Ring ring
Is that you on the ‘phone?
You think you’re clever
But you’re never saying nothing at all

It was the middle of a lazy Saturday afternoon when the ‘phone began to ring. My parents were out, my sister was away, my gran was at a day centre, and my dog couldn’t use a ‘phone. Moreover, the landline was just outside my bedroom, so it was easy for me to get.

The problem being that I wasn’t really available to answer it. We had decided to take advantage of the empty house and spend an hour or so of having very energetic, very messy and very loud sex; not content with re-aligning her spine on a regular basis, we were now trying to murder my mattress. She was certainly making all the right sort of noises, and tight around my shaft…

I was going to come inside her. I was so close (and she was approaching something like her second or third orgasm), so I couldn’t just stop now, could I?

Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.

“How long does it take you to answer the ‘phone?” squawked Lightsinthesky by way of a greeting. “We were wondering if you were going to come and sit in when we record the song?”

The song! I’d totally forgotten about it. I’d even written a verse myself and hovered in the music room making suggestions while Music Man strummed chords. I owed it to them – and my token black friend (whose song it was, nominally) – to turn up.

“I was… was… going to…”
Are you coming back to bed, love?” she said, loudly and breathily, grabbing my arm and hauling.
“Yes, yes,” I gabbled. “I’ll come…” (at which point she laughed) “…I’ve just got to finish something first. I’ll be there, I’ll be…”

She took the ‘receiver from my hand and hung up. We went back to bed, and half an hour later with my cock still tender and her full of cum, we turned up at Lightsinthesky’s house. None of those present had ever met her before, but one supposes meeting someone in their “just got railed” state isn’t an entirely unpleasant experience.


Later that day my mother deemed it prudent to ask the perfectly innocuous question of what we had been doing that afternoon.

“We went to Lightsinthesky’s house,” I said, perfectly truthfully, “and recorded the song we wrote for my token black friend. It was very good; she was still singing the chorus afterwards.”
“Did you say hello to Dane?”
“Dane. The builder, Dane.”

I knew Dane. He had helped to convert our attic into a third bedroom. But I’d no idea he had been present. Maybe he had come by while I was at Lightinthesky’s?

“I didn’t see him – when was he here?”
“He’s been here all afternoon, finishing the bathroom floor! You didn’t see him? What were you doing for most of the afternoon?”


He’d certainly done a good job on that bathroom floor. Six years later and I was still fucking on it.