What Rhymes with Bastard?. Linda Robertson
Comforted, I grew calmer. We had a few minutes of silence while he stroked my hair. ‘It’s OK.’ I sniffed. ‘You know, I feel kind of a sense of relief. Denying it all this time, when it’s fine not to write stuff. Who cares?’
‘Well, maybe you don’t need it to be my lovely Bun, but you might need it to be a happy, fulfilled rabbit.’
How annoying. Not just the herbivore references – he wouldn’t let me off the hook. All of a sudden I had an idea. I sat up, still sniffing. ‘I know! I could write about all the freaks I meet here!’
He squeezed my hand. ‘That’s a great idea. You’ve got all this time, Bun, and you’ve not had it for years. You deserve to put it to good use. If nothing else, it’ll make you feel better. You can write short stories.’
‘Can’t do anything that long.’
‘Poems, then.’
‘Nobody reads poems except other poets.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What if I stuck a tune on top? Then they’d be songs. And maybe a few people will listen.’ I’d written a song once, to promote the use of dustbins on school premises. I was back on track, so we got some dinner, and then returned to the house, where Jack immediately conducted a bottom inspection. It was a new habit of his, and it got on my nerves.
‘Hmm, let’s see. Turn round.’ He put his hands inside my knickers and started feeling around. ‘Oh, it’s been trimmer – it’s been trimmer! You’ll have to keep hopping up those hills, Bun!’ Soon his hands were round my waist, then inside my shirt, and he seemed to have forgotten about my below-par backside. ‘I love you, Bun.’
‘I love you too, Chief.’
Lips met and tongues coiled together as he began to unpeel my skirt; my clothes always seemed to be falling off when Jack was around. Suddenly he disengaged. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s do it standing up.’
‘What? No.’
‘Well, how about the other way, then? It feels nice, you know. I stuck that corn-on-the-cob up my arse and it was … you know … It felt good.’
I was sick of hearing about that damned thing, a plastic corn-onthe-cob vibrator we’d been given as a wedding present. I’d thrown it out after he’d claimed repeatedly to have stuck it up his butt. ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘I still don’t believe you did it. Or with the wine bottle.’
‘I did it! It was just the spout. Why don’t you believe me? Why would I lie?’
‘Look, Jack, I’m not having anal sex with you.’
‘So let’s do it standing up, then. Go on!’
‘No.’
‘Christ, Lins, you’re so boring.’ He went to bed in a huff, his face turned towards the wall. What was going on? He’d never asked for stuff like that when we were in London.
I spent much of the next day working out a song on my accordion. When Jack got home from work, he hugged me and the accordion, and asked if we could have sex standing up.
‘No.’
‘You can take the accordion off.’
‘No.’
‘Please, Lins. We always do it lying down.’
‘I like lying down. Why do something standing up when you can do it lying down?’
‘Go on.’
‘I want to play you my song.’
He stepped back and crossed his arms. ‘Go on, then.’
My Landlord is a Pervert
My landlord doesn’t live here, and that’s a piece of luck
Coz he isn’t very fussy about what he likes to fuck.
My landlord is a pervert, and that’s all right with me,
He keeps the house in order, and sometimes stays for tea.
He keeps his books at our place – philosophical texts,
Nietzsche, Kant and Hegel on the ins and outs of sex.
My landlord is a pervert, and that’s all right with me,
He keeps the house in order, and sometimes stays for tea.
He is awfully fond of enemas and he does them in the park,
Finds an unsuspecting vagrant and makes his muddy mark.6
My landlord is a pervert, and that’s all right with me,
He keeps the house in order, and sometimes stays for tea.
He is best friends with a male prostitute and a Satanist called Steve,
They hang out in hard-core nightclubs with sailors on shore leave.
My landlord is a pervert, and that’s all right with me,
He keeps the house in order, and sometimes stays for tea!
‘That’s great, Bun! So, can we do it standing up?’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘I’ll get cold.’
‘Go on – put your wedding shoes on and then you’ll be tall enough.’
He was starting to get snotty, and I couldn’t stand being frozen out. ‘Back in a sec,’ I said, and trotted off to the kitchen for a swig of vodka. The wedding shoes were six-inch platforms with black leather ankle straps. I did up all the little thongs and wobbled to a precarious upright.
‘Christ, Lins.’ He grinned. ‘You’re so fuckable! Stand up! There you go. See, we’re nearly the same height now so we can do it like this. It’ll fit.’
I felt horribly exposed without a bed on one side of me, like a giant whiting fillet. The 3-D nudity was especially awkward in those ridiculous shoes. And how was I supposed to come? I couldn’t twiddle myself to a climax with Jack in the way. Still, it was probably worth it; otherwise he’d be a grumpy sod. Five more minutes, I told myself, and I’d be back on the bed, reading my book.
‘Bend your knees a bit, Bun.’
I assumed the don’t-get-pee-on-your-shoes position while he shoved, blindly.
‘Help me, then, Lins. A bit of guidance, for God’s sake.’
I sighed. ‘Is this going to happen every time I wear these shoes?’
He oiled the machinery with spit and tried again. ‘Aah, that’s it.’ Uuup down up down up down up down up down up down up down up down up … My shoulder-blade kept knocking against the door jamb. And I was cold.
The best thing about fucking was that I got to lie down.
‘You’ve got to have enough money. That’s the most important thing.’
Mum
If I’d held on to my career, it would have been easier to hold on to Jack. But who was I to make the rules