Lady Chatterley's Lover

hairs.
    She went fairly often to the hut, sometimes she went oftener, that was just like often, but oftener than often. Mellors had built a shelter for the birds with five nests, when Constance came oftener again, there were five hens in it, all on the nest. For some deep reason she pined to give them something. She did, she gave them a song. ‘Chick chick chick chick chicken, lay a little egg for me.’ She came every day to see the chickens, she sang them ‘Land of hope and glory’, ‘Keep the home fires burning’, and ‘When dat midnight Choo Choo leaves for Alabam’! Clifford’s protestation at this behaviour made her go cold from head to foot.
    Mrs Bolton’s voice made her go cold, so when speaking to either of them she wore heavy woollen underwear and electrically heated, battery-charged boots. One day at the chicken’s nest a tiny chick came prancing from the coop, a delightful little creature. Constance crouched over it with a sort of ecstasy, thinking in twelve weeks’ time he’d be ready for the pot. Suddenly the gamekeeper with his delicate white loins approached.
    ‘I came to watch the chickens,’ she said.
    ‘Do you always wear heavy woollen underwear and electrically heated boots to watch chickens?’ he said.
    ‘No, this is the first time,’ she said.
    Squatting beside her he unexpectedly stood up.
    ‘That was unexpected,’ she said.
    Suddenly he was aware of the old flame shooting and leaping up his delicate white loins and Constance could smell burning hairs again. Tears ran down her cheeks.
    ‘Don’t cry,’ he said.
    ‘Why,’ she said. ‘Is the hosepipe ban still on?’
    ‘Shall you come to the hut?’ he said in a neutral 30 voice. The first signs of an erection were his fly buttons shooting off, and Constance could smell burning hairs yet again. Inside the hut he prepared the place for a shag. He took a brown army blanket and laid it on the floor, that blanket where in India 31 he had laid so many ‘Bibbies’, so many that some mornings before shaking it he had to break it. With a queer obedience she lay on the blanket. His foreplay consisted of putting her hand on his willy and whispering ‘That’s going to be all yours darlin’!’ He knew how to unclothe her where he wanted but found the electrified boots an obstacle. He drew down the silk sheath of her petticoat, and having difficulty with her electrified boots said, ‘Could you take these bloody things off darlin’.’ Not my lady any more, ‘darlin’. As Constance unlaced the boots, he smoked a fag all the while humming an impatient little tune, a tune known to many soldiers:

    There was a man who was no good
    Took a maid into a wood
    Bye Bye Black Bird
    There he took off all her clothes
    Electric boots, her drawers, her hose
    Bye Bye Black Bird
    Then he took her where no one could find her
    With a rope he tied her hands behind her
    Then he laid her on her back
    Stuck his willy up her crack
    Black Bird Bye Bye. 32

    She lay still, in a kind of sleep, with him banging away. He was doing about eight thrusts a second which was good going for a man of his years with a fifth lumbar disc problem. He stopped for a rest. She wondered why this had happened! Why was all this necessary? Was it real? Was it real? Yes! He’d started again! Finally, with a sigh he drew away from her with a loud pop ! He drew her dress down over her knees, but she pulled it up to give it a chance to cool.
    To signal the end he said, ‘You can put your boots on again darlin’.’
    In the dark she could hear him adjusting his clothing and tucking it away. He then went outside, the woods were flooded with moonlight and smelling of wild roses, he lit up a fag and farted. Constance waited till the air had cleared. It took half an hour. She went outside to join him.
    ‘I’ll go with you to the gate,’ he said.
    He locked the hut, put the rolled blanket under his arm and came after her.
    ‘Are you sorry?’ she said.
    ‘In a way,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d done with it all. Now I’ve begun again.’
    ‘Begun what?’
    ‘Fucking,’ he said.
    ‘Fucking?’ she said with a queer thrill.
    ‘Fucking,’ he said. ‘There’s no keeping clear of it!’
    ‘It’s just love,’ she said.
    ‘No it isn’t , it’s fucking !’
    ‘You don’t hate me do you?’
    ‘Nay, nay, you’re a good fuck, it was a good fuck. How was it for you?’
    ‘Yes, for me too,’ she answered untruthfully because she had not been conscious of much,