The Life of Henry Fuckit
(1950 - 2015)


14   A prize heifer

The moment Henry clapped eyes on the Ponchiellis' twenty-year-old daughter, his loins responded to the visual stimuli coming his way. Swarthy Eyetie features, but well delineated. A sulky red mouth. Short black hair recently coiffured. The eyes of a dull-witted shopgirl, bored and apathetic. But to Henry, this vacuity served to accentuate a barely perceptible flicker of dark sultriness, and made her all the more alluring. Hot blood was coursing through the plump arms, her knees dimpled brazenly and beckoned to his hands, her legs were just long enough, her calves just slim enough to promise thighs that would be ample but firm. The hourglass perfection of her hips and waist produced a glassy fascination in his eyes, and the outline of her rump caused involuntary spasms in his long arms. As for her breasts, proudly unsupported beneath the thin T-shirt, these two beauties called up images from the Song of Solomon, first of gazelles and then of pomegranates. He salivated like a famished hound about to be let loose in a butcher shop. He appraised her up and down, this way and that. Fuuuck! This is a prize heifer, he thought.

Clearly this was a straightforward matter and the ethical requirement could not be denied. Upper Orange Street ran straight up the slopes of Table Mountain into the residential area of Oranjezicht. The Ponchielli residence was a large, late-Victorian, double-storey edifice with elaborate broekie-lace ironwork, ornamental mouldings and an asymmetrical façade with several gables reaching into a complicated slate roof. Across the road was De Waal Park with its many mature trees, its bandstand pavilion for Salvation Army recitals, now seldom used, its beds of annuals and perennials, its white wall with black wrought iron railing, and its human flotsam. The Ponchielli family occupied most of the downstairs area and the rest of the building was given over to lodgers. These tenants were required to conduct themselves within certain clearly defined bounds. If they did so, life sailed smoothly along. The large room that Henry was allocated looked out through a bay window across the traffic to the park. It had Oregon pine floors and a high pressed ceiling. From the outset it was made quite clear that this was the room of Rosalia Ponchielli's fiancé, Giuseppe Capollini. Pepe, as he was known by all and sundry, had opted to enrol with the Commando Force and undergo military service by attending three-month camps over several years, rather than do the regular one-year conscription stint. The knowledge that this room was rightfully Pepe's, and that the imbecile was away sacrificing himself in the service of his country, and the fact that Rosalia was betrothed to this wop goon, all served to arouse an awkward feeling of guilt in Henry. He almost felt ashamed of himself that he should be so smitten with lust.

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