Come Dancing

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

What can I tell you about Annie, about my kissy-faced sugar dumpling, my one and only true love? It's a tawdry thing we have going, I guess, but I wouldn't like Annie to know I said that. She's a bit, well, she's a bit delicate, a bit naive.

I was introduced to Annie just over two years ago when I was working in London in the first really well paid job I had after my long, arduous apprenticeship behind the scenes in regional TV, and we've been having a red hot, rip-roaring, knicker tearing affair ever since. When I refer to our liaison as an affair that's exactly what I mean - I'm a supposedly respectable married man with three kids, you see, and I intend to stay married. I feel guilty about cheating on my wife, of course I do, but what's a man supposed to do when he finally finds the woman of his dreams? I'm talking about a woman that I lust after relentlessly, a devil woman whose very existence disturbs my sleep while every milligram of my flesh burns for my darling's magnificent presence and my plain, boring but thoroughly dependable missus snores her brains out beside me.

Though Annie is my everything she knows that I'll never leave my wife for her, and hopefully she understands that if she were to get too clingy or, heaven forbid, if she were to threaten to reveal our little secret to the world (and to my dear wife in particular) I'd have to kill her and bury her in the woods. Next to the others. No doubt my little cucumber thinks I'm joking when I tell her that; maybe I am, or maybe it's just an idle threat, I don't really know. Our romance was never meant to be a forever thing. Shit, I didn't expect it to last this long, but it has lasted. Somehow we've managed to maintain the integrity of the flimsy camouflage we rather carelessly drape around our illicit secret. And we've most definitely preserved the thrill of feasting on forbidden fruit. Oh yes indeedy..... Annie and I must be doing something right, because we're still an item after all this time.

Annie is a beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman in the world in my opinion. Unlike many attractive individuals she's beautiful on the inside as well as the outside. She's an absolute darling, honestly she is. As for her outer beauty, well, let's just say it takes some beating. I often tell her that, and I really mean it. I don't say it to keep my beloved sweet, I don't say it to retain the key to her incomparably squidgy honey pot for as long as possible until some other randy git sweeps her off her feet and takes her away from me - unless I catch a whiff of what's in the pipeline, of course, in which case I would slaughter an entire army of rivals if necessary without hesitation, without showing the slightest scrap of mercy. What I have is worth fighting for.....

But forget all that, you should see my baby jive. Fuck, she can move, she can strut her funky stuff like no other woman in the history of creation. White men might not be able to dance – I look like a geriatric donkey in leg-irons and loose-fitting wellies when I dance, or so my bloody wife insists, but I'm not afraid to give it a go. Which is a good thing, because dancing with Annie is the most uplifting experience I've ever had (apart from rogering her until her eyes roll back in her head like a shark moving in for the kill, of course). Dancing with Annie is like tripping the light fantastic in the sweet meadows of eternity with a particularly light footed angel.

Ra-tat-tat-tat, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, Ra-tat-tat-tat, ta-ta-ta oh, fuck that, you know what I mean. Poetry in motion, it is, Annie's dancing. It's what God in His infinite wisdom created her for, but despite her outstanding talent for some reason she decided to dedicate her life to bloody politics. Bo-ring! You'd recognise Annie immediately if I were to reveal her full name, but I'm not about to do that because she'd be as embarrassed as me if our affair ever came out into the open. We're all entitled to a little privacy, surely.

I was working on the set of Strictly Come Dancing when I first met Annie, and initially I was the Assistant Producer's general dogsbody. Marcel, his name was. He never had a kind word to say about the apple of my eye or her dancing skills, but what did he know? He claimed to know a bit about dancing, which may or may not have been true, but he obviously knew fuck all about women. Bloody rude, he was, intolerably rude. Free-range rude, Hannibal Lecter would have called him before casually slitting him open with a Harpy, hanging him upside down to drain his blood into a bucket, expertly dressing his carcass and eating his kidneys with some fava beans and a fine Chianti, and I can't think of a more fitting fate for the jumped up little pooftah. Just a couple of days into the rehearsals I realised that I'd had enough of Marcel's snide remarks when I suddenly lost my temper with the intolerable faggot.

“Look at her, Adrian, just look at her. Look at the way those huge, pendulous tiddies of hers swing perilously from side to side as she moves – have somebody's eye out, they will. They're like the twin udders of a mutant cow grazing in the radioactive fields of Chernobyl while the three-headed milk maid shags the living daylights out of the well-hung octocock farmer in the hayloft for hours on end and forgets to perform her duties.” I was looking, believe me, and if it wasn't for Marcel's poisonous tongue I would have been as close to heaven as I'd ever been up to that point in my life.

“I really don't see the point of inviting completely talentless public figures like that fat old moo onto a show like this and dressing them up in sequinned ball gowns that don't bloody well suit them – it's like putting lipstick on a warthog that's undergone major facial reconstruction at the hands of a seriously myopic surgeon after being involved in an horrific fifteen car pile-up. Look at her! She can't control her hooves, she can't dance to save her sodding life! She reminds me of several sacks of potatoes loosely bound together and dropped from the top of a block of flats onto a wonky trampoline. She looks like an overweight carthorse forced to stand on its hind legs and dance on a bed of hot coals. She looks like three and a half normal sized piggies squeezed into the hide of a single extra large porker and compelled to dance the Fandango with a cattle prod turned up to frazzle-like-fuck mode. She dances like I imagine a water buffalo with a baby elephant sized stomach cancer dances when it's hung from an electricity pylon. No, I take it back! She looks like -”

“Marcel, would you mind stepping into the office for a moment?” I interrupted. “There's something I need to say, and I'd prefer to say it in private.”

“Of course, Adrian, dahling. One moment, I'll be with you as soon as these amateurs finish their shoddy routine.”

“Now, Marcel. This is very important, it really, really can't wait.....

If you ever badmouth Annie again in my presence,” I growled, one hand around the bastard's throat while I brutally twisted his knacker-sack with the other, “or if I even hear about you badmouthing her, I'll kill you, I swear to God I will, and I'll bury you in middle of a deep, dark forest next to the others where no one will ever find your inventively mutilated carcass. And I'll make your demise a long, exquisitely painful one. I know you're partial to a drop of cock, twinkle twat, but you won't like the way I'll fuck you, I promise. Comprende?”

“Nnngh,” Marcel replied.

“I'm sorry,” I said, squeezing his balls harder but releasing my grip on his throat a smidgen. “I didn't quite catch that, you garlicky, half French ponce, you'll have to speak up a bit.”

“Yeth!”

“Jolly good. That's a fine woman you're verbally shitting all over, you dirty homo, a very fine woman indeed. That's the woman of my dreams you're besmirching, do you hear me? I worship the very ground she walks on, I worship her toenail clippings, her belly button fluff and her shit and piddle. I mean every word I've just said, you disgusting shirt-lifter, and don't you ever forget it. Oh, and if you dare to report this incident and I lose my bloody job I'll find you and hurt you wherever you run to and whatever stone you choose to hide under. Okey dokey?”

“Yeth.”

“Good, I'm glad we understand one another. Lack of understanding between intelligent adults is a total bummer, don't you think?”

“Oh, yeth, yeth!”

Marcel was off work for the next couple of weeks with a sore throat. And then, inexplicably, everyone said, he breached his contract, which no doubt cost him a pretty penny. Apparently he minced off to a substantially lower paid job with some crappy satellite station in the suburbs. Bloody queers, I guess they go wherever the stiffest cocks are. Shortly after Marcel buggered off I was promoted to Assistant Producer - wowee! - which was when I started moving in on my target.

She was a hard nut to crack, was Annie. She told me to piss off several times, and on one occasion, when I pushed her to the end of her tether with my overenthusiastic wooing, she implied in no uncertain terms that I should do something physically improbable with a fire extinguisher and a jar of Vaseline while vigorously masturbating to the Nutcracker Suite played at 45 rpm rather than 33. I would have skinned any other woman alive apart from my cheeky bloody missus for that insult, I'm telling you, but not my Annie. Eventually my perseverance paid off and Annie agreed to come for a drinky-poohs with me. Then she agreed to a dance or maybe a couple of dances at a small, dimly-lit club where she was unlikely to be recognised. “At about half ten I'm off, matey, I'm calling a taxi and going home alone, you bet I am.”

Oh, how we danced on that first night, Annie and I - it was the first time in my life that I very nearly come dancing. And that wasn't all. One thing led to another as I plied my beauty with gin and tonics and, surprisingly enough, pints of Guinness, and before she knew what had hit her I was kissing her passionately on the stairway of the bedsit I rented while I was working in London. “Oh, Adrian!” the little belter groaned as my hands explored her improbably vast tatty bojangles after unhooking the reinforced bra that somehow managed to contain them, and then the right fucker, which has always been the most adventurous of my hands, started to sneak almost imperceptibly south. “No man has ever kissed me like that before!”

“That's because they're all blind to your unparalleled splendour, my love,” I whispered seductively, showering her neck and her earlobes in kisses. “That's because they're all shit scared of your super real delights, it's because they're all twatties and knob-ends and fucking turd-burglars like Marcel.”

“Carry me up the stairs as if I'm your bride, call me Mrs. Vaughan and take me roughly from behind over the sink,” Annie growled.

“If I attempt to carry you up the stairs I'll be doing bugger all else for at least six weeks, because you'll almost certainly knock my spine out of place and put me in traction,” I grunted as my wandering fingers struck gold – and what a rich, virgin seam I found. “But that's because you're more woman than any mortal man can totally handle,” I added as I sensed Annie stiffen under my grasp as she pondered whether I'd praised her or insulted her. “Come, walk up the stairs like a good girl, and as soon as I close that door I'm going to rip off your kit and ravish you like no woman has ever been ravished before, you shapely thing.”

“Oh, Adrian!” Annie squealed as I bent her over the sink. “Sock it to me, big boy! Make me have it, you gorgeous hunk.”

“Yeah, I intend to,” I said. “I'm going to make up for all the years of longing we've both suffered, poppet. I'm going to fulfil you completely - but mostly (nicking one of Joan Rivers' old jokes) I'm going to fill you to the point of overflowing.” And believe me, I bloody well did.