He didn’t know what to do with her at first. Her behaviour was erratic and daring. Her love, the tactile touch, their passion, intoxicated him. Then, when she came to him, he smelt the animal scent on her; she savoured his strange taste, and they lost all self-control.
July 1972:
He arrived at the end-of-terrace house dressed in a smooth velvet jacket, shirt, and cords, carrying a litre of Malibu. The stained-glass door was open, the opening riffs of Schools Out could be heard in the street. He checked the house next door. Its curtains were drawn. The lights were out.
When he went inside, he found himself in a small hallway with a door on the left, stairs on the right, and a narrow corridor. The atmosphere was thick with smoke. He choked on the acrid fumes: cigarettes mixed with a rich aroma of cigars, burning joysticks, candles, other, less familiar smells. There were couples huddled on the Indian rug, sprawled over the stairs: eating, drinking, smoking, talking, kissing, embracing. Careful not to tread on them, he entered the living room to find the party in full swing. The place was heaving with strangers, their arms wrapped around each other’s necks, pretending to slow dance.
The girl stood at the heart of the throng swaying her child-bearing hips to the music. She twisted her head to the left, noticing him in the doorway. He assessed her. She was short, stocky, with long blonde hair, blushing cheeks, and a bronze suntan. Finding her sexually attractive, he moved in closer to her.
The lights went out. She went into a dancing fit. Her breasts flopped out of her flimsy summer dress. She made no attempt to cover herself. He’d never forget the wild, glazed, drug-crazed look in her eyes. The girl was high, flailing her arms about clumsily in front of him. The other dancers formed a protective ring around her. Intrigued, fascinated by her distorted state of mind, her distending body, he joined in, keeping an ever-watchful eye on her. She implored him, stoned out of her tiny mind, seeking his permission to continue.
‘Shall I?’
‘If you want to.’
He watched beguiled as she pulled off her dress. She whirled, a spinning drunken dervish, colliding into friends. They pushed her, shoving her, egging her on, roaring their approval. She slumped against him. He felt her soft, supple body, her breasts squashed against his chest. The girl was sweating, clearly in distress. He held her. Then, he freed her to dance. The rock anthem reached a crescendo. All her inhibitions lost, she peeled off her panties and danced naked for her appreciative audience, who joined in, tearing at each other’s clothing in an orgy of unspent lust.
Somebody changed the record. The music slowed to Without You. And he left the room.
There was no sign of Janis, the other twin. She was identical to Lindsey in every respect, apart from her hair, which she wore cupric red. He assumed she was upstairs, making love to a boy. Either that, or she was in the kitchen. The tension gnawed at his stomach. He felt hungry. Clambering over the scattered human debris, he made his way to the scullery.
He eased his way past humps of entwined teenagers as far as the sturdy oak kitchen table. Half the table was taken up with Party Sevens, spirits, open lager cans, full foil ashtrays. The other was allocated to food: decadent displays of fatty cocktail sausages, pineapple-and-cheese on sticks, chicken vol-au-vents, sausage rolls, mini pork pies, salted peanuts, and crisps. Famished, he grabbed a plate and helped himself.
She was standing by the bar pouring herself a glass of ‘the real thing’, gorgeous in a plain white t-shirt, drainpipe jeans. His heart leapt in his chest at the sight of her pale angular face, tinted wispy hair, slim, petite, scant figure, her fake drop-pearl earrings. She cried happily above the din.
‘Hello! Come here often?’
She was Australian. He stopped eating. Didn’t know what to say. He gave her his bottle. She unscrewed the top. Poured herself a large shot. Mixed it with Coke. Drank a swig.
‘Ah, thanks! Needed that. Gets boring when you don’t know anyone, doesn’t it?’
He didn’t answer. She topped up her glass, found a clean glass, half-filled it with Malibu, and offered it to him.
‘Fancy a drink?’
She was tipsy. He started to sweat. His hands shook. She made him apprehensive. His mouth was parched. Desperate for a drink, he took the glass from her, downing it in one.
He struck her as the silent type, vulnerable to her charms, pleasantly shy. She wanted him, badly, wanted to push her hand through his wavy hair, stroke his face, kiss his split lips, and feel his slim-toned body. He excited her. She needed to touch him.
‘Feeling lonely?’
The drink went to his head, ‘Yes, very.’
‘My name’s Georgie,’ she disclosed. ‘Shall we go outside and play in the garden?’
She took hold of his hand and led him through the outhouse to the garden. It was getting dark. He made out the stars appearing in the young night sky, a half crescent moon. The mossy lawn was surrounded by shrubs, bushes, overhanging trees, creating a feeling of privacy, peace, quiet. They were alone. Georgie took a deep breath, relishing the fresh evening air, reached up for him, drew him to her, and kissed him. She was wearing a scent.
He responded: parting his lips, opening his mouth. She explored his palate, savouring his strange taste, coating her flickering tongue in his saliva. He crushed her in his arms. When they eventually came up for air, she was panting, breathless, clamouring for him, gasping.
‘Think we should go and play on the swing now, don’t you?’
Georgie took off her t-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her back was dripping with sweat. She took his breath away. He couldn’t speak. There was a child’s swing in the corner of the garden. She led him there.
The twins must have played here once, as little girls, he thought, feeling a sickening rush of guilt over the wretched state he’d left the girl in. Now Georgie wants to play with me.
She forced him to perch on the seat while she unbuttoned his shirt, undid the stud on his cords, unzipped his fly, and slid her hand inside his pants. He groaned as she played with him on the swing. Georgie ran her tongue down his neck. Her tongue explored his torso, licking his stiff nipples, tasting the salty tang of sweat in his navel. Tenderly, she caressed his proud, velvety flesh with her soft hand, gently squeezing his taut sac until he felt fit to burst, ‘How does that feel, good?’
He didn’t know how to answer her. Georgie knelt in the grass, grasping him, staring into his flushed face. She asked him, ‘Would you like to make love to me?’
‘Yes.’
She spoke to him as if he were her child,
‘Shall we go inside then, see if we can’t find a bed?’
‘I don’t have a sheath.’
Georgie felt inside her back pocket and took out a thin silver foil pouch. ‘It’s alright,’ she intimated, ‘I’ve got one. Come with me.’
Quickly, she tucked him away inside his pants, put on her t-shirt, held his clammy hand and led him to the scullery door.
Save for a few scattered cans, empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays, the table was bare. The food had been devoured. The gaggle of teenagers had dispersed. Gripping his hand, Georgie negotiated the animalistic lair of bodies writhing on the floor. They reached the stairs. There was a queue stretching from the hall to the landing for the upstairs toilet. She felt him tense.
He turned to her and confessed, ‘I’ve never made love to a girl before.’
Georgie smiled at him lovingly, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.’
Her love, her care, her warmth towards him, infected him. He loved her smile, wanted to make her happy, always. Eager for her to take the lead, he followed her upstairs, his eyes fixed firmly on her rear, avoiding the knowing glances from a handful of sober voyeurs.
They arrived at the landing, which was decorated with flock wallpaper. There was a solitary picture of a few snowdrops growing out of a bed of dead leaves, which Georgie took as symbolizing new life out of death. Other than the loo, on her right, there were three doors off the landing. Two of them were shut. She wondered if they all locked from the inside.
The sensual thrill waves permeated her body. Trembling with anticipation, she brought her lover to the threshold. They ventured to the open door and peeked inside. The bedside lamps were switched on, casting gloomy shadows.
He hesitated.
How Can I Be Sure? was playing in the background.
Georgie kissed him fully on the lips, rubbing his crotch, stimulating him, hardening him, murmuring, ‘Shall we go inside?’
She couldn’t believe her luck. The main en suite bedroom was free. Georgie entered first, followed by him. His chest felt tight with expectation. She shut the door, blinding prying eyes, turned the key in its lock, and slid all three bolts in place. The ballad: Alone Again, Naturally, faded into the background. The bathroom was at the far end of the room, beyond the giant-sized bed.
He felt her squeeze his hand, ‘I have to go to the toilet to prepare myself. Will you wait for me?’
She’d looked at him so seriously. Was she that worried he might stray?
He felt an enormous surge of relief flush through him. A sensational burst of happiness, feeling so protective of her. A strong sense of caring he had never felt before. He adored her. She gave him hope.
For the first time, he smiled, ‘Of course, I’ll wait for you. I love you.’
He made her blush. She let go of his hand, pecking him on both cheeks, his lovebird. No-one ever uttered those words to her. Her soul sank at the thought of their parting the morning after. She needed him; she wanted to reciprocate his feelings, but couldn’t bring herself to say the beautiful words, for fear of breaking his heart.
Georgie struggled to control her emotions, stinging inside with guilt. Tonight, she would give of herself to him. Heartbroken, she told him to switch off the light, take off his clothes, lie on the bed, and wait for her to make love to him.
Elated, euphoric, he watched her close the pure-white door. He looked around the room. There was a pine dressing table, a turquoise stool, to one side of the bed, cluttered with lady’s make-up: lipsticks, combs, a clutch of old photos: a woman on her wedding day, sunbathing on a white sandy beach in her scarlet bikini, suckling her babies, holding them over the font, as they were anointed.
Strange, no photos of her husband?
He decided this should be Georgie’s side of the bed.
The twins were conceived here. She wants to make love to me, here, on their parent’s bed.
He switched off her light. There was a royal blue armchair on his side of the bed. He soon undressed, folding his jacket, shirt, and cords, placing them in a neat pile on the chair. He pulled off his socks and pants, throwing them in soft balls at the chair. Switching off his light, he stretched out on the bed, shut his eyes, and waited, as innocently as a new-born baby — for her.
Georgie crept into the bedroom and took off her t-shirt, jeans and panties, strewing them over the carpet. Then, as naked as the day she was born, she climbed on the bed to kneel beside him.
Their intense mood was interrupted by loud banging on the door, a boy and a girl’s slurred, drunken voices,
‘Let us in!’
‘Come on! You’ve had your five minutes!’
He froze.
Georgie gently stroked his belly, gliding her soft hand downwards into his hairy groin, ‘Ignore them,’ she soothed, ‘They’ll soon go away.’
The din outside ceased.
He groaned as she sheathed him,
‘There,’ she whispered, ‘Now keep still. Forget the world. Think about me.’
She straddled him. He felt the soft insides of her thighs rubbing against his hips. Her fine hair, brushing his hair. Her belly resting lightly on his abdomen as she fed him inside her. He loved her tenderness. She was tactile for him: relishing her impalement, fully aroused, holding his hands to her breasts, her nipples stiffened by his firm caress. Her heart pounded. His chest heaved.
He cried out for her, ‘I love you, Georgie! I love you, Georgie!’
She shuddered as his spasms subsided.
It was over.
His mind was riddled with guilt, ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t hold on any longer.’
She comforted him, brushing his cheek with her hand, ‘You felt good! You were great!’
Masking her disappointment, she dismounted him carefully, grasping the root of his shrivelled stalk to ensure that his sheath didn’t slip off inside her. He felt her climb off the bed, watching her intently as she padded off to the bathroom.
Shattered, frustrated by his inability to satisfy her, he rolled onto one side and fell asleep.
Even as she went to open the bathroom door, Georgie felt her guilt, mixed with a sense of shame at how she behaved. It didn’t help her that she was tired out, emotionally drained by the intense effort of seducing and making love to the virgin — or that she was still left wanting him. She turned a handle with her clean hand and stepped inside, quietly closing the door, so as not to wake him, sleeping.
Christ! What’s his name? I don’t even know his name!
Georgie pulled the light switch cord, the immensity of what she’d just done weighing on her mind. She’d played with him intimately on a garden swing, even though she knew the others were watching her through the kitchen window. She’d borne her breasts for him, exposing herself to the sultry, summer evening air. Then, she had caressed him, tenderly, lovingly, leading him to believe she might love him. She thought of him, crying for her as he squirmed and wriggled under her on the twins’ parent’s bed.
Bizarre notions teased her confused mind. She thought of the black and yellow book her mother gave her when she was eleven: Peter and Pamela Grow Up, imagining that she was Pamela and he was Peter.
Pamela Becomes a Young Lady she reminded herself, wistfully.
How careful was she? Could he have made her pregnant? How would she explain a baby to her mother in Oz? She squatted over the toilet and peed. Her mother was a devout woman who believed in the sanctity of marriage. What was it she had told her, before Georgie left home to see the world?
‘When you fall in love with a man, find your husband and marry him. It’s only natural that you will want to kiss and embrace each other. You will want to come together in the closest possible contact.’
She’d smiled naughtily to herself, Come together?
‘Thanks so much for explaining that to me, Mummy,’ Georgie said, interrupting her.
Her mother continued, ‘Oh, and darling.’
‘Yes?’
‘This act of loving union between a husband and wife is commonly referred to as sexual intercourse.’
Another knowing smile, Really?
‘Commonly, Mummy?’
‘Yes, commonly.’
That was how she felt: common, soiled. The hand basin was porcelain white with original brass taps. One of the taps, the hottest one, was still running from her previous visit when she prepared herself for him. Georgie picked up the bar of Cussons Imperial Leather and scrubbed her hands, ridding herself of him. There was a strange taste in her mouth — his taste. She shook her head despondently, daring herself to pluck the used pink toothbrush out of the mouldy beige tooth mug, applied a splodge of Colgate, then brushed her teeth.
The idea of her having a pen-friend in England had been her mother’s. Ironically, Georgie started writing to Lyndsey when she reached eleven: the same age she became acquainted with Peter and Pam. As they grew older, the teenagers became distant friends, confidantes, alluding to each other about the changes occurring in their bodies. Then, on her eighteenth birthday, she had embarked on her backpacking Tour of Europe starting in Italy, visiting Monaco, the South of France, Spain, Portugal, ending in London, from where she called Lyndsey — and heard about the party.
She rinsed the toothbrush clean, drying it on a pink face flannel, and returned it to its mug. There were four ‘his and her’ towels hanging by the hand basin. Georgie felt them all. The pink ones were sopping wet. She recoiled. She would have to use a navy-blue man’s towel after her shower. The shower head was unscaled. It protruded over a spotless four-legged bath. She turned on the twin brass taps, mixing the water to steamy hot, lifted the shower knob, and drew the curtain, ensuring it hung inside the bath. Then she climbed in, thrilling to the invigorating sensation of water cascading down her body, feeling all tingly inside. As she soaped her breasts, her belly, and crotch, the lure of him lying naked on the bed returned to haunt her.
The delicious surge of arousal spread through her body. Just as the red light of anticipation lit her up mind. She had tried to use the young man lying on the bed next door for her personal gratification and failed. He was at best inept, an awkward lover, but he held a fascination, a mystique she found intriguing. His v-shaped torso, muscular physique, the smoothness of his skin, his warm hair, demanded her caress. There was no doubt she’d lost control of herself, taking an incredible risk when she made love to him. But deep inside her heart, she felt an inner compulsion to be with him. Georgie wondered if this was what real love felt like.
She shampooed her hair with Silvikrin and tried to bring the intensity of her feelings under control, to rationalise her thoughts.
Tonight, she would tell him how much she loved sharing her precious moments with him, bid him a tearful farewell, kiss, embrace, and say goodbye. Tomorrow, if she managed to get out of bed, she would spend the day sightseeing in London.
Except, the time for rational thinking was over.
She rinsed her hair, turned off the shower, drew the curtain and climbed out of the bath. Some of her hairs were stuck in the plughole.
‘Always leave the toilet, sink and bath as clean as you’d expect to find them,’ her finicky mother said.
Georgie bent down, plucked out her hairball and threw it in the toilet. Dabbing her eyes, she took in the array of lady’s cosmetics crammed onto the vanity shelf. There was a Mum roll-on deodorant. She rubbed it on her hairy armpits.
The mirror had steamed up. She opened the window and stared out at the starry night sky, feeling ridiculously small and lonely. On the shelf was a phial of perfume. Georgie took the atomiser and sprayed the scent on the back of her hand: the heady aroma of roses. Feeling ashamed for using the mature woman’s fragrance, she quickly sprayed her fingers, dabbed the love potion behind each ear, fluffed her hair, wrapped the towel around her waist and padded back into the bedroom. The music had stopped playing in the lover’s discotheque.
He was lying on his back, sound asleep, making stertorous nasal noises. Georgie sealed his mouth with hers, dangling her tongue inside his, teasing him delicately, savouring his strange taste, kissing him awake with a start. He smelt her fragrance. His head span. Their lips parted.
She whispered, ‘I have to go now. Come and say goodbye to me.’
She switched on the light. He blinked in utter astonishment. Georgie looked sensational. They stood on the plush crimson deep-pile carpet embracing. He ran his fingers through her damp hair, down her neck, over her knobbly spine, as far as the small of her back. She felt him stir against her belly through the towel. She wanted to know his name.
He mumbled incoherently, smothering his face in her clean, fresh hair, nuzzling her neck, behind her ears, loving the scent of her, kissing her soft earlobes.
Georgie sighed contentedly: so, this is the love, the tenderness, the intimacy I need.
She felt him tear off her towel. His hands grasped her fleshy buttocks, drawing her to him. His rigid flesh stood proudly for her, pressing insistently into the slight round of her belly,
‘Want to please you, Georgie.’
She started to cry, venting her frustration, ‘You can’t! I don’t have any protection left.’
‘Wait!’ she added, after a brief silence, ‘I have an idea. Give me your hand.’
After Georgie had finished, he watched her squat beside the bed, wiping her sweaty body. He cherished her like this, recovering, her nipples stiff burnt caramel, her breasts heaving, her soft, hairy mound glistening with intimate dew, her protruding scarlet lips. She smiled fondly at him, reclining lazily on the bed, hands behind his head, his puddle of grey messing the manly growth of hair on his belly, testament to her hand’s tender caress.
She sighed, ‘That was really lovely. Thank you.’
‘Did you cum?’
Georgie bloomed and blushed, ‘What do you think?
He was thrilled for her, ‘I’m glad.’
‘Here.’
She wiped the sweat off her breasts and handed him her wad of tissues, to his surprise. ‘What am I meant to do with these?’ he asked.
Georgie pulled up her panties, ‘Keep them, as a memento of my love.’
‘I will keep them, always.’
He sounded deadly serious. He treasured her, dreading the pain of losing her. The clutch of a congealed mess in his palm, her intimate keepsake, would remind him of her scent, her sweat, her strange taste, in his dark, lonely nights recalling the time they first made love.
