‘Well you didn’t.’
‘Surely you’re not that hard up.’
‘I am. In fact, if you must know, I am now wondering how I am ever going to get out of this hotel.’
‘Well stop wondering. Or you’ll put me to wonder if I’m going to get a chance to commit adultery. Turn out the light. And do tell me. Was our former Master of Foxhounds wearing his five hunt buttons on his pink and white striped pyjamas. You no doubt interrupted him chasing a fox in his sleep. Now watch darling. I’m taking off my clothes, if you don’t mind. Can you see. And darling, the Colonel also once laughed so much at a huntsman who splashed head first into a drink, that he himself toppled like an ancient monument off his horse. Top hat first. And when he regained his feet up to his knees in the black silt, he had the most marvellous long green tresses of watercress hanging like hair over each ear. Hunting does break one’s neck, arm or leg but it does so help uphold one’s sense of humour.’
‘Well madam you’ve certainly thoroughly destroyed mine.’
‘O dear. I hope you’re not that upset. Or shy. Not to look this way. And you will won’t you, since I’m quite without clothes, let me get in that awfully narrow bed. And not let me freeze. It’s a frosty night out. I am a little, if perhaps, more than a trifle strongly made in my quarters. But even in this light, doesn’t what you see cheer you up. And put your mind to more pleasurable things. Now my dear darling shove over.’
Nice to get horse piss out of the nostrils. And feel warm flesh and sniff marvellous perfume. Rid of the fear of a sabre up the rear. One was beginning to feel like the Mental Marquis’ father, the Duke. As well as being some kind of Count Mac-Buzuranti paederast creeping around hotel bedrooms. This arse upon which I now clutch my sinking fingers seems nearly to have been the bane of my entire life. And may, by its firm if over generous rotundity disturb the balance of my mind for all time. Her hands run up and down my back. Her open mouth she puts on mine. Tongue wagging and digging against my tongue all the way to my back teeth. Nearly down my throat. Grabs me tight by the cock. And god. Ouch. Squeezes, twisting my balls. Won’t be able to tell one from the other now. She bites. Married to someone in trade. So considerably below my rank in life. And here in our mutual loneliness we are joined in this present increasingly sweaty endeavour. Crack open one lid. Look up. Can’t believe my eye. When carriages came to Andromeda Park. Cook would look up. And out from between the basement window bars and would draw attention to anyone whose higher station in life was not befitted by their conveyance. And she took no notice whatever of those whose lower station was embellished by their grander vehicle. And Baptista. Throwing the covers back. Lowering ample quarters right down over my pole. Wastes not a second to sit on top. In the shadows. Perched pretty. Like a swallow tucked up under a barn rafter. Ready to fly in the first light of dawn. To snap from the sky insects like me. And be as ominous as any shark in the sea. Comes swiftly devouring. Wagging her breasts. Cantering. Bed springs squealing. Galloping. Slapping me stingingly on the thighs. Giddyyap boyo. She has her nerve. Giddyyap boyo. And no modesty. And thank god, no whip. Or I’d be lashed senseless. Hear swan wings. Great groaning strokes they make on the wind. Wolfhound howls. Who doth it be who hoots. Beyond. Where’s Leila. She is somewhere under some space of sky. Whose hair dark as night goes agleam shining through my mind. Were only these your noises of love. Hear Rashers’ voice. Degradation. That’s what I want to be saved from, dear boy. Sound of a heavy footfall in hall. I hear. In the middle of her groaning gyrations. A pounding heavy thump shaking mahogany door. O my god. What on earth now. Is this new most awful event. The Manager. Could be in force. All the page boys. Waiters. Bartenders. And the Society of Dublin Laity for the Stamping Out of Adultery.
‘Damn it, you in there Kildare.’
That voice. Out there. Of which blissfully groaning Baptista is so utterly oblivious, belongs to the Colonel, Master of Foxhounds.
‘Sir do you hear me in there.’
O my god. Now what have I done to bring him charging down hotel hallways in search of me with his sabre. His head streaming tresses of watercress. Happily, by the sound of Baptista, he’ll already think I’m in throes of death. And no further bloody cuts and thrusts are needed. Good heavens, the lady from Greystones might be commandeering him. To ensure I’ve had the very last private orgasm of my life.
‘I say in there, what’s all that commotion. Sir. I demand an answer.’
‘Please go away.’
‘I shall be glad to. As soon as you sir return my property.’
‘What property.’
‘You sir, have gone off in my socks and damn shoes and I am sir returning yours.’
As I did my shoe and sock transaction between a crack in the door with the Colonel, she laughed her head off into the pillow. Bloody damn girl is easily amused. In the morning a seagull perched crying on the windowsill. Dreamt my ancient man trap was clamped firmly on Baptista’s arse. But wakened by her snores, my fingers were gripped there instead. A soft fuzz at the back of her neck. Long blonde tresses aflow over her shoulder. Roar of trams. Cars honk down on the street. Sun through the curtains. Now the mortification to face Baptista awake, naked and sober, a skin’s breadth away. And here I am already prodding her with an erection as she lolls like a log. One felt the pleasure one might get out of her in bed, that her sort would soon see how the bloody hell she could make you pay for it. And dearly. And miserably. And if anyone in Ireland gets wind of this night, such news will go twitching lace curtain to lace curtain around Thormondstown out the relishing lips of the butcher’s, chemist’s not to mention the ironmonger’s wife. Women in terms of guile and cunning can and do, I suppose, make mincemeat out of men. And now at stroke of twelve noon the phone is ringing. Just as one attempts some sodomy.
‘Sorry to disturb you Mr Kildare, this is the Manager. I have left several notes to ask you to step into my office. Might you be available before lunch this morning. It is in fact a rather large sum concerned.’
Baptista rolling over. Her ample breasts with two dark tipped hardened nipples. Slight alarm on her face, as she slowly wakes and pulls up the blankets. The bottle of brandy. Manager seeing that appear listed under wines, spirits, beers and mineral waters and brought forward on my account, must think I’ve decided so long as I’m going to leave an unpaid bill, I may as well ensure it is whoppingly astronomical. By now room service will instructed to be stopped. Better rush to have one’s last bath. Before they cut off the hot water as well. Perhaps they wouldn’t dare. And one might order a morsel or two of breakfast. Before being published with banner headlines in Stubbs’ Gazette. And every creditor in the country. Including Smyth’s of the Green closes in. Suggest to the Manager I work off my indebtedness washing dishes in the kitchen. Or buttering for the cavalry Colonel. I suppose it’s always worse to worry about something. Better to just face it head on. Hide Baptista under the bed as they wheel in my tea, toast, sausages and eggs. The sun’s beaming. A beautiful day out. And god, with the erection I’ve got. One may as well have one last insertion and exertion. Wrapped now, in a towel propped out like a nomad’s tent. Pitched in a damn big desert. And she’s so nonchalantly yawning at the back of her hand. Must say her face looks more than slightly older than it did last night. And her arse much younger.
‘What’s the matter, my dear boy. You’ve got such a look of concern on your pretty face.’
‘Just a matter I must attend to.’
‘Is there anything I can do. You seem quite upset.’
‘That was the Manager on the telephone. He wants me to pay my bill. Right now. It appears.’