Beetle Babe

The couple across the road have moved to Dubai to solve some debt problems (let’s hope they kiss in public and are stoned to death), and they’ve rented out their place to a lovely young couple with a 6 year old girl, a pretty little thing. He is handsome, tall, and drives a white Porsche Carrere; she’s gorgeous too, but drives an ugly green modern style VW Beetle with 'Beetle Babe' lettering on the back.  You’d have thought they had everything but no, the wife has started stalking me.
  
At first she started parking outside my house so’s I’d have no choice about having to look at her.  She pops in and out of her car, adjusts her bra strap, reaches in and out of the back seat.  She’s made it pretty obvious.  Then came the coded messages.  For instance, the boot/ trunk release catch is hidden under a VW logo, (the kind of thing Flava Flav might have worn back in the day), that swings back to reveal the slot into which she can insert a key or finger to achieve satisfaction.  She often leaves herself exposed, with the logo swivelled upwards, but I always spare her the shame, jiggling it back into place.
 
Then, for a few days, she started parking her car next to mine, often our bumpers were almost touching.  It's getting a bit much, neighbours talk, our respective children will tittle-tattle.  I imagine, one morning, that I’ll throw open my front room curtains and she’ll be there, naked, pressed to the glass like a starfish-ish, nipples like stickers, a note that says ‘Take Me I’m Yours!’ between her teeth.  Poor thing.

This week, perhaps bored with my distain and disinterest she seems to have decided to bare her desire in a symbolic way.  I was out in the street, adjusting myself for cycling, when I noticed that not only had she parked next to me, with her slot a-begging, but she had left her lights on, urgent, red, glowing in the autumnal gloom.  A cry for help.
 
I swung my crooked cycle up in front of their house and stretched across to knock.  She came to the door, resplendent, clearer without the net curtain obscuring her.  ‘Hello.  You’ve left your lights on..', I said, and pointed helpfully in the right direction.  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘that’d be a nightmare tomorrow morning...’  I made it clear with my raring to go look that I hadn’t got time for her grovelling.  ‘No problem, we’ve all done it’, and I was gone, sexy, pedalling into the dusk, leaving a slipstream of dismissiveness she (hopefully) won’t be able to confuse.
CrookedMan CrookedMan
46-50
Sep 16, 2012