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 (I 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 (I 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 my rather unsophisticated taste at the time that I dismissed her as not worthy of my 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. I 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 much 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) and didn't appear to have any interest in girls, 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.  I was aware of nothing else, as we pecked at each other under the leafless trees 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.