Then one day he was sitting on the step of his caravan when a red Ford Capri approached. It stopped at the entrance to the site and a woman got out. Ishmael knew her. He ought to have done. It was Debby. She had never looked better. She was fashionably dressed. She had had her hair done short and stylish. She had also evidently learned to drive.
‘Debby,’ he said, when she reached the caravan.
‘Barry,’ she said.
They touched hands and soon found themselves in a passionate embrace, holding each other desperately. They went into the caravan, took their clothes off and got into the narrow bunk.
And then Debby did a most uncharacteristic thing. Before Ishmael knew where he was there were torrents of hot semen coursing like molten lava down Debby’s moist, yielding, eager throat. She kissed him thickly on the mouth, leaving his lips streaked with his own sperm.
‘Oh Debby,’ Ishmael said. ‘There was Mount Fujiyama in my own carport the whole time, but I had to travel very far before I knew where home was.’
‘Barry,’ Debby said after a moment’s consideration, ‘you do talk a lot of crap.’
That was the nicest thing anybody had said to him for a very long time.
EOF