You know when you’re trying your hardest to be as quiet as possible, trying to be silent, that’s when your breathing resembles a Rolls Royce Turbine Engine. Then your heart starts beating like a big brass band, ba doom, badoom, BAdoom, BADOOM. Then you hear the girl’s boyfriend enter the room, while she’s still doing her jeans back up, then through the gap in your hiding place you see him march across the room, does he know? Can he smell the odour of sex? Is the flush of her cheeks still evident? Is it obvious that both the pillows had the indentation of a head in them?

It started way back when, months ago, I was minding my own business, having a drink with the boys down the pub, it was a sunny day, the wives and girlfriends were in the beer garden, well I say garden, they were out on the pavement on the weather beaten patio bench, balancing their vodka limes and sodas, their white wine spritzers, and in the case of the nurses; their tequilas, on the curling wooden top.

I was on my third Carlsberg (king of beers) still savouring the first slurp of the first pint that day, the one I’d been waiting for, for two infuriating antibiotic weeks, the two hottest weeks of the summer, the two itchiest weeks of my life, but the rash had gone and those two Balearic weeks were worth it. Anyway, I digress, there I am pint in hand, smile on face, striped cotton short sleeve shirt fluttering in the air conditioned breeze atop the new crisp stone flat fronted chinos, when she turns straight into my elbow like a woman possessed (she was but that’s a whole other tale). My golden ale arcs out of the Guinness glass, half soaking me and liberally covering Dodgy, Johnson, Big Hugh and Bluey.

It’s like Match of the Day in there, Alan Hansen and Gordon Strachan dissecting the play, the glass, bathed in cool condensation slides oh-so-slowly out of my grip and shatters in slow motion at my feet, on the beer stained stone effect floor. And so begins the hour of evaluating what happened, Dodgy was saying this, Big Hugh was doing that, I was a million miles away still rejoicing that first summer sup of brew. And that’s where it happened.

She was so apologetic, a little drunk and utilising the full Sunshine Factor. You know what I mean, when the Sun comes out in late Spring, early Summer and every girl, every girl becomes attractive, whether is the smell of a fresh Summer day, the haze of a hot afternoon or the copious amount of flesh on display, the Sunshine Factor takes a 4 out of ten and makes her a 6, and a 6 out of ten and makes her a 9, magic.

So there she is, clutching my arm, apologising, sorry, sorry, sorry, I’ll buy you another. I’m still gazing at the shattered pint as the sweaty barman sweeps it away, his feet crunching a few of the widespread shards. Then I notice her sandalled feet, delicately painted pink toenails with a thin chain running from a cheap toe-ring up to a chunky anklet. That’s a nice ankle, sitting perfectly below a very well defined calf, soft, smooth but tight (as a tiger). The further my eyes wander up a phenomenal set of pins the more the corners of my mouth curl up like a summer sandwich left out too long.

She’s jabbering away, flustered, her eyes getting wetter and wetter, with that kind of embarrassed rash, Catholic Girls get, flowing down from her ears down her neck and across a freckled chest (and may I add, touching on a magnificent pair framed by the smallest tightest summer vest I’d seen for a long time), when I kiss her.

Well it shut her up for a minute.

Suddenly I’m lifted off my feet, I’m floating, flying towards my dumbstruck friends, but it’s not her kiss that done that, her wet mouth that clawed away at mine, but her man, or should I say her brick shithouse chav of a boyfriend whose open fist has connected with my chest plate and sent me crashing to the floor. Ouch.

Apologies were made, drinks were bought and that was that.

Except, it wasn’t.

A few weeks passed, she was there without him, we got talking, well she talked I flirted, and as time went by it became friendlier and friendlier until the morning after Pieboy’s birthday. I’d snuck out early doors and waited down by the bridge where she came, pushed me into the shadows and forced (yeah right!) her tongue into my mouth. Back at hers we near ripped at each others clothes, fumbled into some latex and slid effortless together.

Again.

And again.

But you don’t need to know the ins and the outs, as it were.

We woke from a light rest and started again, furiously pushing against each other when more furiously a car pulled into the drive, he was back. I stopped, ears pricked, heard the gasp of the door opening and keys rattle against a tin. “Hide” she hissed, half dressed. I wobbled to my feet, in all my glory, grabbed the shoes, trousers and socks, shirt and boxers and dove toward the wardrobe, his heels thumping on the stairs halfway up. My pulse racing, my feet scrambling, my head in fear of a proper beating, I leapt across the carpeted floor, opened the door and hid.

And that’s how I found myself hiding in their wardrobe, in the massive laundry basket, huddled naked, in amongst the socks.

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