Body People
THE BODY PEOPLE
Seb was unhappy with his nose.
His name wasn’t really Seb but Sebastian. But Seb didn’t like the bastian part of his name. He wished his mother and father had dropped it as he had.
It was the bas that annoyed him. But Setian, That’s Sebastian with the bas missing in case you missed it, sounded a bit like the devil so he dropped that as well..
Bas seems low, and heavy and very bottomy, Seb sounds flip and efficient and he liked it.
Good.
Now that’s out of the way we can concentrate on Seb’s nose, the one that worried him. You see, it was slightly bigger than normal, no I’m fibbing, it was a big nose.
No, it wasn’t big, it was huge. I would not be exaggerating if I said it was bloody enormous.
But that wasn’t Seb’s problem. It wasn’t the size that bothered him.
His nose smelt.
It smelt of everything.
Sometimes nice, when he was near flowers, and even better, when he passed Macdonalds, and even better when he was near a pub.
And sometimes… well sometimes he had to pinch the end of his nose between his thumb and finger and say Pooh. The smell his nose was pushing into his head was so awful. When he was young he complained to his mother about it.
She cluckled and tuckled and said nice things about how pretty his nose was, even though it was giganticly huge, but didn’t do anything about the smells. His father offered to chop it off, drop in a dustbin and replace it with a banana. Then he laughed like a drain, which didn’t sound very nice.
Seb didn’t like the idea of a banana in the middle of his face, so he took his problem to the doctor.
The doctor examined his nose, c’mon, it didn’t take long to examine even though there was a lot of it, but the doctor had earn his money, so he looked up both Seb’s nostrils. Nostrils are the two holes in the bottom of the nose. They are very busy holes. They let in the air so that Seb can breathe and smell, something he does not like.
And when his brain makes too much water, it runs out through his nostrils. It’s a brain drain.
That’s why it’s always handy to have a nice thick sleeve on your jacket. Then you can wipe your arm across your nose and mop up all the drips. It’s a drip grip.In summer, when you wear short sleeved shirts it better to sit down, bend forward, and wipe you nose with the knee part of your trousers.
If you are wearing shorts you have a problem.
And of course your nose comes in very handy when you sneeze. We all know you sneeze when your head is full of things that have to get out. So one big ATISHOO! And all the things your head does not want come out through your nose.
If you didn’t have a nose, all the bits would come out through your ears and you couldn’t catch them as easily as you can when they are in front of your via your nose.
But all this isn’t helping poor Seb with his nose problem.
He asked the doctor to fit a switch beside his nose so that he could switch it off when he smelt something nasty. But doctors don’t fit switches and electricians, who do fit switches, don’t know how to connect a switch to nose.
So Seb bought a peg. A peg that holds the washing on the clothes line. When he clamped the peg on his nose, it stopped all the smells. It also stopped him breathing, so he had to breath through his mouth.
This made his mouth so dry his tongue rattled. His tongue rattling soon upset his parents and his teacher and anyone who was near him, so the peg went.
Can you imagine how difficult life was for Seb as he grew older?
Every day when he opened the front door, the first part of him that went outside was the part he disliked the most. What was it going to smell? Nice or nasty? Was it going to be a thumb and forefinger squeeze day?
Would it start dripping? Would it explode in a sneeze? Would it itch? Would it get blocked with all sorts of nasties? Would it vibrate in the wind? Would a bird land on it and build a nest?
He looked at other people walking past carrying their noses in the middle of their faces.
Their eyes looked out from just above and from each side of their noses, just like his. And it didn’t seem to bother them.
Their faces didn’t screw up like a granny map.
But they were not being attacked by their noses. He bet they did not wake up in the middle of the night with their noses snoring in front of them. And so Seb was stuck with a nose that frightened, worried, and stressed him.
But what could he do about it?
Not much.
That was until one day, when he was passing a building site where a cement mixer was mixing cement.
“Could I have a handful of your cement?” He asked mixer man.
“Why?” Asked the workman.
Seb explained he wanted to block off his nostrils for ever, and as cement held houses together for ever, he thought cementing up his nostrils would end all his problems. For ever.
But no.
His blocked nose had changed his voice.
He had never realised that when he spoke, half his words came out of his mouth and the other half through his nose.
So when he blocked his mouth as well as his nose, and spoke, he was the only one who could hear what he was saying.
Try it.
But not in front of anyone. They might think you look a right idiot.
His cemented nose didn’t last long.
In the pub his friend, who was pissed, slapped him hard on the back.
The two cement balls shot out and landed in a bowl of peanuts.
Seb watched in horror as a woman crunched her way through the peanuts. Until the cement did it’s work and sealed her mouth.
But Seb’s snifter problems were nearly at an end.
Joy embraced when he went to the seaside. Now the seaside smelt different. Fresh, clean, bracing, and all the other nice words in the dictionary.
So for a fortnight, for the first time in his life, Seb forgot about his nose. And the effect was wonderful.
First his squint went.
And girls actually smiled back at him when his grimace vanished. And the sea breeze played wonderful tunes as it echoed around his nostrils. Ok, the seagulls trying to peck it were a nuisance but that was acceptable. Seb had made a discovery.
The sea was the only thing he could smell and it was wonderful.
Even more wonderful was the advert Seb saw in the local newspaper.
For a lighthouse keeper.
The lighthouse was a mile off shore. Far from the pooh’s of people and machines.
To this day Seb still polishes the big glass reflectors and lenses of the lighthouse light. Turns the huge electric luminar on at dusk and off at dawn.
And sits happily behind his nose on the circular balcony at the top of the lighthouse, inhaling the pure pong free air of the seaside. Far, far, from the polluting buggers onshore.
Charles adored his feet
He fell in love with the ten podgy little sausages that waved to him when he giggled in his cot.
He discovered how, with little effort, he could pop one in his mouth, and tickle it with his tongue, which made him giggle even longer.
Soon however, his bendy little legs began to straighten, the joy of dribbling between his toes became impossible.
His ten loved ones were growing away from him.
His dismay became relief, that, as he grew older and taller, he realized his feet loved him also, and would never walk away from him.
But as with all relationships, hints of misgivings cued in.
His suspicion that his feet were not all that they appeared occurred after he had discovered wine.
Often, after a few glasses his beloved plates of meat would carry him to destinations his head did not want to go to. They would refuse to follow each other. One moving right and the other stuck stationary, causing him to move in a circle.
His feet were also very independent. Whilst the rest of his body relaxed at a pleasant temperature, his feet remained stubbornly cold, making his wife yell when he planted them on her in bed.
She was also uneasy when she discovered, just after they married, Charles spoke regularly to his feet in such a loving way a twist of jealously wriggled between her and her husband over his feet.
He spent much money on them, creams, slippers, expensive shoes and trainers, cashmere socks, and weekly visits to the chiropodist. He even bought a large fish tank that he filled with small fish. He was convinced plunging his feet into the tank for the fish to tickle his toes cheered them up, and if his feet were happy, Charles was happy. In fact, nothing was too much for Charles’s feet.
He refused to stop when the neighbour complained the sight of his feet sticking out of the upstairs window upset her children and cats.
Explaining his feet could not be deprived of the pleasures felt by the rest of his body, especially being waved in fresh air, did not help.
The reason for his divorce was adultery with his feet. Which left the judge wondering who was the most insane. Charles, his wife, or the feet.
And then one day it happened.
Walking in the park, Charles heard footsteps behind and watched fascinated as jogger gasped past.
Charles had never jogged in his life but almost without thinking he broke into a jog as well, following the man until he ran out of the park.
Charles had never felt his feet so happy, if they could have gurgled they would have done so.
Overnight Charles became a keen jogger, and he found if he spoke to his feet they would respond.
“Come on lefty, let’s go faster.” He would shout, and to his surprise he would gather speed, and even more surprising his right foot would go faster as well, without him telling it!
“Around the bend at full speed.” His feet leaped into action, causing the wind to whistle in his ears.
“Sloooooow,” he would moo, and his racing stride would shrink to a happy patter.
One day he went to an athletic track and watched the runners. To his astonishment, none of them were talking to their feet.
With an easy leap he jumped the barrier and followed the racers around the track.
“Come lefty we can do better!” He shouted. His left responded happily, digging in it’s toe it opened Charles stride almost to double, enabling him to flash past the runners.
The crowd gaped at the lanky man wearing a flat hat and baggy trousers speeding past lithe, polished, super fit, professional sprinters.
The finishing tape had never been hit so hard. It wrapped around Charles and the man holding it was dragged behind the racing Charles.
The crowd though it was all very entertaining, applauding and whistling their glee.
Charles quickly achieved fame as a runner. Marathon or hundred meter sprint He was unbeatable.
Talking to your feet was quickly copied by Olympic teams and included in their trading schedules. It soon became normal at athletic meetings for the runners to yell throughout the race
But it did not work.
Looking and shouting at their feet made little difference to their speed. Their feet just did not respond to being shouted at. Races became slower as yelling competitors could not concentrate on tactics. Also some athletes cheated. Shouting at other racers feet to slow down. This caused arguments and often the noise from the track was louder than from the crowd.
But a problem was looming for both Charles and his feet.
His legs.
Accepted but ignored by their owner throughout their life, the two limbs, as age advanced, withered, weakened and saddened in contrast to the two happy appendages at their extremes.
Whilst the feet exploded into action the legs could only creak into motion.
Speed vanished, Charles realized his mistake far too late. Lavishing attention on just one part of his body had allowed age to grip the other parts.
Charles retired from racing and with his weak legs was unable to walk. Yet every day, until he died, he apologised to his feet for confining them to a wheelchair.
Before he was buried, his feet we examined minutely by medical science to see how his feet ‘heard’.
But Charles secret, if he had one, was buried with him. Even under a microscope, the scientists were unable find on Charles’s feet, the slightest trace, of another pair of ears.
Lawrence’s problem hands.=
The first drama hit as he left the store.
A tap on the shoulder, a firm grip on his wrist and a hustle into the manager’s office. Amazement was shared between the security guard, the manager, and Lawrence at the objects on the desk.A lipstick, an eyeliner wallet, a small bottle of perfume, a pack of false eyelashes, and a bikini, had stopped the accusations.
“For your girlfriend?” The security guard was sneering in triumph.
“Haven’t got one.” croaked Lawrence.
“So why did you shoplift them?” The manager saw a problem looming.
“I didn’t.” Even Lawrence realised he was lying.
The problem was deepening. Not only was the man in front of him with a flat hat and baggy trousers a thief, he was also a lier, and the manager was convinced, slightly insane. The proof had been in his pockets, emptied in front of him yet he had still denied stealing the goods.
Distance was the answer, as much as possible of it to be placed between him and the flat hat.
“Pay for the goods, get out of the shop and don’t ever come back.” The manager turned back to his masses of figures.
“But I don’t want them.” Trembled Lawrence.
He had been made an offer he could not refuse. Scooping up the goods he accompanied the guard to the nearest checkout. He glared at his hands, it was their fault, they had pinched the products when he wasn’t looking.
The second drama engulfing poor Lawrence unfolded, no, exploded, the next morning.
Lawrence was shaving in front of the bathroom mirror. He downed his razor and opened the drawer where he had thrown his ill gotten makeup. His mouth should have dropped with amazement. But it couldn’t.
It was being carefully traced with lipstick.
In one quick movement his right hand had snatched the lipstick from the drawer whist his left hand was brushing his hair. Confounded, he gaped between his two busy hands until, the make up and brushing finished, the lipstick was slipped into his pocket and the brush returned to the drawer and the drawer was closed.
He stared at the back of his hands, turned them over and scrutinised the palms. He had never noticed before how the smooth skin with fingers so slender contrasted with his hairy and muscular arms.
Downstairs, he wiped the makeup from his mouth and, as usual before opening the door, glanced in the hall mirror.
Third drama.
His right hand dived into his pocket, whipped out the lipstick and started furnishing his lips again.Backing away, he watched his hand cap the lipstick and slip it back into his pocket.The moment he moved back to the mirror, the lipstick was snatched out and another layer of bugs blood applied.
Now, whenever he looked into a mirror his hands would apply lipstick. He tried to stop the problem by hiding the lipstick, but as he used his hands to do this, they always knew where it was and so could find it.
He tried tying his hands together which stopped them, but there wasn’t much he could do with his hands imprisoned.So he stopped looking in mirrors.But that did not stop the nail painting, face stroking, or hair brushing.
So he went to the hairdressers. Having his head shaved would at least solve one problem.
Fourth drama.
The moment the word shaved was uttered, his hands, under the cape, shook sideways violently. The moment the hairdresser bent forward with the razor Lawrence’s day imploded.
The girl shrieked as a hand shot out from under the cap and vanished up her skirt.
Lawrence yelped, jumped, and ran in one movement, not stopping until he was four streets away. In a cafe he placed his hands on the table as a truth from life smacked him between the eyes.
He had homosexual hands.
And they were probably gay.
His problems multiplied.
Whenever he shook hands with a woman, his lesbian hands would not let go but continued shaking, until a rap from a ruler he now carried, released the poor girl. Unless, of course the female was also gay. In that case he had he had to rap his hand and the girl.
When he wanted to pee, his hands would not have anything to do with his penis. This made things difficult until he found a compromise, a pair of sugar tongs.
Lawrence did not like wine, but his hands did. While sitting at a bar drinking his beer, a hand would shoot out, snatch the wine from the drinker beside him, and force it to Lawrence’s lips. It was then a case of pay or a pummelling. Lawrence always paid.
A solution had to be found.
He tried a doctor who sent him to a psychiatrist who sent him to a surgeon who sent him back to the psychiatrist. He tried a hypnotist, who sent him to a witch doctor, who sent him back to the psychiatrist.
“What beautiful hands.”
A film star, a famous actress, a glittering lady, was walking towards him. No, she was jogging on the right hand side of the narrow path in the woods. His surprise doubled at meeting such an international superstar, when she stopped and gripped his arm.
Dressed in a stunning sports gear, he thought it strange that she should wear long elbow length gloves.
“Can I buy them?” A glove was slowly pulled off one of her arms.
“And you can have mine.”
Revealed, her hand contrasted with her body as startling as his own. A slender arm was attached to strong capable masculine grip.
“It’s the only part of my body the public is not allowed to view.” She pressed his arm alongside her own, delighting in the match between her wrist and his hand.
The surgical teams worked for several months, analising X-rays and erms. Then for further months, rehearsing techniques and practices. It was decide their left hands should be exchanged first as they were both right handed. Any post operative snags could then be corrected before the second operation. The switch was a resounding success. Within three months Lawrence’s masculine left hand was working as though he had been born with it.
But you can’t take rich persons hand and stitch it to poor person without expecting trouble. His left hand expected the luxury life to continue.
While his right hand would happily grip the handrail to mount a bus, his left would wave frantically, trying to flag down a taxi.
Listening to popular music on the radio, his left hand kept tuning in classical concerts. These confrontations became serious when it became obvious his hands were not getting on with each other. It started with his female hand pinching the skin between the male hand’s finger and thumb, then rapidly developed into open war as each hand punched the other, with the male hand turning into a hooligan.
This could happen anywhere. Naturally the pain of the contact made Lawrence howl, and so it wasn’t long before he was banned from his pub, library, church and his girlfriend’s bed.
But problems always come to an end
A month later Lawrence and his new hand passed out through the hospital entrance. He was careful to introduce them to each quickly to ensure a quiet life.The hands were delighted, they were no longer forced to apply makeup, hand cream, and essential oils they both knew were never essential, and spent the rest of their lives, using spanners, and hammers, and tools of every kind.
And the actress?
She fell in love with her new hands, they in turn were delighted with the dozens of creams and oils that were lavished up them.But the actress did have one problem.
Whenever she shook hands with a gay girl, she had to have a ruler handy.
Jemima and her ears
The roar from the sports car, amplified and squeezed by the tall houses either side of the narrow street, reached a scream as the driver accelerated around a corner.
“That’s it!”
The bedclothes flew. Jemima screamed, shot upright and snapping on the light in one movement, tried to squint into the four corners of the bedroom at the same time.
Nothing and no one.
But the voice had been in her room.
Definately.
The noise from the sports car had disturbed but not woken her, but the words had been loud and clear.
“You will have to move!”
The speaker was close, very close, tightly close but with the reassurance of the light, reason was gaining.
The door was closed, the window locked, the scene was impossible.
“Get back into bed and we will have a chat.”
Jemima’s hands flew to her ears trying to block the frightening voice.
“Sweetie, you can’t shut us out.”
She could hear the voice as if her hands were not there. Where was it coming from?
“Jemima, we are your ears.”
She dropped her hands, she was going mad, her ears were talking to her.
“No. darling, you are not going mad, I am your right ear.” The direction of the voice changed.
“And I am your left.”
Jemima sat quite still, staring straight ahead. Ears did not talk, ears listened.
“That’s true,” said the right ear.
“But we are fed up.” said the left.
“It’s noise, noise, noise, twenty four seven.” said right.
“Noise from the kitchen from your car from the office, around the flat, from the neighbours.” left chanted.
“When you go to sleep we still have to listen – we are exhausted.” Wailed right.
“I am very sorry,” Jemima whispered, why she whispered she did not know. “But that is normal living.”
“Well we are not having it.” Said ears. “It has to stop.”
“I could wear headphone muffs”
“Nasty sweaty things!” The ears said in unison.
“I can’t stop listening.” Jemima couldn’t believe she was talking to her ears. “Just like that.”
Her ears argued, Jemima argued, the situation was impossible.
“There’s nothing I can do, I can’t switch you off.” End of conversation, she turned over and went to sleep.
For how long she did not know.
But the noise was terrible.
It wasn’t the volume it was the frequency, a low gurgle, that went on and on, worming its way into her brain. Ten minutes was enough.
“What’s that noise?” moaned Jemima.
“Your kidneys,” said right brusquely. “Thought you’d like to hear them at work.”
” I can’t sleep.” Jemima moaned even louder.
“Neither can we.” This time it was left that spluttered.
“I’m going to sleep.” Jemima’s head flopped into the pillow.
“Oh no you’re not” chimed her ears.
This noise drowned the kidney gurgle. A loud unhappy sobbing, punctuated with agonised gasps.
“Your stomach,” Jemina was informed. “Hates the rice pudding you had for dinner.”
“All right!” Jemima yelled. “I”ll move somewhere quiet.”
“And get rid of George your boyfriend.” Demanded right ear.”
“We don’t like him.” Said left.
“He keeps sticking his tongue in one of use.” Chimed both ears.
Jemima had no intention of moving. She liked where she lived and she loved George.
“What’s this then?” said her ears.
Jemima was viewing a new flat, and her ears were listening to the letting agent’s pitch.
“It’s no quieter than the old place,” complained right.
“I don’t think this will suit us,” asserted the left.
“It’s still in town.” cried her ears. “Noisy, noisy, noisy.”
“We’ll come back this evening, see what you think then.” replied Jemima.
Five minutes to eleven is not evening, it is night and the time Jemima arrived outside the flat.
But instead of going through the front door and up the stairs, Jemima went down the basement steps and entered through a small door.
At precisely eleven the club opened. 160 decibels of techno pop exploded.
Jemima’s ears almost curled close. The noise was hurting. Her ears were screaming something but the something could not be heard.
The DJ edged up another 10 decibels. Jemima braved the sound tsunami for another ten minutes before she gasped her way to the exit.
Four streets away the rattle from her ears subsided.
‘Oh my god,” left ear was in a state of shock. Right ear remained in paralised silence.
“That,” established Jemima, “is what will happen whenever either of you are out of order in the future.”
The silence whined.
“Do you get my message?”
Her left ear waggled consent. Her right ear moved up and down in acknowledgement.
And the three of them lived together happily ever after.
Virginia and her vagina.
IT could only happen with Henry because Henry was her husband and Victoria was his faithful wife.
And it happened during, no, actually just after their Saturday night bounce.
Usually their bounce bounced on top of the sheets, sometimes on the floor, on the kitchen table, in the dining room, in fact there were very few places in the flat were they had not bounced, and always on a Saturday night.
And the event, you must realize, that when it happened, it was dramatic, even shattering and not painless.
Henry had rolled of his happily panting wife Saturday night satisfied. To his surprise his roll was accompanied.
Victoria finish on top, still panting.
This was unusual, it had been quire a long, fulfilling bounce, but obviously Victoria wanted more, so he obliged.
This time, it was her roll off that was followed by Henry smiling tightly on top her.
“I can’t.” She gasped. ”Not again.”
“Neither can I.” Henry did not gasp, he croaked.
It was not exactly a staring match but each was looking at the other, expecting movement.
But they couldn’t – move that is -apart – away from each other – disentangle – withdraw – pop out. None of the descriptions would work.
“Why don’t you relax?” Henry had never had to ask a woman if he could leave before.
“I have.” Virginia was not being helpful.
“Slide your hands between us and push me away.”
“I can’t, your too close.” Now she was being awkward.
They were Siamese twins, join at their sexes. This fact was established after half an hour of turns, twists, hanging on bedposts and dangles over the bed edge.
” You should be called Vaginia.” Groaned Henry.
“We’ll have to call an ambulance.” Moaned Virginia.
“What good is that?” Henry tried a massive retreat with Virginia between his legs and his feet braced on the wall.
“We need the fire brigade.”
“But we’re not on fire.” Virginia was being sensible.
“They separate people from cars, they can separate us.”
“I’m not having a fireman poking me down there.” She closed her legs in defiance, almost crushing Henry’s jewels.
“If we call an ambulance how will they get to us? The front door is locked.”
“Well go open it, facing each other, walking sideways.”
The paramedics, a man and a woman, were in great difficulties the moment they saw the two crabs swaying in the hallway.
The man had stomach convulsions trying to suppress laughter and the woman was wondering if she had actually wet herself.
“Why don’t you grab his whatsits and pull?” suggested the woman.”
“It’s not in the manual.” giggled the man.
“Don’t you touch my whatsits.” shrilled Henry.
“I’ll get a stretcher.” The woman turned away, keeping her legs closed in case she fountained.
“That’s no good,” the thought almost paralised the man with laughter. “They’ll fall over the edges.”
Victoria did not think it was funny and Henry was suddenly confronted with an awful thought. He wanted to pee.
Passersby watched in amazement as a large white sheet, with four legs walking sideways, was carefully guided into the ambulance by two hysterical paramedics, holding each other up.
The news of their entry and their problem bemused and amused the staff in emergency.
The young doctor had been trained for disabilities, breakages and sickness, not stuck bouncers.
OK, he had the biggest pair of forceps in the NHS, but, as he walked around the couple, inspecting from every angle, he could find no anchorage point, nothing to grab, nothing to yank on.
The senior doctor joined his walk and then a nurse and then a surgeon.
“This isn’t a medical condition.” Asserted the surgeon. ”It’s psychological.”
It was the surgeon’s well proffered excuse when faced with a problem without an ending.
“Can’t you think shrink?” The psychiatrist asked Henry.
Henry explained he had shrunk so much he had almost disappeared.
The psychiatrist pondered.
“It’s your fathers fault Virginia.” He decided.
Virginia during the cross-questioning had revealed the drama. Her father had skipped family when she was seven years old.
“You are frightened Henry will leave you so you are holding on to him.”
Virginia paled.
“When will I let go?”
The Psychiatrist, in true political style, dodged the question by asking another.
“Can we have an anaesthetist?” He barked.
The anaesthetic was inserted as near the entry point as the giggling anaesthetist could get. Silence gripped the circle of fascinated medics as the drug wormed it’s way into the locked passion pouch.
Henry didn’t exactly exit with a pop, more of a bruised slither.
Everyone shook hands, except Henry who was shaking hands with an old bruised friend in the toilet, and retired to an office to drink a glass of congratulatory NHS champagne.
But now it was the next Saturday.
Usually Henry spent the day licking his lips in anticipation.
But this time those lips were pursed with foreboding.
Would the man-trap snap shut?
He really could not be poked, pulled and tickled again in his bedroom, ambulance, and hospital.
They watched TV, only they did not. Each concentrating on their appointment – with the sheets.
“I’m nervous,” whispered Victoria.
“I’m terrified,” warbled Henry. He opened the bedroom window letting in the cold, bracing, November air.
“Don’t push – in case you get grabbed,” advised Viginia.
But a bounce is a bounce and cannot be messed about with. Within seconds Henry was fully committed, Virginia was pulsating with passion and Henry bouncing like a happy bunny, then the deed was done.
Henry rolled, so did Virginia.
“Not again!” he groaned the groan of someone who been taken prisoner, which he had.
There was almost a fight in the ambulance centre to take the emergency call. The emergency ward echoed with howling laughter as the sheet covered crabs arrived.
Two nurses were holding each other up and a doctor slid to his knees giggling hysterically.
“See you next Saturday.” Said the security guard as they left.
Henry opened the bedroom window as usual and flopped onto the bed.
“Don’t you come near me,” Victoria snorted. She had spent the Monday in bed waiting for the anaesthetic to fade before she could walk again. The hospital staff were chucking so much they forgot they had already dosed her once and so she had been double dosed.
“If it’s not physical or psychological what can be the problem?” Henry shivered as the chilled air filtered into the bedroom. “We must have made love thirty times since we met and now the jaws of hell have closed.” But Victoria was not listening.
“Always on top of the bed,” she whispered.
“Unless you count the kitchen table, the couch, the staircase.” Henry never forgot a bounce wherever it was.
Victoria got up and closed the window.
“Lets have a Monday bounce,” she grinned.
“Are you mad!” Henry’s blood pressure escalated.
“It’ll be alright.” Victoria was stripping for action.
Deciding it would be a waste of good blood pressure, Henry joined her party.
Their bounce wasn’t their usual all legs, arms, and shouting, it was experimental. Henry advancing cautiously and then reversing with a look of terror on his face.
“Whooppee!” With a giggle Victoria pushed hard.
“No!” But Henry was home, like it or not.
And a bounce is a bounce and cannot be missed.
Five minutes later Henry rolled off.
Delighted, he lay panting with Victoria, this time, beside him.
“I’m free!” Glee rippled through his body. “But how?”
“I closed the window.” Victoria smirked. “I suddenly realised we’ve always bounced with the window open. So I closed it.”
Bewilderment radiating from Henry’s face prompted further explanation.
“Up to now it’s been warm, but now it’s chilly.”
Henry’s penny still had not dropped.
“My fanny was cold, so it shut up.”
Within 12 hours Henry had the answer.
Three four inch screws – sealing the window frame tightly shut.
Eric and his eyes
“Thank you.” He hardly felt her peck on his cheek. “For a lovely evening” Then she was gone.
Eric watched the girl disappear into the dark. It was always the same. Whenever he took a girl out everything went smoothly – until he looked into their eyes.
Or rather into one eye, which, it did not matter, the result was instant.
“Oh my God!” Would be the girl’s usual cry.
This evening had been the same. OK, so his left eye had been sneaking looks at her cleavage. No problem, but when both his eyes looked into hers and the first ripple of desire washed across his being, all optical hell let loose.
His right eye turned up to the ceiling as the left sank down to the floor.
The girl blinked in astonishment.
Lefty then spun several times through 360 degrees whilst his right eye bobbed up and down from right to left.
His hand on hers quietened her cry of fright.
The explanation that he was doing an impression of Mr Bean got them to the end of the dinner.
‘Can I give you lift home?” From her smile he guessed the answer would be yes.
Until.
This time it was his right eye. It gave her a wink, stared her up and down twice, and ended in a fixed gaze on her left breast.
HIs left eye then repeated the move, this time finishing on her right breast, leaving Eric in a stereophonic sexual squint.
And it left the girl space making between herself and the two blue maniacs in Eric’s head.
The search for an explanation as to why Eric had a pair of rogue eyes had been long.
Doctors, opticians, psychiatrists reports had fallen into the unsolved file folder before it was noticed Eric eye spectacular took place only when he started to have feelings for the girl before him.
The result was unbelievable, unacceptable, and astonishing, but true.
Eric’s eyes were misogynist! They hated women!
Which was a huge problem because the rest of Eric loved them!
So Eric would have been loveless had he not been sitting on the top deck of a number fourteen bus.
She was walking on the other side of the road. The bus, in slow moving traffic, kept pace with the girl.
HIs eyes performed a horizontal squint followed by a high speed vertical one.
A vertical squint is when one eye goes up and the other down before they bob up and down crazily. Think one arm bandit with hiccups.
It was the rippling of loose blond hair that attracted. People emanate character and the first clues are their clothes and the way they move. This girl was saying plenty.
Purposeful, fashionable, and confident. It was the way she placed her feet, swung her hips and threw her shoulders back that mesmerized Eric.
He wanted to rush down the stairs of the bus and sweep her into his arms, then the bus beat him, accelerating away as the traffic eased. But his final glimpse established her destination. The entrance of a famed national institution’s office.
The internet provided him with their office hours and five o’clock the next day his goddess appeared. Moving down the road to the bus stop, carrying a large and obviously heavy brief case.
His moment came as she boarded the bus.
“Let me help you.”
He took the briefcase and sat her down in a double seat where he could sit next to her.
They chatted easily to her stop, which, he lied, happened to also be his and his day was complete when she agreed that they could go together for a drink the next day.
His eyes, he had the feeling we’re going bananas. Probably spinning inwardly in opposite circles the moment his brain realized his estrogen levels were rising.
But this time precautions had been taken.Two pairs of sunglasses built into one. The doubled glazed dark lenses blocked effectively any enquiring gaze.
Their first date was a relaxed and happy success, the second and third also.
When they were together his eyes, apart from creating brand new orbits, would try to see through to the back of his head, but the girl, now as madly in love as Eric, said nothing.
His eyes were not mentioned on their wedding day, or on their third anniversary when she presented him with a beautiful baby girl.
Growing up, the little girl though it was natural and funny that her daddies eyes, danced, swirled and bobbled each time he looked at her mother.
And her father thought it wonderful how much each year his daughter grew into the same image as her mother but with two exceptions.
His daughter’s eyes did not perform the circus tricks like her father’s.
And.
She had no need for the stick and guide dog of her mother.
Bertrand’s bottom
If you were a Scot you would give a hearty laugh, if you were Irish you would probably giggle, if you were Welsh you would wonder at the purity of the tone, and if you were English you would lift your eyebrows in destain.
That is of course had you met Bertrand. Why?
Because Bertrand had a unique backside.
It could whistle. it could hum.It could burp – which should not be confused with a fart. And, wait for it.
It could clap its cheeks together – in applause!
Unfortunately whilst his bottom was noisy, outgoing, and brash. It’s owner was quiet, introvert, and modest.
So Bertrand’s bottom would have remained a private musical treat except for the power of gin and the weakness of tonic.
When Bertrand had had a few his backside took over.
At first his party piece was very basic.
Bertrand would whistle the melody with his mouth, tap the time with his foot, and hum the rhythm with his bottom! At the end of the song, his backside would explode in self congratulatory applause.
How about that?
A one-man band without the band.
It started with small parties, he was invited to perform his backside piece before a few open mouthed friends who didn’t know wether to convulse with laughter or stretch their faces verticle in disapproval.
His first performance in the village hall had the slates vibrating and the rafters rattling when he offered his packed audience the first staged performance of Shakespeare’s speech from hamlet, with a background of anal birdsong – whilst still seated!
From village hall to night clubs to small arenas to bigger stadia until a year after giving his first squeak in his front room, Bertrand’s bottom was center stage at the nation arena Wembley.
America called and Bertrand trumped Trump with his trumpeting backside trumpet.
But being an international celebrity isn’t all gloss, gladeying and gain.
It’s all very well having a rear that makes people laugh and entertains them. But Bertrand realised his control over his bottom was slipping.
His bum was becoming a bit of a handful.
It would explode into song or start applauding inanely without its owner knowing why.
He was banned from the local church because of sermons ruined by the punctuation of backside commas and full stops that sounded suspiciously like farts.
In public toilets Bertrand would open the cubicle door at the end of his sanitary session to find a crowd, most of which were rolling on the floor wetting themselves, waiting for Bertrand’s next volcanic eruption.
Bertrand’s backside needed discipline.
But how do you train a bottom to behave, especially a famous bottom that performs in the blink of an eye.
Apart from trying to reduce their size, the seemed to be no organisation dedicated to reigning in rogue backsides.
It was no good talking to it, his bum could make sounds but not hear them. Threatening it with a swipe of sandpaper or a poke with a corkscrew would be useless.
Smacking it caused a sound like laughter and dropping it in a bath resulted in gurgles of glee.
It seemed Bertrand had been sentenced to a lifetime battle with his insubordinate backside.
Until he tripped over a cable in a TV studio.
He had finished an interview, in which his bottom kept interrupting, and was moving sideways to avoid a camera when his toe caught the end of a cable that had escaped the grip of it’s covering – gaffer tape.
Gaffer tape is the mainstay of the entertainment industry. Used for covering cables, repairing scenery, binding microphones… its uses are endless. It is tough, black, waterproof, and sticks like a limpet to anything it touches.
And that includes backsides.
Bertrand’s backside.
A horizontal strip across both buttocks, a second, vertical, both silenced and immobilised the hooligan.
Bertrand’s life was changed. And he lived happily ever after in full control of his life and his bottom.
Always with a roll of the black beauty nearby.