The Sienna Incident

What's more, he was clearly waiting for yet another generous contribution from my small cadre of benefactors.

Two more twenty Euro notes and a ten landed on the reception desk. "That'll sort it!" shouted another voice.

"There is maybe a spare room on the top floor after all," said the Concierge, trying to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face. "I will check with my colleagues..."

"They're all the fucking same!" shouted a voice from the direction of the bar.

"Always on the fucking take!" said another.

This was fast becoming an ugly scene. Heads began to turn, and a cacophony of whistles and cat calls began to rise. After all, an angry half-naked English chick in a towel shouting at a helpless /hapless Italian? What's not to like?

There were around fifty, maybe sixty males aged between twenty and seventy, gathered around a single tiny TV screen in the Reception Bar, waiting for the latest football results although the scene that was evolving in front of them was clearly far more interesting than the Football. They stood and applauded in unison because...

I turned about, looked over my shoulder and caught sight of my rear view in a tall mirror on the far wall that went all the way up to the ceiling. Yeah, you're right. My bum was poking out the bottom of my towel.

And that's when I absolutely lost it. The red-eyed screaming Banshee took over.

Brace yourself.

I shouted "Fuck it!" at the top of my voice. I pulled off the stinking towel and threw the sodden mass at the Concierge. Naked, I clambered up and over the top of his desk and sat, open legged, right in front of him. In the process, I knocked his blotter and collection of gold-plated ink pens onto the floor.

"I'm not moving until you get me a new room!" I screamed (right in his face).

"Please, Miss," he blurted out, his eyes transfixed upon the naked wailing monster perched on his precious desk. "You must put some clothes on! You are making a scene."

"I don't care if I am making a scene," I screamed. "Get me a fucking room with a door that locks and a shower that isn't spitting out water from the Arctic!"

The Concierge went a bright red colour and looked as if he was about to faint.

Of course, every single head in the building turned towards the cacophony and every single person in the room pointed their camera at the bare-arsed whirlwind giving this poor guy a seriously hard time.

"Please, get down from there and I will do what I can..." whispered the Manager, who had been hovering stage left.

"I'm not moving until... " I said quietly.

A couple of guys who were feeling fairly brave circled round and tried to take pictures but, by then, the Deputy Manager's assistants had already started to gather, forming a wall between the Thunderstorm developing behind the desk and the swarm of onlookers circling for blood. This was about to turn very ugly.

The Deputy Manager began typing away furiously on his antiquated PC. Seconds later, he looked up, smiled and whispered "I have room for you on top floor. Penthouse suite. It was supposed to be occupied but the customers, they have not booked in."

"What?" I screamed. "You put me through all of this shit so that... "

I heaved my legs up and wrapped them around The Deputy Manager's neck in a scissor movement. Bending my knees, I dragged his face closer and closer so that he was inches away from my open thighs.

The room went wild. People began jumping over themselves trying to get a better view. The entire room was bathed in the icy cold glow of a million flashes.

"Get her the fucking key!" shouted the Deputy Manager. However, his words fell on deaf ears. The Concierge was simply rooted to the spot, unable to move.

I pulled harder. The Deputy Manager screamed. "Yes! yes! I will find key!" he shouted. "Just let me go!"

I pulled harder so that his face was an inch or so from the gaping maw that was my big, fat hairy pussy. and the poor sap was staring into it like Daniel entering the Lion's Den.

"Get her a fucking key! Now!' screamed the Deputy Manager. This time, the Concierge did actually react although that was probably because a fist had been thrown in his direction and that fist had actually impacted on the side of his head although he scarcely noticed.

The Concierge reached up behind him and scanned the small wooden billets containing the key cards. He found was he was looking for almost immediately, checked and double-checked the number and handed it to me, a look of terror writ large across is thin, elfin face.

"Good," I said. "That's very good..."

"If I give you the key will you get down of my desk?" he said.

One of his underlings thought about reaching across the desk, perhaps with half a mind towards grabbing me and maybe restraining me. After all, I was quite plainly as mad as an ornamental fountain.

"Touch me and I'll jam this pen in your dick!" I screamed. The Underling departed.

Sensing that one of their own was a Maiden in distress in need of rescue, the football fans, s began to rise and approach.

"Here is your key, madam..." said the Deputy Manager.

"Touch her, mate," shouted one of the taller men. "And we'll wreck this place and then we'll wreck you..."

I laughed and then looked down at the enormous mass of jet black hair and huge wet patch between my legs. Don't worry. I wasn't getting turned on. That would come later. It was cold water from shower, pooling on what was left of the Deputy Manger's blotter.

"Time to skip," I thought. "This is getting out of control."

I released the Deputy Manger with a smile and slipped off the desk with all the grace and elegance of a ballet dancer although there no way you can do that without giving the room a Split Beaver shot. I did it anyway. I also grabbed a copy of the in-house magazine that was lying on what was left of the Reception desk and pressed it over my lower regions.

The Deputy Manager approached. We were now eye-to-eye. Remember, I'm just four foot six inches tall and he was wearing shoes, probably with Lifts installed. Talk about "Little Man Syndrome."

He smiled and handed me the key to my new Penthouse.

"Thank you," I said. "I'm glad you could help me."

"It was a pleasure," he said, a smile spreading across his paper thin lips.

I then turned and walked slowly and calmly up the ornamental staircase towards the third floor clutching my key in one hand and the in-house magazine in the other.

There was absolutely no way that I could make a dignified, well mannered exit from that situation so I simply walked towards the stairwell, head held high, and surrounded on all sides by cheers and whistles.

I marched slowly upstairs, still without a stitch on, boobs bouncing, my arse bare to the room. A howl erupted from the Reception Bar and the air became a flickering white glow as a multitude of flash guns all went off in the space of just a couple of seconds.

Alas, the mob, who it transpired were mostly English, turned their attention towards the Deputy Manager. They were very, very unhappy and began chanting "Who's the wanker in the suit?"

I paused half way up the stairs, turned and bowed to my adoring fans. They responded with another loud and hearty cheer before turning their attention, once again, to the Deputy Manager and the simpering Concierge.

Returning to my room, I passed a couple coming down stairs. Alas, the man was so busy staring that he tripped, fell and nearly broke his neck. Not cool.

I met Senso coming downstairs. He just stood there, rooted to the spot, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "I wondered what the racket was and... I somehow knew it would be you..."

Beak came running up the stairs.

"Can I stay in your room tonight?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure," said Beak, nodding. He handed me his jacket and escorted me back to his room.

Later, when the fuss had died down, Beak made himself comfortable in an overstuffed armchair and I took the bed. Alas, we were woken a few hours later by the sound of a fist banging on my door.

Yeah.

The Police.

Beak poked his head out of the door. "Huh? Wassup?" he said.

"Excuse me, Sir," said the Policeman. "Have you seen lady who stay in this room?"

"No," said Beak, shaking his head. "I think she's gone to another hotel."

"Oh," said Policeman. "We would like to speak to her in the morning."

"Okay," said Beak. "But... I think she's flying back to the UK first thing. She's probably at the airport by now."

A lie but a necessary lie. The cop seemed satisfied and left.

Beak and I skipped out of the hotel via the Tradesman's Entrance the following morning and went directly to the nearest Taxi Rank intent on fleeing to the airport. We were halfway to our destination when Beak received a call from the record company.

"No, sorry," said Beak. "I don't know where she is..."

Silence.

"Okay, if I see her then I'll tell her to report to the Office."

Silence.

He closed his phone and smiled. "Sounds like you're in the smelly stuff, M'Dear," he said.

We stared at each other for a few seconds. I knew this call meant big, big trouble. My number was up. I was going to get fired for that little stunt.

However, rather than flee the scene of the crime, I decided to face the music. Better now than to read it in the music press back home.

The elevator ride up to the sixth floor was just plain scary. Beak and I knocked politely before entering the offices of the record company. I was expecting the worst.

The reception area was deserted. Not even a Secretary on duty. We entered, Beak trailing at my shoulder.

Hector rounded the corner. "Ah, good," he said. "You're here. Let's get this over with. We're in Charles-Henri Sanson's office. [Yes, that was his real name. No relative as far as I know].

My knees had gone to jelly as I opened the door. Out of a job (if you could call it a job), out of money and without a ticket back home to England, or Germany, or wherever we called 'home' at that precise moment... I was in a bit of a jam.

Within, I found label boss Sanson sitting dead centre. On his right, Beast. On his left, Sanson's Personal Assistant. Senso was clinging to the walls, very obviously hung-over. In front of them, a pile of magazines and newspapers.

Sanson looked grim. Beast doubly so.

"Fuck..." I said.

Silence.

"I'm fucked, aren't I?" I whispered.

Sanson was the first to crack. In fact, he doubled over laughing. Then Beast broke down.

Sanson pushed the newspapers across the desk. He said something in either Italian or French, I really can't remember, and then laughed out loud.

My naked walk had caused a real stir. The phones had started ringing almost immediately and, by nine o'clock, the label had been inundated with around twenty to thirty telephone calls from various newspapers and TV stations, all desperate for more information, interviews and even more pictures of the strange English girl with the bad temper and the very white bottom.

More and more still photographs emerged throughout the day, all of them poorly lit, barely in focus and very, very grainy, and yet they depict a very naked me standing on a gorgeous staircase, arms held aloft, taking a bow. Some of those images made their way to the later editions and whilst the majority placed dark rectangles over 'naughty bits', some didn't and were extremely proud to feature a nice pair of boobs and a big old hairy pussy.

Yeah for me.

After that, my position within the band was assured. In one instant, I'd become more rock 'n' roll than that lot had ever dreamed. Beak apologised for being such a shit. Beast, too, although he was, once again, more than a little peeved that he'd missed the floorshow. Alas, Senso never apologised (for anything).

Beast and I were out of the country by three in the afternoon so we missed the evening papers.

However, the record company did send me a couple of tabloids where the story had been printed and, although the images were blurred to the point of being unrecognisable, my bum and my boobs were right across nearly every centre spread published that day.

"England's greatest export since the Long Bow!" proclaimed one headline (in Spanish!).

Back home, I knew I'd have to deal with another critic. My mother.

Dear Lord...

My sister made sure my Mum saw a copy. Sophie's like that. Always has been. Always will be and, of course, my Mum was mortified but then neither was she at all surprised. She just shook her head and took it in her stride, as Mothers usually do.

And that was the end of that little adventure.

Sad to say, I never did get to meet Lemmy.

Now... That could have been fun.