Come On Eileen 1

Author's Note: This story follows on from "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" but is meant to be readable in its own right (as have been all my tales featuring the delectable Angie). Please do not feel obliged to backtrack before finding out what the delightful, skin-headed nympho gets up to next.

*****

Chapter One

(27th December 1997)

Saturday in the Union Bar was, as Joe had predicted, a bit of a mixed bag. Initially busy in a moderate sort of a way, then tailing off around two in the afternoon.

'I need to catch up with some paperwork,' he said, during the longest lull yet.

'Don't tell me,' Angie replied, 'you have another questionnaire to complete about Gloria's broken leg.'

'There seems to be doubt now about whether it's her leg, ankle or foot.' Joe sighed. 'I'm still thanking God it didn't happen on my premises. There are enough forms to fill in as it is.'

Angie smiled as he went into his office/storeroom. After a night of relentless sex the guy was going his best to act normally. And he was almost pulling it off.

A night of relentless sex! No, make that two nights out of three of relentless sex!!

Two nights with a real life bloke!!

Because she was crap at smiling Angie's face hardly registered any emotion. But her mind was racing in all directions.

She was a lesbian who'd just willingly fucked with a man.

But she didn't fancy Joe as a man; she liked him as a person. That made all the difference.

To her it did, anyway, not least because he was the only man who'd ever been able to make her cum.

Well he was, wasn't he?

The answer to that rhetorical question was a resounding yes. Excluding her transgender friend, (who was a girl who just happened to be equipped with a cock), Angie had only had one male lover. Bobby had been her first lover, full stop. He'd fucked with her regularly and she'd liked it, without ever getting any end result.

At least not the end result she'd really wanted.

Bobby was back in the mists of time, of course. A whole parade of female lovers had taken his place, all of them capable of performing horizontal miracles . . . not to mention a lot of vertical miracles . . . and quite a few upside-down miracles.

Angie's problem was that Joe had been almost as good for her as some of the girls.

And he had baggage.

The thought of his specific "baggage" was enough to make Angie laugh out loud. As if on cue, the bar telephone rang.

Joe was still in the office so she answered.

'Hello, Union Bar.'

'Oh,' said a familiar voice, 'it's you. Did you have a good time rutting with my boyfriend?'

'Why Professor Parkinson,' Angie said dryly, 'how delightful to hear from you.'

'Quit the sarcasm,' the Parkinson woman snapped, 'put Joe on the line.'

Christmas Eve with Joe had been impulsive and unfortunate in that Angie had forgotten to bring along condoms. Last night, Boxing Day night, she had brought along fifteen and Joe had brought some too. She hadn't done a count but reckoned there'd been well over twenty, all told.

And they'd made a sizable dent into the reserves.

Indeed they'd managed to severely deplete the reserves.

Sadly, she hadn't professionally tallied up. Before she could put forward her best guesstimate, in the hope of making the bitch feel extremely inadequate, Joe appeared.

Yes, he appeared like the ghost of Christmas past . . . out of nowhere and just like that.

What prize turkey? Why, that big prize turkey.

The one she'd just sent a remarkable boy to buy.

But bollocks to that; she was here and now, wasn't she, not lost in a Dickensian past.

'It's for you,' she said aloud. Then, silently mouthing the words, 'It's her.'

Joe hadn't mentioned Professor Parkinson once last night; neither had Angie. Considering the bitch to be the elephant in the bedroom, she'd kept schtum about their little altercation in the ladies' toilets.

What he doesn't know can't hurt him, she'd decided. And I don't want to be putting him off, do I?

Now Joe pulled a face and held out a hand for the receiver.

Angie gave him it and retreated to the end of the bar nearest Lesbians' Corner . . . precisely as Molly and Fiona came in through the swing doors.

Fiona was, as per always, prettily clad in pastel pinks and blues. She made a beeline for "their" table, leaving Molly to approach the bar.

'So what is it today?' Angie asked brightly, 'beer and white wine or glasses of red?'

'It's still Christmas, so we'll have a bottle of Shiraz.' Molly grinned at her. 'Feel free to apply your staff discount . . . if you think you can get away with it.'

Handing over two glasses Angie expertly removed the cork.

'Christmas ended yesterday,' she said, accepting Molly's tenner and applying staff discount.

'Bah, humbug!'

'Say that when you've added up your change.'

Molly looked at the coins in her palm and laughed. 'Okay, so the spirit lives on. When are you going to favour us with another home visit?'

It was Angie's turn to laugh. She'd squeezed Molly and Fiona in between her two nights with Joe. And it had been a pleasant squeeze. Molly and Fiona were an "item" of long-standing but, as she'd found out the nice way, that didn't mean they never partied.

And oh my, couldn't they party!

'I'm free anytime apart from Monday,' Angie said.

'What about New Year's Eve?'

Angie wavered. 'That's a bit so-so. Ricky's back sometime on Monday, so technically I'll be free. But I did say I'd be around on New Year's Eve, in case it gets chaotic this side of the bar.'

'Wonder Woman to the rescue again!'

'I'm honorary bar staff,' Angie protested. 'I have loyalties and obligations.'

'Yeah, sure you do.'

Molly rolled her eyes and leant closer over the counter.

'We'll be in here until after midnight anyway. Come home with us when you're done. We can spend all of New Year's Day in bed . . . and most of January the second.'

'What, just most of it?'

'Okay then; all of it.'

Feeling the familiar thrill, already knowing the answer, Angie asked: 'Would that be okay with Fiona?'

'I'm not a betting woman, but I'd put my virginity on it.'

Angie laughed again. 'I think you lost that a while ago.'

'Hey, do you question my ability to talk Fiona around, or do you just want to hear it from the girl's own sweet lips?'

'I suppose you could get her to confirm she's up for it.'

'Wait right there. It'll only take me one second. No, stand to attention; here comes your boss.'

Joe joined Angie beside the till. Unlike her, he didn't watch Molly's ass as she walked over to "their" table.

But then again, Joe didn't have the same memories of that ass as Angie, did he?'

'Pat's not excommunicated me,' he began. 'She wants to talk about "us".'

'Professor Pat Parkinson,' said Angie, 'how utterly spiffing of her.'

'We're going out tonight,' Joe went on, missing the sarcasm, 'after I've closed up in here. And what are you grinning at?'

'I'm grinning at the thought of you and that sophisticated professor joining all those ravers in the Cat's Whiskers. It's hard to picture it happening in real life. Or in any sort of life, come to that.'

'We're going to that new wine bar again, actually. It's open until three.'

'Now that I can picture,' Angie admitted.

And she could. Professor Parkinson was about forty and a wrinkle-free zone. She had the body to die for and was naturally elegant with it. Sex oozed out of her every last pore.

Angie hated the bitch but that didn't mean she'd kick her out of bed. On the contrary, she'd fantasized about fucking her more than once.

Yes, about riding her, staring down into her deep blue eyes as she . . .

'I'm expecting a hard time,' Joe went on, oblivious of Angie's imaginings. 'She asked me yesterday not to . . . Well, you know; she asked me not to do what we did last night.'

'I won't wonder how she knew in advance,' said Angie. 'I'm just glad you didn't listen.'

'Me too,' he agreed eagerly. 'Look, if you don't want me to ever see her again . . .'

Angie stopped him with an upraised palm, traffic cop style. 'I'm bad news for the likes of you,' she said as diplomatically as she could. 'I'm lezzie through and through, and I'm a whore at heart. Go see what her highness has to say. Her deal has to be a whole lot better than mine.'

Chapter Two

The rest of Saturday dragged because trade was slower than slow. Highlights for Angie were thin on the ground. Fiona confirming New Year's Eve easily topped the bill.

'More DP for three,' the girly-girl said with a grin, 'yippee!'

Otherwise she enjoyed several beers, a cheese and tomato baguette and lost a lengthy game of I Spy to Joe, who happened to be a black-belt at the game.

'I Spy,' she said when he challenged her. 'That's for six-year-olds, isn't it?'

'Six-years-olds and bored bar staff,' he agreed. 'So stop moaning. Here goes: I spy with my little eye, something beginning with X.'

Maybe half an hour later Angie gave in . . . then furiously protested when the answer was "Xpelair".

'What bollocks is that!' she cried.

'It's the name of the smoke extractor company. Look over there. Read the small print.'

Angie tried to give him back some of his own medicine and failed miserably. As well as being expert at I Spy he knew the contents of his bar inside out. In desperation she at last defeated him with BN.

'Big nose,' she said triumphantly, 'him over there, playing Space Invaders.'

That led to plenty of political incorrectness: FA (fat arse), FT (floppy tits), SB (sexy bitch) and the likes.

But no game could last forever. By half past eight the possibilities to malign the customers had grown even rarer than opportunities to sell them drinks.

'You get yourself off,' Joe said. 'I'll give it a while then close at nine.'

Angie pretended to swoon. 'On a Saturday night,' she gasped.

'The electricity meter's ticking over faster than the till,' Joe replied. 'Unless a coachload arrives out of the blue, nine o'clock and that'll be it.'

'Your regulars won't be happy.'

'There are only two or three in.'

'Even so . . .'

'Don't worry; I'll make them an offer they can't refuse. Now go on, on your way.'

Angie didn't need telling a third time. She fetched her denim jacket from the office/storeroom.

'Give your delightful professor one for me,' she said as she went to the drinking side of the bar. 'And make sure you stare into her eyes as you do it. I definitely would.'

Joe gave her a look.

'Oops,' she said insincerely. 'Was that too much information?'

'Yes,' he said, 'much too much.'

'Sorry,' she said, even less sincerely, doing her best to waggle her (well-muscled but not-so) FA as she left.

*****

As she walked across campus Angie deliberately forced Joe out of her head and thought about girls instead. Fucking Professor Parkinson with something big and hard would be an experience, albeit one unlikely to ever take place.

Unlikely, yet still one to aspire to, in her most secret of dreams!

Mais naturellement!!

But fucking with Molly and Fiona wasn't just likely, it was a nailed on certainty. New Year's Eve could not come quick enough. She was well into "-somes" and those two made up the best three she'd ever been in.

First though there was Monday. She'd been playing Come on Eileen on the jukebox all day.

Okay, so she'd been playing it without a receptive audience, solely for herself, but the lyrics had still resounded.

Come on indeed!

Eileen was twenty, maybe twenty-one with lovely, shoulder-length red hair. She was from Birkenhead, had very long legs and claimed she was straight. She was also an impressive hustler at darts, always ready to play for a pint or a pound and invariably winning.

Well, maybe not invariably. She'd lost to Angie on purpose, fully aware of the one-off stakes. Meaning that, as the loser, she owed Angie a fu . . .

'Hey, where are you going?'

Angie had arrived in the entranceway to her halls, heading towards the stairs up to her floor. Realizing that she was being addressed from behind the security desk, she turned and saw an officer she didn't immediately recognize.

'I'm Angie,' she said reflexively. 'And I'm going to room 444.'

The officer looked downwards, checking either a computer screen or a printed list. When he looked up again Angie was holding her union card inches away from his nose.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I've never seen you here before. I had to ask.'

Angie supposed he had a point. She couldn't remember when she'd last been "home". Was it three or four days ago?

And what counted as "home" anyway?

'I've been away,' she said vaguely. 'But now I'm back. And isn't that music a bit loud?' She gestured to the stairs/echo chamber. 'We're supposed to tone it down after nine o'clock.'

'Damien in 227's having a party,' the officer replied.

'Hasn't anyone complained?'

'There isn't anyone to complain. Everyone who's here is at the party. Well, everyone except you.'

'What do you mean by "everyone"?'

'I mean all the residents of this hall . . . apart from you. We thought you were otherwise engaged.'

'What do you mean "we"?'

'I mean Damien produced witnesses. All of them said they were on board. But if you object . . .'

'Don't worry about me.' Angie sighed, anticipating the guy rushing off to spoil everybody's fun. 'I'm not the objecting type.'

Trudging up the staircase, she tried to go back to thinking about Eileen. The straight girl hadn't agreed to play for sex on a whim. No, she'd chewed it over a day or two, accepted the odds then deliberately thrown a game she could have verily easily won. And she'd suggested her place for Monday's night of reckoning.

Eileen was going to come on, all right. No doubt about it.

Yes, too rye aye and everything.

And not one minute too soon, come to that.

Her head full of happy thoughts, Angie reached the second floor and hesitated. Room 227 was in the corridor to her right. Should she pop in and say hello . . . or would that be rude?

As she deliberated a girl came down the steps above her, wine bottles in either hand.

'Angie,' she said, 'perfect timing. Come on, we have a party on the go.'

Karin was a fellow fresher who Angie was on nodding terms with. She was maybe five foot five and a bit plump, but in a positive way. She was one of those girls who definitely looked better for not being as thin as a rake. Her hair was dark and short. Her looks were good and Bambi's mother would have killed for her eyes.

'I'm due an early night,' said Angie, a tad reluctantly. 'And I'm not invited.'

'Nonsense; everybody is invited.'

'I haven't any booze to bring.'

Karin thrust a chilled bottle of rosé into Angie's hand. 'You have now,' she said.'

Chapter Three

The window was closed and Damien's room was heavily wreathed in thick, aromatic smoke. It made a Sherlock Holmes opium den seem like a fresh breeze coming in off the Irish Sea.

'He's got a ton of grass,' Karin told Angie, standing there in the doorway, giggling. 'Honest, it's coming out of his ears . . . and he's giving it away for free.'

Angie was flinching at the din coming from the CD player. She much preferred the oldies found on the juke in the Union, but the smell in the air already had her hooked.

What did they call it when a crowd kept breathing in second-hand smoke?

Who cared!

'Let's go say hi,' she said enthusiastically.

The room was exactly the same size as all the other rooms in that particular block of halls, and it was packed with partygoers. Angie counted a dozen heads including her, most of them smoking joints and all drinking a wide variety of alcoholic drinks. The drinks were leftovers from Christmas, she reckoned, studying a dressing table that was standing in for a bar. There was a random selection of beer, lager and cider. There were half empty bottles of spirits and wine. There was even an apparently unopened bottle of sherry.

'Hey Angie,' said Damien. 'You made it after all.' He thrust a spliff the size of a Havana cigar at her.

'Cheers,' said Karin, grabbing it before Angie could. 'We'll share it.'

Damien was occupying the only chair in the room. He was most of the way down a similar sized spliff and it did not appear to be his first.

'Sure, baby,' he drawled.

Karin tugged Angie into a corner near the window and indicated a colourful throw cushion. 'That's my patch,' she said, dropping into a cross-legged sitting position and producing a disposable lighter. 'Join me.'

Conscious that it was stiflingly warm in there, Angie took off her jacket and sat beside her.

Well, why not? The girl was patently in need of a friend and armed with booze.

Not to mention Damien's goodwill and grass.

Had she a problem with that? Make it a no.

'Open the bottle of rosé,' Karin went on. 'We'll share that as well.'

She had already removed the cork and pushed it back in a centimetre or so. When Angie pulled on it it came out again easily. Hesitating, she assessed her surroundings.

'Where are the glasses?' she wondered.

'There aren't any,' said Karin airily, 'only plastic cups. And wine tastes better straight out of the bottle than plastic cups, doesn't it?'

Adroitly lighting up, Karin took a drag, gesturing for Angie to swig vino. Covertly watching her chest as she inhaled and held the smoke deep in her lungs, Angie obediently drank.

Then the bottle and spliff changed hands and it was her turn to inhale. This time it was Karin watching her chest as she inhaled.

Instant relaxation or what!

Well, instant something . . .

'Have another,' said Karin, lightly patting Angie's hand as she finally exhaled. 'I had a joint already. It was only a small one compared to that, but you need to catch up.'

They alternated spliff and bottle for maybe half an hour, exchanging a little small talk as they went, their bodies unavoidably touching in such a confined position, Karin regularly tapping Angie's arm to emphasize some point or other.

(Touch, touch, and touch . . . prompt, prompt, prompt.)

She was from London, she said. She didn't like her mother's "new bloke" and had opted to stay "up north" over the break. And they were wrong in "The Smoke", weren't they? It wasn't "grim up north" at all. Okay, so the towns were industrial eyesores, but the surrounding countryside was glorious.

And even cow shit smelt good once you got used to it.

While Karin went to cajole another joint off Damien, Angie had a closer look at the other guests. She knew nearly all of them by sight but was unsure of some of their names. Taking tally there were six girls, five guys and one individual who could be anything at all.

Swigging more wine, she eyed the androgynous individual. She hadn't seen him or her about before and was sure he/she wasn't resident in this block.

'Who's that?' she asked Karin when she returned.

'God only knows. Please tell me you're not attracted.'

'No I am not,' said Angie. 'I'm just intrigued with the way . . . the way he or she is hanging around our host.'

'That's their lookout, isn't it? It's Damien's friend, not ours. Never mind them, girl; open the red while I light up.'

Angie waved the bottle of rosé in Karin's direction. 'We haven't finished this yet.'

'In that case you'd better down it in one.'

'Are you trying to get me drunk?'

Karin just laughed.

*****

Over the next hour or so two boy-girl couples said their farewells and left. It seemed likely to Angie that those couples had only linked up that very evening. It also seemed more than possible that the new unions were imminently about to be consummated.

Well, it was still Christmas after all, so why not?

'This is all we've got left.' Karin was holding up a thin, relatively straggly reefer. 'Damien's bottomless well has run dry . . . else he's saving what's left for himself and his buddy.'