(With apologies to The Rolling Stones)
That first night I spent with Heather, the first of ten thousand or more, made me realise that I never wanted to spend a night alone again. That warmth and closeness, the feel and smell of another human being right there next to me all night long until I woke to find her still there the next day was something I had never before experienced in my 20 years.
The sex came later. I had slept with my underpants on that first night. I’m not quite sure why. I was certainly shy, repressed, inexperienced and unsure of myself. My church upbringing had warned me of the dire consequences of just this type of thing and not taking all my clothes off was maybe symbolic of not going all the way.
Heather could have taken matters into her own hands, dragged them off me and taught me all I needed to know there and then: She certainly had the experience which I lacked. She could have laughed in my face or taken offence at me not grabbing with both hands the golden opportunity she was presenting so freely to me. She did none of those things. She was gentle and patient and she didn’t rush things. She slept in her knickers as well that night. We kissed and cuddled, she let me explore her, let me feel what it was like to be explored and we masturbated each other.
We spent long rainy Saturday afternoons, that autumn of 1977, slowly discovering more and more about each other. Because my background had made me somewhat reticent and because contraception was something of a problem, actual vaginal penetrative sex was only a small part of our relationship, so we explored a whole range of other experiences besides. Things that many other couples perhaps only arrive at much further into a relationship but which for us have been an integral part of our love play right from the very start. Like fisting, for example. Like anal. Not so much oral, strangely. Whereas I quickly discovered the delights of tasting her moist, fragrant cunt, I hope Heather will forgive me if I say that giving oral was not her favourite activity back then.
Heather wasn’t on the pill at the time. She explained that she didn’t dare while she was living at home because she knew that however well she hid them her mother would be sure to find them and that would inevitably lead to a huge row. Yet another huge row. How she managed to avoid getting pregnant before she came to England is something of a mystery. In any case, she hadn’t left her home town to become embroiled in a relationship. Quite the reverse. The previous couple of years had seen her school grades slide in inverse proportion to her interest in the local boys and she didn’t want that to happen while at university.
Condoms were available of course, although not as widely as they are now. These were the days pre-HIV, and when chlamydia was something we learned about in Pathology classes but were never likely to encounter, so ’safe sex’ as we now know it simply wasn’t an issue. Our hall of residence was right in the heart of the City of London, so there were no convenient pubs or shops nearby. There was a Durex machine in the toilets at the hall, built like a tank and covered in hilarious graffiti such as ”Buy me and stop one”, ”This chewing gum tastes funny” and, beneath the logo declaring the contents to conform to British Standard 3704, the inscription: ”So was the Titanic”. Problem was that the thing was so noisy that you could hear the drawer being yanked out and slammed shut way down the corridor. It was the thought of being discovered in the act by a fellow member of The Christian Union that kept me well away from that machine…
(To be continued)
–Submitted by Fat Controller of Northern Lights and Sleepless Nights
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