Wednesday, 24 August 2016

1977: The Taste of Things to Come




The return to school in September (how I hated all those "back to school" posters in the  shops - I knew it was coming I didn't need to be reminded of it) saw a break in seeing A, as I coped with the very different requirements of studying three main A-level subjects as against 9 O-levels.  There were no more romantic walks along the towpath as I took her home after archery.  The weather wasn't co-operating as regards archery anyway, The balmy summer of 1976 had dissolved in the rain.  September and October were awful; cold, wet and stormy. In addition, schoolwork was taking all my spare time.

As I mentioned in my last chronicle I was finding that I was doing really well in English and History while studying the new subject of Economics.  The school thought that another O-level might be useful so I took on Religious Studies (despite not being at all religious) as well.  This turned out to be a dense and challenging subject.  In addition, I had really wanted to do Art A-level but was told it wasn't academic enough for me.  I was the best artist in the school, though, art editor of the school magazine and designer of most of the posters for school events, so the Art teacher got me special dispensation to do Art A-Level without taking the classes but I would have to do all the projects in my own time at home. We also had to do General Studies A-level.  I was then told, at the end of the first term that I should do S-level English and History as well.  These were extra papers designed for people who were likely to get an A grade and who might have a shot at going to Oxford or Cambridge.  My school was one of the top three, academically, in the country;  I think in my year we had around twenty boys get into Oxford or Cambridge.  What all this meant was that there was enormous pressure from the school to do well academically and so I was getting huge amounts of homework  I was doing three to four hours a night and doing more at weekends.  A was going into her O-level year and was nearly as busy. 

A started to telephone me every few days but it was difficult having a conversation in the middle of the house, so our conversations tended to be about school  "We just need to get more time together in your bedroom," A had whispered one evening, her parents obviously out of earshot. There didn't seem any prospect of getting time in A's house (which I had never been to).

Half term was at the end of October; a week's break from school.  We had arranged to meet on one surprisingly sunny day at the archery club on the Monday. Unfortunately it was very windy and we found shooting quite a challenge, especially as we had to keep putting our coats back on between shots.  We decided to give up on a bad job and A helped me get the target back into the shed at the sports ground.  Having manhandled the big straw target back inside we looked at each other, standing in the gloomy shed. There were windows but they mostly had stuff stacked against them.

A made a grab for me at the same time I made a grab for her, as a result we both contacted each other awkwardly and I tripped on the leg of a target stand and ignominiously toppled onto the floor. Embarrassed and in some pain I soon forgot about both as A knelt down on the rough wooden floor and started to unzip my trousers.  I helped with my belt and she tugged my jeans and pants down to my knees. Her frenzy started to get me stiff, especially when she pulled her knickers down and put them up on one of the shelves. "Cock! Cock! Cock!" she gasped, straddling me. See grasped my erection and actually rubbed my glans up and down her sopping pussy.  Was she going to actually...?

But no, she sat down on me and began her frantic pussy rubbing against my cock. I was, mentally, still adjusting to the whole scenario when she came really quickly.  "Christ!" she gasped.  I had never heard her use anything like strong language before. She wriggled backwards a foot or so, so she was astride my thighs and took hold of my cock.  She started to rub it up and down.

"Harder! Faster!" I said.  We had never done this before but I was now so turned on that I started to come almost immediately.  Despite masturbating every night, thinking about A, I shot a huge load straight up into the air. A kept rubbing and my follow on spurts flew everywhere, including over her unbuttoned school raincoat. Not content with that she leant forward and started to lick my still rigid cock. She put her lips around me and started licking my glans inside her mouth.  Amazingly, her attentions kept me stiff and soon she was applying herself in her increasingly skilled manner.  I couldn't believe it when I came again, only five minutes after my first ejaculation. She pulled off me and smiled at me, still massaging my penis until I asked her to stop as it was just too sensitive at this point.

"You came twice!" she said, leaning forward to give me a kiss.  I told her that it had been totally amazing and we agreed we needed more time together during half term. I wondered if I could get my mother to agree to her coming over to stay again. We pulled ourselves together and I realised that my clothes were filthy from being on the floor and my duffel coat was spattered with drops of semen.  A brushed down the back of my coat.  We were both sweating heavily, as although it was quite a cold day we had soon heated up inside. .A's knees were covered in grime too. We stepped back outside to lock the shed only to find E, the club member who was our instructor approaching the shed.

"Been having fun?" he asked our disheveled selves. We both must have looked tremendously guilty and I know I blushed, as he laughed. "Isn't archery good?" he said. I gave him the key and A and I hurried across the field towards the road.  Just as we reached the sports club entrance she stopped dead and told me she had left her knickers on the shelf. She said she had to get them back and I said she should leave them but she was worried her mother would notice when she did the washing.  I said that she would not notice one pair of missing knickers but she insisted on going back.  I saw her speaking to E outside the shed as I waited by the entrance. Then she went inside for a few seconds and ran back to me.She said he had told him she had left something inside and she had gone in and put her knickers on.

"I am so ashamed.  We can never come here again!" she said, looking distraught. I reassured her but worried myself that he would tell my mother at work.  But he didn't, or at least if he did my mother never said anything.

Sadly, that was our only sexual interaction in the Autumn term, as we couldn't arrange another stay over.  The second half of the term we had to limit ourselves to sending each other increasingly erotic letters and having the occasional cup of tea and a jam doughnut at the ABC cafe in the town on a Saturday.  My mother had actually increased my pocket money so I could "buy things for your girlfiend."  However, these cafe visits were usually when one or other of us had been taken into town by our mothers, so sneaking off for a snog was out, just leg rubbing under the table.  Occasionally, I would walk along the towpath to town but the weather was usually grim.

"I have done nothing but think about your cock!" she wrote, in a letter dated December 10th, 1976. "I lie in bed and get all wet and play with myself."   This was an admission; she had never said anything like this in person. I must have written back in a similar manner as I have a letter from her dated 19th December which said: "I wish I could watch you wanking while you think about me and spurt your spunk everywhere.  Except if I was there I'd suck you off and swallow it!"

The Christmas holidays arrived but we couldn't meet as her family had relations over for Christmas but she came over to my house in the New Year. My mother had taken my sister to the January sales in Kingston and made a point of telling me she would be out until about six, when she would come back and cook dinner.  A's mother dropped her off late morning well after my mother and sister had already left.  I was worried that A's mother might ask to see my mother but she was in a rush and didn't even get out of her car.  I shut the front door behind A and we were immediately in each other's arms, kissing passionately, me sliding my thigh against her groin through her thick wool skirt. After some time we pulled apart and looked at each other, grinning.

I wanted to strip her off there and then but she wanted a cup of tea and my mother had even bought some jam doughnuts which sealed the deal for her.  We sat in the kitchen and talked about the tremendous storm we had had over the weekend; many people had actually been killed, it was so bad and she said that a big branch of a tree had come down in her family's garden.  Our tea became  a sort of game, with her having more and more cups.  We both knew what we wanted to do but now we had the luxury of time we wanted to build anticipation. At one point she stood up, hiked her skirt up and pulled down her knickers. She put them on the table in front of me, provocatively.  I told her I wanted to sniff them.  She told me to go ahead and I said I wished I could keep them.  She said she had taken them off because she was so wet they were getting uncomfortable.

After about four mugs of tea and three doughnuts she stood up and said she needed the loo.  She went upstairs to the bathroom and I went in the cloakroom downstairs, the tea induced pressure on my bladder having forced my erection to subside after the knicker removing incident. She didn't come downstairs so I went upstairs, hoping to find her naked,  She was still clothed when I went into my room, looking at some of my drawings in my art folder. At school I was well known for my pen and ink work which I had done a lot of for the school magazines and posters.  These were usually Science Fiction or fantasy influenced.  I had done a series of fairies which she really liked. These were naked apart from floral headdresses.  "I want you to draw me like that!" she said.

"What, with wings?" I asked, already sensing a new experience.

"No, naked!  All real artists do that!" I told her that my Art teacher had told me that I needed to get away from my small, detailed "finicky" illustrations and my Christmas project was to do big bold drawings in charcoal on large sheets of  paper.  I wasn't allowed to do anything small or detailed.  I had drawn the view from my window and a couple of still life pictures but it was not the sort of drawing I enjoyed.

"Right!  You can draw me now!" she said and started to take her clothes off. Even though my mother and sister were out I remember going straight to my bedroom door and closing it, just in case.  "How do you want me!"  On your back with your legs apart, I thought, thinking of Men Only.

"However you like", I said. It was the first time I had seen her completely naked in the daylight.  The only other time she had kept her knickers on.  Now I got my first sight of her fluff which was curly and a light brown colour.  It was quite sparse as was the hair under her arms which was even paler; almost blonde.  Her bust looked bigger than when I had seen it in the summer and it occurred to me that she was still developing physically. She was fifteen and I would be seventeen in just over a week's time. The tan she had after her summer holiday was well and truly gone.  She stood with her hands on her hips looking quite confident.  I told her that she looked quite magnificent and she beamed in delight.

She pulled my chair from the corner of the room and sat down on it and from that point she became a drawing exercise.  I positioned her so that she was sitting across the chair resting her elbows on her knees.  I had done (clothed) figure drawing at school but we only had each other to draw.  I soon discovered that I could reproduce an anatomically accurate figure but I always left the faces off as I didn't think I could get a good likeness.  However with A I reckoned I could attempt something in profile.  I did warn her that it wasn't going to be a portrait but a figure study.  I sat on the bed with my paper clipped to my drawing board and set too; getting the main structural lines in first: head, spine and legs.  I kept hearing my Art teacher;s voice.  "Fast! fast,! Don't take too long,  Big strokes!"  I spent about ten minutes on it and showed her.  Fortunately, she approved and then posed for another one, kneeling on my orange (I had chosen it myself) carpet. My confidence increasing, I did about six or seven pictures in an hour.  The last one I was confident enough to have her standing up against my built in wardrobe double doors.  This was the most difficult pose to do as the proportions had to be spot on or it was immediately obvious.

This was the first time, of course. I had done a life study but since then I must have done hundreds. of drawings of naked women.  Almost all were of current girlfriends but in several cases they were girls who were not yet but soon became 'girlfriends'; the artist/model relationship soon becoming something more.  An article in one of the newspapers a few years ago said that a survey had found that artists had more sex than any other profession!

Despite having scoffed three out of the four doughnuts A wanted to stop for lunch.  She didn't want to get dressed again so I lent her my dressing gown which was a rather odd bottle green velour number.  Enticingly, she didn't do up the tie but kept it undone giving me little glimpses of her body as we pottered around in the kitchen making ham sandwiches.

After lunch we went back to my room and I asked her if she wanted to pose for any more drawings. "No I want to kiss and lick!" she said and stepped over to start removing my clothes. After I was as naked as her, once she had shrugged off my dressing gown, we stepped back and looked at each other.

A asked if I had a full length mirror.  I replied that my sister did and she shot out of the room with me in pursuit.  She stood in front of my sister's mirror and made me stand next to her.  We regarded ourselves.  She did look very delicate next to me.  I was nine inches taller than her and she was very slim. She took hold of my semi-erect penis and started to rub it, watching herself all the time.  She told me to turn sideways on to the mirror and then knelt down in front of me and put her mouth over my knob.  She started to fellate me while watching herself in the mirror.  "I'd love a film of this!" she said, popping off me.  There was, of course no opportunity to make a sex tape in those days. I was slightly concerned about this whole scenario, however much I was enjoying her oral attention. When I wasn't looking at our reflection (it really was fascinating)  looking at the top of her head or her lips sliding wetly up and down my shaft I could seem my sister's old teddy bear staring at me, disapprovingly, from her bed next to the mirror.

I managed to persuade A to go back to my room before I ejaculated all over my sister's rug. A lay down on my bedroom floor.  Soon we were both completely naked on the floor kissing and caressing every bit of skin we could reach. Writhing around like two eels in a bucket.  We really enjoyed the freedom of having a large space on my carpet on which we could manoeuvre, although a couple of times I got carpet burns on my knees and elbows.

My mouth had been all over her perky breasts; licking kissing and even nibbling her thimble-like nipples. She pushed my head down. "Lower. Kiss me lower!" she said. I worked my way down to her belly and stuck my tongue into her belly button which made her giggle. "Lower!" she urged. Did she mean...? I kissed her sparse curls. I could smell her thick scent. She opened her thighs and started to gently rotate her hips, lasciviously. "Please!" she begged. I had no idea what I was doing but gazed at the pink parts emerging from her fluff and just dived in; sticking my tongue out like a blind man with a white stick, not really knowing what I was going to find. What I found was musky, wet, salty and not dissimilar in taste to the prawn cocktail we always had before Christmas lunch. Whatever, I liked it. I liked all the fleshy bits that you could flick with your tongue. What I really liked was that touching different bits seemed to provoke different reactions from her. A gasp here. Fast staccato breaths there. And wetness everywhere. Juice running down my chin. White, creamy juice dribbling from her livid entrance over the fleshy bridge of her perineum.  I licked it up and then wriggled up to give her a kiss, repaying the sperm-wet kisses she had given me by letting her taste her own juices. "Back down there!" she urged after a few seconds.

I happily wriggled back down her, parting her outer lips with my fingers as I lapped away at her delicious cunt. Her hips still grinding madly as I licked away.  It was becoming something of an effort to keep in place.  Her slim, but muscular, thighs started to clamp my head and I had to prize them back apart to stop being crushed by those dancer's legs.  My fingers could feel the bunched tendons at the top of her inner thighs. I was licking up and down her folds now and she was still wriggling about, one hand on my head the other playing with one of her erect nipples. I looked up at her but her eyes were closed. My erection was pushed against the rough carpet and I could feel myself building. I wasn't even really moving my hips that much but I started to come on the carpet; the sensory experience alone bringing me to climax. I kept licking, despite the root of my tongue starting to ache, as her breaths were getting faster. Then she really clamped my head and stopped moving. I felt a wash of juice from her all over my lips and tongue. I felt her thighs relax and looked up at her. She was grinning broadly at me. I wanted to lie on top of her but was very wary of my semen. "Just one sperm can make a woman pregnant" our biology teacher had told us in our one sex education lesson the previous year. I didn't want my seeping prick to get anywhere near her minge. I knelt up between her spread legs, unable to keep my eyes off the apex of her thighs, She was wet, pink and swollen.  White goo continued to dribble from her entrance.  "What happened to this?" she asked, flicking my flaccid prick with her fingers.

 "I came on the carpet!" I admitted. She laughed and sat up to look.  It was quite a large wet patch. We decided to have a shower and enjoyed all the soapy slipperiness of our skin as we rubbed against each other. I was soon stiff as a pole again and she dried me off and took me back into the bedroom where she made me lie on my back while she played with my cock and, especially, my balls which she seemed fascinated with. They had tightened up sufficiently, as she rubbed my cock with her hand, for her to get my whole sack into her mouth.  I came all over my belly and she licked every drop up.

"Wouldn't it be nice," she began.  "To be married and just spend all day doing this?"  Oh, no, I thought.  Danger, Will Robinson! Dobs and I had discussed this on the train home before Christmas. All girls want to get married and have children and then your life is over, he maintained.  Parents don't do it, he had said.  My parents certainly hadn't been close.  I never saw my mother and father kiss or hug and before he died I know my father and mother argued all the time.  My mother was actually relieved when he had gone.  I was not yet seventeen.  I didn't want to get tied down.  I said nothing and she did not pursue that line of thinking.

I did some more drawings of her and she actually posed lying on my rug with her legs spread wantonly, like the girls in Men Only or a Klimt drawing (except I hadn't seen a Klimt drawing at that point).  It was gone five, so we reluctantly got dressed and awaited the return of my mother and sister.  That night, A slipped into my bed again and we both made each other come.  I realised, lapping away at her hot core under the covers, that I really, really liked bringing her to orgasm.  I actually enjoyed it more than receiving pleasure myself.  "It is always better to give than receive," they always used to say at church at Christmas.  I always thought that this was nonsense but now I had been converted.  Not to religion.  My father once said to me (and he didn't talk to me a lot) that religion was invented by primitive man to explain the world around them and that it had no place in the twentieth century.  I later found that my father's religion was the same as mine became: women.  My uncle came to see me at Oxford once and when he saw all the pictures of naked ladies on my wall observed that I took after my father. "The only important things in life," my father said on another occasion, "are music, art, food, wine and women.  Which are all basically the same thing!"

After our wonderful January interlude it was back to school,  The first week I took my art folder in for my regular appraisal by my art teacher and the details of the next project I had to work on. He was pleased that I had done the big charcoal still life drawings, liked the view from my window, and in particular a series of trees and fallen branches (brought down in the storm) that I had done right at the end of the holiday when I had gone into the park on a rare sunny afternoon.

"Oh this is excellent!" he said. Stupidly I had not taken my pictures of A from my art folder; mainly because I didn't have anywhere I could conveniently keep them safe. "You are lucky to have such a delightful model!" he said, turning over the next one.  My friend, O, who was also in the art room that lunchtime was over like a shot.  O was the second best artist in the school but, I hate to admit it, a better painter.  We had become friends during O-level art classes the previous two years.

"You did these from a magazine!" said O, looking at a picture of A lying on her stomach.

"These were done from life, not a magazine.  You can tell." said my art teacher.  "Unmistakably!"

"Really? asked O, looking at me.

"They're of a friend," I said, lamely.

"Quite a close friend, obviously!" said the Art teacher turning over a pictire to reveal A lying on her back with her legs apart.  "It's like a Klimt!" he said.  I didn't know about Klimt.  He disappeared into the art room store cupboard and came out with a book on Klimt, amazingly.  We weren't allowed into the art store cupboard which was actually a room full of all sorts of interesting looking books and art materials. . I did recognise some of the famous paintings but hadn't been aware that famous painters did such graphic images.  Especially, seventy five years previously.  As we left the art room, O, of course, wanted to know everything about A.  There was only one question on his mind.  The key question.  The ultimate question.  "Have you done it yet?" It, It. It.  Still the holy grail.  Still the unattainable.  It!  No,  He looked disappointed.

"I have licked her pussy," I admitted as we walked downstairs.  He went into a sort of paroxysm of excitement, frustration and wonder.

"What does it taste like?"

"Prawn cocktail," I answered.

"I don't like prawn cocktail," he said, looking glum.

I reasoned that perhaps different girls tasted differently. He wondered if anyone tasted like Spaghetti Bolognaise.  Maybe Italian girls, we decided (they don't, as I discovered about seven years later)..

Unfortunately, the art teacher, Mr D was not as circumspect about my drawing activities as I had hoped.  The art assistant, Mrs S, who came in to help art classes a couple of days a week, stopped me in the corridor outside the chemistry labs "I gather you have been doing some life studies?" she asked.  A few, I admitted.  I wondered if Mr D had told the whole staff room (he had, it turned out).  She then admitted that she had thought about posing for a life class for the A-level students.  "You could come along too."  I later realised that this may have been a bit of a come one.  Mrs F, however was in her late fifties, with weird, dyed orange spiky hair and a figure like...well, she didn't really have a figure,  She had a body like a sack of irregularly sized root vegetables.  We all liked her, though, because she was quite naughty, used to swear in class and often made off colour remarks.  We later found out that she and the art teacher were often at it in the storeroom.  O claimed to have heard them once after school.

I confessed to A that she had become quite famous in the school which, fortunately, she thought was amusing.  During the Spring half term she and I ran into Dobs and his girlfriend S in town.  We went to the ABC for tea and felt quite grown up.  Even S knew about A's naked posing. "Would you be able to draw me?" she asked, over an Eccles cake.

"No!"" said A and Dobs simultaneously.  Oh well.

During the long Easter holidays A came to stay for a couple of days as her parents had to go to Glasgow.  Her mother had decided that I was a polite, well-behaved boy and that because everyone in my house was female, other than me, it was a good safe environment. A told me this the first night as we lay next to each other in my bed playing with each other.  I was rubbing her clitoral hood (my father had a book which had illustrations of all these vital things so I was now an expert) and she was stroking my erection. We were both very comfortable and I made her come with my fingers alone again. She made me come soon after and we cuddled up together, drowsily.  Too drowsily.

"Good morning you two!" said my mother. I opened my eyes and panicked.  There, between me and the wall was A, blinking, as my mother opened the curtains.   "If you want to some to Kingston we need to leave in half an hour or we won't get parked!"  Although we both wanted to spend time naked we had the luxury of three days together and we both needed things from the art shop.  Getting a lift from my mother would save the bus fare so we had agreed, the previous night, to go with her on her shopping trip. "I hope you two know about precautions and all that!" said my mother, looking completely unphased by the situation. "I expect you do all that at school!  Do you have any Durex?"

"We don't do that!" I said.

"We were having a cuddle and fell asleep!" said A.

"How sweet!" said my mother.  "Thirty minutes!" She left my bedroom, shutting the door behind us.  A and I looked at each other and laughed in relief.  A said that would not have happened if it had been her mother.  She said she would have to ask my mother not to say anything to hers.

After we had got back from Kingston my mother cornered me in the dining room.  She told me not to be embarrassed if we were having sex but I had to use a Durex because A was underage and there would be big problems if she got pregnant. I reassured her that we were not.  She said she was going to buy me a pack just in case we changed our minds.  I knew what condoms were but I had never seen one.

I related all this to A that night as we sat in my room.  My mother had told me that she didn't mind if A slept in my bed that night. She also promised not to burst in on us.  She genuinely hadn't known A was there that morning. I was sitting up, naked, on my carpet,my back against my bed. A was sat on my lap, astride me, massaging my cock.  She started to rub my glans between her labia.   I looked down at myself sliding up and down in her folds.  She wriggled and then stopped.  She had let go of me but my very tip was lodged in her entrance.  Just held in place by the top of her opening. She looked at me.

"Shall we?" she asked.  I thought about it and realised that all I needed to do was push forward a little and I would be inside her.  She cupped my balls and tickled them.  Unfortunately a combination of that, thinking about It and the sight of my fleshy column connecting our two bodies made my balls convulse.  Oh no!  I had to quickly pull out before spurting all over her belly.

"Oh!" said A.  "Bugger!  Perhaps we better get those Durex!"

On our final night we carefully avoided any cock/pussy rubbing and stuck to our usual sucking and licking.

A day after A went back home, she rang in the evening.  She told me she had to see me urgently as she had been speaking to her mother and father. I asked her what it was.  "Bad news!"she said. We agreed to meet the next day along the towpath where we could talk privately.  This all sounded very ominous.

"You didn't speak to A's mother about us?" I asked my mother, accusingly.  She assured me she had not.  Were A's parents going to stop us seeing each other? I didn't sleep very well.  Next day we had both started off from opposite ends of the towpath and met about half way.  A smiled at me and gave me a lovely kiss.  Then she burst into tears. I walked her to a bench.  She was now sobbing uncontrollably. I put my arm around her until she calmed down  a bit and asked her what the matter was.

"Glasgow!" she snuffled.  "Fucking Glasgow!!"  I had never heard her swear like that. A explained that her parents had been up to Glasgow as her father had just got a job there and they were looking for a flat to live in temporarily,  They were going to be selling their house down here and then buying a house up there.  They had agreed that A could sit her O-levels at her school and then she and her mother would move up to Scotland in June.  It was now mid-April. A would be gone in two months leaving me and all her friends behind her.

She wrote to me that same day.  "Thanks for being so nice.  You are so nice to me.  I should have said it but I thought I would blub again but I love you so much!"  Oh dear, I thought.  I hadn't really thought about love.  I was very fond of A but love?  Love was a girl's thing and usually preceded weddings and other horrors.

I thought we might have a period of extra closeness before she left and we wrote to each other but she was deep into concentrated revision and we hardly saw each other.  If we did meet up in the town she would inevitably burst into tears.  It became that I couldn't face it as I didn't want her setting me off.  That would have been too much.  In fact we never had a formal goodbye.  Everything conspired against us arranging a proper farewell.  I was doing my mock A-levels.  A's letter arrived postmarked Glasgow but I didn't even open it until after my exams.  I wrote her a short but affectionate note.  We continued corresponding but, by the Autumn, letters between us had dried to a trickle.  In her last letter she had written that she had met a nice boy and I shouldn't not pursue other girls just because of her.

 A was gone from my life.  What would I do now?

Thursday, 18 August 2016

1976: Transports of Delight




After my unexpected introduction to oral sex by A, under  a tree in the middle of a summer rain storm I was, not surprisingly, desperate to see her again.  Next day, however I got a telephone call saying that her parents had booked a last minute holiday to Spain and she would be away for two weeks, leaving that Friday.  I asked if we could meet up before she went but she said she couldn't, as she had to get things ready for her holiday. She would also be away for her birthday, she said. I hadn't known her birthday was coming up.

However the more I thought about it the more I thought that maybe I had gone too far with her, sexually and that perhaps she regretted the whole episode.  This all despite the fact, of course, that she had always made the running in our increasingly physical relationship. But being an emotional sixteen year old I didn't employ logic when negative imagination could get me in a right old state. What if she decided she didn't like me when she was away for two weeks?  What if she met another boy on holiday?  What if she was seduced by a Spanish waiter?  

Instead, I threw myself into reading my first set book for my English A-Level course, DH Lawrence's The Rainbow. This seething whirlpool of disappointment, frustration and sexual longing was not the ideal complement to my emotional state at the time.  What if A went off with another woman, I mused, thinking of Ursula Brangwen from the novel and the lovely entwined women from the Men Only pictorial in the magazine I had found under the train seat. I listened to Sibelius over and over again, as its emotionally cold and spare tones suited my mood precisely. 

After a week of this I was quite convinced that A and my's budding relationship would be over on her return.  "Dumped" was the word used at school when someone's older brother had been unceremoniously let go by their heartless girlfriend.  Girls held all the cards; what you could or couldn't do was entirely down to their capricious whim.  I needed to talk to someone.  But who?

There was only one person I knew who had a girlfriend;  Dobs. He only lived a mile away, in a house by the river, which I must have walked past many times with A. However, apart from a shared experience of snogging French girls at the age of twelve we didn't have much in common.  He was very good at sports, liked amateur dramatics and didn't like science fiction or classical music.  He was, however, doing A-level English like I was,  Taking a chance and helped by the fact that he had an unusual surname I found his telephone number in the phone book. 

"I'm having trouble with The Rainbow," I said,  "Can I come around and talk about it?" We had been set a series of essay questions on the book and I was finding it hard going. 

"Yes, of course but only if you tell me about that girl I saw you kissing on the river bank!"

Dobs was very helpful on the DH Lawrence and even more helpful on the girlfriend management front. He had been going out with S for six months; they had met in a volunteering club shared between our boys school and her girls' school. Girls, he maintained, liked being told how pretty they were, how nice their clothes were, liked receiving letters and needed to be given presents.  Make sure there is a nice letter from you waiting for her when she gets back from holiday, he said.  All excellent advice, I thought.

"So where have you got to with your girl?" he asked, eventually.  I didn't know what to say but he said there was a sliding scale from one to ten.  Ten, of course was 'doing It'.  The Holy Grail.  He told me about someone we both knew, vaguely, who was not at our current school but had been in the year above me at junior school.  He was very tied up with a religious youth group run by the local church.  The organisers saw it as a way to channel the misguided interests of potentially rebellious teenagers into something constructive.  The teenagers who attended just wanted to meet people of the opposite sex.  The volunteer group Dobs and his girlfriend were in at school had some common members with this local church group. He said that this one boy, M, had been found to have had sex with one of the girls in the group.  They were both seventeen or eighteen but the boy had been taken to the local vicar and was caned.  We both thought this was outrageous.  Neither had done anything wrong but he had received ten strokes.  But then this was the vicar who I had heard, one Christmas, giving a vitriolic sermon against the evils of Science Fiction and Fantasy, charm bracelets, horoscopes, Jews and, above all, Catholics.

I asked Dobs how the ranking worked and he admitted he didn't know either but he reckoned number one was holding hands and number two was kissing with number three being French kissing.  We sat on the floor of his bedroom, which looked out on to the towpath, which explained how he had seen A and me kissing, and tried to come up with a definitive list.  Eventually, we reckoned he had got to stage seven which we decided was kissing and caressing and rubbing "the naughty bits" through clothes.  I asked what stage eight was and he said doing the same naked.  I then asked what stage nine was and he answered "she sucks you off".  There was no mention of any reciprocal attention for girls, probably because their pleasure wasn't contemplated.  Eventually, I had to admit I had reached number nine.

Dobs was incredulous. "She sucked you off?  Outside?  In public?".  I said it wasn't really in public as there wasn't anyone around. But he was obviously impressed.  I made him promise not to tell anyone at school and, to give him his due, he never did.

I went home and composed a long passionate letter to A, explaining how much I missed her and how I was looking forward to seeing her again.  I put it in a separate envelope and tucked it inside her birthday card. Then, I realised that I didn't know her address but the phone book came to the rescue again.  I spent some of the money I had received for doing well in my O-levels (my mother never did believe my A grade for Maths and thought they must have marked someone else's paper) on an LP of Sibelius 5th symphony, to give A as a birthday present on her return from Spain..

The boost I had received from talking to Dobs slowly ebbed away and I was soon convinced, once more that A would dump me when she returned from Spain.  Then, I came down to breakfast one morning and my mother told me that I had had a postcard from "your girlfriend".  She handed it to me.  A nice sunny picture from the Costa Brava.  My sister picked at her bacon disconsolately with her fingers (she was not good in the mornings and needed an hour until she could use tools, like cutlery) and sneered at me.  A had written a short note about the temperature, the horrible food and the boring journey (it was her first trip abroad). But right at the end she had written "Missing you.  Wish you were here!".

"That's nice," said my mother, reading it (again, no doubt) over my shoulder. "What a nice girl!"  Good job you don't now what we get up to, I thought. "Why doesn't she come over to dinner when she gets back from holiday?" said my mother.  My sister tutted.

The postcard should have cheered me up but. of course, I realised she must have posted it as soon as she had arrived in Spain and she might have met a Spanish waiter by now. I also didn't know about this suggestion that she come over to dinner, especially given my mother's cooking.  I tried not to count the days until she returned.  Actually, I couldn't anyway as I was not sure if she was coming back Friday, Saturday or Sunday.

The call came Friday night.  She had just returned and could we meet the next day?  That's it, she wants to dump me, I thought.  My mother kept calling out that she should come to dinner the next day and she could stay over if she liked.  I decided not to tell A this but she heard my mother calling out from the kitchen,  She would have to ask her parents about staying but she would certainly come to dinner.

The next day I tried to persuade my mother to let me cook something like Coq au Vin but she said I didn't want to be fussed about cooking with my girlfriend there.  I wished she would stop calling her "my girlfriend", especially in front of my sister, who I was very close to.  We never annoyed each other and always played happily together, when we were younger..  I didn't want A to cause a rift between me and my sister.

My mother decided to do spaghetti Bolognese which she cooked by putting raw mince, raw onion and a tube of tomato puree into a casserole and baking it for two hours. No pre-cooking of any of the constituent ingredients just bung it all in and hope for the best.  It invariable ended up with a burnt ring around the edge where the sauce had fused to the casserole but was, usually, more or less edible.  She splashed out and got a tub of Parmesan cheese, which always smelled like sick to me (you couldn't buy fresh Parmesan in the shops then).  My mother made up the bed in the spare room, just in case, although I thought the chances of her parents letting her stay were slim.  Anyway, she was going to dump me.

Her mother drove her over early evening,  "She has a Volvo," my mother said, approvingly. The two mothers chatted briefly, approving of each other's accents.  "She does go to a private school, after all," my mother had observed . A had an overnight bag with her, I noticed.  Surely not?  A's mother left, without taking the offered cup of tea and said she would pick A up whenever she wanted.  She gave me a hug, embarrassingly, and left.  A, I was surprised to see, was wearing light make up.. A touch of eye shadow and some pale pink lipstick.  It made her look older.  I thought that I preferred (as I still do) girls without makeup.

A and I sat on the sofa and watched the film version of Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.  We both knew the series but hadn't seen the older film. We had just got a colour TV for the first time so it was much better than the black and white TV version I had seen before.  As usual, dinner was late but we managed to watch the whole film before we went into the dining room, at which point my sister appeared, looking sullen.  Dinner wasn't actually inedible, mother had bought some Chianti and it never occurred to her that A wouldn't have some.  In fact she hadn't had wine before but I drank it at home from a young age.  I had my first glass of wine, in France, when I was two and a half and from the age of about ten we had it every Sunday lunch time with the Sunday roast, Round the Horne or The Navy Lark on the radio.  My sister thawed, somewhat, at  dinner when she found out that A played the clarinet too.

My mother ensured that she and my sister went up to bed quite early (this was a first example of how my mother, from then on, always disappeared if I had a young lady round, for which I was very grateful).  A and I stayed up, theoretically, to watch a late night double bill of old black and white horror films but in fact to reacquaint ourselves with each other's mouths.  I had relaxed when it didn't appear that she was going to dump me after all.  She sat on my lap, on the sofa, as I caressed her now quite brown legs. They seemed particularly smooth and silky, which she put down to after sun lotion every day.  I was just wondering about getting more horizontal when she suggested we get ready for bed.  I was disappointed as it seemed our amorous activities might be over for the weekend. I kissed her good night outside the door to the spare room and she disappeared inside with her Sibelius record, which she was delighted with.

I rushed to use the bathroom and get ready for bed as I knew how long girls took at things like that.  I put on my pyjamas and got into bed, thinking about A and getting stiff.  I could hear her come out of the bathroom and go into the spare bedroom.  I waited for what seemed like ages but she did not appear.  I was gently stroking myself, wondering whether to go the whole way when my bedroom door opened and  a pale shape entered and closed the door.  It was quite dark, although.there was some light in the room from the road outside the house, filtering through my unlined curtains.  I do not like completely dark rooms and when away always make sure that I open the curtain just a chink to let some light into the room.

"Did you think I wouldn't come?" she whispered. I had actually thought that she had gone to bed, so was surprised by her presence.

She approached my bed and I sat up.  She pulled her cotton nightie over her head, dropped it onto the carpet and slipped into bed next to me.  Fortunately I had a 3' 6", not the standard 3', single bed but there was  a lot of wriggling involved in her getting under the sheet and blankets ( I didn't get a continental quilt for another four years).  My heart was pounding.  I was in bed with a completely naked girl!  A naked girl who was unbuttoning my pyjama top. After being frozen, initially, like a rabbit in headlights, I reanimated myself and helped her get my top off which I threw onto the carpet next to her nightie.  She started fumbling at the tie cord on my pyjama trousers. She started to push them down before she had undone it, catching my erection on the cord. I helped free myself and pushed them down to my thighs.  She pulled them off the rest of the way but they remained at the foot of the bed.  She was now lying on her side next to me.  Her hand grasped my cock and she wriggled up for a kiss.

We didn't speak, just kissed and caressed each other.  She climbed on top of me, her thighs astride my hips her hot groin pressed on my cock.  I could feel her pubic hair on my erection.  I reached down and stroked her naked bottom for the first time.  We were kissing all the time and she was starting to rub herself on my cock; backwards and forwards.  She lifted herself up and supported herself on her forearms . I leant forward and licked her erect nipples.  She was breathing hard. "Huh, huh, huh"  I had my hands on her bottom feeling the muscles under her skin flex.  I could feel  myself getting close to coming and was worried about the proximity of my cock head to her pussy.  I wondered about pushing her down a bit but she was lost now, gasping and grinding.  I started to ejaculate onto my (and her) belly. She kept rubbing and then gasped and I felt a flood of wetness flowing onto my cock root and down my balls.  This business of girls flowing like this was something I had not imagined before.

A rested her head on my shoulder, breathing hard. She kissed my neck, softly.  I turned my head and we kissed again and gently stroked each other's sweaty skin.  I could feel my spunk on my belly, drying.  She flung the bedclothes back, as we were both sweating like pigs.

"Wow!" was all she said. We lay together until she rolled off me and stood up as she needed the loo. She pulled her nightie on and slipped out.  I went after she had returned and when I got back into the room she had stripped off again and was back in bed.  I climbed back in with her and she wriggled across the bed to the wall (my bed was in the corner of the room).  Having not said much up until that point she now wanted to chat about what we had just done and how nice it had been and when we could do it again.  She was so excited I had to keep hushing her.  I idly stroked her pubic hair with the back of my fingers until she opened her legs, took hold of my wrist and guided my hand between her thighs.  I explored her slippery parts with my fingers, amazed by all the fleshy folds.  I stroked her inner surfaces and wondered, again, at the amount of liquid they produced,  I could sense her entrance with my finger but didn't want to penetrate it.  I knew from school biology lessons that virgins had some sort of membrane there and if you broke it it bled.  Instead, I concentrated on the rigid little fold at the top of her pussy and soon had her gasping away again.  She clamped her thighs on my hand stopping me from tickling her any more. She was dribbling liquid again and I worried I had inadvertently broken her hymen.  "Stop!  I've come again!  I love it!"

"I love it too!" I replied giving her a kiss.  I turned onto my side and my erection pressed against her hip.

"My turn!" she said.  She pushed my legs apart and knelt between my thighs, taking me in hand before enveloping my knob in her soft mouth.  I managed to hold off for some time, really enjoying it as she slurped wetly all over me.  It was when she started to tickle my balls with her fingernails that I lost it again.  I pulled out and came over her collarbones.  She wriggled up me and lay on top of me.   I stroked her bottom.

"You'd better go," I said.  She said that she would really like to cuddle up in bed but she agreed that she had better go back to the spare room.  Reluctantly, we both got dressed in our night clothes again and after a lot more kissing she slipped away. I hopped into bed hoping I would get another erection so I could masturbate over the memory but I fell asleep almost immediately,

After breakfast, the next morning, we went for a walk in the park and along the river bank, although heading downstream rather than the way we used to go when I walked her home.  We were sitting on the bank near the bridge, our legs dangling over the brown waters as a couple of boats cycled through the lock. She said she had something to confess to me and my heart started to pound. She had another boyfriend? She had had a fling with a Spanish waiter?  She was dumping me after all?  It was not that but nearly as shocking.  She thanked me for her birthday present again and the card and letter I had sent.  Her birthday had been last week when she was on holiday.  I knew it meant that she would be one of the youngest girls in her year, whereas I had a January birthday so was one of the older ones in mine. She then confessed that her recent birthday was her fifteenth.  I would be seventeen on my next birthday.  She had still (just) been fourteen when she sucked me off under the tree. I had assumed that the summer exams she had sat in June had been her O-levels like mine and she was now sixteen.  But hers were her mock O-levels.  She confessed to not being entirely honest when we had discussed these, when my results came out at the end of July.  She thought I wouldn't want a younger girlfriend so she had pretended to be the same age as me.

Certainly, at school your friends were almost exclusively in your own year.  You didn't fraternise with older or younger people. A was eighteen months younger than me, which meant about ten percent of my age less than I was. She was actually closer in age to my younger sister. I gave her a hug and a kiss and said "so what?" but I was still a bit shocked.  She said it meant that we couldn't have sex for another year.  I was surprised by the boldness of her statement.  Sex was something you had to cajole girls into, I thought. I hadn't even contemplated "It" with her, really, despite the fact that the previous night we had been very close.  I realised that there was a big gap between number nine on Dobs table and number ten.   Maybe we needed a number nine and a half.

I had already achieved far more with a girl than I had imagined and far more than most of my school friends except Dobs and now also, we knew, JM, who had got his girlfriend down to her knickers while romping in his bedroom. He was, however, half French so we expected him to be more capable with women  We knew this because another schoolmate, S, had witnessed this and had complained that his 'date' wouldn't strip off.  Getting any sort of contact with girls was still such an unlikely and distant prospect that even though S perceived it as a failure to get his girl to disrobe it was still seen by the rest of the class as an achievement just to be romping around with her on the floor.  At least he had a girl, they thought, jealously, even though they were rude to him to his face.

Later in the week A and I went to Kingston to go to the art shop  She was doing Art O-level and needed a new art folder as hers had fallen to bits.  She caught the 218 bus to where I lived and I waited at the stop until the bus she was on arrived. We sat in the back seats and I stroked her leg all the way there, even getting my fingers under her skirt to rub her damp, cotton clad crotch.  We  had a few kisses but the bus was quite full and sitting further towards the front was "the lady who sounds like a crowd" as my sister called her and who knew my mother.  The "lady who sounds like a crowd" was so dubbed because you would be in the house and you would hear what sounded like four or five people walking past the front of the house chatting.  However, when you looked out the window you would just see the one lady with her toddler in a push chair.  Maybe she was a ventriloquist.  At one point A started to unzip my jeans but I had to push her hand away.  Far too much risk of discovery!

Shortly afterwards we made another trip together, this time up to London. This was a big trip for me as I don't think I had been to London on my own before. We took the train from the station I used to get to school l and found ourselves in one of the closed compartments. As we sat waiting for the train to leave (it was at the end of the line) she kicked off her sandal and started to rub my crotch with her foot.  Given that, in doing so, I could look up her skirt and see her knickers it wasn't long before she had me throbbing in my jeans.

As soon as the train pulled out she unzipped me, knelt next to me on the bench seat and started to suck away.  The problem with that line was that as there was a stop every couple of minutes or so, we would have to desist at every station to make sure no one was going to get into our compartment.   The first few miles were through fields but I was starting to get increasingly nervous as the area along the line got more built up, as we approached the usual stop I got out at for school.  A was, however, by this point, really in to it and she didn't stop even when we pulled into the station. There was a man on the platform and I am sure he glanced into the compartment and moved on.  Slightly more relaxed as we got on the move again, I told her that I was about to come but she kept her mouth firmly over my knob as I ejaculated into her soft mouth. I remember her pulling off me, looking at me and swallowing.  Then she gave me a particularly wet, spermy, I realised, kiss.  "Mmm!" she said, just as we pulled into the next station.

In London our destination was a science fiction bookshop called Dark They Were and Golden Eyed. which was in a dingy part of Soho.  Today Soho is full of film company HQ offices, trendy restaurants and shops.  In those days it was full of seedy strip clubs and prostitutes. A thought it was fascinating.  I felt totally responsible for her. I wanted to get out of the area as fast as possible so after we had picked up a few US edition science fiction novels we headed out of the side streets.  A chose Samuel R Delaney's Dhalgren, largely on the basis of an explicit sex scene at the beginning.  I tried to read it once but found it a lot of overblown pretentious claptrap. We went to Foyles bookshop where A wanted to buy a copy of the paperback Emmanuelle.  Trying to find anything in a bookshop where books were arranged by publisher not author was impossible however!   I think she eventually got a copy in WH Smiths at home. We thought about going to the Prince Charles Cinema in Leicester Square, where the film was running but didn't think we could pass for eighteen.

On the way home we got into another single compartment but, much to our annoyance, some other people got in too so we didn't have long together on our own until we reached the end of the line.  Enough time for A to get me completely stiff again, however., but no time to do anything about it.

Shortly after our London trip it was back to school, after an unbelievably torrid summer holiday.  My experiences with A had given me a new confidence, however, and this was reflected in my performance at school.  Although it could have been something to do with giving up all the subjects I was rubbish at like Maths, sciences and French.  Having been a bit average, I discovered in the autumn term that I was actually really good at English and History.  I was getting A and A+ grades instead of my usual B's.  (I even got an A for my DH Lawrence essay!).  "What's 'appened to you, boy, over the summer 'olidays?" said one of my History teachers, Spiny Norman, in his West County yokel's accent.  "You look different too!"  I said nothing.  I enjoyed having a girlfriend but I enjoyed having a secret girlfriend even more.

In my last reminiscence involving A we head into 1977. 


Wednesday, 27 July 2016

1976: By the river




The summer of 1976 was the hottest since records began in the UK, which was more than 350 years previously.  Through May, June and July the temperatures just kept going up and up.   Unfortunately for me this was the period when I was studying for and sitting my first set of key school exams; O levels.  I sat in stifling gyms or the school hall. trying to concentrate, as the temperature went through the roof.  People were passing out during exams.  Heathrow airport, just seven miles from where I lived, recorded fifteen days in a row where the temperature exceeded 30 degrees Centigrade (86F).  The thermometer kept on rising: 32, 34, 35.9 degrees (96.6F).  A drought was declared.  There were 45 days without rain in the South East of England, which was unheard of.  There were forest fires (over one million trees were lost) and water rationing.  

There was no heat in Triple P' romantic life, however.  Apart from finding a pristine copy of Men Only Volume 41 number 5  on the train, my life had no external sexual element.  I used to get the train to school and it had individual compartments with no linking corridor. I was in there one morning with several of my schoolmates when, for some unknown reason, they decided to lift the seat cushions up. Underneath was a pristine copy of  the May 1976 Men Only. We all eagerly scanned the pictures and gave our expert critical opinion. "She's got no tits" was the immediate verdict on both poor Dana (Joanie Allum) and Esty and so on. Lilith was almost universally admired and was the main reason I slipped the magazine into my school briefcase (no back packs for school in those days) when the others abandoned it when we reached our station.

I was delighted with the Men Only, however.  My father's collection of men's magazines had all been from the pre-labia displaying era. I hadn't seen a men's magazine in the interim so was surprised and delighted by the wantonly spread thighs of Dana, Lilith, Esty, Karyl and, above all, the three girls in the Love All, Sauna or Later pictorial; the first lesbian pictorial I had ever seen. I had no idea that girls had so much going on between their legs, hidden by all that hair.  Although one of the girls in the lesbian pictorial had a bald pussy, which I found fascinating.  I had never seen such a thing.  How times have changed!

The end of exams didn't mean the end of the school term, sadly.  We had to prepare for the sixth form (the final two years of school) where we dropped from around eight or nine to three or four subjects.  One of the things we were told during these preparatory sessions was that because of the looser structure of study in the sixth form we didn't have to do compulsory sport on Wednesday afternoons if you could come up with an "acceptable alternative". This was good news for me because I hated team sports (I was good at the 400m on the track and that was it, sports wise) and anything to do with a ball, given I had no hand to eye (or foot) coordination whatsoever.  So cricket in the summer and football or rugby in the winter were purgatory.

Fortunately, there was a good archery club in our village which I had joined, through a colleague of my mother's, the previous Easter and I was delighted to find out that doing archery practice on Wednesday afternoon, just ten minutes walk from home, would be an "acceptable alternative".  I had been to a few sessions on the regular Friday evening club nights where special introductory training was given.  Joining at the same time, was a lovely girl, A, from a nearby girl's private school.  As we were both beginners and were about the same age (I was sixteen at this point) we were put together,  I started to look forward to archery every week, as much to see A as for the archery, although we both had exams that summer term,so stopped going for a few weeks.

A was very slightly built, like a dancer, and, indeed was doing ballet lessons.  She had light brown, shoulder length hair, very slim arms and legs and she looked like a good gust of wind would blow her away.  I was surprised every week that she could actually draw a bow but she was stronger than she looked.  She had a pretty, heart shaped face with nice full lips.  What really struck me, on our first meeting, however, was her eyes; as  they were hazel, just like mine.  They looked a different colour, depending on what she wore.  What she wore was not very exciting; invariably a below the knee A-line skirt and a plain long sleeved blouse.  She was about as far as you could get from the leg-spreading, pussy caressing girls in Men Only but she was real (and my previous experiences had taught me to value real girls above photographs, unlike most of my school mates) and she seemed pleased to see me every week.

When, on the club night after my first post-exam week at school, I told her I could practice on Wednesday afternoons instead of doing school sport, she asked if I would mind if she joined me.  I tried hard not to look too delighted.  She said it would have to be after school as their games afternoon was on Friday.  She left her bow and quiver with me and asked me to bring it the following week as unlike me, she had a bicycle, which she rode to and from school every day.  Her school was the other side of the river from my house and the archery club but it was in the same general direction as her home so the diversion to the other side of the river was not too far.  It only took her about twenty minutes to cover the distance and as I had already been there for an hour I had the target out of the shed and already set up. 

We did this for a couple of weeks as the hot summer continued.  When school finished at the end of July we carried on meeting up, increasingly regularly, rather than just once a week, although now she cycled from home not school.

"Are you off to see your girlfriend. again?" my mother asked, one August afternoon.

"She's not my girlfriend!" I answered, blushing.  I certainly didn't consider her to be my girlfriend.  She was just a friend who happened to be a girl.  I had. not, for example, mentioned her to anyone at school, particularly after all the teasing Dobs was getting, for having a girlfriend, from his classmates. 

 "She's flat as a pancake!  Do you like fried eggs?  If she turns side on can you still see her?" were some of the comments he got about her.  Poor, S, the girl in question from next door's school, was deemed sadly lacking in the bust department for a group of boys brought up on Page 3 girls.  In fact, when I went to university I ran into S, on the road to the law library.  She was wearing a tight tee-shirt and looked just fine in the bust department but her school uniform was not the most flattering and, as was common, her family had bought large sizes to allow for growing room.

Given A was even less curvaceous I said nothing, as any mention of her existence would have garnered the inevitable question: "Does she have big knockers?"; the only measure of female worth that mattered. 

One day she asked me if I would like to walk her  home.  This was in completely the wrong direction from my house  This would have been a nine mile walk there and back but I remembered my uncle telling me a year or so before not to "ever turn down an invitation from a girl".  It was a lovely afternoon and we decided to walk along the Thames towpath, which was further than the road route but much prettier.  She pushed her bike along the river and I carried our bows and quivers. In retrospect, I should have probably offered to push her bike but had no understanding of bicycles, whatsoever and was worried about tripping over the pedals.

We chatted on so much (we were both interested in painting and drawing, classical music and science fiction - I didn't think girls liked science fiction) that soon we had actually overshot where she should have turned off for her house and, having crossed the river, found ourselves on the river bank at Runnymede.  Here you could sit on the bank and dangle your feet in the water; a good idea as it was still baking hot. Eventually she had to go home to dinner but not before she had given me a goodbye kiss.  The first I had received from her.  I watched her cycle away and then had to walk the four and a half miles home.  I didn't mind one bit, though.  My mother noticed I had been a particularly long time and also that I looked very pleased with myself.  

Shockingly, that evening I received a telephone call.  I never received a telephone call.  My mother thought that telephones were for emergencies not chat.  This is a view I still hold, largely.  I don't like speaking to people I cannot see. "It's for you.  It's a girl!" said my mother. looking delighted.  Now, of course, in those days telephones were on a short wire.  I couldn't take it to another room so had to take the call in the hallway, next to the kitchen, where my mother hovered, pretending to do things.  As a result the call was short. A wondered if I would like to meet up again the next day rather than in four days time as we had planned.  I said yes.  The call was over. My mother looked disappointed.

The next day was hot again.  A's eye was off in the archery so having loosed off a few arrows together she suggested we walk back to Runnymede to sit by the river again.  We lay by the river talking about music and science fiction films and how bad the modern ones were compared to the fifties ones. Gradually, she pulled her skirt up well over her knees to get some sun.  Her legs were covered in pale golden hairs which glistened in the sunlight.  


After a while, she got up and walked over to the grass below a nearby willow tree so as to be in the shade.  It was like being in a cool, green room cut off from the rest of the world, apart from the sound of the cars on the main road and the occasional 'chug chug' of a river boat. She lay down and pulled her skirt right up to the top of her thighs.  I wondered why she did this as she was now out the sun.  It took some minutes for me to realise that the leg flashing might just be an invitation.  I saw a ladybird crawling along her thigh (there were a plague of them in the hot weather that year) and I carefully plucked it from her leg.  She turned, smiled at me, leaned forward and we slid into a kiss.  A lovely gentle, soft and, to me, rather surprising kiss. I still didn't regard her as a girlfriend.  Girlfriends were people you took to parties and went to the cinema with. You snogged and hoped they might let you touch their breasts.  The kissing continued until she pulled away and made a little 'mm' sound.  She fell back onto her back and we resumed our conversation as if nothing had happened.  Another, more confident goodbye kiss followed, later and we agreed to meet the following afternoon but passing on the archery.

Next day I took the bus into town, saving a mile and a half of walking and met up with her under the willow tree again. Another kiss in greeting.  I had decided I really liked kissing girls and A in particular.  She was gentler than the sister I had met at New Year's Eve and was more like the French girl from four years earlier.  I lay on my back and she lay on her side next to me.  She put her arm across my chest and stroked my bare arm as we chatted. Occasionally, she would stop talking to give me another kiss.  At one point she was lying on her back and her skirt was up above her knees again. I was lying on my side, this time and I risked a tentative stroke of her naked thigh with the tips of my fingers.  She didn't flinch, as I had half expected she might. I tried another one and then left my hand resting on her warm skin while we talked. I started to gently caress her leg and she helpfully pulled her skirt up even higher.  I was literally feeling out the boundary with her as my hand went higher and then lower along her thigh.  Up and down, caressing that silky skin.  She kissed me again.  I was now completely erect. She rolled over on to her side, facing me and I thought I must have gone too far; my hand recoiling from her skin like a frightened creature. Instead, she climbed on top of me, her legs astride my trunk, and initiated our most serious kissing session to date.  She stroked my bare arms and I stroked her hair and neck, remembering how much the French girl had seemed to enjoy it. She undid one of my shirt buttons and then another and started to kiss my bare skin. This, I thought, was what boyfriends and girlfriends did!

She kissed my neck too but didn't indulge in what the boys at school talked about all the time: necking and love bites.  I couldn't get my mind around what this was, in reality.  Did boys and girls really rub and bite each other's necks?  I started to stroke her cotton clad back and, using the same approach I had done with her leg, slowly slid my fingers down towards her bottom.  I never reached my target, however, as we could hear some people approaching along the towpath so we disengaged, looking at each other and grinning, as if we both knew the greatest secret in the world. 

We kissed goodbye before she headed home on her bike and I made the long walk back along the towpath.  This time she slipped her tongue into my mouth for the first time and put her hands on my bottom.  It was about half a mile's walk before I lost my erection.  I had a girlfriend!  I think! Now what?

She rang again that evening and said that she couldn't meet me the next day as she had to go shopping with her parents in Kingston but we could meet the following day, if I liked. "That would be completely wonderful!" I thought.  "OK" I said.  I went to bed that night and for the first time masturbated to a mental image of a girl I knew rather than a picture in a magazine.  I could still feel her warm skin against my hand and smell her slightly sweaty girl skin scent.  I was listless and distracted the next day but delighted when she rang again after her shopping trip confirming our assignation the following day.

The next day I didn't want to scare her off, in case the day before's activity had been a one off. so although we had our now usual greeting kiss I did not, despite desperately wanting to, make a grab for her.  We started to talk about music and Sibelius, whose music she didn't know, in particular.  At one point she sat on my lap and I tried and failed to not become erect.  She wriggled on me, enticingly.  I was stroking her leg again, right up under her skirt.

This sort of interaction continued for a week or so with some archery mixed in.  I had to be rather distant towards her at archery club as the man there worked in my mother's office.  I had to explain this to A in case I upset her.

 One day my mother was taking my sister to see a friend of her's for the day and I bravely asked A, if she would like to come over to my house and listen to some Sibelius.  She readily agreed, rather to my surprise and a few days later turned up at the front door with her bicycle.  Unfortunately, A was early and my mother was late in leaving so, contrary to my carefully planned timetable, the two met.  My mother was delighted with this and fussed about, explaining what there was in the fridge for lunch and perhaps we might have a picnic by the river and here was a blanket etc etc.  My sister just looked at A in stony silence as if I had let a particularly unpleasant dog into the house..

We started off with Sibelius' second (Scottish National Orchestra, Gibson) and sat on my bedroom floor next to each other.  A wasn't wearing her normal skirt and blouse but a floral sundress, which made her look older. We did, in fact make some ham sandwiches and go down to the river, which was only a couple of hundred yards from our house, to have them.  There was an ice cream van there, as there often was and I had taken enough money to buy us both ice creams, which she seemed delighted with.  We had several ice creamy kisses sitting by the river bank.  Her kissing started to get more passionate and she suggested we went back to my room.

She asked me to put some more music on, but not classical.  This was something of a problem. Apart from three late Beatles LPs given me by my aunt when she got married a few years before, all my music was classical or 1940s swing. I didn't buy my first pop LP until the following year (Rick Wakeman!).  I went downstairs and retrieved my mother's Burt Bacharach LP, which I had danced to with New Year's Eve Debbie six months before.  Going up the stairs I was worried that it would be too low brow for A, who played the clarinet and liked Mozart, but she seemed happy with it.

As soon as I had put the record on she jumped me, grabbing me around the waist and pushing me to the floor.  I later asked her what brought on this sudden passion and she said it was because I had bought her an ice cream!  She started to kiss me and tried to undo my shirt buttons at the same time,  She was trying to take my clothes off!  Or, at least some of them.  I had a flashback to when the French girl had started to do this and we had been interrupted on the school trip and I had a sudden panic that my mother would return and walk in on us.

I remember kissing her shoulder and neck and the thin strap on her dress dropping to one side.  I managed to pull my unbuttoned shirt off and she was kissing my upper body and arms.  I did not really know what to do in return.  Should I try and take her dress off?  Would that be too pushy?  I still expected, when dealing with girls, a slap and being told to behave.  I was still thinking about this when she straddled my thigh and started to unbutton the front of her sundress.  Surely not?  But then she was shrugging it off and revealed that she wasn't wearing a bra,  I couldn't believe it.  Tits!  Actual real life naked tits!  They were small, it is true but a very nice deep saucer shape with pale pink nipples with erect teats. "Lovely!" I said,  Which she later told me was exactly the right thing to say as she thought hers were too small and was nervous about revealing herself.

I could feel her heat on my thigh through her plain white knickers and she was gently rubbing her crotch against my leg. She leant down and lay on top of me and I could feel her hard nipples pressing against my chest.  She was grinding against my leg in earnest while kissing me at the same time.  I slid my hands down her lovely naked back and then cupped her cotton clad bottom.  I started to gently thrust my hips up against her, rubbing my denim clad erection against her hipbone. She was gasping and sweat was dripping from her face onto mine.  Her back was becoming slippery and our naked torsos were sliding across each other.  Suddenly she clamped my leg between her thighs and her body went rigid. Then she relaxed and put her head on my shoulder, giving me little kisses.  It was just as well that she stopped as I was about to come in my jeans.

"Oh!" she said, after a while.

"What happened?" I asked, stupidly.

"I think I just had an orgasm!" she said. "First one!"

"Oh, wonderful!" I said.

"It really was!  And you gave it to me!" she smiled. Or rather my leg did, I thought. She had actually left a damp patch on my jeans.

Well, we spent the rest of the afternoon lounging around in our half naked state, kissing each other's upper bodies.  I took her nipples into my mouth and rolled the teats with my tongue.  Oddly, I thought, she did the same to me.

We both jumped when we heard the key in the front door and had to grab our clothes and get dressed as my mother and sister had returned.  I walked her back towards her home along the river in the early evening. It looked like it was about to rain and was very hot and humid.  Usually A would chatter away but she seemed quiet. As we reached the lock I stopped and took her chin in my hand and asked her if she was alright.  She just smiled and said very, very alright indeed and gave me a soft, lingering kiss.  There was a duck paddling about inside the lock and she told me that I had to give her a kiss every time we passed a duck.  As a result it took us twice as long as usual to do the walk. At one point, underneath the railway bridge, we were kissing again and I felt her hand on the crotch of my jeans. "You are all stiff!" she said.  I told her that I had been for most of the afternoon. "I know!" she answered.

I thought she would want to turn off towards her house but she kept walking until we reached our willow tree by the river..  Just as we got there it started to rain. We hadn't had any proper rain for months and it just hammered down. There was some shelter under the tree but we were still getting quite wet.  We stood under it, kissing again.  This time I felt comfortable caressing her bottom and she was stroking the crotch of my jeans again. "I want to see it!" she said.  I looked around but there was no one about.  She knelt down in front of me and unzipped my jeans, fumbling inside to extract me.  She looked at my erection.  "Cock!" she said, uncharacteristically earthily, and put her fingers around it.  I thought I might hyperventilate. "What do I do?"  I told her and she started to rub it.  Then she kissed my tip and then I watched in disbelieving fascination as she enveloped my glans with her mouth.  My root was rubbing against the sharp teeth of my zipper but I didn't mind.  She looked up at me, her eyes smiling and that did it.  Half a day of kissing and caressing and watching my first girl reach orgasm had built up a huge erotic pressure which needed release. I pulled out of her mouth and literally spurted around three feet, my first emission hitting the trunk of the willow tree beneath which we were sheltering. I was amazed by the distance I had achieved.  I had always come into my hand or a tissue when I masturbated.  I had never watched an unencumbered ejaculation before.  I spurted  again, this time spattering her neck and shoulder.  And again.  And again. "Spunk!" she cried, picking some up with her fingertips and looking at it closely before licking her fingers.

After I had come she went back to kissing my prick although I had to gently dissuade her from touching the tip which was super sensitive. Eventually we pulled ourselves together and she said she needed to "spend a penny", which  she did, squatting at the river's edge. I looked away, of course. but I could hear her stream hitting the water even through the rain. Then it was my turn although I was conscious of her watching me from slightly behind where I stood. Drenched with rain we made our way back towards our homes.

My friendship with A would continue into 1977 and I will examine this in the next  two chronicles.

Tuesday, 26 July 2016

1975: German fluff to kissing sisters





I returned from my French school trip in August 1972 with a lot more confidence, following my entertaining encounter with the French girls.   My partner in crime, Dobs, and I didn't get a chance to discuss the incident until school began again in September. I approached the first week in a state of some nervousness as I was convinced the French teachers 'wife' would eventually have ratted on us (she was French after all and, therefore, untrustworthy by definition) about the girls and the cider.  But nothing was said and Dobs and I relaxed.

However, we soon discovered that there were no friendly, tactile girls anywhere around back in England.  We went to an all boys school with an all male staff.  Although there was a girls school next door the headmistress had made sure that the time they left school was half an hour after our school finished for the day.  We weren't going to hang around waiting for girls; we wanted to get home (a journey that took me an hour and a half on public transport).  Also, to be honest, the girls from next door's school weren't anything like as attractive as the French girls we had met,  Dobs and I had been very spoiled in our first encounter with the fairer sex.  It was like getting your first drive in a car in a slinky Panhard and then finding that your future driving opportunities were limited to an Austin Maxi.  A number of older girls from the school next door did catch the same bus as we did to the station but they were not very appealing.  There was Splodge (her friends' nickname for her) who was tall, had a body like a barrel and had nasty black curly hair that was unfortunately arranged in such a way that she seemed to have a face that was eighty percent forehead. There was her best friend S, who, in contrast was very short, had a figure like a boy and a hard, angular face like a goblin (as Dobs cruelly observed).  There was Plain Jane, who smoked illicitly and looked about forty years old as a result; even though she was only sixteen.  There was one lovely, elegant girl who was a nice blonde with an upturned nose but she was a sixth former and we were in the second year and she was as unapproachable as a film star.  The girls wore a fetching straw boater in the summer and she always looked lovely in hers.

I didn't see any of the girls I had been at junior school with any more.  My favourite, recorder playing S, had moved away with her family.  I didn't meet any girls socially as I didn't have a social life. Given the amount of homework we were given it would have been impossible anyway.  I was twelve, had no transport (not even a bicycle - I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was thirty four!) and lived right on the outside edge of the school's catchment area, so all my classmates lived miles away.  In addition, I lived in  a village with limited transport links and there were no pretty girls in the village.  Ironically, two years old at the time and living just around the corner was a girl who would attend my junior school and later went on to become a successful Hollywood actress, who was voted by People magazine in 1994 as one of the top fifty most beautiful people in the world!

So for the rest of 1972, the whole of 1973 and 1974 my only interaction with girls came through pictures of models and actresses in the newspapers and the discovery of some of my father's men's magazines which I found in his study, buried under a pile of architectural magazines. I wouldn't acquire my first copy of a men's magazine (Men Only, May 1976) for more than three years.

I did acquire a well developed aesthetic sense as regards women, though, and worked on building my cuttings collection.  I also developed a good instinct for spotting really pretty women on the street.  Most of my fellow pupils were still at the TV and film actresses and girls in the newspapers stage.  Dobs and I, though, having enjoyed some real girls were far more interested in spotting flesh and blood women when out and about.  The trouble was that this period coincided with a really ugly period for women's fashion.  Gone were the miniskirts and hot pants of the previous years and in there place were bell bottomed trousers, dungarees and ankle length maxi dresses.  What a cruel thing to do to hormonal boys!

My only erotic frisson during this period (at least the only one which wasn't two dimensional) came from our neighbour's house, wherein lived the lovely P, who was three years older than me.  The back of their house was in a road at right angles to the one we lived in, so from upstairs, at the back of our house, you could see into P's bedroom.  Unfortunately the room with the best view was my sister's room.  But once or twice I got to see P combing her lovely long black hair entirely naked (she didn't shut the curtains) although her hair was so long it almost completely covered her front but I did enjoy a few glimpses of her naked back and it engendered an appreciation for finely wrought backs - those with prominent shoulder blades, indented backbones and other enjoyable planes.

So it was a fallow period from the summer of 1972 until the summer of 1975.  Things moved up a gear in 1975 when my mother took my sister and me on  a holiday to the Balearic Island of Menorca.

We stayed in an hotel in an attractive bay called Cala Galdana. Whilst my sister and mother had a nice room with a balcony overlooking the spectacular bay I had to make do with a dark room at the rear of the hotel, overlooking the air conditioning units; the usual fate of those who stay in holiday hotels in single rooms.

In the room across the corridor, also with the view, were a couple of teenage German sisters (we assumed they were sisters, they only seemed to be attached to one family).  I had already observed these two on the beach the very first day, as they were both remarkably pretty. The older one (we also assumed, as she was taller and seemed to be bossier) had long, dark blonde hair and a rather elfin face. She wore very bright cherry red lipstick and blue eye make-up (it was the mid seventies!) and had long legs and a pert but small bust. In fact it says much for our rather unsophisticated taste at the time that we dismissed her as not worthy of our attention, precisely because she had a small bust. Proper women in swimsuits, as The Sun and the Sunday Express used to demonstrate, had big busts. We can still remember perusing my mother’s Sunday newspaper of choice, whilst she cooked Sunday lunch and listened to Round the Horne, to see which gratuitous but tastefully covered, lovely they featured that week (many of these girls joined my growing collection - I had to progress from a document wallet to a filing box, which I kept at the back of our wardrobe). The older girl seemed rather aloof but anyway I was drawn to her “sister”. The younger girl was a lighter blonde, and a real blonde as her body seemed to be covered in tiny blonde hairs. They were on her arms, her thighs, her stomach and back. She had a lovely golden tan (her sister had gone that horrible walnut colour). She had very short hair, which was quite unusual at the time. I happily wiled away two weeks covertly (I hoped) observing these two lovelies as they frolicked in the sea in their small bikinis, read their books on the beach and, particularly, applied suntan oil to each other’s lithe, Teutonic bodies. 

One afternoon I had returned to my room as it had got too hot to stay on the beach. I had noticed that several rooms had opened their doors in an attempt to channel the breeze through, as the air conditioning had packed up.  I knew this as there were men working on it outside my window.  I settled down in my hot, gloomy room to read the book I had brought with me (the James Bond pastiche Colonel Sun).  After an hour or so I decided to go and visit my family and take advantage of their balcony.  

I opened the door to the corridor and stepped through at precisely the moment that the younger German girl emerged from her bathroom; the door to which was next to the open door onto the corridor. She was completely naked except for a towel around her head. She turned to look at me and just stood there, her hand on the door knob. I noticed droplets of water running down her body and her strong tan lines. She had erect nipples and her body was covered in goosebumps. It occurred to me that perhaps she had just had a cold shower. What really caught my attention, in that brief moment which, nevertheless, seemed to be proceeding in slow motion, was the golden floss at the apex of her thighs. The forbidden zone! She was quite unembarrassed and looked at me, evenly. I had frozen to the spot and I knew that I had to move, as it was like being transfixed by a predatory animal. She just stood there. Dripping. She smiled. I ran; slamming my door shut and scooting down the corridor in adrenaline propelled haste. Seeing my first lovely, naked girl was one thing, having her attempt to make contact was another! 

Sadly, I didn’t see her again. We all left to return to England the next day. She made an indelible impression and I can still remember every moment of the tableau, forty years later.  She may just have given me a little bit more confidence for my next interaction with a young lady, five and a half months later; on New Year’s Eve 1975.

We went to a New Year's Eve party at a family friend's house, just round the corner.  In fact their house was in the same road as the lovely, naked, hair-brushing P mentioned above.  I have to say I did not want to attend.  I have never enjoyed New Year's celebrations, on the grounds that celebrating another tedious year seemed pointless. My mother insisted, however, so we were dragged around to her friend's very large house.  Even worse it was full of people (well, perhaps twenty or thirty, but I don't like large crowds of people in social settings).  Most of them were adults.  My sister was alright as she was thirteen and the daughter was one of her school friends.

What made it worse was that the father made his own wine.  Not proper wine with  grapes but with things like rhubarb.  Now rhubarb is one of the most disgusting things on the planet.  My mother loved it, for some unfathomable reason, and used to serve it to us with custard, when in season.  My sister and I would push it disconsolately around our bowls, trying to dilute the horrid taste with as mush sugar and custard as possible.  The thought of wine made from this rank vegetation was too much.  Fortunately, as I quickly discovered, it didn't taste much like rhubarb but then it didn't taste much like wine either.  What it was, however, was really, really alcoholic.

Just as I was contemplating a tedious evening a couple turned up with their teenage daughters in tow.  Unlike the German sisters, these two were dark and looked very similar; even down to identical hair dos.  They both had short, thick cuts which just covered the napes of their neck and their ears.  They were also wearing identical clingy silk (well, probably something synthetic, like Rayon) cocktail dresses.  One in blue and one in red.  Sadly, I can't remember their names but one was seventeen and the other was fifteen (the same age as me).  Actually, as I type this, the name Debbie floats into my consciousness as the name of the younger one and the older one may have been Christine.  These are the names I will use, therefore. They were also the tallest girls I had met, especially in their platform shoes!

I didn't have the nerve to approach them, as I watched them knock back the rhubarb wine but I did think at the time (I was quite experienced with alcohol, or, at least, wine by now) that it might hit them quite hard given they were so skinny.  One of them, the younger one, Debbie, started to eye me up during the evening and while we served ourselves at the enormous buffet provided (the host was a very fat man indeed and his wife a famously good cook) she started a conversation along the lines of "do you know anyone here?"  It turned out that they didn't know anyone much either and both had been dragged along for family entertaining solidarity purposes too. It was about this point that I caught my mother's eye who nodded at me encouragingly to urge me on.  I realised, later, that mothers are desperate for their sons to show any interest in the opposite sex for the first time and as I was nearly sixteen (within a week or so) she was getting a bit worried.

Soon, I was sitting on a large sofa in their huge sitting room, which overlooked the back garden.  Debbie, the younger and chattier sister, was perched on the arm of the sofa with her long thigh pressed against my arm, while her sister occasionally glared at her.  However, she was soon distracted by the arrival at the house of the host's son. M, who was eighteen and had a car!  He was a nice chap and I knew him quite well as his sister had been in my class at junior school.  He asked me to go outside into the garden where they had built a large bonfire in the garden as they (unusually at the time but now much more common) were planning to release some fireworks at midnight. Their November 5th parties were famously splendid and they had retained (quite a lot of) rockets to see in the New Year with.

While I helped him get the fire burning,  he told me that he was going to pursue the older sister while I should "have a go at" the younger one.  I felt quite grown up talking about women like this!  I ventured that they were getting quite tipsy on his father's wine and he advised me to stop drinking it, as it had a notorious delayed action effect, while suggesting we get a lot more down the sisters.

All of this, of course, accorded with my own understanding of British women (foreigners were different, of course) conditioned by watching endless Carry On film comedies, where desperate men pursued women who refused to submit to romantic advances as 'men were only interested in one thing'.  What I failed to appreciate at the time was that the Carry On films' view of sexual relationships was firmly based in the nineteen fifties but, of course, passing me by, there had been a sexual revolution in Britain in the late sixties and early seventies. As I was to discover over the next four years, there were women out there who were happy to pursue men; even gangly teenagers such as myself!  At this point, however, I believed that getting girls drunk was a legitimate tactic.

However, by the time we went back inside no further 'softening up' of the girls was needed.  Someone had put some music on and people were dancing.  The two girls looked at M and I, expectantly.  A rush of thoughts went through my mind.  Firstly, the bizarre sight of old people (well, in their forties) dancing.  Young people danced, on TV shows like Top of the Pops, Old people were parents and didn't.  It was very odd.  Next, was the horror of seeing my mother dancing with a man (my father had died the year before).  I was only slightly mollified by the fact that the man's wife was present and then surprised that my mother appeared to be a very good dancer.  For some reason Chubby Checker's Let's Twist Again was in the chart at the time and my mother turned out to be a brilliant twister (she had been a fashion journalist at a top London women's magazine before marrying my father and could be very chic when she could be bothered).  It was just something I had not seen her do before so it was a bit of a shock.  Like discovering that she could water ski.

However, all this was flushed from my mind by the approaching sisters.  My heart raced in terror.  I could not dance (other than Country Dancing which seemed to me to be more like formalised skipping).  I did  not dance.  "Dancing," my father once said to me, "is for women, children, homosexuals and black people."   There is a part of me that still, deep down, responds to this thought.  Dancing is silly and you look silly doing it unless you are very, very well trained.  Although I love Strictly Come Dancing (Dancing with the Stars in the US and elsewhere) I empathise deeply with those who patently demonstrate no talent for it at all (usually men).  Dancing is, fundamentally, about showing off and there is nothing worse than a show off!

Fortunately, dancing in the mid seventies (before Saturday Night Fever encouraged show offs all over the planet) seemed to involve gently jiggling up and down with your arms bent and you hands held up at shoulder level.  I couldn't (as I still can't) understand why this was supposed to be fun; it was just faintly ridiculous. One thing that suddenly became clear, however, as I jiggled spasmodically in front of Debbie was that parts of her anatomy were jiggling more than the rest of her.  She was patently not wearing a bra under her cocktail dress.  I was hypnotised.  Boing, boing boing, she went.  I started to get inconveniently stiff and was glad I was wearing a (purple -it was the seventies) jacket.

Fortunately, she disappeared after a couple of dances and, ignoring, M's advice I had two more glasses of rhubarb wine to settle my nerves.  M approached me with a wink and said that it was time for slow dancing.  The record he chose was one we had at home, a selection of orchestral covers of Burt Bacharach hits.  My mother played it while she did the housework so I hadn't really imagined what it would be like for dancing to. I soon found out as Debbie re-emerged from the depths of the house with her sister.  There was no messing about; she came straight up to me and put her arm around me.  This, of course, was proper boy-girl dancing.  Not just jiggling up and down in front of someone.  I was in a total panic but I put my arm around her and we started to move carefully across the floor.  The house owners had pushed all the furniture back to the edge of the room before we arrived and so this was now quite a big space.  Still, I was completely focussed on not colliding with other couples, not hitting the furniture and, above all, not standing on Debbie's toes.  At some point Debbie put her head on my shoulder and started to gently straddle my thigh.  She was pressing her groin against me and it was hot,  Very hot.  I was shocked.  And stiff.

Disappointingly, midnight arrived almost immediately after the thigh straddling and we all stopped dancing to toast the New Year of 1976.   Debbie kissed me.  I was totally flustered.  I wasn't going to kiss her back in front of my mother! We all went out into the garden, the girls wearing their coats, and let off quite a lot of rockets.  People drifted back inside although Debbie lingered the other side (away from the house) of the giant bonfire, under the trees in the small wood at the bottom of the garden. She guided me deeper into the wood.  My heart was pounding and my erection was throbbing.  She darted in for another kiss and another.  Like little pecks. Not like the French girls had been.

"No, no! Not like that!"  I nearly jumped out of my skin.  My world had contracted to a space a couple of feet in diameter, under the leafless trees.  I was aware of nothing else and thought that we were on our own.  But her sister had been observing us all the time from the other side of the fire.  She approached us and, after her comment, I thought that she was about to demonstrate on me how to kiss.  Like the French girls.  With tongues. She pulled her sister to one side and I waited for her to approach me.  Instead she grabbed her sister by the back of her neck pulled her in and started snogging her.

"Mmm! Mmm!" gasped Debbie, looking as shocked as I was.  Shocked.  And then very, very excited.  Two girls were kissing each other (the older sister had had far too much rhubarb wine).  Oddly, the fact that they were sisters didn't really register as being strange at the time

"See!" said the older sister to Debbie.  And with that she disappeared back towards the house. Debbie and I just stood there and looked at her retreating form.  Then we looked at each other.  Then we jumped into each other's arms and she shoved her tongue straight into my mouth.

I had thought that passionate activity with a girl would need to take place somewhere where clothes could be easily dispensed with.  But there, in the cold January air, under the trees, with her encased in her overcoat, we explored the boundaries of oral arousal for five minutes.  She didn't say a word.

When we returned to the house her sister asked her loudly what she had been doing. Debbie answered that we had just been standing by the fire.  Her sister replied that that must be why her lipstick had melted all over her face.  Their parents, obviously concerned that the sisters were making an exhibition of themselves, whisked them away, saying that they had a long drive.  Debbie gave me a shy wave and left.

On the short walk home my mother had asked me if I had enjoyed the evening.

"Better than I thought!" I said, grudgingly.

I never saw Debbie again after that night. She lived too far away to meet up with and I had no idea of her address or her phone number. She was another tantalising encounter that had unexpectedly appeared and then disappeared just as quickly.

It would be six months until my next encounter with a girl and this time I was determined not to let her drift away.