It was a great afternoon session. Pints after pint of Furstenberg’s were going down the hatch in the lusty tavern that soaked with Teutonic testosterone. Boris was enjoying his lunchtime tipple and had held fast to one of his father’s dictums: Go to the loo only when it’s really due. The reasoning being, your first visit is a starter for ten. Everyone else had relieved themselves bar Boris when it was time to leave.
Some of the party made a detour into the bookmakers for a quick punt. Boris gambled on Leek Soup in the big race. It was a poor starter and the gelding pulled up lame as the basin that was Boris’s bladder began to gurgle. He willed away the notion to urinate as one pee will lead to another and he had no time for a flood as he had to go back to work in his office block.
The friendly doorman always conversed with Boris and today was no different. The guard spoke about the dribbling skills of Pierre Littbarski as Boris hopped from one foot to the other in a fake impersonation of the bow-legged footballer, then the doorman reminisced of the swimming ability of Michael Gross.
“He splashed the water like an albatross.”
Boris crossed his legs and gripped his flies anxious to be relieved of any more small talk. At a stroke the postman arrived and Boris seized the advantage to flee.
Now encumbered with bloating bladder and bursting appendage Boris bounded to the toilet to be confronted by an out of order sign. With a swish he bats the sign in anguish. At that moment he heard the noise of a floor cleaning machine. Turning round the corner in the desperate throes of agony he saw the cleaning lady, Minnie in a pinny, and a startling metamorphosis took place in his loins. For ages he had wanted to get this woman alone and have a multi-stroked rally with her. He knew she knew he wanted her and she knew that he knew that she knew this. Knew was their chance, sorry, now was their chance for consummation.
A broom cupboard happened to be situated on this floor and they entered with their tongues locked in a stringed saliva kiss clinch. He whipped off her pinny and she wrenched out his racquet. The engorged Boris was caught in a cataclysmic dilemma and wondered if it were possible for one type of fluid to bypass the other as his urinal tract screamed “man the lifeboats”.
“I don’t want a love child. Take this.” Minnie handed Boris a rubber cleaning glove. “Pick a finger.”
While Boris mulled over the choice of using the thumb or forefinger Minnie wrung out a pungent wet mop that was in the cupboard. The trickling water pushed Boris to breaking point and he sprayed a bright yellow stream into the mop pail. Boris’s biblical starter for ten was unrelenting and put the pinniless Minnie in a Paxman mood. “Hurry up.” Soon bored with waiting Minnie went back to buffing the floor.