New Beginnings Revive

Still sipping, I recalled my conversation with Mum. She couldn't have been more supportive. And she was going to break my news to Dad for me . . . probably already had. I was grateful for that. Dad is far from old-fashioned; I wasn't afraid he'd disown me or anything. No, it was his weird sense of humour that worried me. He's quite capable of coming out with some totally inappropriate remark. What, I hear you ask. I honestly don't know, but trust me, he can sometimes make the Duke of Edinburgh seem perfectly diplomatic.

Yes, I thought, Mum couldn't have been more supportive. Even though I'd expected her to understand, it had still been an enormous relief when she so obviously did. Her one and only reservation, given to me shortly before I left, was about Dave. "She seems besotted with this Katrina," she'd said. "Don't close your eyes to all the other pebbles on the beach."

I'd been casting around the garden as I sipped and mused. Suddenly recognizing somebody, I hauled myself back into the present. Standing perhaps ten yards from me, on the closely-cropped lawn, there was a group of half a dozen or so young ladies. They were decorously ignoring a group of young men who were blatantly intent on chatting them up. That would change a few drinks later, I supposed, but it was amusing for now, watching the girls being so very prim and proper.

One of those girls was Becky (she of the pneumatic chest) from the canteen at work.

I studied her as closely as I could. Becky is on the short side and I had considered her to be a bit "dumpy". But she isn't. Seeing her then, out of uniform and dressed to the nines, she was no more than attractively plump. Laughing at one of her friend's jokes, her mane of black curls bobbing, she was a sight for sore eyes.

Mmmm, nice, I thought, and not for the first time. Some guy's going to be very lucky tonight.

Drink finished, I went inside and deposited my empty on the bar (pub training; taking back my glass is a habit frowned upon by the Glass Collectors' Union but ingrained in me). Still no sign of my barmaid and it was well after eight.

Sighing, I moved on to the next pub.

*****

The next hour or so flew by. I might have been alone but Bingley is a small town and I kept bumping into people I knew, old mates from the sixth form, mostly. I soon lost count of all the "catch-up" conversations I'd had. And I soon felt as if I was as up to speed on all the latest gossip as Tommy was. I didn't find out who his blonde was, though. Going on what little feedback I did get, he "hadn't changed" and she "could be anybody". Good job I wasn't personally interested, eh?

So on with the Bingley Crawl. The "Crawl" is well-established and oft-indulged in by drinkers young and old, particularly on pleasant summer evenings. As most of the pubs are either on or close to Main Street, the tactic is to start at one end and work one's way to the other. That night I had started at the "bottom of town". By nine thirty I was nearing the "top of town". The doormen at the Suburban Style Bar met me with smiles.

'This one looks like a troublemaker,' the larger guy said.

'Let her in,' said his smaller colleague. 'But keep an eye on her.'

It was deafening inside. Loud music competed with raised voices and raucous laughter. It felt more like midnight on New Year's Eve than still quite early on a Friday night in June. Battling my way through crowds of dancers and drinkers, I approached the bar.

'Mikki!' someone yelled.

A hand landed quite heavily on my shoulder. Turning, I saw it belonged to Becky. 'Hi Becks,' I replied, yelling back at her to make myself heard.

She said something I couldn't understand. Putting my ear to her mouth didn't help. I smiled at her and shook my head. She linked her arm in mine and pulled me towards the exit.

'Blimey,' said the smaller doorman as we went out into the relative peace of the night, 'that was fast.'

'I told you she was trouble,' his mate added.

Moving out of their earshot, I asked Becky what she'd been trying to say.

'I was thanking you for offering me a drink.' She smiled and her diamond-like eyes glinted.

'I didn't offer you a drink.'

'No, but you know you wanted to.'

I shook my head and returned her smile. 'You've dragged me away from the bar to tell me that!'

'Yeah. I suppose.'

'It'll take ten minutes to get back to where I was.'

'We can always try somewhere else,' she said.

'What about your mates?'

'What about them? They'll be copping off soon, one by one. Our numbers tend to fluctuate at this time of night.'

I laughed, thinking of the Farewell Symphony, with the musicians finishing and leaving, one by one. 'Fluctuate downwards, you mean?'

'It depends on who's doing the copping off. Some of them only go for quickies and show up again half an hour later, looking for someone else to shag. Others want the full monty and just disappear, never to be seen again. Well, not until the next night out, anyway.'

'Which camp are you in?' I wondered, grinning at her.

'Tonight I want the full monty,' she replied. 'And I've nominated you to whisk me away.'

*****

I woke up on Saturday morning with Becky snoring gently beside me. She has a nice snore; there's nothing harsh about it at all. Come to that, she's a really nice person and a lot more interesting than I'd expected. That's me for you, judging the book by its cover! Because her job is a menial one in a canteen, I'd made assumptions . . . nearly all of them wrong.

Last night, over a couple of pints outside Off The Tap, she'd told me about herself. When she was twenty, nearing the end of her second year at Chester University, her mother had fallen ill.

'It was the same sort of cancer that did for my dad,' she'd said. 'I finished the year then came home to look after her.'

Her mum had had a hard time of it. For the best part of three years her illness would go away only to return again even more virulently. When it finally went into remission for good, she was bed-ridden and on the verge of giving up hope. Altogether, Becky acted as a full-time carer for five whole years. She didn't say as much, but I suspect she also acted as confidante, mentor and bully.

'I wasn't going to let it beat her,' she told me. 'The longer it went on, the more stubborn I got.'

Thank The Lord for happy endings! Becky's mum got her first all-clear in 2012 and continues getting all-clears at six month intervals. Nowadays she's back to her old self, out of bed and active again. And, come September, Becky is returning to Chester to complete her degree (in Economics and Business! Yuk!).

We were in bed before eleven and the sex was terrific. And so different to any of the previous encounters I'd had. I had been oddly nervous beforehand, fluttery tummy and all. But, when we got going, we'd been hammer and tongs. Hot, steamy, passionate . . . you name it and we played it. Best of all, it had seemed illicit. There was no reason it should have done, but it did.

Having woken in a philosophical mood, I passed a few moments thinking about my few other lovers. Not that I compared them; I wasn't ready for graphic comparisons. No, instead I dwelt on their individual qualities, being positive, finding things to like in every one of them.

Joyce is right, I concluded, my love isn't a finite thing. No, not at all.

*****

Becky's employers didn't only provide catering for my workplace, they catered for thousands of other companies all over the world. Extra work at night and over weekends was just about always available. And, as a soon-to-be penniless student, Becky nearly always put her name forward. This weekend she was working in a nearby hospital which was, she said, a different challenge altogether.

"I'm doing lunches, evening meals and the tea trolley in-between. Multi-tasking or what!"

She left my flat at about ten, telling me we simply had to do it again sometime, and soon. I agreed with her then, feeling slightly guilty but not exactly sure why, got ready for Joyce.

The "twelve o'clock bus" actually leaves Bingley at eleven forty-two, arriving in East Morton at about ten to the hour. To my surprise Joyce was waiting there by the shelter, ready to give me a welcoming kiss.

'Very demonstrative,' I said, grinning at her. 'I thought we were being discreet.'

She grinned back at me. 'I got our invoices in yesterday's payment run. We're home free with no reason to keep sneaking around. In fact we're going for a drink together this very minute. Who cares if anyone sees us?'

'In there?' I said, nodding towards the village pub.

'Why not?' she replied.

I couldn't think of an answer to that . . . not without confessing the restaurant held unhappy memories for me, and Joyce knew that anyway. Assuring her I'd already had a snack, we linked arms, crossed the carpark and went inside.

Joyce must be quite a regular in there. She nodded hello to several people and, while I got us pints of Saltaire Blonde, she was drawn into conversation with a small group of male barflies.

'I don't believe you,' she said to one of them as I passed her a beer. 'What are you like! Tell Mikki what you've just told me.'

The guy seemed to be a bit drunk, even though it was barely noon. He had invented, he said, a radical new diet that involved the use of tapeworms . . .

What followed was perhaps the most revolting theory I've ever heard. But wasn't it funny! The guy was a natural raconteur and he had us all in stitches as one outrageous account moved on to another. I was genuinely reluctant when, three drinks later, I excused myself to go to the loo.

I saw the courting couple the second I exited the ladies'. Dave and a girl who just had to be Katrina. They must have arrived while I was peeing (even though I'd been in a hurry, I'd have noticed them if they'd been there before). And their wine glasses were full to the brim. Yep, they'd definitely only just arrived.

After a moment of indecision I decided to say hi. Dave had almost certainly spotted me and, despite our no contact agreement, it would have been childish to ignore her. And saying hi to her would get me a proper glimpse of Katrina. Sitting as she was, all I could see was the back of her head and a mass of long, jet-black hair.

'Hi, Dave,' I said, 'fancy seeing you here.'

Her eyes widened. She couldn't have spotted me after all. Still, I'd been immature too often that week; it was better safe than sorry.

'Hi, Mikki,' she said, flustered. 'What brings you up here, into the wilds?'

'I'm buying my boss a pint,' I said smoothly. 'Cementing my position as teacher's pet.'

Dave laughed at that, nerves making her think my comment was more than remotely witty. 'This is Kat,' she said as I pretended to be on my way.

'Mikela,' a husky, incredibly seductive voice said. 'I've heard so much about you.'

Taking the opportunity, I looked directly at her and nearly died.

Fuck me, I thought, it's Kim Kardashian!

(I'm not sure how I've been doing for expletives so far, but suspect I've used a fair few of 'em. Please accept my blanket apology, yet again.)

Somehow I managed not to gawp. On closer inspection Katrina was younger and even better-looking than Ms Kardashian. Hard to believe, I know. Joyce had described her as "stunningly beautiful", but she hadn't done her justice.

How can she travel the world looking like that? I wondered. How come gangs of sex-crazed men haven't . . .

'We're taking a break from flat-hunting,' Dave advised me, still looking flustered.

'Right,' I said. 'Well, good luck with it. I'd best get back in the other bar.'

Joyce had got us more beer and our group of fifty-somethings had taken comfort breaks of their own. 'Last ones,' she said to me. Then, frowning: 'Have you just been introduced to Kat, by any chance?'

'I certainly have.' I finished my third pint and took the top off my new one. 'Bloody hell, Joyce, you didn't prepare me for that. If I didn't hate her so much, I could fancy a go myself.'

*****

Our Saturday afternoon of sex began much as our Monday night had, minus all the indecision and gay bars. We took turns to face-sit. We mutually sixty-nined and we tribbed and tribbed and tribbed. Then, when I assumed we were due a timeout, Joyce favoured me with a smile.

'Have you ever used a magic wand, Mikki?'

I admitted I didn't even know what she was talking about. She promptly produced something large and white and plugged it in to the mains.

'This is for external use only,' she said, no doubt seeing me gape at the size and shape of the top end. 'It has a few different speeds. Why don't you lie back and let me show you how it works?'

It was fluttery tummy time again. I did as she suggested and gasped as she stroked her toy against my nipple. The vibrations galvanized me. They were right on my wavelength. I'm not sure about the physics of pulsating sex aids, only that "frequencies" and "resonance" have something to do with it. And I vaguely recall that soldiers can't march across bridges; they have to fall out of step, don't they? Otherwise everything magnifies itself beyond control.

Listen to me! My memories are making me meander!

Anyway, that vibrating wand certainly resonated with my body. And how very embarrassingly. One little stroke and I immediately climaxed.

'Omigod!' I cried.

'Relax,' said Joyce. 'We haven't even started yet. Lie back and let me pleasure you. And let your pussy do whatever it likes.'

So I tried. I tried while my skilled older lover did magical things to my tits. I tried while she did even more magical things to my nipples. Eventually, later rather than sooner, my treacherous body stopped cumming every two seconds and my enjoyment began to build and build.

(As an aside: in what I now think of as my "other life", I firmly believed that sex was best had alone. That sex with a partner was to be endured rather than relished. And that I was lucky as hell if a partner made me cum even once. Now, in my "new life", I believe that having sex with a partner just gets better and better. Note to me: I need to do some serious work on my self-control. I go off half-cocked far too easily.)

Meanwhile, back in the world of Saturday afternoon, Joyce started on my sex.

Omigod! Omigod! That was out of this world. That was stupendously good. That was . . .

OMIGOD!!

The fun and games went on forever. And I wanted them to go on forever. I didn't want them ever to stop.

OMIGOD!!

For long enough, it seemed I was going to get my wish. Then, after an exceptionally violent orgasm, when I was momentarily limp and breathless, she returned to my tits and upped the speed.

'Four more gears to go,' she crooned. 'And then I'll introduce you more intimately to my new Big Boy. Relax and enjoy.'

*****

By the time Joyce finished pleasuring me, inside and out, I wasn't just limp and breathless, I was a quivering wreck.

'Chinese?' she suggested brightly. 'We need to refuel. What do you fancy?'

'Anything,' I moaned, 'as long as it comes with Shiraz.'

'You open the wine while I nip down to The Happy Garden.' Joyce pulled on her jeans then, as an afterthought, generously sprayed deodorant inside her knickers. 'Won't be long.'

My legs had all the stability of a jellyfish. Bracing myself as best I could, I wobbled my way to the kitchen and randomly opened drawers until I found a corkscrew. Then I realized the bottle was screw-top and I didn't have the strength to undo it. I solved that one by gripping the cap between my teeth and rotating the bottle with both hands.

I was still on my first glass when Joyce returned, laden with brown carrier bags. She had, it transpired, bought mini portions of several dishes along with both boiled and fried rice.

'We'll split everything fifty-fifty,' she said.

'Like the lovemaking?' I asked, arching a cynical eyebrow.

'Today's my treat,' she replied breezily. 'You can have your turn tomorrow.'

*****

I did take my turn, too. By ten in the morning I'd nearly caught up. As for sleep . . . well, we had had some shuteye, just not a lot.

'We need to refuel,' Joyce announced, sounding a bit like an echo. 'Let's shower, then I'll do us a fry-up.'

(Warts and all warning! Depravation ahead!)

We masturbated in the shower. That is to say, I masturbated so she could observe. Then she diddled herself so I could observe. And then we did each other, talking ourselves through it, building up together and finally cumming as one.

Self-control? Well, it worked that time. It's the completely new adventures that completely catch me out. Perhaps, when I get to the stage when I've tried everything five times . . .

Joyce's hair is short and naturally spiky. Honest to God, her hair preparation consists of a rub of a bath towel and a quick run through with her fingers. Dressed in a flash, she set off for her frying pan, leaving me in bra and knickers, staring at my reflection in her mirror.

My hair is long, auburn and not in the least spiky. It takes some looking after. Seeing the ease with which Joyce made herself look good impressed me. I was half-tempted to get my head shaved and start over. Not that I ever would, of course. Not with so cool a natural colour.

Joyce's hair dryer must have come off the ark and only seemed to have one setting: EXTRA HOT. Treating it with the utmost respect, I managed to tease my tresses into some sort of order then climbed into my jeans and a fresh T-shirt.

Breakfasting with Joyce was fun. In fact my whole weekend had been fun. I didn't want it to end and told her so, staring into her eyes over our dirty dishes.

'I love you,' I added, sincerely.

'You shouldn't keep saying that.' Was Joyce's smile a little lopsided? And what had I blurted out before? This was the first time I'd told her . . . wasn't it? 'I like hearing you,' she went on, 'but I don't want to start believing you.'

'I like telling the truth,' I said obdurately. 'And I like you. So there.'

Now her smile really was lopsided. 'Stay another night,' she invited. 'I can run you home in the morning. I'll make toast and tea while you get ready for work.'

'Okay,' I said. 'But I still want to do it all again.'

'What about Dave?' she wondered. 'What if you decide to make a go of it?'

'I'm jealousy-free now, thanks to you.' I shrugged. 'There's no chance of us getting back until Katrina's moved out. And even then, I'm not going to be a soft touch.'

'My God,' Joyce chuckled, 'I've spawned a monster.' Then, abandoning smiles and grinning at me, 'Time for a few civilized beers?'

'In the pub, you mean?' I grinned back at her. 'Everybody will know I've overnighted with you.'

'And?'

'And nothing,' I said. 'They'd better get used to the idea, hadn't they?'

Joyce lived in the quaintly-named Dimples Lane (her house has to be worth a fortune; another note to me: Zoopla the neighbourhood!). It was quite steeply uphill to the pub but, even so, we were there in a matter of minutes.

Yesterday's small group of barflies had beaten us to it. They were stood in what I now saw to be "their corner" and their ringleader . . . Donald . . . beckoned us to join them.

'Joycie,' he cried, 'Mikki . . . what can I get you?'

I exchanged glances with "Joycie" and we both went for more Blonde. And then we settled down to listen to more of Donald's stories. Today, slightly less drunk than yesterday, he was recounting his adventures as a teenage football hooligan. Apparently he'd got arrested at a match "up north" and thrown into a holding cell.

'That wasn't a worry,' he said. 'The lads from our local all stuck a fiver each a week into our fighting fund. And there were a lot of us. The fund paid for trips to remote courts, fines and what have you. No, what worried me was the fact I was the only one from Leeds in a cell full of Sunderland fans.'