Mr Kipling, she trained to come in half-way through and claw at the schoolboys’ bare arses. She liked the thought of them leaving with a reminder of her and her cats. It pleased her more than most of the fucking ever did.
Lorna Feargal reckoned it was bullshit what they said about frequent exercise leading to weight loss. She tipped the scales at twenty-three stone. She was pretty much couch-bound. She got her boys to bring her what she needed. For cat food and cakes, she let them do more or less what the hell they liked.
She told each new boy, ‘this ain’t no Mills and Boon’. Cig-stunted sons of too-young mums, or inbred hill farm folk. Most either too plain dumb or ugly ever to hope of getting a girl of their own; some screwed-up enough to poke their dicks up half the herd given the chance, least that’s how they smelled.
Lorna figured she must lose a few pounds each time, then put it all on again and more by living off boy-brought Bakewell Slices the whole week after. Almost all of them screwed their eyes shut and imagined they were fucking someone else. One kid even crowed the name of some Look-In centrefold every time he climaxed. They didn’t even seem to notice when the stray came clawing. Lorna dug off her knickers and popped open her blouse. That’s when she said it – ‘this ain’t no Mills and Boon’. The stench of cat litter seeped from her pores. The TV in the corner murmured daytime talk shows. She lay back and watched light poke through a chink in the curtains. She never much found herself wishing she was anywhere else.
Then one day, she fell in love. Head over heels, if she’d had the frame. With a hunchback kid less than half her age. She cried herself to sleep at night. She sent out for tee-lights. She cleared the fur-balls. Yeah baby, it was love all right.
She knew he was special soon as Mr Kipling wouldn’t claw him. He’d said, ‘I want to learn how to do it right.’
She’d said, ‘this ain’t no Mills and Boon.’
He stood shy, stuck-fast in his pants. She shook her head and pulled him in. After, she stroked his skew-iff spine while he breathed warm on her breasts. She said, ‘you got a girl?’
He said, ‘I’m kind of hoping.’
2 The Hunchback Kid
The girl the hunchback kid kind of hoped for worked the big attraction at the travelling fair. He helped out most summers, oiling the teacups ride or sweeping spent lucky dip wraps. Not out front: he was bad for business. Five year olds stared at his hump and clung tighter to their mothers. The older lot called him names. Terry Sleightholme threw pennies and did a mean Elephant Man. He shouted, ‘roll up, roll up for the freak show!’ The hunchback kid had got used to seeming like he didn’t give a shit. His mother used to say it made him special. Not special enough to stop her dumping him in his cousins’ back-yard when he was five years old. A note slung round
Lorna Feargal reckoned it was bullshit what they said about frequent exercise leading to weight loss. She tipped the scales at twenty-three stone. She was pretty much couch-bound. She got her boys to bring her what she needed. For cat food and cakes, she let them do more or less what the hell they liked.
She told each new boy, ‘this ain’t no Mills and Boon’. Cig-stunted sons of too-young mums, or inbred hill farm folk. Most either too plain dumb or ugly ever to hope of getting a girl of their own; some screwed-up enough to poke their dicks up half the herd given the chance, least that’s how they smelled.
Lorna figured she must lose a few pounds each time, then put it all on again and more by living off boy-brought Bakewell Slices the whole week after. Almost all of them screwed their eyes shut and imagined they were fucking someone else. One kid even crowed the name of some Look-In centrefold every time he climaxed. They didn’t even seem to notice when the stray came clawing. Lorna dug off her knickers and popped open her blouse. That’s when she said it – ‘this ain’t no Mills and Boon’. The stench of cat litter seeped from her pores. The TV in the corner murmured daytime talk shows. She lay back and watched light poke through a chink in the curtains. She never much found herself wishing she was anywhere else.
Then one day, she fell in love. Head over heels, if she’d had the frame. With a hunchback kid less than half her age. She cried herself to sleep at night. She sent out for tee-lights. She cleared the fur-balls. Yeah baby, it was love all right.
She knew he was special soon as Mr Kipling wouldn’t claw him. He’d said, ‘I want to learn how to do it right.’
She’d said, ‘this ain’t no Mills and Boon.’
He stood shy, stuck-fast in his pants. She shook her head and pulled him in. After, she stroked his skew-iff spine while he breathed warm on her breasts. She said, ‘you got a girl?’
He said, ‘I’m kind of hoping.’
2 The Hunchback Kid
The girl the hunchback kid kind of hoped for worked the big attraction at the travelling fair. He helped out most summers, oiling the teacups ride or sweeping spent lucky dip wraps. Not out front: he was bad for business. Five year olds stared at his hump and clung tighter to their mothers. The older lot called him names. Terry Sleightholme threw pennies and did a mean Elephant Man. He shouted, ‘roll up, roll up for the freak show!’ The hunchback kid had got used to seeming like he didn’t give a shit. His mother used to say it made him special. Not special enough to stop her dumping him in his cousins’ back-yard when he was five years old. A note slung round