Lady Chatterley's Lover

would like Pol Roger’s Champagne Brut Vintage 1921. He didn’t ‘ave that but had tea, cocoa or coffee. Would they like to eat? He had tripe and onions, pigs’ trotters. Yes. He laid the food on the table.
    ‘’Elp yerselves,’ he said. ‘’Elp yerselves, dybba waut f’r axin.’
    ‘For God’s sake, speak English, man,’ shrilled Hilda. ‘And while I’m on, what is this about you and my sister?’
    ‘Yo maun ax’er.’
    ‘For Christ’s sake, speak English ,’ ranted Hilda.
    ‘Women like you might ‘appen a bin a good apple ‘stead of a ‘ansom clab.’
    ‘Speak English you stupid bastard,’ she yelled, put her coat on and left.
    Good time for a fuck. He started to unlace his boots, by the time he had, Lady Chatterley was already naked, applying Vaseline.
    It was a night of sensual passion in which she was a little startled and almost unwilling as this great steaming prick plunged up and down her like a sewerage station beam engine. The room was silent save for her gasps, his grunts, the twanging of the bed springs and the occasional cracking of the rheumatism in his knees. In their convulsions, every huge thrust caused her head to thud against the headboard, the sequence of noises went ooooh-ahhh doinggg-doinggg-crackle-crackled-thud! The passion consumed her through her bowels and breast. She thought she was dying, she got it wrong she wasn’t dying. She meant fucked to death. In this short summer night she had learnt so much, for instance she’d never been fucked standing on her head before. ‘It’s like them Indian sculptures in the Ajantha Caves,’ explained her tutor.
    Came morning. They were both partially stuck to the bed and each other.
    ‘Is it time to wake up?’ she said.
    He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, the small hand was midway twix six and seven, the long hand on six. Why! ‘That must be half past six,’ he said. Her sister would be here at seven.
    ‘My sister is very prompt,’ she said.
    Sure enough, her sister arrived promptly at twenty past eight. When Hilda saw Constance she was shocked, overnight she had lost a stone! This man was fucking her sister away.
    ‘Thank God, you’re not seeing him for some time,’ said Hilda as they drove away.

SEVENTEEN
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    I N LONDON they stayed at White’s Hotel. Sir Malcolm took Constance to the opera. He was modestly stout with stout thighs, she could see his dogged I independence in his well-knit thighs. His strong, thick male legs were virile and alert; by all this it would appear her father was at the opera with no trousers on.
    Madame Butterfly was singing, ‘ Spira sul mare e sulla .’ Constance woke up to the existence of legs. They became more important to her than a face, I mean a face couldn’t get anywhere without legs. ‘ Terra un prima veril soffio giaconda ’ sang Butterfly. How few people have live, alert legs like Nijinsky. Butterfly continued, ‘ Io sono la fanciulla !' Those men in the stalls. Great puddingy thighs in black pudding cloth. ‘ Pie lieta del Giappone anzi del mondi !' came Butterfly’s soaring voice. Lean wooden-sticked legs. So the leg obsession continued. Butterfly was about to commit Hari-Kari. ‘ Tu, tu, piccolò Iddio ,’ she sobbed. There were well-shaped legs without any meaning, the final curtain fell on the dying Cio-Cio-San. Constance came out humming Madame Butterfly’s and Lieutenant Pinkerton’s legs.
    Paris. Constance was not happy in Paris. She was not happy again in Switzerland. She was equally again unhappy in the Tyrol. How she wished she was in the caves of Ajantha in India. Hilda and Constance ‘did Venice. From there came news via a letter from Mrs Bolton. Mellor s wife had returned; he had arrived home tired out from a day counting pheasants’ eggs, to find her naked in bed, but he wasn’t having any of it. Consequently she didn’t get any of it. Sir Clifford had heard a rumour about him and Constance. He confronted him but Mellors, like a true Christian, said it was all lies.
    Constance wished he had admitted it and said ‘Yes, we want to get married and have a Thompson’s ten-day Vaseline and Kama sutra holiday in the Ajantha Caves in Bombay.’
    Back at Wragby Sir Clifford again confronted Mellors with the allegation saying he was a disreputable swine who walked about with his breeches’ buttons undone. Mellors replied that Clifford had nothing to unbutton them for. Mellors was sacked on the spot, he was to leave the area or be