The Real Story Of 'O'

2. Poker

Chapter Two

Poker

A card shark relies on more than his hand to win the game.

Francis sighed; poker was not her game. She preferred whist nights, but as there were only the three of them, she was outvoted. There was a time when her living room was full, bulging with card players . . . not now. People were getting about in Zimmers, staying in, or worse: dying off. Not that the good old days were really good old days; Beatrice was a pain before she met George.

Back then, Francis worked in the Stables, a café busy with schoolchildren at lunchtime and young mothers in the afternoon. A café that sold chips and cheese with everything in portions that filled a dinner plate. Beatrice always came in the day after a card game, crashing past the tables and schoolchildren with her bag of two pennies from the nights’ winnings. Watching Beatrice count out coppers was as painful as a leather G-string a size too tight—which, from the way George was sitting, was probably what he was wearing.

Thank god she didn’t work there anymore. Thank God Beatrice had hooked up with George and thank God they were back together again. Although they could tone it down with the s*x innuendos.

Beatrice slid her cards on the table, leant back in her chair, and sipped her dram. George seemed distracted, uncomfortable; she looked at his familiar weather-beaten face and wondered about his underwear. Possibly the elephant. It’s been ages since that has appeared.

For ten years, their on-and-off relationship had been held together by a series of undergarments that was, thanks to a few loose-tongue posties, the talk of many.

George’s underwear was part of his ensemble, part of the rich tapestry of their love life, lifting the mundane roll-on/off missionary position to delights of laughter, stripping, and, well . . . more laughter, although they both drew the line at selfies.

It all started with the codpiece—a codpiece George wore ten years ago, when they shifted from platonic spitfire friends to lovers.

The “first time” had been a bit of a fumble, accompanied by the odd “wait a minute, shift your leg” shuffles and ending in a soft moan.

George, unable to measure if that soft moan was for pleasure or “thank God it’s over,” was not satisfied; he prided himself on making a woman happy and couldn’t leave it there. He wanted to make their first time unforgettable—not easy when you knew every move possible but no longer had the capabilities of doing half of them, especially when competing with past memories of a happy marriage, pre-wheelchair days.

George had a plan B: a prop.

He slid into the bathroom and appeared, silhouetted by the mirrored light, in the codpiece . . .

The same codpiece Beatrice, along with Sheryl, had seen worn over a panda suit at a wrestling match. The same codpiece used to seduce Sheryl’s belly dancing teacher, Nefertiti, by her partner. And the same codpiece Nefertiti discarded when her partner became her ex.

It was a stunning piece of equipment, and minus the panda suit even more so. George had found it in the local charity shop, discarded like an old tissue. It was sitting in a box under the shelf marked “costumes”; some of the ladies thought it was a mask. George, however, could not believe his luck.

This codpiece had a story, and now they could add their own . . .

All it took was a few pelvic thrusts in time to the bathroom fan and Beatrice was laughing like she had smoked a ton of dope.

They never looked back.

Orgasms were no longer fought for but naturally evolved at the end of a George experience. And if they didn’t, who cared?

A G-string slung across the room to the tune of whatever George had chosen was often enough: the laughter, the silliness.

It’s a tough job, George told himself, but someone has to do it.

George developed new innovative ways to move a codpiece, discovering a side to him he never knew existed, and it was not long before they began to explore other undergarments, spending hours on the internet, studying sites for something different . . .

“How about this?”

“Interesting.”

“Intrusive.”

“Noisy.”

“Bit gymnastic.”

“Is that possible?”

And no matter how many times they looked, George always surprised her.

After a fight was the best. George and Beatrice fought about everything and never made up; rather, George would arrange to pick her up for the Aces High Club wearing his surprise underneath.

Soon, Beatrice began to dream of the next make-up surprise and started to instigate fights; she grew insatiable and George grew tired. After all, there are only so many ways you can dress up a p***s, and he felt after ten years he had reached his limit.

George stared at his hand: a seven, a two, and—oh god—a five. He sighed; thanks to a frisky piece of Lycra loitering about his “bits and pieces,” he couldn’t concentrate, and his change was running low.

“Cat got your tongue?” said Beatrice. “Or perhaps an elephant?”

“Elephant?” Francis looked from one face to the other. “Must you always be so cryptic?”

“Cryptic is as cryptic does,” said Beatrice with her favourite enigmatic look.

“Play your hand,” snapped George.

Beatrice drained her glass.

George met her stare.

“I’ll raise you!” he said, pushing forward a 2p.

“How ’bout I raise you,” she said with a straight face.

“Oh, for Chrissake,” muttered Francis.

“Raise me?” said George. “Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.”

“I could raise the Titanic if given the right equipment,” said Beatrice, absorbed in her cards.

“I’m out,” Francis said with a toss of her cards; no one heard. She could have ripped her top off and screamed “come and get it” and no one would have heard. Beatrice and George had hit the guess-what’s-underneath stage.

“I think I’ll get the dips out,” she muttered.

“Must you?” said Beatrice.

“What?” yelled Francis, heading to the kitchen.

“There are only three of us, why bother?” said Beatrice, pulling a face at George.

Francis moved to the doorway, catching Beatrice’s look. “It may interest you to know my dips were greeted with sighs of delight at the last council meeting. Ms Frasier even wanted the recipe.”

“Pfff, her,” said Beatrice. “Does she talk with her mouth full?”

Francis laughed. “By the time she’d finished talking, the room had emptied apart for McTosser trapped in the corner and me packing up my empty dip dishes, and nothing was decided about the walls of gratitude.”

Beatrice stiffened at the mention of the walls of gratitude and was just about to ask if there was a mention of her photographs when Francis’s front door opened and shut with a slam followed by a “Cooee!”

As footsteps headed towards the sitting room, the three looked at each other.

“s**t,” muttered George.

“Hide,” hissed Helen.

“In a wheelchair?” snapped Beatrice.

“Is that Beatrice?” yelled Ms Frasier.

“Too late,” muttered George.

Ms Frasier’s head peered from the door; she plonked herself next to Beatrice.

“I haven’t played cards in ages.” She looked at Beatrice’s hand. “What’s a royal flush again?”