The Wank

You know that bloody feeling when you’re a teen

Something keeps popping up at any reason even the sight of Bet Lynch

On a Monday night

You’re sweating thinking in your translucent semi erotic dream

I must attend to this intercontinental ballistic missile

Or face death come crustation

You make the usual excuse off to read a book in your room

Your mum smiles thinking

“It’s nice to see the lad taking an interest in literature”

Your arty literature is reader’s wives from Milton Keynes

Your eager for your regular wrist workout.

The quilt is getting increasingly crusty through multiple workouts

Thinking does your mum notice?

Will she have to use a chisel when its laundry day

But for now you are lost in an erotic dream of Coronation Street

Your imagination is going full on, dreaming of hanging on to Bets Lynch or Hilda’s Ogden’s earrings

Then you hear a clatter at first you ignore it your too far gone

Then you realise its Bob the window cleaner’s day

You quickly spin round pretending to do a Mr Motivators

Day time work out

His head appears in the window “saying nice day for it”

As your ballistic Missile explodes and adds another layer of crustation

Finally Bobs head disappears again down the ladder

You turn over again relieved.

Saying to yourself bloody Bet and Hilda

Almost dropped me in it again

 

©Martin Hickman; June 2014