Rebel Without A Mask

Legless looked at Beryl: still and cool. She was breathing deeply but silent. After making love, Beryl had dropped off quicker than a belch, hardly moving from her back—not a snore, a sniff, or even a mutter. Years of maintaining a beehive hairdo can do that to a woman. Well, that and a childhood spent sleeping in a cabin bed the size of a small trunk. Beryl always fell asleep before Legless, but tonight was different. They had made love, and now he was watching her. It had been a long time. He stared at the stars from their window. No matter how many planetariums they had been to, he was still confused; he had no idea what stars were which. Sometimes he thought he recognized something, perhaps the Milky Way. He knew Planet Hy Man was somewhere in the same region; he had heard Beryl talk of it. There were times he had looked at the stars and yearned for home, to go back, wreak havoc on Beryl and her Voted In’s, cause a downfall, and have her at her knees. But not now. Tonight he looked at the stars through the exhausted eyes of a man after a satisfying shag. It had been a while, and despite Beryl’s lack of interest, he had pulled it off, turned her on, pleased her like the good old days when they first “hooked up” on Earth. He made his way downstairs, heated up yesterday’s coffee, and, sipping with an “arrrrh,” pulled out his writing implement. He typed: “The Conquest of Beryl.” This will have them on the edge of their seat. He smiled. They’ll have to let me make a speech now . . . This will have them on the edge of their seat. They’ll have to let me make a speech now . . .--- When they’d first slept together on Planet Hy Man, Legless had dropped off quicker than a nose dribble, his smooth face as peaceful as a monk. Legless had taken Beryl by surprise; after a lusty eye exchange and a quick fumble, Legless led her to a cupboard of a room. “Let’s see what we have here,” he whispered. And before she had time to answer, her leathers were off, her corset untied and erect on the floor, and Beryl was gasping on a trolley the size of her childhood cabin bed. He was a young man enjoying the luscious effects of Planet Hy Man’s atmosphere. His nose was a silent hair-free breathing apparatus, while his bladder was strong, capable of holding a keg of beer without a dribble. And as for his apparatus, it was as efficient as a fire hose, quenching pent-up passion that took them both by surprise. As Beryl’s back arched in pleasure, he moaned, sighed, then rolled off, asleep before he hit the floor. Landing on a pile of laundry, he didn’t feel a thing, let alone wake up, unaware that he had the legendarily coldhearted Beryl crying with laughter . . . Years later, when Legless took Beryl for the first time on Earth, it was more a fumble, the eye exchange more wistful than lusty. There was no comedy fall, more a delicious sigh as they lay on the floor, spread-eagled, with surprise. Neither had any idea that their body could pull off past antics with such precision. Afterward, a sweaty and still-a-little-stunned Legless headed into the kitchen. “Fancy a cuppa?” he yelled while Beryl stumbled to the bedroom. “OK,” she yelled back with no idea what a cuppa was. She slid under the sheets and almost giggled. It had taken a few months for Legless to “conquer,” as he liked to call it, despite Beryl visiting almost daily. The sheltered accommodation Archie had arranged was not exactly what Beryl was looking for. She found the constant wandering of inmates a tad disturbing, the warden’s early morning call as inspiring as the mobile hairdresser trying to talk Beryl into a “less dated” look. She preferred Legless’s home, and once she learned to drive, she was never out of the place, despite the mess, derelict cars, and broken hen house. She couldn’t stay away. Beryl had taken to driving like a child to McDonald’s. It had been a year since Beryl and Legless met in Edinburgh. A year since Bunnie, with a toot of her horn, picked Beryl and Legless up from the B&B, since Beryl first pressed the accelerator of a car . . . Bunnie had been driving Beryl and Legless to their new home in Dunoon when a foot cramp struck like a sledgehammer. Bunnie, mid steering, let out a shriek, and Beryl, without thinking, grabbed the wheel. Her ability to maneuver Bunnie’s four-wheel onto the Dunoon ferry surprised not only Bunnie but Beryl herself. She had only driven once—on Planet Hy Man—and she’d been so young she could hardly touch the peddles. Legless, dozing in the back, jumped to attention, and before he could get a word in about gears, she was changing them, sliding Bunnie’s four-wheel drive into a parking space like a seasoned taxi driver. A year on, Beryl still jumped behind the wheel excited as a teenager in a p**n shop. She loved cars; she loved driving, especially to Legless’s home and his animals—or his “menagerie,” as he liked to call it. She loved to stroke “Sophia,” his scraggy cat, toss leftovers to his moth-eaten dog, Bark Twain, their earthy smells mesmerizing her until she let them inside. Feeding his hens—or “the girls,” as he liked to call them—fascinated her as much as their names: Gina, Lollo, Bridget, and Bardo. She could spend hours watching them, not to mention Charlton Heston the cockle with a strut so majestic even Bark Twain stopped to watch. But what she loved most was to watch Legless light his fire for her to sleep by on the couch. He had a nice back, apart from his thin ponytail trailing down it. She never said anything, but Legless read her mind, and one day the ponytail was gone and Legless was feeling hopeful. Beryl arrived to find Legless bent over the hearth, cleaning with a grunt. He lit his standard minuscule fire lighter and waited for the flames to take hold. The flames flickered, illuminating his perfect round skull. She stopped. “Shall I get the blankets?” he said without turning around. “Not tonight,” she said. He looked at her with a grin. “Let’s give that IKEA bed of yours a go,” she whispered. Bark Twain poked his head around the corner, took one look at Legless’s naked rump straddled across Beryl, and made for the kitchen, his cushion, and a bowl of water. Umpteen moans later, Beryl looked out from his IKEA bed with the sort of smile she hadn’t cracked since Legless left Planet Hy Man. The sort of smile that would have the Voted Ins and Bunnie choking on their caffeine. It was a smile that lit up her face; she glowed. She had really missed Legless: the smell of his warm body, his ability to not only push the right button but do it for the best length of time . . . a knack not even human men knew of. A couple of minutes under Legless’s hands and she was back in that cupboard of a room getting to know her private bits like never before. She slid further under the sheets, peering at the bedroom they had decorated together as Legless entered the room dribbling tea from two mugs. She eyed his thin legs poking from his baggy boxers and started to laugh. “No pickling milk,” he muttered. “Milk? That stuff from cows?” She pulled a face. “I heard it makes men grow breasts.” He looked at her, stuck out his flat chest, and laughed. “Like these?” he said. She stared at his sprinkling of grey hairs and sighed. He handed her a mug; she sipped, pulled a face. “No caffeine?” she said. “Not what you like,” he muttered. “Packet stuff, way worse than that.” He gestured to her mug. She sipped again. The taste grew on her. A bit bitter, but . . . she gulped another mouthful, swallowed it down . . . it warmed her. “I could get used to this,” she finally said. Soon he had a cupboard full and was trying teas like a true tea jenny. And each time Legless pleasured her, it was he who opened the cupboard and stared at the growing number of packets, shouting . . . “Herbal? Earl Grey? What is Ma’am’s pleasure today?”