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Erica pulled on the Shatner mask, rolled the latex gloves up her arms, checked the straps of her costume, glanced quickly over the dusted room – making sure the crucifix was facing away from the bed.

She heard her doorbell ring and, with a frisson of excitement, minced downstairs. At the door she straightened her mask and welcomed the hunched figure who stood in the dim glow of the street lamps.

“Mr. Smith,” she attempted to purr, “How are you?”

Smith said nothing but shuffled through into the threadbare hall and removed his long mackintosh. A grubby tweed suit covered his straining paunch; there was a distinct odour of egg and cheap hair oil about him. He was about five foot two, missing several teeth and with a Charltonesque comb-over. His ears were bulbous and hairy, his teeth yellowing, and his face covered in a patchwork pattern of broken veins.

Deftly Smith expectorated into a handkerchief, snorted, and shuffled upstairs. Erica followed, tingling. He reached the bedroom and ambled in, taking a seat on a wooden chair by the window. His hands searched his pockets and he brought out a pipe and some rough shag. Packing his pipe, he stared out of the windows. Erica could hardly contain herself… behind the Shatner mask a thin sheen of sweat had broken out on her skin. His very presence was making her feel like a naughty school girl, and she could feel the anticipation of the coming sexual clinch tighten all the muscles in her body.

“Feckin’ raining’ all feckin’ afternoon.” Smith growled in his heavy Birmingham accent. “I wes down the feckin’ allotment and it jes feckin’ rained. Had to tell the feckin’ wife I wes going to the Legion for a pint.”

His words worked a treat on Erica, as they always did. She virtually pounced upon him, dragging him to the bed. Slowly and sensually she pulled off his hobnailed boots, and then his socks, loving licking his horny toenails. She noted how he farted with pleasure as she removed his musty trousers, his overlarge hands pulling his shirt off to show his string vest underneath.

Erica straddled him, the Shatner mask askew, and groped for him. The mass of hair and flesh beneath her seemed more flaccid than normal and she looked at him questioningly.

“Yeah, sorry love,” he coughed, “feckin’ post office wes layte wiv’ me pension so I didn’t get no chance to get no Viagra. Looks like it ain’t feckin’ happening tonight.”

Erica was crushed… she lived for these nights. Behind her Shatner disguise she cried as Smith pulled his clothes back on and shuffled downstairs to go to the bookies.

There was always next week though.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sun 6 Jul 2008, 0:35, Reply)