You know that radio program, Desert Island Discs? You know, where you have to pick out what songs you could take with you if you were going to be stranded? Well, I have an alternative list, songs I really dislike and don’t want to hear ever again.
Top of the list is ‘My little corner of the world’. I hate that song, I really do. Apart from the fact that it’s about 200 years old, it’s so naff. You probably won’t even have heard of it, but Alex’s Dad has it on an old 78 - how about that for ancient? I mean, we’re not even talking a normal pre-CD 45; we’re talking pre-war 78rpm which I’m sure stands for Right Poncy Music and not Revolutions Per Minute. We were round their place helping them move bags of old clothes up into the attic to make way for his Mum’s new purchases when we came across this box of old records and his Dad insisted on playing some of them for us.
Alex says it’s fitting. So he walks round the house giving it la-la-la whenever I’m stuck here. Here, by the way, is the corner and as corners go, it’s not bad, if you happen to be a corner-fan. Nice apex, hardly any wrinkles in the wallpaper at all, but it’s still BLOODY BORING. And it was boring two weeks ago when he put me here. No, I haven’t been here for the whole time although it feels like it, I’m telling you. The reason I’m standing here now is because Alex sent me here then. You’re not following me are you? Let’s see if I can explain.
He says I’m supposed to a) think about why I’m here – that’s obvious, he puts me here because he knows it drives me mad, and b) how I could have avoided it – not getting caught seems the correct answer to that one.
It almost makes me laugh when they say ‘Don’t let me catch you doing it again’; yes, that’s precisely what I try to do, not let him catch me. And I don’t think about anything, well, certainly not about what he wants me to think. I tend to let my mind wander when I’m here in ‘my corner’. Not surprising really, the second line to that bloody song is “Dream a little dream in my little corner of the world “ and basically that is what I do; I daydream a bit. But you’re not to tell Alex that, OK? He thinks I’m being contrite and as soon as he comes back I’ll put my contrite face on.
So, getting back to the songs, earlier on I was ready to burst into Bonnie Tyler mode and give it a few choruses from ‘I need a hero’. We all need a hero every now and again don’t we, but 15 minutes ago I needed one as an emergency.
My yells had reached a crescendo that should have been heard in the next borough and I’m bloody pissed off that no one seemed inclined to phone the emergency services on my behalf; no sirens could be heard rushing to my defence or SAS teams swinging through windows. It doesn’t happen like this in films.
I should have been weeping gratefully in the arms of a James Bond type hero – no, I would not have tried to cop a feel - not weeping snottily on the knees of a monster. Well, all right, he’s not really a monster; monsters are ugly and my Alex is about the best thing that’s been invented since sliced bread, but he’s still a bloody great bully.
Alex had gone all ‘Animal Rights’ on me and decided that Cruelty to Dumb Creatures didn’t include me. I think I’ve just received the spanking to end all spankings; it certainly went to number 1 position in my chart anyway.
You’re still not following me are you? Look, you’re going to have to keep up a bit more, it’s not that difficult a story to follow you know. Oh, all right, I’ll explain. It started 2 weeks ago, and as I stood here in this selfsame corner, I seem to remember thinking something along the following lines:
Wouldn’t it be nice to live in an igloo, Alex would be soooo frustrated with nowhere to send me! I do like seeing Alex frustrated, but then I like easing his frustrations as well. So, igloo. Nah, too much clothing needed; we wouldn’t be able to have mad spontaneous sex if we’ve got to fight our way out of walrus skins. There must be something else that’s round but doesn’t involve so much clothing. I’ve got it. A teepee! Perfect. I don’t think they’re perfectly round but you can’t really say that they have corners, can you? I can just see Alex in one of those . . . er . . what do you call them? It’s not really a loincloth is it? That’s more Tarzan than Big Chief Sitting Bull. And the Red Indian ones are longer and dangle more . . . I’m talking about the clothes, what are you thinking of? Anyway, I could really fancy Alex dressed as a Red Indian, a bit of war paint, a feather stuck in his hair, he’d have to have extensions put in mind you, he had a haircut last week, and a thingy . . oh let’s call it a loincloth anyway. And sex on a big furry bearskin! Wow, that would be good, soft and sensuous in all the right places. Yes, I could definitely go for that. Now then, where can I get my hands on a bearskin? I don’t think they’re legal anymore, and even if they were, it’s a lot of expense to go to just for a bit of hanky-panky. I’ll have to give that one some thought, I’m bound to come up with something; I’m resourceful when I want.
Do you have in-laws? Yeah, me too, not official ones of course but if you have a partner then you have in-laws don’t you? Alex’s Mum and Dad don’t live too far away from us, about 30 miles, which is near enough to see them every now and again but not to have them on the doorstop all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I really like them and I know they like me, but no one wants to live with the in-laws popping in every day, do they?
We’re near enough that they can call on us to lend a hand when it’s necessary, as in now for example. They’ve gone on holiday see, off on a cruise round the Mediterranean for 15 days and they’d asked us to pop in every now and again to check on their place and water the plants. Alex did it on Wednesday and I did it yesterday morning. I offered because I work flexi-time and always finish early on a Friday and I had to go near that way to pick up a new printer that we had ordered and had just arrived at the shop. It’s easier for me to go in the week than it is Alex as he often works late. So I popped in on the way back from work and had a quick shufty round, watered the plants, picked up everything I needed and was home well before Alex was due to roll up.
I wanted this done right so I put the chubb lock on the front door so that Alex couldn’t just walk in and spoil my surprise. When he couldn’t get the door open he starts ringing the bell and calling out asking what’s going on, and to open the door please.
I told him I would but that he had to promise to close his eyes before he stepped inside. Well, that got him going, he knew something was up, but apparently my tone of voice told him that it wasn’t anything to be frightened of. He claims I use a different tone of voice when I’m trying to get out of something that has nothing to do with the voice I use for when I’m trying to get into something, like his trousers for instance.
I’m not sure I believe that, I really don’t want to think that he’s got that much of a handle on me.
Anyway, he agreed, and I opened the door and let him in, with his eyes shut. Such an obedient boy. With the barest details I told him that I wanted him to do exactly as I instructed; he’s fairly docile when he thinks that mad sex is on the menu so he was willing to strip in the hallway. He didn’t even protest when I started to draw patterns on his chest and tied something round his waist. I think he knows and trusts me enough to not totally embarrass him, not on purpose at least. His only comment was to ask why it was so hot – it is the middle of July and we don’t normally have the heating on full blast – and what was that funny smell? The funny smell was incense by the way. I made him promise to keep his eyes closed and not to open them until I said so. I couldn’t do a real teepee of course but I did a fairly good mock up with a couple of dark sheets pegged to the lampshade and then taped to the wall with heavy duty tape – I’m pretty sure it will come off without leaving a mark. I led him through the living room by the hand and made him stand in the middle while I rearranged the sheet round us. The main lights were turned off so all we had to see by was the light on the fake gas fire that was ‘inside’ the tent. When I said he could open his eyes I thought they were going to fall out of his eyes. There was I in all my splendid glory – I’d bought a large chamois cloth and made myself and him ‘thingys’ – it wasn’t hard at all, all you have to do is sew some tape on the sides and Bob’s your uncle – with matching coloured stripes across my chest in Day-Glo Washable Crayons, well, it was all I could find. I considered doing a war dance round him but I thought it might break the mood so I settled for looking at him provocatively for about 4 seconds and that was all that was needed, he was all over me like a rash.
Now I don’t want you to think we do this sort of thing all the time, I mean, we don’t do role play or anything like that, but it’s only a giggle and we do sometimes like to branch out. I really had an itch for sex on a fur rug so I thought I might as well do it properly. Anyway, Alex seemed to appreciate it, he was well into Warrior mode and I don’t know about ‘White Man speak with forked tongue’ but Alex certainly has a talent that soon had me bucking like an untamed bronco. And making love on a bear rug is all it’s cracked up to be, I promise you. You have to try it, at least once.
When the moon finally slid beyond the prairie, in other words - it got too dark to see what we were doing and I kept bumping my head on the fireplace - he threw me over his shoulder and literally bounded upstairs with me giggling like Crazy Horse and we started all over again.
While I’m lying in bed the next morning, totally sated by the way, with a grin that wouldn’t be coming off even with a Brillo Pad, Alex got up and went down to put the kettle on, and no doubt prepare me a delicious breakfast as a token of his love for me because I was bloody starving seeing as how we hadn’t got round to eating last night. My doze was interrupted by a shout that seemed to go along the lines of “Hiawatha, get your arse down here this minute”. Hmmm, that doesn’t sound very good. I mean, last night was fun but I didn’t think he was so taken with it that he would want to carry it over to the next morning.
I crept downstairs, slowly and somewhat nervously, wondering if perhaps I shouldn’t have taped the sheets to the wall after all. Another shout. “How many bears do you know that have silk lined sleeves and come in a size 14?”
No, apparently what I shouldn’t have done is swiped his Mum’s new fur coat when I was round watering their plants and brought it home to use as a bear rug. See, told you I was resourceful.
He almost had tears in his eyes when he started asking me ‘Why? Why?’ I was waiting for him to say it again so I could join in with ‘Deliiiiiiiilah’ but he didn’t so neither did I which was probably a good thing thinking about it.
He then said ‘Oh, you are so going to pay for this’ which turned out to be true, he took the full price of the coat, plus interest, out of my hide which I reckon suffered a bloody sight more than the dead ferrets or whatever that makes up his Mum’s coat.
Mind you, he also ended up paying; only it was the price of having it cleaned. Well, how was I to know the stains would be difficult to get out? I mean, come on, these animals scurry about the countryside all day long and you don’t see them tripping down to the salon because they’ve got dried . . er . . mud in their hair. They just take a dunk in a river and brush it out, don’t they? Why wouldn’t it work when the fur isn’t attached?
And it wasn’t me! I think that was the first time that I’ve ever said it and it turned out to be true. It wasn’t me who couldn’t control himself and ended up giving his mum’s coat a beauty treatment that Cleopatra would have been jealous of.
I tried to tell him that he couldn’t spank me for being so sexy that he lost control, but he said it was for rustling which is still a hanging offence in some parts of America apparently so I should consider myself lucky that I got off with only a spanking.
I did not rustle. I squirmed and wriggled a lot, but I didn’t rustle. And I think I now know why Native Americans were called Red Skins.
I looked up rustling offences on the Internet and he’s right. I found it on a web-site that listed dumb laws; there are a lot of laws still in force that are really mad. Did you know it is perfectly legal to shoot a Scotsman with a bow and arrow unless it’s on a Sunday? Mmmm . . . Mel Gibson in Braveheart - niiiice! I think Alex would look good in a kilt . . . I wonder where I can get my hands on some bagpipes.