take the whole family to the seaside for the first time. By Christ, it fair broke your heart to think about it, and it was a hard bitch who didn’t put a protective arm around his shoulders and shove the kettle on for a nice soothing cup of tea. Well, of course, the minute they did that they were done for. Roy’s snuffles would dry against their blouses and hands that had once been clutching desperately as if at a straw, were now invested with a new sense of purpose. “Oh no” Roy would gasp, taking the words straight out of their mouths. “I didn’t think I could ever feel like this again. It’s wonderful.” Up till then they’d been getting a bit worried, but with those words they suddenly realised that they were in the exalted position of being able to confer the gift of life on a fellow human being. This creature desperately trying to pull down their knickers and tights at the same time had been wounded near to death and by a member of their own sex to boot. What better way to offer some reparation than by letting him take the simple pleasure he so obviously sought and which they were in the fortunate position of being able to bestow. I tell you, it was diabolical how he got away with it.

Now, you may well be asking yourselves where I fit in all this; you may equally well be scratching your left bollock, but that’s your affair.

I was learning fast but although I soon got the hang of all the dodges, I knew that I was never going to be in Sid’s class. I was too moody. My ability to chat a bird up didn’t just depend on her but on whether Chairman Mao was being nice to the Russians, or the weather, or how Chelsea had been doing lately. Sometimes I was dead on and sometimes I was dead on my feet, there was no knowing how it was going to be.

Luckily, when I met Sandy it was one of my chirpy days. If it hadn’t been I might have done myself a permanent injury.

One of my better jobs was a small block of posh flats down by Wandsworth Common. One of those big Victorian Houses had been steam-rollered and Green Pastures – yes that’s what the berks called it – had been shot up in its place. It was dead simple because it was all glass and you could have wheeled a pram along its window sills, they were so wide. Window cleaning was included in the service fee the tenants payed so I collected my cash from the caretaker and whipped round with my large squeegee in no time.

At least, usually I did. On this occasion, I was moving along the front of the building admiring the brass rubbings and the bookcases full of paper-backs when I saw something that made my blood turn colder than an Eskimo’s chuff.

In this room there was a naked woman tied up on the floor. Not just tied up, but with so much cord round her it looked as if someone had used her to roll up a piece of string. If she had problems they didn’t end there. There was another bird wearing a thigh length black slip and a very determined expression, lashing her with a riding crop. Now you’ve got to admit that that’s a sight you don’t see every day of the week. Talk about “Kinky Kats on the Rampage”. It made Wardour Street seem like Cheltenham Spa on a wet Monday.

At first I didn’t see it. Call me naive if you like or Flossy if it gives you real pleasure – but I thought that the bird on the floor was being attacked by the other one. My basic, decent British reaction was one of outrage, so I banged hard on the window.

Neither of the bints had seen me and the one with the whip looks up and claps her hands to her tits in a gesture of upper class shock a bit at odds with the cold blooded thrashing she’d just been dishing out. Before I got any further let me say at once that she is a very good looking bird. Black gypsy ringlets coiling down around alabaster shoulders – you know all that crap – big long-lashed brown eyes, tits like pomegranates – in fact she’s like the birds on those Schweppervesence show cards I used to knock off from the local boozer. She’s panting a bit and her complexion would make Mr. Yardley cream his jeans in envy. Even before I notice the small watercolours in the thin gilt frames and the chaise longue I realise I am in the presence of a lady.

“Good gracious” she says, opening the window, “you gave me a start.”

“You don’t look as if you need one,” I say, immediately proving to her what a laugh I am. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“I was trying to give Amanda an orgasm,” she says, matter-of-factly. “It rather looks as if it’s gone by the board now, doesn’t it?”

I have to agree with her because Amanda who I recall as being rigid with effort is now all relaxed and bulging against her bonds like a rolled sirloin. She is a large girl and you wouldn’t find many people outside that African tribe that goes in for fattening up its women till they look like hippos, that would disagree with me.

“Amanda loves being beaten,” goes on the dark-haired bird. “It’s about the only thing she does like. It was awfully lucky we found out. You see Sebastian, that’s her husband, got rather squiffy one night and suddenly started flailing away at her. We were all absolutely horrified and poor ’Basters was really distraught when he sobered up. But what makes it so terribly amusing is that Amanda absolutely adored it and nearly came on the spot. Never been near it before, had you darling? – Oh I am sorry, you haven’t been introduced. Amanda this is – what is your name?”

“Timothy Lea.”

“Timothy Lea – Amanda Browne, with an e.” Amanda Browne grunts a greeting. She really is a very plain girl and the weal marks don’t help.

“And my name is Rachel Devroon, though everybody calls me Sandy because I don’t have red hair. Yes, well, wasn’t it lucky about Amanda finding out what she really liked.”

This bird is obviously nutty as a fruit cake, but she is very cool. I have to admit that.

“So Amanda’s old man keeps her happy by bashing her up. Nothing unusual about that, it happens all the time round here.”

“If you’re going to do anything, for God’s sake do it,” says Amanda, peevishly, “I’m beginning to get cramp. And do shut that bloody window.”

“Sorry Pet,” says Sandy hopping across the room so her boobs bounce up and down like twins in a rubber baby carriage, “we must get everything right for you.”

Sandy’s thighs are the smoothest way to introduce a leg to an arse I’ve ever seen and when she bends down I can practically hear my mince pies grinding between them, like skinned golf balls. She’s bloody lucky she isn’t tied up on the floor.

“You don’t understand darling,” she says to me, “Amanda doesn’t really get on with ’Basters. Oh, he’s very sweet but he’s a bit draggy at the same time – very ‘where’s my Financial Times?’ – you know? So I find her the most dishy spade who bashes her all over the place.”

“So everybody is happy.” I say.

“No. Racialism rears it’s ugly head. Amanda tries very hard but deep down inside she’s got a thing about coloured men – her grandfather had a tobacco farm in Rhodesia or something, so that doesn’t work either. Spitsville isn’t it?”

“Very,” I say, “So what were you doing just now?”

“Well, Amanda feels that because it just doesn’t seem to work with fellahs, she may be a lesbian and we were just seeing if I could do anything. You were quite enjoying it, weren’t you, sweet?”

“Quite,” says Amanda seriously, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to come. Especially now.”

I suppose I should be feeling guilty but I’m so amazed by what is going on that I can hardly feel anything except a desire to get Sandy’s drawers down. What with the whips and the tying up, it is getting a bit sexy.

“Well, I’m adoring it,” says Sandy, “I can quite see why those awful old harridans were always hanging around the dorms after lights out. Thrashing someone is absolute bliss.” She shudders with excitement and suddenly runs her hand up the front of my trousers where, surprise, surprise, there is someone wanting to greet it. “Oh, super,” she says, “Do you want to join in?”

“Well—”

“Tell you what. You start beating her.” She hands me the crop and has pulled the slip over her head before you can say National Health Service. Her tits are really something and her half cup bra deserves an award for service beyond the call of duty. Never was so much supported by so little. She whips it off and I feel like bursting into applause – or through the front of my Y-fronts.

“Go on, she loves it.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Try.”

“I can’t—”

“Poor darling.”

But she’s not talking to me. She drops on her knees and starts necking with the bird and fondling her breasts. There must be something wrong with me because I find it the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I tear my clothes off and I hate them for every second they stay on my body. Then I’m lying down there chewing Sandy’s neck and peeling her tights off and she’s groaning and all three of us are squirming like electric eels. Amanda wants Sandy and is crying out for her to beat her, and I want Sandy and I’m not tied-up, and I win. I hurl the crop to the other side of the room and unravel Sandy like a piece of rolled up paper till I can pin her down and get above her lovely flat stomach and feel her legs hook round mine and her finger nails sink into my back.

“I’m going to put my mark on you,” she hisses and she clings to me like she wants to suck every ounce of blood, flesh and guts out of me. It must be quite a way to go but I want to do this again so I rev my motor and we’re generating enough power to light up Piccadilly Circus for a month. But not for long though. No force on earth can withstand Miss Rachel (Sandy) Devroon when she shudders into her final gyration and I feel like a piece of fluff hovering at the mouth of a suction cleaner.