Instead he found Doris sleeping on a couch in our living room and his pretty wife looking dowdy in her overalls, bucket and stirrup pump! But Little Marjorie could look sexy wearing (or not wearing) anything so it wasn't too traumatic for him. What terrified him were the V1's. He'd never seen them in France and when they putted over and the jet engine stopped, his pretty little wife screamed for everyone to run for cover, he dived under the bed in panic himself.
He said to me later that living in London was more terrifying than France! Considering he was risking his life in a tank, hanging the SS with piano wire from trees and generally being betrayed by the Frogs who had never forgotten the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, this was quite a statement! After he went back to France, life went on for us. I was wandering around roofs at night putting out incendiary fires and getting my clothes off with Doris at the PPC. George and his regiment punched their way across France, frequently 50 miles ahead of the main army and taking the most appalling risks on their way to Berlin. He still got leave and every now and then I got a letter from him and met my handsome soldier at Charing Cross station. It's funny, I never even considered he might be killed. Our few days together were very precious to us and Doris had moved out and was living with Ron in Dulwich where he had been "repatriated" with ill-health from India.
During this time, we spend most of our time in the PPC and Doris and I were still the favorites of the crowd. A lot of our fellow strippers had married since and had left and many had accompanied their new husbands back to the USA. I don't know what their parents thought about these amazingly sexy new Daughters in Law. I doubt they'd ever seen anything like it! I often wonder if the Mothers said "What did Erica (or someone) do while you were in London, son? "Oh, Mom, she was a stripper at the Pink Pussycat Club in London!"
George had assured me that while he was away, he didn't expect me to be celibate. Of course the same applied to him; the pretty little Mademoiselles fell as hard for him as I fell for the ever-growing ranks of black soldiers! Now whatever you read about black men having bigger cocks than white men isn't necessarily true. I was talking about this to Dolores and could I handle it and she laughed and said it was all a myth. She'd had bigger white boys!
But doing a bit of research, I did figure out the more black guys could muster twelve inches that whites. These days I'd spreadsheet it and get a Nobel Prize or something! So sex was becoming quite selective for Little Marjorie. To get into Little Marjorie's bed you needed twelve inches, black, white or yellow.
On an overcast Tuesday on 8th May 1945 it was all over. Hitler had killed himself and the Germans unconditionally surrendered. About 70 million people had died worldwide because of this stupid man's ambitions. His country was bankrupt and its people shattered and we weren't much better either. George was pulled out of his tank and was assigned to repatriating prisoners of war to their own countries. He hated the Germans for what they had done and had to visit Auschwitz concentration camp, which he confessed later was worse still. He didn't return to England until he was "demobbed" in 1946.
With the end of the war, Doris and I quit our jobs as Showgirl Stars to focus on the new post war life ahead. Doris had gone through the whole war stripping and I had been in the New Zealand navy before joining my sister in "glamour." Ma had gone of course. Anne's Len had come back from hauling ammunition in Europe and Ernie; May's husband had committed suicide in their gas oven at home. Doris and I figured that what we'd made at the PPC, we could easily afford to buy and share a house. We bought a four storey Victorian house with blast damage from a V1 at 39 Granville Park, Lewisham London SE13 in October 1945 from Mrs. Cheavons who said it was getting a bit much for her and gratefully retired to Worthing.
The house was one hundred years old at the time and Doris took the ground floor and I took the first. When you were painting, fixing plumbing and repairing bomb shattered windows, the G-Strings and wonderful costumes were superfluous, the feathers and the silks were an impediment and the pretty boys were no good to us as they'd all gone back to Boston, or wherever they'd come from. From Superstar Showgirls to drudges. We'd come to this!
The old house had suffered greatly during the war. Lewisham was a favorite place for the Luftwaffe to jettison their bomb loads if they were intercepted by the RAF onto the centre of London. The borough was littered with smashed houses and the bay front of Number 39 was unusable and always remained so. But it was ours and we rented out the top floor and the basement and waited for our men to come home.
Gradually we made homes for ourselves, the Divine Sisters were still together but in less glamorous circumstances. With two such incredibly beautiful girls in the suburb we soon attracted attention but there were no takers, we were happy with the ones we had. Ron got home from his rehabilitation home but George was still in Europe at this stage. Doris had produced two kids recently, Roger and Ruth. I don't know how Ron considered he was somehow responsible, considering he was in India when they had been conceived and was it my imagination that they cried in American accents?
In June 1946, George finally stumbled through the door and the war for us was officially over. He just had a small suitcase with some clothes in, apart from the "Demob" suit he was wearing. At this stage he didn't announce that he'd accumulated a heap of "loot" which we would receive in due course. As you can imagine, Little Marjorie had "gone without" for too long and to my incredible relief I climbed onto George and for the first time that day, I fucked him until I felt him empty himself into me. This became our favorite posture in bed, I relaxed on him, he placed his hands around my still legendary bottom and we slipped together in the ecstasy that was always our life.
George went back to work at Express Dairy. In those days you had to re-employ people who had left to go to war, whether they had volunteered or been called up. Things had moved on since George used to unharness his horse from the float and galloped bareback across Hampstead Heath after he'd finished his round.
When I found George's diaries before and when he met me, I discovered Mifanwe who sued him for Breach of Promise; she'd bought him a horse and he refused to marry her! I learned about his days as a champion roller skater, as a tap dancer with Jessie Matthew's troupe (she had even more men than Little Marjorie!) including George, knowing him. He broke his leg when escaping from an irate husband when the lead pipe broke as he was escaping out of her bedroom's window and all sorts of other interesting facts! But I forgave him everything as he said some very loving thing about his pretty new wife!
A "Mr. Dodgy" three ton Bedford truck rolled up a couple of days later with all of George's wartime "loot." We had boxes of German Iron Crosses (he took them from all the Germans he'd shot!), Boxes of leather belts with Swastika buckles, Lugar pistols, assorted automatic weapons, ammunition, about three dozen beautiful blankets, sheets and pillowslips, (we must have been the only family in England with Swastika monograms on our sheets and towels). We had new radios, five portable typewriters with umlauts on the keyboards and a stack of English weapons too, including Sten Guns, Bren Guns and an improbably huge Boyes Anti-tank rifle which wouldn't stop a child's trike. Oh yes, we had a couple of kid's trikes and pedal cars too. I wonder if George ever had time to go to war at all.
I mentioned earlier that the first time I met George, he was drunk. Since he'd met me, he never had another alcoholic drink apart from the Regimental annual get togethers where I didn't mind if he got plastered. He was a very loving and considerate husband for the whole time we were together. We were married in 1943 and he died with cancer in 1979. But there again, what other husband do you know who gets fucks twice a day with such expertise? Little Marjorie, that's who.
There must have been something wrong with my diaphragm as I became pregnant (who did that?) and I went through the most miserable time of my life, which was just a series of vomits for nine months. It was the hottest year since the dinosaurs were obliterated and as I got fatter and fatter, I felt more and more pissed off. I even got cross at George as he'd hung all his weapons on the wall in case we had a burglar and I had be defended. In my days at the PPC, a kick in the slats usually solved the problem. So I told him that it was me or his guns. I know he enjoyed his daily fuck, so I expect that's why he made the right decision. My son Andrew said later when he was growing up, "Mum, why are you still here?"
In July I went into labour and Doris said not to worry, it was my fault I'd got into this in the first place. This from my dear sister with two babes from an American Colonel in our dancing years. I think I was a bit teary as I was comparing now, with then. I know it was a terrible time for us in London during the way but we grew like weeds in those days.
A year or so later, we got Margaret upstairs to look after the kids and Doris Blossom and I went over the PPC to see how it was going. This was in 1948, three years since the war ended and four years after our clientele went en mass to Europe. It was looking a bit sorry for itself, the glitz was missing. The great strippers like Dolores had followed the Yanks home and was probably married and having her own kids. "Pussies" was a shadow of itself and Giovanni was still there but depressed. He said it hadn't been the same since to Divine Sisters had quit and he was thinking of selling out.
We cheered him up a bit by taking him upstairs and fucking his brains out. He said that's why he had missed us! Anyway, we sat at the bar and before we knew it, we'd signed our names and we'd become joint owners of The Pink Pussycat Club, drunk as Skunks. I said to Giovanni whether he was going to stay on or go home and he said it depended on the Divine Sisters. Doris and I looked at each other, Doris wiggled her ass and Giovanni said we still had it. My tits were still firm so I reckoned there was still life in the old girls yet. With light hearts we went home and called a conference with the boys.
George had always loved his Pink Pussycat time. He was an orphan, a homeless soldier with no future. His time with his Little Marjorie and the roar of the crowds in the most notorious strip club in London had moved him. Now his little wife was a partner in the joint. Ron, in his pipe smoking way thought that Doris needed a hobby and it was a good idea in his view. That was enough for us. I phoned up Giovanni and told him to stick around, we'd be in tomorrow back in business!
Doris and I were going through our old stuff, seeing if we could still fit into it. We could. After all, how could you NOT fit into a G-String? We tried on all our minimal dresses, our feather head dresses, open bras and pants and admired our asses in the mirror. Yes, we still had it. Every time we called in George and Ron to make a comment, they expressed enthusiasm. I think it was genuine because our appearance so inflamed George that I think he fucked me about eighteen times that night and had to phone in sick. Then fucked me some more. If I could (we could) inflame our husbands and father of our children, how would the punters go?
