Davina Does Easter

'To lovers I'm always Val,' she said finally. 'And I don't believe I've let you talk me into this.'

*****

We went to a pub called The Hermit. It was halfway to Ilkley and in a position nearly as remote as Keighley Gate.

'We can't be seen out and about together,' Miss Williams told me, quite sternly.

'Nobody will know us up here. We're as good as anonymous.'

'Dave, I have my career to think about. If we . . .'

'I want to have sex with you,' I interjected. I don't particularly want anyone to see us. And I will never tell anyone one word about anything we do together. My lips are sealed as far as sex goes. I want it like crazy, but I will never blab.'

Miss Williams stared at me. I could tell she had weakened. Beautiful women always have that look about them when they're about to come across. 'You are very tempting,' she said.

'I hoped you might think that,' I replied. 'Have I an incy-wincy chance of sex after all?'

Turned out the answer was "yes".

*****

Val Williams was the woman who introduced me to tribbing. That happened in the back of her car, in a layby very soon after we'd left The Hermit. She was also the first woman who had me with a strap-on, a week later . . . in her bed . . . in the heat of passion and on my best ever Good Friday night.

Are you ready for a digression? Well, here goes, whether you are or are not. Being penetrated is one of my big sexual likes . . . as long as it's done by a woman. If asked why the idea of being penetrated by a man is a turn-off . . .

Well, I'm at a loss. The obvious answer is that most women are beautiful, have great bodies and nice tits. And they are tender, caring and skilled, of course. But I have been shagged by a few who aren't so pretty and blah-di-dah. I've also enjoyed it every time woman has penetrated me, in any of the oh-so many ways it can be done.

Put on the spot I'd say it is body-shape and touch when it comes to women. If pressed I'd say I have a subconscious block against men. Whatever it is, the prospect of a suitably-equipped lady never fails to arouse me. Men . . .

Well, sorry boys, I'm sure you'll find someone more suitable.

Yet again I'll repeat myself: I'm not a man-hater; I just never have seen the need for me to venture in their direction.

Unlike the adventurous Sara and Ellie; they often ventured that way. And I'm not altogether sure what the tight-lipped Meryl got up to. She certainly knew more male band-members and hangers-on than a respectable girl was supposed to.

Right then: Easter. Apart from that big breakthrough with Val, I'm not sure why I headlined this bit of my life so prominently. Except Easter was a big thing for all of us in the upper sixth. Maybe it was not a Sea Change Moment, but it wasn't so far off.

If nothing else it was the beginning of the end.

No, it was The Beginning of the End.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I won't waste too much time on our walking trip to the Lake District. There were four or us (after a few "certainties" dropped out at the eleventh hour); two lesbians and two straight. And, being all of us pro transparency, we set out with a very strict understanding that "straight" meant straight.

'We're sharing the same tent,' I said, all self-righteous, 'so we all have to behave.'

'I will if you will,' the very straight Eileen replied, smirking.

I suppose I should have seen the writing on the wall there and then!

Okay, so self-righteous or not, I also set out under the strict understanding that Jacqui had split with Roberta, very suddenly and unexpectedly on Easter Sunday (maybe she got her the wrong chocolate egg from Thorntons!). The rest of us in holiday mood, we hit the track on Bank Holiday Monday, with Jacqui doing her best to be upbeat and put on a brave face.

And I swear to God I had no intention of any sort of intimacy with anybody during that break. I had no intention of embarrassing our straight mates in any way, and even less of making a play for a girl on the rebound.

Besides, I told myself when the little red devil came a-calling; Roberta will probably have reconsidered by the time we get back. Just how awkward would that homecoming be if we . . .

Well . . .

So this is the abridged version of those six days; right? There were four of us sharing a tent, all sworn to no more than friendship, and trustworthy with it.

(Honestly, I'm a big whore but I know when to keep my hands to myself; even drunk I'd have needed very severe provocation to as much as kiss a reluctant straight girl.)

Our first night was uneventful but very cold after a wonderfully hot spring afternoon. Next morning we were up early, rubbing life back into our limbs and eager to get up and down those hills. That day's weather was wonderful too; the fresh air smelt and tasted like champagne. We must have done thirty miles by evening; far enough to unanimously agree refreshments were in order.

Then six lads from our sixth form showed up in the hikers' area of our "local" pub in Borrowdale, all of them keen as mustard to join us. To be fair that wasn't such a surprise. We'd made no secret that we would be in the vicinity and neither had they. It was only when one of them, failing in an unflagging bid to charm Eileen, used the deadly words "four lezzies in a tent" . . .

Jacqui's reaction was instant and spectacular. If I hadn't grabbed her the silly young boy really would have been toast.

'Get the fuck out of here,' she snarled at him, thankfully letting me restrain her. 'Come anywhere near my lezzie tent and your balls will be launched into orbit.'

His (much more sensible friends) realized she had a point. They evacuated him from the pub and said maybe our paths would cross again.

Even more thankfully, they didn't.

The next hour or so was spent in calming Jacqui down. She'd laugh one minute, growl the next. She'd also snarl at anyone with a dick who came within two yards. Believe me, it was very much like sharing a table with Lorena Bobbitt . . . except Jacqui wasn't nearly as forgiving.

(For those of a certain age, Lorena Bobbitt performed dramatic ad hoc surgery on part of her abusive husband, doing it in the sort of way he'll not have forgotten.)

During all our calming efforts I couldn't help but notice Eileen smiling at me every now and again.

'Four Lesbians in a Tent,' she said eventually, 'didn't that star Julia Roberts?'

'Only in my dreams,' I replied. 'I think the actresses I saw in it were all Russian.'

'Maybe there were two versions,' said Jenny. 'I'm sure the actresses I saw were speaking Czech.'

That broke Jacqui's ice. 'Oh nuts to it all,' she exclaimed. ''Let's just get pissed and screw guys!'

'Screw guys?' I echoed.

'No, let's not screw guys.' Jacqui drained her mostly empty glass. 'I meant screw guys; who needs 'em?'

Much later, when many more beers had been consumed, Eileen mentioned that it would be cold again that night. Maybe even cold enough to warrant us zipping our sleeping bags into doubles . . .

*****

Zipping bags into doubles is exactly what we did (after getting back to find a locked-up camp site and having to climb a dry-stone wall to get in).

'Me and you?' Eileen suggested as she battled with an obstinate zipper.

'Okay,' I said after glancing at the other two. 'And I promise there'll be no funny stuff.'

But, of course, there was plenty of funny stuff, all of it instigated by Eileen.

Honest!!

Our very fetching sleeping gear that night consisted of thick walking socks, knickers and T-shirts. And I have to admit, it was much cosier with two in a bag than one; much, much cosier.

Huddled together with Eileen I watched Jacqui and Jenny cram themselves into their own freshly assembled double.

'Nighty-night,' called Jacqui as she reached out and switched off the rechargeable lantern, 'don't do anything I wouldn't.'

'Or me,' Jenny added with more of a cackle than a chuckle.

We both said sleep tight and then, without further ado, Eileen kissed me. In a quandary, determined to stick to my "hands off" vow but not wanting to offend her, I let myself be kissed. By that I mean I did my utmost not to respond too passionately and let her make the running. And trust me; the girl was up for the long haul, not a quick peck on the lips.

I maintain that I controlled myself impeccably for that first embrace, managing to ignore the feel of her tits against me and the way her mostly bare legs were moving with mine. Then, after perhaps quarter of an hour, she stopped kissing my mouth and kissed my neck instead.

Massive temptation or what! She was working down from just below my ear to my collarbone then back up again. And my neck has always been sensitive. Feeling all the familiar signs below I fought desperately to keep control. It wasn't easy, though. Shivers were running up and down my spine and my panties were issuing severe flood warnings.

Then she stuck her tongue in my ear and I was lost.

*****

So now you know; I'm blaming it on Eileen's bright ideas and seductive tongue tip, and possibly ever-so slightly on my over-responsive ear. Whatever it was, we weren't chilled to the core when we woke next morning and we were all still friends (and yes, it transpired Jacqui and Jenny had been up to lots of the same sort of mischief as us).

And, after another full day walking and a brief sojourn in the local boozer, we did it all again.

Then on our fourth night, in the spirit of experimentation, Jenny and Eileen swapped places.

On the fifth night, assured by her that Roberta was history, I slept with Jacqui. Well, we shared a bag and I demonstrated my new-found skill in tribbing, a knack she quickly picked up for herself. Actual sleeping hardly happened.

Good gracious, didn't she pick tribbing up well!

Sadly, there wasn't a sixth night. After a morning's ramble it was time to head home. As Jenny drove us out of paradise we all agreed we'd had a fantastic time and, on Jacqui's suggestion, also agreed that "whatever happened in the Lakes stayed in the Lakes".

Not that any of us were ever likely to let it slip our minds.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Re-reading that last Chapter makes me wonder who I think I am. Or, rather, who I thought I was. As I said earlier, I made a big deal out of "Easter" in my latest title for no real reason. But the more I think about it, the more significant that particular Easter was in our lives. Normally it just slips past as yet another public holiday, properly observed only by a few religious folk . . .

That one was massive. However adult we felt during our break, it was the marking of the end of our girlhood. Everything had changed when we got back to school. Familiar timetables for familiar lessons were no longer applicable. Suddenly we were faced with exam timetables. These had strict times underlined and all too clearly stressed DO NOT BE EVEN A MINUTE LATE!!

Suddenly, instead of double mixed-games to look forward to on Wednesday, it was leave of absence and "See you next month for the first sitting of Maths."

Suddenly all the fun had gone out of growing up.

To make a bad job even worse, my sex life started to fall apart. My mother and Sara's decided that, "at such a delicate stage", we should only overnight once a fortnight, if that. Then the frigging rugby season ended and Saturdays with Lorna dried up. And eff me if Roberta and Meryl hadn't got together while we were all away walking up mountains and fells! Okay, so Meryl didn't forsake (and still hasn't forsaken) me, but she wasn't nearly so readily available.

Kelly was always a moody so-and-so. I stuck with her and had those (too infrequent!) nights with Sara but Ellie seemed to be always off chasing dick. I swear; if it wasn't for Miss Williams and her strap-ons I'd have gone mad before my exams even started.

To balance falling turnover I had quite a few flings with Jacqui, consoling her for her "loss". But they were mostly outdoors, and not nearly as fulfilling as a few hours in Val's bed . . . or an hour or so in the back of her car . . .

Or ten minutes in the stationery cupboard at school, fighting to fulfil each other as swiftly as possible.

Last words about Val: she must have had the world's best-developed buns. Trust me, I held onto them often enough while she tirelessly pounded and grinded away at me. My buns probably got well-developed too; I certainly did not simply lie there and take it like a lamb.

Nobody could have. Not with her.

*****

The feeling of falling apart was inescapable, though. I constantly maintained it was "change" and no more, but I never did seem convincing, not even to me. My circumstances were changing too, you see. It wasn't just my friends, preparing to sail off into university's wide blue yonder.

I had started job-hunting back when my schoolmates started applying for uni places. And, unlike most of them, I did it en masse. In other words I worked out which local businesses had large IT teams and sent them my CV (the would-be version, backed by teachers' estimates of final grades). At first I targeted junior programming roles then, when I realized experience was going to be an issue in that, I widened my net still wider.

And at last I struck gold. I got home from our six days idyll to find a letter offering me an interview as a "technician".

I had to ask Val about the job description, which was written in HR-speak.

'It means fixing broken bits of kit,' she told me. 'You could do it in your sleep.'

I asked my (flipping useless) IT teacher too, and he told me much the same thing.

'You'll get spills and drops,' he said in one of the few meaningful bits of advice he ever offered, 'most of the time it'll be people who've accidentally hibernated or missed the "on" switch. Don't make your repairs seem too easy and you'll be a goddess in weeks.'

The actual interview couldn't have gone better. Yes,' I said, all my friends relied on me to fix their day-to-day IT problems. No, of course I wasn't afraid to get my hands dirty. And yes, I could definitely start at nine o'clock on the Monday after my last exam . . .

*****

Now there may be people out there waiting for a mega first meeting between me and Kat. Sorry, but I have to go along with her version of events: that is not how it happened.

In reality I was the new girl, still not quite nineteen, being given the tour of the building society and a more leisurely, more detailed run through IT. I now know that Kat took me for Velma (of Scooby Doo fame), saw me as a lezzie and fancied me straightaway. At the time I thought she was drop-dead and probably had choice of at least two different dicks a night.

Or maybe even three of four choices; whatever . . . she seemed out of my league and well out of my part of the ball park.

Call it dodgy gaydar, but I didn't suss her. There again, she was the seven millionth colleague I'd just been introduced to and my head was swimming with the newness of it all. Right then I was reeling at being accepted before my exam results, still worrying about enrolling for night school and hoping to sign up for my first flat.

Yes, I know it all seems hectic. Two minutes ago I was fretting about A-levels. Then, while my mates were away inspecting cloistered environments, I was talking jobs and night school. Please do blame Logical Dave for all that. She kept whispering that the global economy was wrecked. She also insisted that it was not a forever scenario.

"You have to save while house prices are still falling," she assured me. "Three years at uni and you'll have missed the bus. With any luck prices will bottom out when you have got together a deposit. Then you can buy and pay a mortgage instead of rent. Then the world's your lobster."

Okay, so she didn't really say "lobster"; that was Del Boy trying to insert his sense of humour. Logical Dave was right, though; that was the time to save and invest, not to run up student debts.

And her mention of "rent" was on the mark too. By then renting my own place was essential. I loved my parents but needed to fly the nest. Heck, that's what everyone else was doing and they wouldn't be earning! To paraphrase the Walrus and the Carpenter, the time had come . . .

*****

My time in this instalment has nearly come too. I'm going to leave you with a snatch of my first night at Night School. By then I'd started work, moved into a flat in the middle of Skipton and signed up for a series of courses for which I merely needed the certificates.

(Big-headed of me, I know; these were beyond A-levels but I had already pre-read and grasped the concepts; all I had to do was attend and collect the evidence.)

I studied my classmates a little warily, realizing I was probably the youngest there. There were maybe a dozen of us, split fifty-fifty male-female and with some fellow "students" in their forties. The one sat beside me was, I eventually decided, female and perhaps thirty-five. She had a skinhead number two and very, very hairy armpits. Even so, she smelt nice. I found it easy to overlook her natural glower and see her as an attractive woman.

Okay, so I'm over-egging it again. She was far from pretty but attractive in a certain, rough and ready sort of a way. Her appearance worked for me, anyhow.

Half an hour into the lesson she held up her hand. Yet another absolutely useless IT teacher made a vain attempt to answer her query before scurrying away to help a bleached bottle-blonde.

I tapped the (even more ferociously) glowering skinhead on her arm. 'This is what he meant,' I began.

Two minutes and ten of my concise sentences later I saw a light bulb go on over that frowning brow.

'So simple when you know,' she said. Then, thrusting out a meaty hand: 'I'm Stan.'

'Dave,' I said, shaking her paw.

'Fancy a drink afterwards?'

I grinned back into her eyes. 'Thought you'd never ask.'