Chronicle 9 - 1978: Party Animal

Having had an incredibly sexually exciting summer holiday, I returned to school in September for the start of my last full year. Many other boys seemed to have acquired girlfriends that summer but, unlike me, they still had theirs. Still, given my recent success I assumed that another girl would be just around the corner. I caught up with my arty school friend O during the time we spent in the art room at lunchtimes. We had both been appointed school art monitors and spent lunch times painting and drawing and comparing the non officially sanctioned pictures of girls we had started to do at home, usually from pictures in magazines. O now had a girlfriend too and they had got to the kissing in underwear stage. Later that term, unusually, given the distance I lived from most of my school friends, I went to his house in Twickenham so we could compare drawings of naked girls. He had also acquired a large collection of men's magazines from J, at school, whose father worked for the Paul Raymond organisation, which we were going to investigate. We also played some records, one of which was another new non-classical one I had got which was Rick Wakemen's White Rock (still a favourite). 

Sometimes, when sitting around in the sixth form common room we would have discussions about our fellow pupils; who was best at this who was best at that? Some people were good at sports (P, for example, was the only boy at school who could do the pole vault), or drama or playing the drums (that was Whiff). Academic achievement was not rated although E was generally regraded as the cleverest person in the school. I was famous for drawing naked girls. One of the popular discussion topics was: ‘who is the most boring person in the year?’ The answer was invariably JP. He really had nothing interesting about him at all. That is,until he got a Saturday job in WH Smiths in Kingston and had access to their 25% discount. He immediately became very popular, as everyone got him to buy records at a discount. He had got me White Rock and he had got O the soundtrack to the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me, which I also liked. 

As we listened to these two very different records (again and again) we looked at O's impressive stack of Men Only and Club International magazines. These dated from a period when Paul Raymonds's magazines had reached their pinnacle of explicitness. Glorious colour page after colour page of spread thighs, pink pussies and exposed anuses. Oddly, at almost exactly that same time, in the Autumn of 1977, they decided to back pedal on this and the magazines became a lot less explicit again. At this stage the girls were displayed in all their glory, however. 

It soon became apparent that what O really wanted to talk about was how to get his girlfriend to strip off so he could draw her naked. He asked me how I had persuaded A and I had to admit that it had been her idea. He looked a bit defeated at this, Considering myself something of an expert on women now (which I wasn't), I said that he had to separate the nakedness from sex. This was about art and as he now defined himself as an artist (he was not as academic as I was and was planning to go to art school) then he could ask her to do this as it would be a way for her to help him in his artistic development. I had brought my pictures of A with me so he could look at them properly. Finding a very mild one where A wasn't actually showing anything, I said he could borrow it so he could show his girlfriend what he wanted. 

"Just don't get her to pose like this," I said holding up the centrefold of a Men Only, "as you will just scare her off!" 

O later went to art school and tried to make his living as a professional artist. After graduating, he sold two paintings to be used as greetings cards for a grand total of £55. Shortly afterwards, someone asked him to design a logo for nothing, which he did on the basis that we wasn't earning anything much anyway. It is now so famous that, with it in his portfolio, his career was transformed. 

The next term saw a new year, 1978, and the headlong plunge towards 'A' levels, critically important exams for getting into university. All my friends had already applied but those like me, who were being lined up for Oxford or Cambridge didn't have to, as we applied after our exam results came out in the summer and didn't have to worry about hitting university grade targets. After Christmas, back in the art room in January, my friend O was bouncing up and down with excitement. 

"I did it! I did it!" he exclaimed as soon as the art teacher had gone for lunch. Oh no, I thought. He's done It. It!, It!, It! Before me! But, in fact, what he was referring to was that he had got his girlfriend to pose naked for him over the Christmas holidays. He showed me some sketches and then a painting. He had done an actual gouache painting of his girlfriend, naked, relining on her back on the sofa. It was really good and I was appropriately impressed, while simultaneously cursing inside that I had never done a painting of A and no longer had a life model. Apparently, my 'it's just art' argument had worked perfectly with the girl. In fact rather too well as she still wouldn't contemplate going further than kissing in their underwear even though O had now seen her naked a number of times. Girls were strange, we both agreed. 

 The next five months were heads down on school work. I was also doing my Art A level work in my spare time but instead of pliant teenage girls my drawings were of things like artichokes (got A+ for that one!), fruit, old oil lamps and such like. The exams went quite well but not as well as I had hoped and Economics was a bugger. The end of term was odd because most people were leaving to go to university the following year but those of us doing Oxbridge would be back for one more term starting in September. We left school early, after doing our exams in May and I had a long, boring, girl-free summer in prospect, But then I got a call from O who asked if I wanted to do some unpaid work at Shepperton Studios, which he had been offered through a friend. I could actually see the tops of the sound stages from my bedroom window in the winter so I readily agreed. We ended up doing a lot of painting of sets (rocks mainly) for a science fiction film that they were making there. Everybody seemed to be cashing in on Star Wars and Close Encounters of the Third Kind and as this film didn't star anyone I had heard of and was directed by someone I had never heard of, either, O and I both thought it would disappear without a trace. It was called Alien. 

 Coming out of the studios late one night (we always worked late at night as I suspect we weren't on the official books) I ran into J from school, who lived down the road from the studios. He was having a birthday party the following week and asked if I wanted to come. I never got invited to parties and if I did they were all too far away to get to. I could walk to J's house from home, though, so I said yes. J wasn't one of my close friends at school but I quite liked him as he liked SF as well. I wasn't sure what to wear to a party or what to take as I hadn't actually been to a party of any of my contemporaries before. My mother reckoned I should take a bottle of wine which she kindly supplied from our stock. My sister told me not to get drunk and not to bring ‘some ugly girl home’. My mother dropped me off at J's house but I told her I would walk home. 

Much to my surprise there was no sign of J's parents who had gone away for the weekend. I asked J if they knew he was having a party and he said yes and his older sister was in charge of the house and was there to keep things under control. I knew J's sister, D, because she used to get the same train as us as she went to the school next door. She was now at university but home for the holidays. In fact there were quite a lot of D's friends there, many of whom were girls but they, like D herself, were not very attractive. There were some girls from the school next door but rather more boys than girls, disappointingly. The dining room had been cleared of furniture for dancing so I vowed to keep well clear of that area. None of the main lights were on, with rooms illuminated by lamps on the floor or, strangely for July, Christmas fairy lights. Boringly, I spoke mainly to my friends from school about which universities they were going on to. 

I managed to find a corner to settle into with my glass of wine. It is a joke about British parties in the seventies that they all featured snacks like Twiglets and cheese footballs which tasted disgusting but people ate anyway. That's what was on offer, however. There were also cheese puffs, which left an orange residue on your fingers and then got on everything you touched. There were no tortilla chips or Pringles in Britain in the seventies! 

I looked around to see if there were any nice looking girls but there really weren't. There were one or two blondes with frizzy permed hair who seemed to be attracting the attention of the pushier boys from my school. These characters used to go down to somewhere called the Walton Hop, billed as 'Britain's first disco', which had been holding dances for teenagers since the fifties. It took place in the Walton-on-Thames Playhouse three times a week and was very popular with teenagers. Bus loads of them would be disgorged on dance nights into Walton's far from interesting town centre. It was also very popular, we found out thirty years later, with gay paedophiles, including, at the time, the notorious Jonathan King. King was a well known radio disc jockey who later had a host of TV shows on the BBC, usually on American subjects because he really, really wanted to be an American but wasn't. He was later jailed for seven years for sex offences. I never went to the Walton Hop but many of my friends, including Mutt and Dobs did. It was, I gather, cramped, noisy and full of sweaty teenagers of both sexes. 

During what seemed like an endless evening I suddenly found a girl sitting next to me on the sofa. I had just picked up a handful of cheese puffs and was desperate to wipe my fingers on something. I looked at her white dress and could almost feel the orange food dye ready to leap onto her outfit. 

"Dja go to the 'op?" she asked. "Ain't seen you there!" 

"No," I replied. 

 "It's great! Lots of boys!" she continued. 

"I'm not really looking for boys," I said, suddenly wondering if my purple velvet-effect trousers and pink shirt might have created the wrong impression. 

"Nah. Girls too! Girls like me!" she appeared to be drinking some sort of clear spirit from a white plastic cup. I assumed it wasn't water as it had a slice of lemon in it. J's parents had banned glasses. I told her that the building that housed the Walton Hop used to be the electricity generating building of Walton Studios, a film studios dating from the very early years of the cinema in the nineteenth century. It had closed in 1961 but we had both seen a film on TV called the Navy Lark (1959), based on a popular radio comedy series, which had been filmed there. She was fascinated by this (or pretended to be) and I was grateful to the technician at Shepperton Studios who had told me about it. She was very, very impressed that I had been working at the studios themselves. I decided to practice upon her. 

"That is a lovely dress!" I said, holding my hands out with spread fingers, the orange, slimy residue of cheese puffs clinging to them like engine oil. She smiled and looked pleased. 

"What you drinking?" she asked. 

"Wine." 

 "Don't like wine, Like Bacardi!" she raised her cup and I touched it with mine, leaving orange stains on my cup. For some inexplicable reason, this girl, who was called Mandy or Chrissie or Julie or one of those other hairdressers' names, had taken a shine to me, no doubt attracted by my splendid purple, velvet-effect trousers. She had mousy brown hair, a slim body and while not particularly pretty wasn't actually unattractive either. She was wearing quite a lot of makeup and had turquoise eyelids. She swigged back her drink in one go and stood up, much to my relief. "Don't go away!" she said. She asked me if I wanted more wine and I said yes. 

Excellent, I thought, as she left the room, I can find something to wipe my fingers with. I contemplated my purple thighs but thought that would be a very bad idea. There were no paper napkins or tissues visible on the coffee table in front of me. I was wondering about using the pages of TV Times magazine, which was in one of those upright magazine racks people used to keep next to their settees. Unfortunately, Mandy, as we will christen her (my journal from that time just, rather dismissively, refers to her as a 'trainee hairdresser’) soon returned with a bottle of something I recognised instantly as Mateus Rose, a Portuguese, sweet, slightly sparkling wine in a distinctive flask shaped bottle. You can still buy this branded wine and I actually had some in the summer with my friend A when we decided to have a retro seventies evening and watch episodes of Charlie's Angels but they have made it less sweet than it was then and it is almost palatable now. It was Bob Marley's favourite wine but it was also Saddam Hussein's. My father would have turned in his grave if he had seen me drinking Mateus, however! But there was no escape. She filled up my cup, even though I hadn't finished the red wine I already had in it and then filled hers too. She declared that this was the best wine she had ever had and she must have been drinking the wrong stuff previously. 

She sat down next to me again. Nearly everyone else had disappeared to the dining room to dance to dreadful (as I then thought of it) punk music. J, unusually, had espoused punk at a time when most of the rest of the boys listened to Yes, Deep Purple, Genesis, Led Zeppelin or other such groups who I had no idea what they sounded like. He used to go to The Roxy Club in Covent Garden with the official school punk (he came to school once with a bath plug hanging from his ear (briefly)), D, who was actually related to Sigmund Freud. D was a terrifying character and most of the other boys were scared of him. Apart from punk and piercing his body in class with a school compass he was into martial arts and was always bringing into school rice-flails, throwing stars and other dangerous weapons, which were immediately confiscated. At the end of every term he had to go to the staff room to retrieve a box full of confiscated stuff. He had a terrible temper and would go into uncontrollable rages and attack people. He did it to me once over some perceived slight but I was standing by the school dustbins so when he went for me I picked up a dustbin lid and hit him with it. He looked so surprised that I hit him again and after that he left me alone and later we used to get on quite well and had a shared interest in post-imprssionism (he was a complex character). 

"Dja wanna dance?" asked Mandy. 

"No," I replied, quickly. 

"Music's shit, innit?" she said. Mandy, it turned out, liked disco music. Donna Summer's music was her favourite, which she found "sexy", She wriggled her body on the sofa when she used this word. I told her I needed to wash my hands. "I need to pee too!" she said. "Make room for more wine!" she brandished the bottle and waved it about like a banner over her head. I told her I had cheese puffs on my fingers. She grabbed my hand and sucked one of my fingers into her mouth, much to my surprise. "So you do!" she said. 

We set off together, looking for the bathroom. J's family didn't have a loo downstairs, like we did at home, so we went up the darkened stairs where, half way up, we encountered S, from school, sat down with one of the frizzy haired blondes sat on his lap, astride his hips. They were snogging away and we stepped carefully past them. S looked up at me and gave me an approving thumbs up. I thought we might escape the pounding music upstairs but it was almost as loud. I wondered if the police might make an appearance later on, this being the school approval mark of a good party, apparently. There were four doors off the landing and they were all shut. 

"Which one is the bathroom." asked Mandy "I'm desperate!" I did a quick assessment based on the layout of the house downstairs and pointed at the door at the end of the corridor 

"That one!" I said, confidently. "It'll be locked. People inside doing it!" predicted Mandy, obviously knowing what went on at these sorts of parties. It actually wasn't locked and it actually was the bathroom. "You're very clever!" she said, disappearing inside. The cheese puff residue had dried on my hand like a crust and I couldn't wait to wash them, Mandy reappeared and I told her I would see her downstairs. I went in and joyfully washed my hands first before having a pee as well and then washed them again. I noted that J's parents had a very tidy bathroom compared with ours. We had bottles of shampoo and bubble bath and stuff everywhere at home whereas they seemed to store everything neatly in the sort of plastic bathroom cabinets, with mirrored doors on them, you could buy in Johnson & Clark in Staines.  As soon as I opened the bathroom door I was surprised to find Mandy still standing outside. 

"Back inside!" she ordered, pushing me back into the bathroom. I suddenly found her pressing up against me and putting her hands around my waist. She bolted the door behind her, turned to me and looked expectant. This must be one of those ‘make the first move’ scenarios, I reasoned, in my slightly wine befuddled state. I put my hand behind her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. There was no introductory tentativeness. She slipped her tongue inside my mouth from the start and put her hands on my bottom, pulling me in close. I happily reciprocated and and squeezed her bottom too. I pushed my thigh between her legs and pressed up against her groin where I could feel a familiar heat, even through my purple, velvet-effect trousers. "Turn the light off!" she said, disengaging from my lips briefly. "I'm shy!" She didn't appear very shy, I thought, but I pulled the light cord so that we were in the dark. It wasn't that dark as it was a clear night and almost a full moon so the bathroom had some illumination. She was unbuttoning her long white dress. She looked up at me. "Take your clothes off!" she said 

"You take them off!" I said, thinking that it solved the 'how many clothes to take off' dilemma I had had with J from Finland, the previous summer. She obviously thought that this was an excellent idea and set to on my shirt buttons. She was now dressed just in her bra and knickers which were both white and rather lacily grown up, I thought. I realised I had no idea how old she was but assumed that as she was working in a hairdresser's she must be more than sixteen. As soon as she had my shirt off she started kissing my chest and stroking my back. 

"You're nice and tall!" she said. "Tallest boy here! I like that!" I was the second tallest boy in the school at six foot one. These days I would be average height! 

"Shoes!" I said. We broke apart and I pulled my slip on shoes off (I didn't get on with knots) and pulled my socks off too. She was kicking off her strappy wedge sandals which, I realised, had added at least two inches to her height. 

"Lie down!" she ordered. I did so and we resumed snogging. She stopped briefly to undo her bra and pressed her small conical breasts against me. She had long nipples, the feel of which I was enjoying as they slid over my chest. I slipped my fingers inside her knickers and felt her soft bottom. She was writhing about on me. pressing her groin against my erection. She reached between us and fumbled with my belt buckle but made little progress. "Off! Get them off!" she said. I undid my belt, fly button and zip and she pulled my trousers down. "These too!" she said, grabbing the waistband of my pants and pulling them off as well. "Have you got a rubber johnny?" she asked, as she pulled her knickers down to reveal a darker fleece than her hair colour. 

"No!" I admitted. 

"Shit! Have you ever done it?" she asked clasping my erection. It! It! It! I thought. Was I really going to do It for the first time on J's bathroom floor with Mandy the hairdresser? 

 "No!" I said. 

"Me neither!" she said, climbing astride my hips. I could feel her pubic hair and her heat on my cock. She started to rub her groin against me. She took hold of me and pressed my cock head against her wet slit. It! It! It! I thought. At last! Now! Somebody tried the handle of the bathroom door. We tried to ignore it. They knocked on the door. 

 "Hurry up!" said a girl's voice. 

"Fuck off!" called out Mandy. "Piss in the garden!" 

"You shouldn't be having sex in there when people need the bathroom!" said the voice. 

"Just fuck off!" said Mandy again. Whether the girl left immediately or stayed we couldn't tell, as the music from downstairs was so loud. "P'raps we shouldn't do it!" said Mandy letting go of me. Bugger, I thought. "I know! I could suck you off!" 

"Have you ever done sixty-nine?" I asked her. I could see her face in the moonlight and a big grin appearing on her face. "No, never!" she said. 

"Spin around!" I said. Mandy positioned herself, and started to suck me enthusiastically. She was not a first-timer, I guessed. I placed my hands on her skinny arse and licked up the length of her hot wet parts. She made appreciative noises and then stopped sucking me just at the point I was about to come. She was grinding her pussy against my face so I just assumed that she wanted to concentrate on enjoying herself. I started to rub her clitoris with my finger and she started to moan and swear quite noisily, gratifyingly. She took hold of my cock with her hand and started to rub it as I lapped away at her. 

"Fuckin' 'ell!" she gasped at last, my tongue tired with the effort. She paused in her grinding and then set back to work on my cock with her mouth. 

"That's it!" I said, shortly afterwards. I felt her pop off my knob and then I came and came. It wasn't of course, a year's worth of spunk but it felt like it and I spurted and spurted all over her chest. We stayed, frozen in place, for half a minute. Eventually she stood up, crossed the bathroom floor and reeled off some toilet paper which she wiped her chest with. She used some on me too. 

"Bucket loads!" she laughed. "Never seen so much!" She gave me a rather tender kiss. "You're the first bloke who made me come!" she said, rather to my surprise. "Christ, look at me lipstick!" she said switching the light on above one of the bathroom cabinets. She tried to tidy herself up with more toilet paper while I got dressed. 

When we came out of the bathroom there were, embarrassingly, about four people waiting outside but fortunately I didn't know any of them. S and his girl had disappeared from the stairs, luckily. Mandy and I went into the back garden which was full of snogging couples. I sat on the dry grass but she was worried about grass stains on her white dress so she sat on my lap and we resumed our own snogging. I slid my hand up under the hem of her dress and massaged her lacy groin until she got hot again. 

I walked her home, as her house was on the way back to my home. She told me she had had a really nice evening but she didn't offer her phone number and I didn't offer mine. In fact, I didn't discover which house she lived in as she left me at the end of the street, no doubt deliberately. It had been an unexpected, passionate episode but we both knew it was a one off. She kissed me goodnight, rather shyly and I set off on the remaining mile of my walk. 

The following month the family had a week's holiday down in Sussex, staying in a flat belonging to a friend of my mother's. It overlooked the sea but we didn't spend much time on the shingle beach, preferring to walk along the downs. One of our favourite walks was down the Cuckmere River to the sea. It is the only undeveloped river mouth in Southern England and, because of the river meanders, a favourite place for school geography trips. 

One day, we arrived at the curving shingle beach on quite a hot afternoon. We hadn't brought swimming things but quite a few others were swimming, although the beach never got that crowed because it was over a mile's walk from the car park. I left my mother and sister sitting on the beach and walked along the shingle to the river mouth. I saw a family who had just emerged from the sea and meant to walk behind them. As I approached the group I looked sideways just as a teenage girl, with a beach towel around her shoulders took her bikini top off to get changed. Her breasts were perfect hemispheres, with no droop or sag at all. She caught me looking at her, or them, to be more accurate. I blushed. She smiled, before covering herself with the towel. Somewhat shocked by this unexpected display, I hurried off along the shingle and made sure I returned behind the high bank along the beach so she wouldn't see me. It gave me something of an erotic frisson, as much because of her smile as her magnificent bust. 

That was it for my erotic experiences of 1978, though. In September I went back to school for the senior sixth form and the last few weeks before doing the Oxford entrance exam. A couple of days in to the more relaxed timetable we had, I found myself on the train home with Dobs, who was also applying to Oxford. 

"I hear you shagged a sixteen year old over the summer!" he said, as we climbed into one of the individual compartments. I looked baffled. "At J's party. A hairdresser!" J was actually the only person from school at that party who was staying on into the seventh tern at school, as he was applying to Cambridge. "Everyone's talking about it. J's sister heard you at it in the bathroom!" I realised that she must have been the girl who had knocked on the bathroom door. Oh dear. I was non-committal as it became apparent that this had given me huge kudos among my schoolmates. I didn't really want to deny it because of this but I felt I couldn't outright lie and we had nearly done it. I really wanted to talk to O about it but he had left to go to art school. I had to put up with a lot of ribbing from the others over the next few weeks. 

"You really need a haircut. Know anyone who could do it? Oh, of course you do!" etc. Hilarious. 

There wasn't much hilarity when I sat down in front of the Oxford University entrance paper in the school library in October. I had applied to do law, or jurisprudence, as they pretentiously called it. However, you had to nominate a subject that you had done at A-level for the exam and I had chosen English. The key essay question was extraordinarily vague and I couldn't think of anything in my study of DH Lawrence, Jane Austen or Keats I could use to talk about heroism (I think it was). In despair but knowing I had a guaranteed place at Southampton University, I wrote an essay on the barbarian ethic of Conan, mixed in with stuff about science fiction magazines of the nineteen thirties, Arthur C Clarke, 2001: A Space Odyssey and gave it up as a bad job. I wished I had chosen history to do my exam in, instead. 

I was, therefore, completely staggered to be invited up for interview at the end of November. I had chosen my college for two reasons: it had twice as many law places as any other college and it was 50% female. Until the year I started,, all but four colleges were either men or women only. Having been at an all boys school and discovered girls I couldn't bear the thought of single sex again. In fact, that year, most of the men's and one women's college went mixed but it certainly wasn't a fifty/fifty intake. Dobs did best, as he applied to the one girls college which went mixed that year and found he was one of twenty boys amidst 350 girls. 

Arriving at my chosen college for interview, I discovered, much to my horror, that my college had so many law places because it was the best college for law in the university. There were dozens and dozens of candidates all chasing around 10 places. The odds did not look good. I couldn't even look around the town as the weather was horrible. It poured with rain solidly for the three days the process took. We were all stuffed into the rooms of existing students all day to await the call for interview. These students, who seemed to do nothing but constantly smoke, drink beer and listen to terrible heavy metal. were starting to get on my nerves. I now knew, given all the other swotty types there, who seemed to have all arranged jobs at courts or law firms in their year off, that I had no chance. I was given an interview at another college which I duly went to. The others said that meant my college didn't want me, so my interview would be at the end and they would just go through the motions. 

There was another candidate there, a girl with long red hair and rather unfortunate blue framed spectacles, who seemed as uncomfortable as I was, among all the tweed jacket wearing super keen candidates. We naturally gravitated towards each other. as everyone else had their interviews and went home and we were left, looking at the rain spattering the leaded glass windows, while Mr Beardy third year played albums by someone called Alvin Lee. Having checked the board for interviews that morning and not found our names again, I suggested we go out for a cup of tea outside college. This we found in the Covered Market, where we sat and both derided the other ghastly candidates and decided that we didn't want to study with them anyway. 

We both had our interviews on the last afternoon. The others had been right, the three tutors did not grill me on the law but chatted about what makes a balanced society and mentioned my Conan themed essay with much amusement. The hour was soon up and I left the room to find, the redhead, C standing there looking as sick as I felt. I squeezed her hand and told her she would be fine. I met her briefly afterwards and she confirmed everything I suspected about my interview, as hers had been entirely about the law. We did not exchange contact details and, I confess, I did not think about her again after that, as she was remarkably plain and from Birmingham and I had no idea where that was. Somewhere up north. 

So, that was it. I now had ten months before I would start at Southampton. But now I needed a job to earn some money.

Chronicle 8 - 1977: Foreign bodies 2 - Water baby 2

I wasn't sure what to make of my first experience of skinny dipping with the German girl, P, I put the naked swimming down to typically more sexually liberated Continental behaviour. She had clasped my erection and we had had some arousing kissing but as soon as we were getting passionate she just seemed to switch off. Perhaps the language barrier was the issue in that we couldn't say what we thought or wanted to do. Perhaps she realised I was a few years older than her and she got nervous. Maybe she thought, if we had continued caressing, I might have thrown her to the sand and ravished her.  I wouldn't but I certainly dreamed about it afterwards. What would it have been like to slide myself into her hot, wet parts? What would it be like to do It?  Of course, she probably did not want to get close to someone she wouldn't be seeing again, as she was going back to Germany. Anyway, it had been an exciting but ultimately frustrating episode. Still, it boosted my confidence around women some more.

A week or so after my weekend in Hampshire, my aunt and uncle came around to our house with their young sons. Unlike my aunt and uncle who had the boat, these were actual relatives; Aunt S was my mother's sister.  She was fifteen years younger than my mother and fifteen years older than me but emotionally and in attitude was closer to my generation. She was thirty two years old, curvy and gorgeous. We all went for a walk around Richmond Park and when I got back to school in September, N, in my Economics class, actually asked who the sexy black haired piece I had been seen walking with, was.

"She is totally fuckable!" he said. I couldn't disagree. As regards Aunt S, there had been family rumours of a liaison with a world famous pop star back in the sixties.  Anyway, my aunt and uncle asked my mother if she could do them a favour. They had had an au pair girl, J, for a year, who had returned to Finland at Easter. I had even met her a number of times during visits to my aunt and uncle's house. That March my uncle had taken my sister and I, including the au pair, to the Race of Champions, a non championship Formula 1 race at Brands Hatch in Kent, close to where they lived. My sister was a big fan of Formula 1 and used to get a newspaper called Motoring News every week which had all the behind the scenes stories. All her friends were getting Jackie magazine or the pop magazine 45 but she liked motor racing. J had been fun company and even my sister liked her, as she knew about motor sport and had a relation who was a rally driver.

My aunt told me that J had written to them asking if she could stay with them for a fortnight while she attended some interviews in London for more au pair jobs. Unfortunately, they were going to Corfu on holiday for that same two weeks. My mother had agreed she could stay with us and commute up to London for her interviews

"As you know, she is no oil painting, but I thought you might like to look after her for a fortnight," my aunt said to me, as we walked arm in arm past the Isabella Plantation.. I suddenly feared that my mother had been speaking to her about A and this was some sort of 'back in the saddle' plot. I had had a lot of comments about what a nice girl P had been and how it was a shame she had had to go back to Germany. I was still masturbating to the memory of her lovely goosebumped, wet breasts, so I agreed it was a shame, indeed.

Talking of masturbation, which I have always enjoyed and never felt guilty about, my mother found my prized Men Only while looking in my desk for a metal ruler. Unfortunately, I was at the other side of the room at the time. I did not expect her to start leafing through it.

"Goodness, they do show everything now!" she said. "Not like in my day!" She worked for a top fashion and beauty magazine before she got married and I had seen some stunning black and white photographs of her taken in the mid fifties but I didn't want to inquire any more about her photographic experiences!

As my mother drove us to Heathrow Airport I recalled J, who I had last seen five months before. She was fun, with a good sense of humour, spoke extremely good English with a cute accent and was very independent, She was, however, something that was very unusual at the time for a teenager (she was nineteen, two years older than me) in the seventies. She was fat. She had a big bottom, thick thighs, no discernible waist and the biggest breasts I had ever seen in my life. They were, the fabled "knockers like watermelons" of school legend. They may even have been bigger than watermelons. She always wore blouses that showed more than a hint of her cleavage. I also thought that, whatever my aunt said, she was very pretty, with her blonde hair and freckled nose and she was one of those girls whose face wasn't as fat as her body. Still, she would have made two of A.

The drive to the airport was quite a stressful one, as my mother hadn't driven to the airport before and it involved negotiating a tunnel and several horrible one way systems inside. We arrived late, after J's plane had already landed. We saw on the board that it had landed but couldn't see her. Of course, before mobile phones, there was no way of letting someone know you were there, except going to the desk where they could put out an announcement for you. After ten minutes we received exactly such an announcement and hurried to the desk. I didn't spot J, initially.

"Hello!" she said to me. I must have looked completely blank. "It is me. I have lost much weight!" She wasn't joking. She must have lost about two stone in five months. She wasn't as skinny as A or P and was still pretty solid looking but she was transformed. I looked at her chest which was still as awe inspiring as ever. "These have not gone!" she smiled, grasping them with both hands. I looked at my mother who smiled. It really did feel like a plot.

On the drive back home, J informed us of some of the things she wanted to see in her two week stay. She had seen most of the big London attractions during her year with my aunt and uncle but there were some, like Windsor Castle and Hampton Court which were near us which she wanted to visit. She had interviews on the Monday and Friday but was free in the middle of the week. She ate about half of her dinner, I noticed. She was staying in the same spare room A used to stay in.  I felt depressed. Even if this was partly a plot by my aunt and mother to cheer me up, how much cheer could you get from a girl who would then go back to Finland at the end of two weeks? It was even further away than Bavaria or Scotland.

At breakfast she had a piece of toast, despite my mother having put together a huge cooked breakfast. I had told my mother she looked like a big eater and she had stocked up accordingly. My sister, having ascertained that the only music she liked was Abba (her family knew one of their backing musicians) ignored her, despite her interest in motor racing. Although my sister was only fourteen she liked Renaissance wind band music.

"I have to watch my figure!" said J, after turning down a second piece of toast.

"You look fantastic!" I blurted, looking at her chest. "Thank you!" she said, kissing my cheek as she got up from the table. My sister looked disgusted.

The next day was Saturday and we went off to Hampton Court Palace. My aunt and uncle had left my mother some money for food and such like but, as my mother said to me, as J wasn't eating much we could spend it on things like visits. Actually, J had lots of money with her and kept trying to pay for things. We used to go to the grounds of Hampton Court Palace quite a lot, especially in the Spring, when there was a magnificent display of daffodils there but we didn't go into the Palace itself as it was expensive. This time we did, however, and my mother loved it. Even my sister enjoyed seeing the Tudor palace. My mother had lived not far away when she was a little girl but hadn't been inside for decades.

When we came out of the Palace building, J wanted to visit the famous maze, which was something else we didn't do because of the cost. We weren't really short of money but my mother hated wasting it.  But J was insistent and offered to pay for everyone.

"You might go in and be lost for ever!" said my sister to J, cruelly.

"Your brother will rescue me, I am sure!" said J. My sister shook her head. It being Saturday the maze was packed and they were letting people in in small groups. J insisted on staying with me and we got well and truly lost. "Come on, come on!" said J, grabbing my hand, as we ran into another dead end, Needless to say, when we eventually got to the centre of the maze my sister and mother were already there. My sister smirked until my mother asked us what we had been up to and then she scowled.

Fortunately, on the Monday, J went up to London. I asked my sister why she was being so horrible to J.

"Just because your weedy girlfriend has gone doesn't mean that you can just take up with the next girl you meet. Like that German girl.  Anyway, she will be off soon too!" said my sister, sensitively. I had not, of course, any intention of taking up with J. She was pretty and I admitted I found her sexually attractive but she had been placed in our home for us to look after by my relations, so even if I did fantasise about what her uncovered tits might look like, I was not going to do anything about it.

Finland was a bit of a mysterious place to me. Stuck even further away than Scandinavia. I wasn't entirely sure where it was on the map, as we didn't have an atlas at home. In nineteen seventies Britain we had all been brought up to believe that Swedish and Danish people were much more sexually liberated. If any comedy show needed a liberated girl then she was Swedish. Swedes were sexy. We all knew that at school. Britt Ekland, Maud Adams, Julie Ege and Anna Bergman were all favoured ladies amongst my classmates.. A popular magazine to be circulated at school was Continental Film Review, a monthly review of all sorts of films, not just continental ones. However, it did seem to focus on those where the ladies stripped off and was full of black and white stills of topless beauties from the Continent, in films we knew we would never find at the local cinema. The covers, which were in colour, often had topless ladies on them too.  Because it was ostensibly a film magazine and not a men's magazine it did not carry the "not to be sold to those under the age of eighteen" tag. Which meant that, as a seventeen year old, I could buy it in WH Smiths. Although, to be fair, as I was now 6' 1" tall I never got questioned about my age, anyway. Swedish and Danish films featured in Continental Film Review prominently. But nothing from Finland, as far as I could recall. I didn't know anything about Finnish women. I knew about Finland, of course, because of my liking for Sibelius. There were no famous Finnish actresses or models I was aware of. The only Finn who was famous was the skinny, bearded distance runner, Lasse Viren. I knew that they were good at rallying too but that was it.

One thing that we soon discovered about J was that she was very active. She always wanted to be doing something. One day, in the first week, she asked if there was a swimming pool nearby. There was, in Staines, about a mile and a half away. My mother suggested that I take her. Here was a dilemma. I was torn between the prospect of seeing her in a swimsuit and having to go to Staines swimming pool, the location for my hated childhood swimming lessons.  I hated swimming and I still don't enjoy it. A good part of the reason for this was our teacher at the swimming pool, the inappropriately named Mr Witt. If you speak to anyone my age who went to Staines swimming pool in the sixties or seventies then they all hate Mr Witt, the world's most sarcastic and unpleasant swimming teacher. We all took the coach there once a week from junior school for swimming lessons. If you could swim, like my best friend M, you could just do so unsupervised in the big pool. If not, you were condemned to Mr Witt and the teaching pool. I only give initials for the people in my chronicles but I am very happy to out this evil man as he made me terrified of swimming and swimming pools in particular.  Instead of teaching us how to swim he was fixated on us spending as much time underwater as possible. Surely, I reasoned, this is the opposite of what swimming should be about? But, no, he would order us all to stand in the pool, holding on to the edge and "sit on the bottom". My whole week at school would gradually build into a crescendo of terror as swimming approached. I did not want to sit on the bottom. I did not want water in my eyes or ears. I did not want to learn to swim at all. If you showed any hesitation after his shouted orders he would put his hand on your head and push you under the water (it wouldn't be allowed now, of course). Oh, how I wanted to pull him into the pool and hold him underneath the surface until he drowned. Once, S, the naughtiest boy in the school, did pull him into the pool. We all wanted to cheer but were too scared too, although we all congratulated S afterwards. I had not been back to the swimming pool since I got my 25 metre certificate in the last year of junior school. I only just got it; choking and spluttering for the last few meters, only to slip into the welcoming arms of the lovely C and discovering the pleasures of physical contact in water as she hugged me and whacked me on the back at the same time. Our brief hug was soon broken up by a bark from our teacher, watching from the gallery but the memory of pressing my chest against her budding breasts, through her navy blue swimsuit, stayed with me for years.

I took J along the towpath, as she said we should walk, not take the bus, and wished I hadn't, as all I could think of was A and our lovely walks along the river. J sensed something was wrong immediately and asked what the matter was. I should have said nothing but instead regaled her with the story of A and how we had been torn apart just a month previously.  J stopped walking and gave me a big hug, which was unexpected and offered the new experience of being pulled into contact with a really big bust.  She then told me the story of her boyfriend who she had broken up with when she got home in March. He had gone off with another girl while she had been in England. She was hopelessly optimistic about everything and said that it was best not to dwell on the past but move on. I was quite cheered up by the time we arrived at the pool.

My positive mood evaporated as we stepped through the glass doors and were hit by that smell. The nasty smell of chlorine. The smell of terror! I had a sudden panic that Mr Witt might still be there, torturing some other poor children. I got changed and paddled through the pool of disinfectant, outside the changing room, that was supposed to kill the dreaded verrucas. Everything to do with swimming was haunted by the threat of verrucas. I desperately wanted a verruca at junior school, as then I could miss swimming,but I never got one.  Stepping out of the disinfectant, I looked to my right at the teaching pool but, being the summer holidays, it was empty apart from a few mothers with babies. No Mr Witt!  I relaxed and walked straight ahead to the main pool which was quite busy. I made my way down to the shallow end so I could go down the ladder slowly. I couldn't dive in (I still can't dive) and in fact then, as now, don't like being out of my depth. There was no sign of J so I set off to do a couple of lengths. Other than my brief splash in the Solent with P I hadn't been swimming properly for two years when I did do so on our holiday to Menorca. My swimming had improved greatly on that holiday and I enjoyed swimming in the warm Mediterranean. Still. I made sure that I swam next to the edge of the pool so if I got water up my nose and started to choke I could grab the side.

I had just finished two lengths when J appeared from the changing room. She was looking around so I waved to her. She was wearing a swimming hat and googles. She looked like a serious swimmer. That's not what I noticed first, however. What I noticed was her massive bust, straining against her multi-coloured, one piece swimsuit and her muscular legs and powerful shoulders. She waved back at me, walked to the deep end of the pool, executed, what looked like to me, a perfect racing dive and shot up the pool like a torpedo. I waited for her in the shallow end and she finished her length by placing her hands on the pool wall either side of my body. She then put her hands on my shoulders, keeping her body floating horizontally. I complimented her on her swimming and she explained that was how she had lost so much weight so quickly, by swimming every day in the lake. I knew they had a lot of lakes in Finland but didn't fancy that at all. She complained about the muscle she had put on, on her shoulders but I told her she had lovely shoulders. "So do you!" she said, squeezing one of mine before turning and disappearing up the pool. I had no chance of catching her, of course, and I reckoned she was doing three to four lengths to every two of mine. I wasn't that fit so had to keep resting in the shallow end, whereupon she would dive down underwater and pop up in front of me, like a seal.

"Shall we have a race?" she said. No. "Don't like to be beaten?" Don't care. "If you beat me you can have a prize!" Not interested. "Not interested in a kiss? Fun for us both!" I sighed and agreed to be humiliated. Then I had a thought. She wanted to do four lengths. I knew I would probably drown trying.

"One length," I said. She wrinkled her nose but agreed. I had no stamina but I had been a very good, county class sprinter, I could do 100 meters in 11 seconds dead. Maybe my sprinting ability would enable me to do a concentrated effort for a short period.  

"Kolme, kaksi yksi!" she said and with a mighty shove I kicked off from the wall. Knowing I only had to do one length I put everything into it. I had no goggles, she was on my right and I only breathed on my left when doing the crawl, so I had no idea where she was. I touched the end, and looked sideways. She was there.

"You won!" she said. I was sure I had not. "Do you want your kiss now or later?" she raised an eyebrow at me, suggestively. I was hanging on to the end of the pool for dear life and looked down into the abyss (well it was 12' 6"). Deep enough. Too deep.

"No petting in the pool!" I said pointing at the red and white sign which forbade all sorts of anti-social (as they saw it) behaviour. There was a little drawing of a couple with hearts around them next to the people running, bombing and such like.

"What is petting?"

"Kissing and cuddling!" I answered.

"Who would forbid such things?"

"British people!" I said pointedly. I was sure that Finns were just as lascivious as Swedes and Danes. It was probably the cold winters or something to do with having to eat pickled fish.

"Bugger them!" she said, surprisingly. She had learnt a lot of interesting vocabulary from my uncle, I discovered. She put her arm around me, under the surface. I then felt her hand stroke my back. I asked her to stop. "Don't you like?"

"I like a lot," I replied, "But not here!" She flipped over into an underwater somersault and shot off down the pool. I followed more slowly, as my shoulders were aching from my earlier effort. She was waiting for me at the end ot the pool and gave me another hug, I don't know what it is about hugging people in water but there is something about skin on skin in water. I saw the lifeguard staring at us so I broke away and said it was probably time to leave. She wrinkled her nose again. I watched her lift herself out of the pool on her strong arms and tried not to look at her bottom in the wet swimsuit. It was big but firm looking. Quite unlike A's girl's bottom. This was a woman's bottom. I realised I had to get out now, as there wasn't room for an erection in my swimming trunks.

We walked back along the towpath. It wasn't as warm as the previous year and we had to put our jumpers on. J didn't offer the promised kiss and I didn't ask for it. I couldn't expect kisses from every girl I met, I reasoned. It was probably just the sexy feeling of the water. I suddenly felt a pang of guilt about A. She had only been gone just over a month and I was already contemplating kissing another girl.

"Did you have a nice swim?" asked my mother when we returned.

"It was OK," I said. "Mr Witt wasn't there!"

"Perhaps he's drowned," offered my sister, hopefully.

At dinner, we were presented with a salad by my mother which was not what I wanted, having swum and walked three miles on top, Neither did my sister who poked at her lettuce in disgust. This would not endear J to her, I thought. J told us about her swimming programme in the lake in Finland. She had been doing a mile a day. I struggled with 25 metres at a time. How anyone could swim for a mile was beyond comprehension. We thought it must be freezing. Not in the summer, she said.

"At least you don't get chlorine in your suit," said my mother, who had had to rinse our swimming things out and hang them on the lwashing ine.

"I swim naked!" said J.

"Oh, of course!" said my mother. "Much easier!" I tried not to think about it. Then I decided I would and just enjoy it. My sister kicked me under the table and glared.

If I had hoped J would slip into my room that night, like A used to , I would be disappointed. I thought about J’s  body in her swimsuit and masturbated, happily.

Next day we went swimming again and she challenged me to another race.

"This time if I win I get a kiss!" I asked what the difference was from yesterday's competition She said that yesterday I won a kiss from her. Today she could win a kiss from me. It was quite different. I struggled to contemplate this distinction but was starting to realise that I couldn't lose. She beat me by about two yards. I asked her when we got our prizes. She said she would decide.

"Not here!" No petting!" she pointed at the sign.

That evening she came into my room for the first time, after dinner. She examined my record collection critically,

"There is no modern music!" I pointed out that I had three Beatles records which I had inherited from my aunt, the one she had been au pair to. She pointed out that they were ten years old at least. Virtually all my music was classical with some big band and military music inherited from my father. He had been to see Glenn Miller and the Army Air Force band when they had visited England during the war. I really liked Glenn Miller, as I still do. She noted my Sibelius and asked to hear one of my records. I chose the excerpts record and she recognised quite a lot. Finlandia, of course. "I know a modern record you will like!"she said. I said I didn't really like pop music that much. Not enough to buy an album, anyway. "I will get you something!" I told her not to as I didn't really want an ABBA record.  Eventually, she said she better go to bed as she had to go to London again the next day. She gave me a kiss on the lips and told me that that wasn't the kiss I had won. "A taste of a kiss only!" she said and disappeared next door. After she had gone I actually touched my lips. A taste of a kiss? What would a proper kiss be like?

Next day I worked on my Antony and Cleopatra essay and made an attempt to start Jane Austen's Emma. What a terrible book to set seventeen year old boys. I found it completely un-engaging and, in fact, I never did finish it, despite having to write a question on it in my A-level exam the following summer. We went to collect J from the station late that afternoon. She was grumpy and said that her agency had reported back that the person she had seen about the au pair's job  on Monday had said she was ‘too sexy’.

"I'm not too sexy. I am very nicely dressed!" She was, indeed, wearing a very sensible jacket and skirt..

"I think it's what is underneath which might worry some women," said my mother. I said nothing.

After dinner she came up to my room again to give me my present which she had bought during her trip to London. I told her I didn't need a present, although in fact I was worried that I would have to then find something to buy her. It wasn't the money so much as trying to think of something appropriate. She had an HMV bag which obviously had a record in it. I knew it wasn't going to be Sibelius. She pulled it out of the bag and gave it me. I recognised the very distinctive sleeve straight away.

"It's called Tubular Bells and you should listen to it, not just say you don't like it!" I said I was very happy to listen to it but we mustn't have it on too loud as my sister and mother were downstairs watching TV. My record player was an old Magnavox, donated by one of my other uncles. It was about ten years old and it was quite a good one at the time. It was supposedly portable and had a handle on it like a suitcase. The end of the case detached to form the second speaker which I had deployed all the time. I put it on the record player and J told me to turn the lights off. Since the days of my mother bursting in on A and me, I had fitted a bolt to my bedroom door. My mother said it wasn't necessary but didn't actually object. I went over and bolted it.

"Are we going to have fun?" she asked. "Lie down next to me" I did and we listened to Tubular Bells (Part one) in complete silence. It as very different music from what I usually listened to but I really liked it. The fact that it didn't have inane lyrics but was an instrumental helped a lot. Interestingly, some years later the BBC classical music radio station Radio 3 had a broadcast (perhaps for its 10th anniversary) where they played Tubular Bells followed by Sibelius 5th symphony, ‘A piece,’ they said, ‘with which it has some affinities.’

J wriggled in closer, so our bodies were touching, lying on the floor, in the dark. About half way through she took my hand and I held it until I had to turn the record over. It occurred to me then, that with every girl you met you had to start from the beginning. Shy kiss, Hold hands. See if you are rebuffed or can move to the next stage. Like snakes and ladders. A terrifying but exciting prospect. Just as we were about to listen to Part two my mother called in from outside the room,.

"Good night you two!"

"Good night!" I said brightly. Trying to impart a scene into her mind where we were sat separately on the floor, some yards apart, just by the inflection in my voice.

"Good night. Thank you for a lovely dinner!" said J. "Shall we turn off the music?"

"No need. I can hardly hear it!" said my mother. Even though part two had started playing, it was a quiet passage. The second side finished with that funny little sailor's hornpipe. I laughed and told her it reminded me of the TV advert for butter which used the same hornpipe,, She didn't know it, of course, so I sang her the verse.

There’s an Anchor sign on Britain’s favourite butter,

It’s the Anchor sign that tells you it’s the best.

If you like your bread and butter,

There’s no other word you’ll utter ’Cos you’ll always want the butter

With the Anchor sign!

She thought this was funny and made me sing it again.

"Let's start it again!" We listened to the whole thing twice and then J left for bed.  Giving me another slightly longer kiss.

"That still isn't the kiss!" she said.

"Tomorrow, more music in the dark!" I went to bed, my heart fluttering and my cock throbbing. I just loved girls.

From then on, J came into my room every night to listen to music and I tried to get her appreciate her cultural heritage by playing Sibelius but she didn't seem to get it. We swam a lot too, although I was losing in our races by five to one. Half way through our second week she asked my mother if she could stay another week as she had more interviews arranged and one looked very promising. My mother was quite happy until J spent ages on the phone rearranging her flight. My mother hated anyone using the phone and we always got a low user rebate because of it.

The weekend when she should have been flying back to Helsinki we went to Staines on Saturday. I didn't want to take her to the ABC cafe as I felt that somehow A would know, so we went to Debenhams cafe (although my mother still referred to it as Kennards, it's former name) instead, on the top floor of the department store. We were lucky and got one of the tables with a view. We shared a Bath bun; she pulling small chunks off it and licking the sugar off her fingers. I was surprised she was eating it as I knew from my mother that all dieters are just one Bath bun away from a relapse. She told me she was glad we had another week together but opined that it was obvious that I was still thinking of A. I asked her about this as, in fact, I was felling guilty because I actually wasn't thinking about A as I was enjoying J's company so much.

"We lie together in the dark and you do not try and kiss me or touch me!" she said. "You do not like me, I think!" I was struggling with this early example of a woman saying she thought one thing as a means to get you to contradict it and reinforce her fragile ego.

"I like you a lot. You are fun and gorgeous!" I replied. You can never over-do compliments to women, my Uncle L had told me when we were down in Christchurch.

"Well you need to do something about it!" she said, finishing her coffee and standing up to leave. I thought I should have given her a big kiss there and then but the cafe was full of old people and mothers with young children so I felt rather inhibited. She strode ahead of me towards the escalators and I realised I had upset her in some way. By the time we got to the ground floor she seemed alright again. However. I thought a kiss now might be seen as too little and too late.

We went next door into WH Smiths and I decided to buy another Mike Oldfield record. I looked at the copyright dates on the back and saw that Hergest Ridge was the next one after Tubular Bells. J told me that Hergest Ridge wasn't that good and I should get Ommadawn instead. I hate getting things out of order, however. I cannot watch a TV show unless I have seen all the episodes of all the series in order. Fortunately, I had made some money by doing a portrait of a neighbour's dog and had enough to buy both records.

Coming out of Smiths we ran into Dobs from school. I introduced J and he looked straight at her chest which, as usual, appeared to be trying to burst out of her slightly too tight blouse. After we had had a brief chat we headed off around the corner to the bus stop.

"Your friend likes my tits!" said J, accusingly, as if I did not. I apologised on his behalf but she said she liked them being appreciated. On the bus back home her Nordic mood seemed to have lifted and she chattered away as usual. Everyone was looking at her out of the corner of their eyes as she was so obviously foreign. I wish I could have told her that English people don't talk on public transport but didn't want to upset her any more.

That night, despite her protests, I put Hergest Ridge on the record player. Although it is widely regarded as the weakest of Mike Oldfield's initial trilogy of releases I have always liked it. Lying next to J, I put my arm behind her neck and she cuddled up closer than we had before. Pretty much, so far, in my interaction with girls I had responded to their initiatives but I sensed that J wanted me to 'try it on' to use the phrase employed at school. This is something that women expect of men, knowing full well that they have the ultimate power of refusal to cooperate. 'You have to make the first move and if we don't like it we will soon let you know and possibly never speak to you again!' You might also get the 'I like you but not in that way' response. Or, at least, that was what if felt like as I slid my other hand on to the hip of her denims. A number of possible targets had entered my mind but I chose her hip as it wasn't as aggressive as going for her bust but was rather more intimate than her arm, for example. It also enabled me to stroke her thigh, as I did, and, fortunately, she didn't say anything or, worse, flinch.

At one point, I decided to make a move and so kissed her. Her response was very enthusiastic indeed and, much emboldened I rolled on top of her and gently pushed my knee between her denim clad thigh. She opened her legs immediately and I gently rubbed my leg against her hot groin for some time as we carried on kissing. J was a more aggressive kisser than A had been; her tongue was much more active and her mouth seemed, well, wetter; her saliva dribbled down my chin. She put her hands on my bottom as I flexed my thigh muscles against her groin and she soon started to grind her hips. Unfortunately, at this point, side one of the record finished. We broke apart.

"I thought you would be a shy boy and I would have to seduce you!" she said as we caught our breaths.

"You make me feel not shy!" I said.

"I can feel!" she laughed moving her leg against my erection. There was no way to hide it but she didn't seem to mind at all. She told me that I had now officially discharged the kiss I owed her but she pointed out that she still owed me five. I asked her if she wanted to start now but the mood had been broken so I turned the record over and we lay next to each other once more.

Next day she wanted a walk, so we went into the park where there was a small playground for children with swings a roundabout and a slide. She insisted I push her on the swing, although I knew that they were for children only and thought someone might complain if they saw us but it was Sunday morning and quiet. She wanted to use the slide although I thought that her bottom might get stuck on the way down. I didn't say anything, of course. She walked over to the metal slide and obviously changed her mind as she just sat on the iron steps each of which was was formed into the words 'Wicksteed Kettering' the name and place of manufacture of the maker.

"I'm sorry I have been in a grump!" she said. "It is my time of the month and I am moody!" Slightly shocked by this intimate admission (A had never said anything about this woman's issue) I pretended to be all understanding and adult about it. I laughed and said I thought it was because she was from the frozen north. She then got very defensive about Finland and said that Finnish people were not grumpy. She then realised what she was doing and laughed. "Kiss!" she said and I leant in, as she sat on the steps and we had a long, wet lingering one.   We walked down towards the river through the little wood next to the abbey. From the park to the river was a hidden path against the abbey fence and sheltered in thick trees. We stopped halfway for a proper snog and I put my hands on her bottom. She straddled my thigh and I got stiff very quickly, not just from her hot groin but also her breasts pressed against me. "Tonight we will listen to Ommadawn and take some clothes off!" she said.

“I can’t think of anything I want more!”  She beamed.

This, needless to say, built a great feeling of anticipation over the rest of the day. When J came into my room after dinner there was an electric atmosphere that had been missing before.

"Shall we take some clothes off now?" asked J. As I put the record on. I said that would be nice, as I bolted my door as quietly as I could. I wan't sure how many clothes 'some' might be. I was wearing jeans and a short sleeved shirt, If I took the jeans off that might look a bit pushy. If I took the shirt off that would reveal too much skin. But she had seen me in my swimming trunks anyway. I wasn't worried about my body, although teenagers weren't nearly so body conscious then. Although, I had stopped my sprinting due to a calf injury at Southern Counties, I carried on with the press ups and sit ups we were encouraged to do by Mr F, one of our scary gym teachers, Mr F wielded a short wooden plank in P.E. class and if he thought you weren't working hard enough, were late to class or committed any other seemingly random offence you would get a swift crack across the backside with it. The other gym teacher Mr K, was even more terrifying as he was a sarcastic Irishman who taught maths. This was one of the subjects I was very glad to give up the previous year, His favoured punishment for doing badly or not concentrating in class was for the offender to chase the seagulls off the school field. He would pick a time at random. Five minutes, six minutes etc. However many seagulls remained standing on our 30 acre school field when time elapsed was how many lines (times 10) you would get. You had to frantically cover the whole field scaring the birds into the air and hope that, when the time came, as few as possible had landed again. The other boys in class would helpfully count for him.

J solved the problem for me by removing her blouse, so she was standing there in her bra and jeans. She looked at me and I pulled off my shirt.

"Good!" she said. I started the music and we both lay on the floor again. This time she lay on top of me, like A used to do. She was a lot heavier than A, though. I could feel her bra pressed against my chest. A often didn't wear a bra if she was wearing a sundress as she hardly needed one. J's bra was a huge construction with what seemed like an immense amount of fabric in it. Her bust was really huge. I began to stroke J's naked back as we kissed, down from her knobbly neck vertebrae to her bra strap, a quick jump over and then down her spine to the top of her jeans. She didn't object so I kept doing it. After about three or four long, slow strokes like this she reached behind her and undid her bra strap to give me uninterrupted access to her backbone.

She kissed my chest, on which her head was lying. She sat up, her bra hanging loosely and she pulled her bra off. It was dark in my room but light enough, given the street lamp outside to see a pair of huge breasts with enormous areolae.

"Do you like?" I told her they were a wonder and she supported them with her hands, jiggling them, distractingly. "We do tops off! You kiss and lick them!" she said, lying on her back on the carpet. I started tentatively with little kisses that avoided her large nipples. He breasts spilled down her ribcage like collapsed puddings. I started to stroke the outside curves with my fingers and was soon holding them and grasping them as I kissed the soft meadow between her breasts. I started to kiss her nipples and her teats became erect as I did so. Until that moment they had been quite flat. I was literally licking them into prominence. Moving from one to another, like a plate spinner, in case one subsided while I attended to the other. J was squirming with pleasure and stroking my neck and back. I wriggled up to kiss her lips and pressed my groin against hers. I started to grind against her and she rotated her hips. All the time I was stroking the sides of her breasts, bulging out like two fat cushions. She pushed my head back down and got me licking her nipples again, while continuing to stroke the side of her breasts. I put my knee between her thighs and rubbed it against her groin.  I am certain that she came at that point. I didn't want to ask as it seemed a bit pushy but she stopped moving and relaxed. She told me she thought that was another two kisses repaid; one for each breast.

She went back to the spare room not long afterwards which was disappointing as I had hoped we might have another session, after a brief pause, as I was still stiff as anything. I wondered if I had done something wrong, Gone too far or not gone far enough. A had been much easier for me to understand but then I knew her much better.

The next day we went to Windsor to visit the castle. My sister wanted to come but my mother wouldn't let her, much to her annoyance.

"At least the other two weren't fat!" hissed my sister, as I waited downstairs for J. I said that I didn't think J was fat any more.

"How would you know? You only ever look at her tits!" said my sister, employing an uncharacteristic vulgarity.

We took the bus to Staines and then the Salter's Steamer to Windsor. Although now powered by diesel, these boats, which still run, were built in Edwardian times or the nineteen twenties. J enjoyed the two hour trip up through the locks. In Windsor, where we had to race around the castle quite quickly as we had only two hours before the return trip, J was very affectionate, holding hands and stopping for kisses.

"Did you have sex with your girlfriend?" she asked, completely unexpectedly, as we looked at the Chapel Royal. I rapidly told her to be quiet until we were in a more private and more appropriate place. I tried to explain the nature of A and my physical relationship without using any words which related to physical activity as we walked back to where the boat was moored. I was finding it very difficult to talk about physical relationships with one girl to another. She kept pressing for details which I didn't give. "Did you do things like we did last night?" she said, not, as I had hoped, abandoning the subject, as I tried to explain the concept of Eton College to her. I said that we had been naked together a number of times. She didn't quite understand this at first as she was obviously just thinking of saunas where nakedness was quite normal in Finland. Eventually, I got over the idea that we had been naked and passionate, not just sitting in a hot wooden shed and hitting each other with birch twigs. "Yes but did you stick your thing in her?" she persisted. I conceded that we had been very close but hadn't, in the end. She looked thoughtful and, thankfully, said no more upon the subject.

That night there was more enjoyable breast play. Things proceeded rather further than the previous night as she reached down between us and pulled at my belt buckle. We broke apart briefly to remove our jeans. She didn't remove her knickers so I didn't remove my underpants. This time she sat on top of me, her breasts hanging in front of me like big, succulent fruits. Watermelons, in fact. I kissed and squeezed and licked and sucked them as she slid her cotton-clad groin up and down my thigh. I felt her hand grasp my erection through my underpants and then she pulled them down. I lifted my bottom to assist her. I thought that she would rub my cock or, perhaps suck it, but instead she placed her breasts either side of my erection and started to press them together. She moved back and forth so that I slid between them. I started to thrust between them and this delightfully soft friction soon had me spurting into her voluptuous valley.

"You came for me!" she said, smiling.at me in the dark, her teeth catching the light from the street lamp outside. She lay where she was, my spunk drying tightly on my skin as she gave my chest the occasional kiss. She started talking and I was starting to realise that girls seemed to have some compulsion to talk after a passionate act, whereas I just wanted to lay there is silence and stroke her shoulders and neck. She said it was a shame that it was her time of the month or we could have done it but, she thought I should save it for a girl who I would be with for the long term. As she was going this weekend she didn't think it was right to do it when we wouldn't be seeing each other. I said I didn't mind and that it might be a nice goodbye, It! It! It! So close! If I had said I had done it with A she probably would have done it with me. Except for it being the wrong time of the month. What bad luck! Bugger!

That was the peak of our sexual interaction. The following day she went for another interview in London and later heard that a family wanted her to be their au pair in Spain, which she was delighted with. There were no more nocturnal visits and no more kissing. She later wrote me a note from Spain, thanking me for helping her get over her boyfriend. In retrospect, I had fulfilled some need to prove that she was still desirable, I suppose. We took her to the airport on Saturday and she gave me a rather shy kiss, as my mother and sister were there.

As I later told Dobs, when we returned to school in September, it was getting frustrating meeting mice girls only for them to disappear to far clung places. Still, I reasoned. I would soon be able to find another girl for sexy fun. Oh, how wrong I was.