The table wobbled sloshing beer from Metallica-T-shirt-guy’s pint onto the cluttered wooden surface. He didn’t care. Grunting, he juddered, face contorted into the strangest grimace like a clown stung by a wasp. He groaned, tensed, then exhaled loudly. The table shook again and Gemma, sparkly little black dress barely covering her arse, reversed out from underneath. She smoothed down her frock and leaned forward, face inches from Metallica-T-shirt-guy. Opening her mouth, she showed him the creamy gloop inside, then she swallowed and licked her lips.
Cheers went up from the guy’s friends, the clamour momentarily drowning out Tammy Wynette’s bizarre warbling about Ancients of Mu Mu, a dreadful song that had played repeatedly in every pub we’d visited. Gemma curtsied.
“Two double vodka and limes. That’s what we agreed,” she said.
Metallica-T-shirt-guy didn’t move. Wiping sweat from his brow, he gaped at Gemma then, handing one of his mates a five-pound note, pointed in the vague direction of the bar.
“Thank you.”
Gemma took a compact from her handbag and dabbed her nose with powder. She wiped her smudged lipstick with a tissue then carefully reapplied it. She’d just finished when the drinks arrived – two glasses of green liquid, ice clinking. Handing one to me, she raised a toast to our sponsors.
“Happy New Year!”
Brazen tart. Gemma had always been a slut at heart, and one term at University had boosted her confidence enough to turn her into a shameless exhibitionist. Even I was shocked that she’d suck a man off in the middle of a crowded pub, and I was no prude.
I sipped my drink and nearly choked – that had to be a triple. The alcohol surged through my veins and my eyesight momentarily blurred.
“You okay?” asked Gemma, grinning.
I gave a thumbs-up and drank again, relaxing into the alcohol induced fuzziness.
Being students, Gemma and I didn’t have much money to spend on our New Year’s Eve pub crawl. In town since eight o’clock, we’d spent our last pennies buying Bacardi Breezers in The Anchor so the challenge thereafter was to drink for free.
“Bottoms-up,” said Gemma, up-ending her glass.
“Whoa, what’s the rush?”
Gemma blinked, kohl-lined dark-chocolate eyes as wide and innocent as Bambi’s. “That depends on where you want to see in the New Year, here or somewhere else? We could stay here.”
“Or not,” I said.
The Red Lion was a sticky carpets, red-tinted lighting, watered-down-beer dive with air so thick with cigarette smoke, you couldn’t see from one end of the Saloon Bar to the other. On the plus side, drinks were cheap and the clientele drunk enough to buy beverages for me and Gemma with minimal persuasion. I’d scored two bottles of beer and two halves of cider in exchange for kisses alone.
As for Gemma… her antics weren’t strictly necessary, more recreational. We’d certainly have a memorable New Year with her in that mood. But not at The Red Lion. Attracting an older crowd, the table of lads we’d found were the only twenty-somethings in the whole pub and I wanted to be surrounded by youth at midnight.
“Wine Bar?”
“You read my mind,” said Gemma, checking her watch. “Okay, it’s ten forty-five which gives us five minutes to get there before Steve locks the doors. You up for a sprint?”
“Say again?” The crowd had started singing along to We Are the Champions – God bless Freddie – the noise deafening. Metallica-T-shirt-guy had a surprisingly good voice. “Steve’s doing what?”
“Closing in five minutes,” Gemma yelled. “He didn’t get an extended licence so he’s having a friends and family lock-in.”
Friends and family? Everyone I’d spoken to since arriving home from College had promised to meet me in The Wine Bar for the New Year countdown.
“We need to go,” said Gemma. “Now.”
Tipping back her head, she gulped her drink and made for the exit. I followed suit.
The pub had been heated to a balmy temperature by the horde inside; outside was Baltic. Ice glistened on the pavements and tiny flakes of snow danced around the streetlamps, glittering like stars. It would have been pretty if it wasn’t so damn cold and Gemma and I hadn’t been wearing skimpy party dresses with bare legs and arms. Neither of us had a coat –they’d probably have ended up shoved in a corner covered in beer and cigarette burns, or lost entirely. Same went for gloves and scarves.
Gasping, we huddled together as the chill breeze sliced through us despite the alcohol in our veins. We ran in high heels that were dangerous in good weather, lethal on ice, until forced to stop at a light-controlled crossing. A taxi pulled up, the boisterous occupants winding down the rear window to hoot and whistle at us. Gemma rolled her eyes. Pulling down her top, she flashed her boobs and stood there jiggling until the lights changed and I grabbed her wrist, pulling her across the road.
“Stop it,” I said, chastising her playfully.
Gemma simply giggled.
The Five Vines Olde Welsh Wine Bar – or The Wine Bar to the regulars – was halfway up High Street. I could hear music and voices from its vicinity before we’d even crossed the road and soon spotted Dave, Steve’s man-mountain brother, guarding the front entrance.
“Evening ladies, just in time,” he said as we trotted up. “Once you’re in, you’re in, okay? No leaving and thinking you can come back. And don’t let anyone else in, you’re the last. We’re using upstairs, the cellar, and the back. Front bar’s closed.”
Presumably to give the impression the place was shut? Bonkers, I thought, listening to the racket spilling from inside. Thanking Dave, we entered, greeted by deliciously warm air. I exchanged a sideways glance with Gemma and we grinned. Now, this was a New Year’s Eve Party.
The air was as thick with cigarette smoke as The Red Lion but additional herbal aromas drifted up from the poorly ventilated cellar and through the wedged open door at the top of the stairs. The double doors through to the back bar were also pinned back. Normally a large seating area, the room had been cleared to create a dancefloor. A DJ was shoehorned into a far corner, rainbow colours pulsing from light batons all around his kit, a glitter ball throwing out dizzying pinpricks of silver. The crowd were cavorting to the deafening beat of Right Said Fred’s Just Kiss and I raised my eyebrows at so many of the throng taking the lyrics literally: hands groped torsos and hips ground together during the exchange of deep-throated kisses.
The front bar was definitely not closed. Most of the tables were occupied and bar owner, Steve was by the windows looking anxious. He checked his watch then drew the blinds while behind me, Dave locked the doors and switched off the main fluorescent lights. The bar was lit by the pin-spots over the optics and revellers crowded it, vying to be served. No one was asked to move. Why would they be? The Wine Bar never got raided. Steve and Dave’s father was the local Police Commissioner and their mother a well-known magistrate – connections that paid dividends.
Dust falling from the ceiling suggested the upstairs bar was also packed. The best seats were up there: comfy sofas as well as practical wooden tables and chairs. There’d be no free seats at this hour. I didn’t care. I wanted to mingle with the youthful crowd, make a spectacle of myself on the dance floor, and soak up the atmosphere. As promised, many of my old school friends were in the bar and Gemma and I were soon wading among them, greeting familiar faces with hugs and kisses.
Weird Wayne was first to buy me a drink, offering as soon as he saw me. Wayne had been in my class at school and, a fan of all things Sixties, had modelled his looks on Elvis for as long as I’d known him. Now nineteen, he could pass for The King himself in low light. He talked non-stop about the Sixties too, which annoyed most people. Not me. I admired his individuality. Wayne handed me a bottled beer and said something I didn’t catch. I smiled, gave him a peck on the cheek, and moved on.
Gemma clutched a large glass of red wine. “From Sue,” she said, pointing to a brunette slumped over a table in a corner of the front bar.
“Did she give you that or did you take it?”
Gemma grinned.
The music momentarily quietened as the DJ switched tracks. The opening chords of Everything I Do, I Do It for You blasted out, triggering a barrage of boos and cries of not that shite! The needle was swiftly pulled from the record and the DJ laughed into the mic.
“Kidding,” he said and put on James’ Sound instead. Much better, but not a good song for a sing-along.
“Cellar?” mouthed Gemma, wincing at the inebriated crowd’s dying-cat shrieks.
I nodded vigorously.
We picked our way downstairs, careful not to trip over the people sprawled on the steps or tread in any of the more dubious spillages. The cellar was my favourite area: rustic wooden tables and chairs, sawdust on the floorboards, and bowls of monkey nuts on the tables. Inevitably, their shells ended up crushed on the floor with the sawdust. Usually, candles in bottles were on every table but with the New Year’s crowd being larger and rowdier than usual, Steve had wisely removed them. There were no vacant seats but plenty of standing room and the shocking singing was mercifully muffled.
The cellar had its own bar but unlike upstairs, it sold only wine. The atmosphere was surprisingly subdued, the cannabis and tobacco mix having a wonderfully calming effect. People chatted over roll-ups and glasses of wine, or bottles of bubbly.
“We’ll need one of those at midnight,” said Gemma, pointing to the champagne chilling in coolers behind the bar. “Now then, who’s going to buy it?”
Her eyes shone as she scoured the room, looking for a suitable mark. No doubt she’d offer a good price for a bottle, the randy bitch. And I wanted in: the room was full of gorgeous young men in silk shirts and tie-rack ties, hair gelled into place, skin splashed with Old Spice. Their very presence made me horny. The girls looked sexy too in teeny-tiny dresses with acres of exposed skin. Hair and makeup must have taken hours; some had carefully copied their looks from favourite film stars.
The Julia Roberts lookalike standing next to me was stunning and in my alcohol smudged state, I felt the need to tell her. She had the most beautiful hazel eyes that lit up when she smiled and she touched my hand as she thanked me for the compliment. I stared, trying to recall why she was familiar. Ah yes – she was in the year above me at school. She’d blossomed.
“Hey,” Gemma nudged me. “I’m going to sort out some bubbly. You okay for a bit?”
I nodded. I turned back to Julia, but she’d gone. Returning my attention to Gemma, I watched her weave through the crowd, pert breasts wobbling, blonde curls bouncing. In her tight dress, I noticed how curvy her hips had become – she was an hourglass in a sparkly covering that clung to her like a second skin.
She suddenly stopped and I saw her boldly address a table of boys, her speech animated with flamboyant gestures and cherry lipped smiles. She quickly found her mark. Moving close, she draped an arm around his neck and whispered something that made the boy’s eyes widen. Wavering, he turned to his friends and exchanged words. The boy sitting closest nudged him, and the whole group let out whoops when he finally stood and took Gemma’s outstretched hand.
Bloody hell, that was fast. Heart racing, I swallowed more beer and crossed to that same table while Gemma led her mark away. Keeping her in my peripheral vision, I grabbed the nearest boy in the group and spun him around.
“Do you know what deal she made?” I asked, holding his startled gape. “Well, do you?”
The boy nodded.
“Good. I’ll do the same with you. Fancy it?” I craned my neck and spotted Gemma nearing the stairs. Okay, I know where she’s going. “Well,” I said, “do you want it?” I took his raised eyebrows and slight nod of the head to mean yes and grasped his hand. “Fine. This way.”
I barged through the crowd, boy in tow. I made it upstairs in time to see Gemma approaching the right of the Back Bar. Thought so… She was heading for the Ladies. Hurrying, I followed and crashed through the door. Gemma was next to a stall, hands fumbling with her mark’s belt while she French kissed him. I caught her eye and a smile flickered on her lips before she returned to the job in hand. Heat rushed to my loins. Shoving my boy against the wall between hand driers and sink, I kissed his lips hard.
A girl emerged from the far stall, squealed, and ran from the room. Gemma tittered and took the opportunity to lead her man into the stall and lock the door. Good idea. Locked into the stall next to hers, I eyed my chosen target. I vaguely recognised him… from school, perhaps? Had I met him in a bar? I couldn’t recall but I knew his name was John, or Jonathon – perhaps Jason? It definitely began with a J. Gemma’s tinkling laugh drifted from next door and I saw her feet shift. Her heels scraped as she knelt and the heat in my pussy intensified at the thought of what she was doing.
A door banged and the booming beat of something techno vibrated the flimsy stall before female voices shouted and the door slammed shut, muffling the music. Pushing J against the same partition wall Gemma’s boy was leaning on, I dropped to my knees. He’d already unbuckled his belt and he fished out his cock while I settled into position. He smelled musky and the tip of his sizeable cock glistened with pre-cum. Nice. I opened my mouth and took him deep, closing my lips around his hot, throbbing flesh.
I sucked hard, loving his flavour and the heat of his hard cock against my tongue. J groaned so I clutched his buttocks and sucked harder. I was lightheaded, felt like I was floating above the stall looking down on myself and Gemma, watching the whole absurd scene. Sex in a toilet with my best friend sucking cock in the adjoining stall was new for me.
J’s cock pulsed and his lustful grunts sent quivers through me. Then Gemma moaned and hearing her, my arousal suddenly peaked. I slammed my thighs together, rocked by a forceful spasm deep in my core. Spitting out J’s cock, I thrust a hand between my thighs and touched my pussy through my lace panties. I gasped, shocked by the sensitivity.
“Did you just…” J was staring, mouth agape.
Smirking, I shrugged.
“Does that mean… are you done?” He shifted awkwardly.
“God, no,” I said, struggling to my feet. “I’m horny as hell. Fuck me. Can you do that?”
“Oh, yes… yes, I can!”
“Then do it.”
Whipping off my panties, I pulled up my skirt and braced against the partition. I wanted a thick, hot cock inside me and J was happy to oblige. Moving behind me, he grasped my hips and I gasped at the squeeze of penetration. But even in my ecstatic delirium and drunken blur, I noticed Gemma’s feet move and a pair of polished brogues appear between her patent leather stilettos. Cheeky cow, she’s copying.
J pounded me, his fat cock filling my needy pussy, hot breathy grunts delighting my ears. The walls shook as he got into a rhythm and a toilet roll, jolted from its holder, trundled away under the door. Gemma’s boy was thrusting too, his rhythm syncopated with J’s. It was surreal, a sensory overload. Bliss… Closing my eyes, I gave in to the pleasure as if I’d thrown my arms high above my head on the fastest, wildest roller-coaster.
By the time J pulled on my hips and shot his load, my sex craving had been wonderfully sated. I cleaned up with a tissue before slipping my panties back on and straightening my dress. Grinning, I put a finger to J’s lips, and we listened to Gemma and her boy reaching climax, both of us giggling as they cried out loud enough for the whole pub to hear.
J and I were out of the stall and busy tidying our appearance when Gemma and her partner emerged. Pointing at me, Gemma giggled, then staggered across to the sink where she scooped thick globs of semen off her inner thigh.
“Good stuff,” she said holding her hand to the light.
Two girls entered the bathroom, both stopping abruptly at the sight of men – and Gemma with jizz dripping from her fingers.
“We’re going,” said J, quickly grabbing his pal and marching him to the door. “Champagne downstairs when you’re ready,” he called to me. “You’ve earned it.”
Gemma couldn’t stop giggling. Sliding an arm around my waist, she whispered, “You’re as dirty as me. I love it,” and burst out laughing again.
“Come on, slapper,” I said, hugging her, “we’ve got champers waiting.”
“Yes!”
Back in the cellar, Gemma’s boy had rejoined his friends while J, true to his word, had been to the bar. Gemma and I were presented with a bottle of bubbly each.
“Happy New Year,” said J, kissing my cheek. “Oh… it’s time.”
Already? The music stopped and from the bar above, I heard the countdown: ten, nine… the crowd in the cellar bar joined in. Eight, seven, six… I slipped my hand into Gemma’s and squeezed it… five, four, three… Gemma held my gaze, eyes unblinking…two, one…Happy New Year!
Party poppers exploded from every direction and the crowd roared. Gemma threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. She pressed hard, lips parting, and probed with her tongue. I felt a hand slide down my back and onto my buttocks while the other hand pressed the bottle of bubbly into my back. It was just a drunken kiss and when Gemma pulled away, she wiped lipstick smudges from my lips and wandered off, clearly intent on shoving her tongue into as many mouths as she could.
And she kissed virtually everyone, male and female.
Stunned, I watched. I felt different. You see, I’d never been kissed by a girl and the emotion – the sheer heart-stopping ecstasy – was totally unexpected. Moving backwards, I leaned against a piece of wall while listening to the crowd singing Auld Lang Syne, and thinking it was the best New Year ever. So, 1991 ended with a bang and the opening moments of 1992 presented me with the biggest surprise of my life.
It changed me forever.
*****
The London fireworks are on TV, drones forming clever patterns amid a dazzling spectacle of exploding colours, while ‘celebrities’ I’ve never heard of tell me how wonderful 2021’s been in spite of everything. On the sofa beside me, my wife tops up my glass and whispers, “Happy New Year.”
“Here’s to 2022,” I reply, raising my glass. I watch rockets firing from a barge on the Thames. “Do you remember where we were this time thirty years ago?” I reach out and take her hand in mine and she snuggles into me.
“I was too drunk to remember that year clearly.” She faces me, hazel eyes shining. “I do recall you saying I looked like Julia Roberts.”
I grin. “I did. You still do.”
“Aw, you…” She plants a kiss on my nose. “I knew straight away you were the one for me.”
“Did you? You took your time telling me.”
“Yeah,” she says, squishing against me. “Sorry about that. I was confused back then.”
“Weren’t we all? It was different times in so many ways, not like now.”
“I guess. More?” My wife waves the champagne bottle but I shake my head. “Do you ever hear from Gemma?”
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
“She was a wild one.”
“Still is, I believe.” My phone beeps. I titter and shake my head. “Speak of the devil.”
I show my wife the text: Happy New Year! Love always, Gemma xxx
“Perfect timing,” says my wife.
“Indeed.” Smiling, I message back. “Happy New Year to you, too!”
