Jelly (Sex)

By the time they had finished the sheets were drenched. A hefty
wringing of the things with a pair of good, meaty fists would have
extracted enough bodily fluids to make a jelly. A sex jelly.

They looked about them in disbelief, gentle splashing sounds issuing
from beneath them as they jockeyed for position, sudden spasms of cramp
contorting their fever ridden faces. It had been one hell of a turn, a
magnificent lust wander, a marathon in stiletto's with not a drink in
sight. God that was fun, they croaked together, as they lay side by
side once more and turned their heads to face each other; knackered,
goofy smiles breaking forth. She stared at him in absolute horror.
'Christ it's not starting again is it?' he pondered, before realising
that the intensity of her expression was something that obviously
required a moment or two of apprehension.

'What is it? What is it!' he asked, immediately wondering what it was
that had felt different after he had uttered these words.

'The mirror. Go and look in the mirror'.

He slid out, trailed over to the mirror and gazed. Jesus he looked
ropey. His hair had decided on a sea change of attitude to the way it
lay on his head; adopting a more confrontational approach, offering
angles of expression that were way out of kilter with his social
standing. His eyes peered out at him like a couple of Sumo wrestlers
belly buttons. The nose, well that just wasn't happy at all,
cultivating it's most huffety puffety look as it observed it's newly
dented tip; obviously having had some kind of head on impact which it
hadn't been built to handle. And then his mouth - his mouth was splayed
out all over the place with what looked like a lipstick suicide
covering the entire bottom half of his face. Thank God they can't see
me like this he thought.

He turned round to the woman laughing. 'You mean you're not bothered?'
she asked.

'Well you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs', he laughed
again, turning back to the mirror and making a snap, and very
understandable decision to drop the look of hilarity for one of
unalloyed terror.

Where there had once stood a proud battalion of shiny, white, perfectly
formed and symmetrical teeth, an Elite Republican Guard of molars,
incizors and canines ready for any eventuality, there now sat gums.
Gums spurting the odd little embarrassed plop of blood. Gums that
didn't quite know what had hit them. Dazed, shell-shocked, unbelieving.
It had been an oral apocalypse.
'Moy pfeef!', his mouth fumbled, 'Wmare ma fuck ar ma pfeef!'. He slid
over to the bed and frantically began to rip apart sheets, duvets,
pillows; feathers spilling everywhere, becoming covered with the
copious goo until the scene resembled some ecological nightmare
precipitated by a gigantic sex spill. 'Whaat am I moing to moo! Whaat
am I moing to moo! Flease tell me whaat I am moing to moo!'

It was a serious question. In an hours time he had a most pressing
engagement. One that required a presence more dignified than this; one
that would not withstand such picturesque impropriety.
His frenzied search had only relinquished half of his teeth, and now
the couple began an inspection of their bodies, finding the things
embedded in the fleshier parts of their anatomies, the final tooth -
only recently capped by his friend and Dentist Johnny Islington, the
man with the purring drill - appeared hanging tenaciously from his
right buttock. My God what had they done. It was all a blur.

Laying the recovered teeth on the bed he tried to assemble them in the
order they had once
appeared, sticking a torch into the womans mouth to work out the basic
geography whilst picking them up one by one and running his tongue over
the backs and edges of them to get the feel right. Fifteen minutes
later he was sure that he had cracked it, his teeth laying out in front
of him like some magnificent tooth reunion party; old enamelled buddies
relaying tales of their eventful journey through life with bravura and
elan. One could almost feel touched at such a sight.
He squelched over to a drawer, pulled out a tube of glue, and carefully
trailed a thin strand across his gums. One by one he started inserting
the teeth back into their cavities, the glue providing an extra
anchor.

The door bell rang. It was time to go. He swung round to the woman.
'Just made it! Let's do it again soon Virginia'. His hand reached down
and hurriedly thrust the remaining items into his mouth. And then he
was gone.

The woman lay there, quietly smoking a cigarette and pondering over the
thought of a cup of Lapsong Souchong and a piece of Pecan Pie, the
afternoons ooze forming little shiny puddles on the carpet. Her
hairdresser would never believe this one. This one really took the
biscuit. Her mind languorously wandered along, the room beginning to
take on it's old shape again; the air relaxing and the early evening
sunlight peering inside to survey the damage. She slowly ran her hands
across her body and let out a scream that shook every bone in her
back.

Downstairs Mrs Harris looked up in disgust at the darkening patch that
was forming on the ceiling above her beloved sofa. It would have to
worry her now. Just before Tony was about to speak to her on the TV.
What had they been up to now those blasted weird people. Him going on
about 'more medals, more medals' and her yelling 'Now Muttley Now!'. It
had been giving her the heebeegeebies. There should be a law against
it. Blasted weird people were everywhere. Even the Postie had a thing
in his nose and a funny look in his eye.

But it was Tony's day today . Oh yes it was all going to pick up from
now on. There'd be big signs all over the land. No room for the blasted
weird people here! Tony was a nice man, an upright man, a peachy man.
Tony's mother was meant to have a sofa just like this one. Oh it was
marvellous, a sofa you could curl up and die in. Only now it was being
dripped upon; thick glutinous liquid falling onto the beautifully
brushed upholstery. FIDDLE! FIDDLE! FIDDLE! FIDDLE! Never mind. Control
yourself Hilda. Think of the animals. Just catch it in your Michael
Aspel mug.

She settled herself down into the armchair, turned on the T.V. and
waited. She'd once had a boyfriend called Tony during the war. He
worked for British Intelligence cracking German codes. Only he never
got any and in the end they'd had to let him go

And there he was. Today's Tony. Sitting at the newly acquired Desk Of
Office, his charmingly impish face appearing more flushed than usual,
his nose slightly at odds with how she remembered it.

But his address to the country was absolutely smashing. Yes he told
them alright. This was a new beginning. The first page in a book of
huge promise. He had been set a challenge and looked forward to facing
it with the help of YOU - the people of this great land. Thank
you.

The camera slowly moved in until his features crammed the screen and a
juggernaut of a smile screamed out into the living rooms of the nation.
Mrs Harris clutched her chest. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
With his mouth. There at the front. Those top two teeth. They weren't
teeth. They were ........ nipples.

The screen went dead and her throat went dry. She reached over for the
Michael Aspel mug.