Donna's friend

We were entertaining a friend of Donna’s and her girlfriend, Delia, for dinner. Sam was what I believe our American cousins would call a ‘stone butch.’ In normal circumstances she would not have been a companion of choice for me but I had great affection for her because of the care she had shown to Donna during a particularly low period in my lover’s life.

‘My mum and Cassandra were competing it seemed to me to shag their way through the ‘phone book. Mum gave up around the Ls but Donna has got to the Ws and is still at it. That, College, notwithstanding her sharing her bed with Dennis. That poor boy, she makes such demands on him between her other supplicants that he must have a willie like a boy scout’s firelighter. Anyhow, when this Messalinan orgy was in progress I left the bosom of my family and Sam took me in.’ Where she had learnt about Claudius’s wife’s activities and her contest with Scylla I did not enquire; she had a surprising collection of data in her sweet, short-haired head. ‘She took care of me.’

Sam had arrived in traditional butch garb: black jeans, heavy boots and a tight black t shirt. The only incongruity in her appearance was a set of top-hamper that rivalled Nellie’s. ‘She did consider having them off but I dissuaded her. At least they mark her out from the crowd.’ You couldn’t argue with that. Delia, whose father apparently liked cookery and Norwich football club, was a different kettle of fish. She was about twenty years old with long, bleached hair, chewed gum and wore the shortest skirt I had ever seen. It was what my Dad would have called a pelmet but shorter. If she bent more than two degrees from the vertical her choice of underwear was clear to all. Her small chest was barely concealed by a halter-neck top in vivid pink.

There are few things in this life about which I am prejudiced but I have to declare a deep-rooted loathing of the Birmingham accent. ‘Don’t mind College, Sam. She thinks anyone with a Brummie accent should get elocution lessons on the National Health.’ I served a slow roasted shoulder of lamb with rosemary and white wine which met with general approval. Delia decorously placed her gum on her side plate while she ate it. She proved to have a wicked sense of humour although she seemed constantly to want to emulate Sharon Stone for Sam’s benefit and crossed and uncrossed her legs so often and so explicitly that by the time they left I suspected that they’d be at it before they made it to the taxi outside. Sam was a delight. She had wit and a genuinely caring soul.

‘She had,’ I said as I cleared away after they had left, ‘a rather unusual bump in her jeans.’

‘To be fair, College, she has a few unusual bumps, wouldn’t you say? I think that particular one makes up for a mistake of nature, or that’s how she sees it. Personally, I have never felt the need.’ I was at that moment bending over the dishwasher when I felt her hand slide up my thigh and her finger stroked me where silk divided thigh. ‘There’s a few bits of me getting bumpy just now. Care to check them out?’ I finished clearing the dishes the following nmorning.