monshanjik
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CONFESSIONS OF A GAY MILKMAN.
By Unknown
(Him.July.1976.)
I was in my usual position, out of work and broke. Even this week’s rent
was owing. Not that my landlord would throw me out. Oh, no. Fanny (his
name’s really Hannay, but he’s such a sweet dear), likes to pop in once
a week or so for hot chocolate, and no, not the next-door Ringhet Singh
from the Punjab!
Just to introduce myself, I’m twenty, blonde and blue-eyed and
incredibly good looking. Why I could be the next Ms. Universe, or Mr.
London Gay Guy. But no, just an out of work painter and decorator.
I struggle out of bed and look blearily at the clock. Only a quarter
past ten. What a yawn! I go to the door, and open it looking for my pint
of milk. No milk! I look around and see Ringhet Singh also out
milk-hunting. I smile and he blows me a kiss. 'Where s the bleedin'
milk?' I shout at him. He smiles. 'No milk today, no energy tonight, so
they say.' I feel a bit exposed in my brief briefs exposing all my
equipment. I am not a size merchant, but it's hard to keep it in. And
when it's hard I don't!
I go upstairs and holler down. 'Fanny darling. Where's the bleeding
milk?'. Fanny comes to the foot of the stairs, rattle of bracelets and
ripple of chiffon scarf.
'Well, Andy. Doing an expose, are you?'
'Sorry, dolly. Milkman's round late today. You know the dairy are short
handed.'
Short handed dairy; an idea springs to my brimful brain box. A milkman
is a job. A job earns cash. Only snag is early to rise (not that rise!)
so cut down on late nights. Oh well, it's worth a try. I sprint back to
my room giving the waiting Ringhet an eyeful of overloaded briefs, and
shuffle into my clothes. A quick whizz with the razor, and Randy Andy is
looking spic and span. My carefully creased flares in cream and brown
(two tone pants are more eye catching - if you've nothing else to catch
the eye, I suppose), my green shirt and green M&S velvet jacket, and my
platforms. I admit I tend to totter on three inch platforms, but I'm
persevering.
I totter along the road to the West London Dairy Company, just missing
being balled - sorry, a slip - bowled over by a milk-float at the gate.
Smartly I limp along to the general office. Well, to cut a long story
short (it's called cir
scribing. I think), I get the job. Hooray. I'm hired. I'm taken along to the employment register office, where I tell
them all sorts of fascinating things about myself, name, age, address,
education (Editor’s note: nil,I should think!) and so on. Then the two
managers discuss a round for me. The first Mr. Riddle (wonder if his
name's Jimmy!) asks me in his booming voice, 'You look a healthy young
lad. Plenty of . . . er . . . spirit and that. How about doing Northbury
Avenue?'
The other manager almost shouts in terror. 'No! No! Not Northbury
Avenue, It'd take a healthy lad almost a year to do it once. You know
how Mrs.Young at number 17 likes her delivery.' He didn't elaborate. I
wonder how she does like her delivery? Mr. Riddle sagely strokes his
chin.
'Oh, yes. Barney. I see what you mean. He'd never get further than Miss
Marchant at number 11, never mind Mrs. Young. We’ll have to put someone
nearing retirement on there. Either it'll kill him or he'll escape!' A
few minutes ticked away in silence. Wonder how a gay lad like me would
be received by Miss Marchant or Mrs. Young? That will now be lost to the
sum total of human knowledge.
Suddenly, Mr. Riddle awakes from his reverie. 'Got it! How about . . .'
and he gave his companion a smile and a knowing wink, tapping the side
of his nose with his finger. '. . . Adelaide Terrace. How about that,
Barney?'
Barney whatever-his-name-is sat up smiling. 'Genius! They won't be
concerned with a healthy lad like Andy here. Adelaide Terrace it is.'
The joke that they seemed to enjoy escaped me entirely. I vaguely knew
Adelaide Terrace (named, for our intellectual history buffs, after Her
Majesty Queen Adelaide, consort to King William IV, 1830-37) which was
not far from my flat. It was a wide Victorian square with big houses on
all sides and a small park in the centre. Most of it was now flats and
rent-rooms.
I signed on the dotted line. Milkman, by appointment, to Adelaide
Terrace. I promised to report at six thirty the next morning (gulp!) and
assured them I would be on time. I was shown round the depot, given a
spot of training on a float (I do hold a license for driving!) and spent
an hour trying to understand the milkman's record book. I was home in
time for tea – by which time the milk had at last arrived – and for the
first time had to refuse a TV evening with Steve who had a room directly
above mine. To tell the truth we called it a TV evening, but a bloody
good Job that Annie Walker and Co at the Rovers couldn't see what we get
up to when they're on! No. I had to insist on an early night.
I hear an alarm ringing in my dreams. I put down the hefty leather guy
trying to grapple with me as my dream dissolves, I glare at the clock.
Ten to six. I should leap out of bed and splash myself with cold water.
But I'm bleeding well not going to! I eventually get up, shave and slip
into my tight flared jeans, and my two inch platforms (I can’t deliver
milk in three inch ones, now can I?) I slurp a cup of strong coffee to
keep me awake, and try to tiptoe down the stairs.
I arrive at the depot as the local church clock bongs out six-thirty,
Mr. Riddle ushers me to a float, among the hundreds of milkmen scurrying
around, and directs me to Adelaide Terrace. The events that occurred on
the way – how I scraped the milk float against a bus, nearly ripped up a
bollard {bollard to you 'n' all!) are irrelevant here. (Not 'arf! - Ed.)
I arrived in Adelaide Terrace. I stop by Nos. 1 and 1A. I am just in
time to see the curtain twitch. I check my book. Two pints tor Richard
Adams of No. 1 and go back and fetch three pints for 1A. I ring the
bell. I whistle. Milkmen are supposed to whistle aren't they? The door
opens. A beautiful man in his mid twenties stands there wearing only a
short kimono-type wrapover. Mr. Dene?' I enquire politely with a smile.
'Wait a mo.' he growls. He sees the milk by No. 1. 'Oh. that's my milk,'
he says. 'Could you hand it over please?' As I, somewhat confused, turn
to pick up the two pints, he hollers behind him, 'Graham, your milkman's
here!' To me, 'Come in a mo, will you. It's fucking cold enough to
freeze your assets off.'
I step inside and he closes the door. I must admit he's a smashing
fellow. I can't take my eyes off him. I notice his kimono is slipping
open, but it would be too impolite to comment. Besides, I might notice
something interesting.
As we stand waiting, he tries to make conversation. 'New milkman, are
you?'
'Yes,' I reply. 'Only started today, this is my first delivery.' I carry
on talking as his kimono slips open to reveal a stunning set of
equipment, boastfully thrusting its way out of a hairy forest. I try to
pretend I haven't noticed, knowing bloody well that the Dairy's
short-arse jacket is too short to cover my natural reaction which is
trying to rip the zip off my jeans. I try to tear my eyes away as Mr.
Dene emerges from a room into the hall. He is certainly a big muscle
man, revealing quite a lot in his leather briefs and vest. He stares at
me.
'You the new milkman?' I nod. 'Hang on. I'll just find me lolly and pay
you.' He runs up the stairs and disappears. I turn back to my other
friend. His kimono still hangs open and my eyes catch the glint of light
on metal. Bejabbers – he's wearing a cock ring! Before I can stop
myself, I reveal (Careful! - Ed.) my interest.
'Oh, I see you wear a cock ring,' say I, nodding towards the area now
under discussion. He smiles encouragingly. Teeth.
'I do.' he replies. 'Ever tried one yourself?' I suppose every gay
milkman should have a cock ring, an essential piece of equipment, but
unfortunately, I haven't till now. But I have a feeling this is going to
be rectified.
He begins to explain, and as he does, his half-hard knob jerks to full
attention, a good seven inches of supercharged manhood. He pulls the
cock ring forward a little, out of the hairy forest, and proceeds to
explain: 'It goes round your balls and knob before you get hard, and
being fairly tight it keeps you at the ready. I find,' he says with a
cheeky grin. ‘that I never get soft with it on. Always ready for a
play-around.' He looked me straight in the eye. 'I've got a spare one,
if you'd like to try it on. But . . .er . . ,' he looked at my obvious
hard on. 'It looks as though it's too late to get it on you.'
He stood there, leaning against a wardrobe in the hall, his kimono slung
back and his proud cock standing at an acute angle. It was too good not
to touch! By the time leather guy Dene came down, be found me on my
knees giving Richard Adams a full on blow job. After that, it was a
free-for-all.
I emerged from No. 1A, forty minutes later, with the Dene debt paid, two
new friends, and a shiny new cock ring in my pocket as we weren't able
to get it on there and then, owing to my temporary expansion. In the
course of delivering the pints that day (for it took rather longer than
I expected) I met Philip Grant at No. 8, a real Tom-of-Finland leather
guy, Arthur Brian at No. 14. who specializes in water sports. Gary
Lindhurst at No.25. who has a collection of mate 'art' that leaves
nothing to the imagination, and Freddie Statam at No.33. He likes 'set
scenes' in ladies' undies. but I couldn't oblige him. So it was a quick
wank, a coffee, and I moved on to meet Bobby and Robby (both very
knobby!) at No.41. By the time I reached Oliver Lougham (pronounced
Loo-ham, not Luffham) at No 52 I was rather tired, and as it was tea
time. I thought I ought to be getting back to the depot.
Meanwhile . . . back at the depot . . . No, seriously. Mr. Riddle was
waiting for me. He seemed a trifle angry. My hair was a little
disheveled and my jeans' zip a little worn from the upping and downing
it had had. I explained to the irate Mr. Riddle that I had had
difficulties here and there, and had tried to make careful entries in
the milkman's record book. He accepted my explanations.
'You look a little tired, lad. Everything all right?' I nodded and
assured him that I had enjoyed my round, even though it had taken a lot
out of me. 'Well, if you found that hard going,' he said, 'I’m glad we
kept you away from those lusty ladies in Northbury Avenue. You'd never
have gone the full round. But you'd have no trouble in Adelaide Terrace.
Oh no. You'll be able to handle them there.' He chuckled. He was right!
I was able to handle them there.
I made quite a few good friends round Adelaide Terrace. My milk round
usually took till mid-afternoon, but the depot didn't seem to mind. I
usually had something with Richard and Graham at No. 1A – I mean
something to eat as well. Lunch was spent admiring Gary's collection and
latest additions at No.25. I even posed for some photos for him a few
times. He gave me copies, but I don't think they can be locally
displayed. It's something to do with the guy who posed with me, I think.
Bobby and Robby were always good. They drank plenty of milk. They said
it gives them energy. I wound up at tea time with Oliver at No.52.
before going home to recover.
But after two months on Adelaide Terrace, the strain is beginning to
tell. I've worn my way through two pairs of jeans and I sometimes wish I
could get the cock ring off. The chrome flakes off in the bath. So I've
given my notice in at the Dairy, but have said I'll keep it up on the
round till Saturday. Richard and Graham are giving a party for me on
Saturday night, and all the big knobs from Adelaide Terrace will be
there. I can't believe that they would so wish to honour me, their
milkman. Richard says I've got what it takes, and wrote to the Dairy
thanking them for my two months of satisfying and outstanding service.
So I'm looking round for a job next week. I might try . . .
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Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!
