The year was 1993 and it was the best and worst of times. The best in that I was young, free and single. mortgages, commitment, financial uncertainty and the concept of ‘fitting in’ were like distant fictional concepts to me. Cheap booze, acid, badly rolled joints and unprotected sex were the reality. It was the worst of times in that faceless club-land dance anthems replete with jingly electric piano intros and moronic sampled vocals were the soundtrack to my every step. Worse still, culturally obsolete soccer casuals seemed intent on filling in anything in a leather, a band t-shirt and anything more than an inch of hair. Rock music was, at the time, un-cool and anyone who worshipped at its altar was an outsider looking in.
Not that I cared about that.
At the time I was a slim, six foot metal head with hair nearly down to my arse and a dress sense that to me, was awesome. Everyone else could go to hell.
My best mate was called D. Four years older than me and infinitely worldly wise he was already steeped in various shady, ill defined occupations, always cloaked in mystique and not wanting to seem the innocent, I rarely asked questions.
Often I wouldn’t see D for weeks at a time, but eventually, he would bounce back to his parent’s house, his pockets full of dope and his wallet full of money. An enigmatic smile and a cryptic story – that’s all you’d get. I admired him hugely. To me he seemed like a fully fledged man of mystery while I was on the bottom rung of life’s ladder, waiting to pack my bags and head to university. With no idea what my future would be like, I was more boy than man, full of hormones, bad ideas and not much else.
D had been back in the village for a month. This length of stay was almost unheard of and, as was becoming standard for both Friday and Saturday night, D we drunk a couple of bottles of Concorde each before thinking about leaving the house. It was the strawberry kind. Maybe peach. Rancid, whichever it was.
On this particular weekend, D’s parents had vacated their comfy, three bed bungalow for the night with the odd idea that he might not use the interlude to get tanked up, run around in their car and invite various ‘ner do wells into their lovely home.
Obviously, they were wrong and come half eight we were drunk , speeding up the road to the nearest large town, listening to White Zombie with as much volume as the crappy set of speakers in D’s mum’s Vauxhall Nova could stand.
Our destination on this night was called Ellin. Though as often as not, we’d give the place a body swerve. The country was our turf and usually a massive carry-out and lurking in the darkness among our accumulated acquaintances was as good as any nightclub that we had access to. But on this occasion there was a mission: D had netted himself a new lady friend. So far, no one I knew had clapped eyes on her. There was a whiff of intruigue.
This lady hailed from one of the other backwater villages in the district. Perhaps it was a place called Kelith. It was a long time ago and my memory isn’t what it was. Whatever the case, she may as well have been from another country. But, I was interested. D was a charming dude of easy good looks and an athletic physique. The girls he netted were usually worth meeting in one way or another.
Destination: crap nightclub land. I am talking cheap painted woodwork and plastic signs with lame titles like ‘Club Zone’ and ‘Bar FM’ - fake American attitude and British self-deprecation mixed. The shadow of the 1980’s was still looming behind us like something cannibalistic... with scabies.
While the choice of hole was not great in Ellin we selected somewhere that may or may not have been called ‘The Venue’. Inside, it was all red paint, plastic pint pots and offensively loud dance music with an aura of stale lager, dry ice and cheap perfume. This joint was known to be slightly more hospitable to bikers and metalheads. That’s why we chose it.
Inside there were manifold punters nestled in the booths and ramming the dance floor. A quick scan revealed no one that I knew. But, I’m a solitary guy much of the time and so that didn’t faze me. On the other hand, D was a well connected gent, comfy in any company, so, presently he just had to circulate. To go look for his new missus, I guessed was the bottom line. He left me alone and three quarters of a pint into drinking crap lager my bladder signalled it was time to hit the toilets.
In the pungent sauna adjacent to the bogs, a handful of well oiled blokes and one obnoxiously drunk, obnoxiously loud girl spilled out of a cubicle and bounced hard against the wall.
I observed in a detached fashion - my usual approach. But I bet you can see where this is going can’t you? Well, read on, it’s true with only the haze of the past eighteen odd years to dim it.
The female who had hit the wall – she was a big girl. Not fat. Just big, you know what I mean? Curvy, in all the right places, healthy-looking, like an Amazon, full of life (and alcohol) and showing an acre of pale white flesh beneath the hem of a pleated black miniskirt. She had a huge dark mane of hair teased down beneath shoulder length, dragging the onlooker’s eye towards an expanse of proudly displayed cleavage. Betwixt those two gorgeous tits sat a little gold crucifix. She kind of looked like some mad gypsy chick. Perhaps she was. I never found out.
As I watched she wrestled with the three blokes, trying to grab a bottle of Bud from one, as they reciprocated by helping themselves to rough handfuls of her tits, hands prying under the little skirt, something that didn’t seem to bother her. Confidence did not seem to be an issue for her. Boundaries on the other hand, seemed to be another matter.
Once she had got control of the bottle and had it provocatively in her lips, chugging the beer down, I watched as she allowed one of the blokes to slide his hand between her thighs. The way she inclined her hips told me he had a finger inside her.
If I’m honest, I only stopped staring because I looked up from the line of her waist to note that this crazy gyppo chick was staring right at me with a blue-grey eyed air of haughtiness. She pushed two of the hopefuls off her as if my prying eyes were somehow their fault, wrapped her arm round the waist of the third and brushed past me.
I made light. Nodded politely and took a stiff walk to the bogs.
Once I’d taken care of business and picked my way back at the booth, D had returned and, yes, guess what? The erstwhile gypsy slut was my good friend’s new squeeze. When you are a teenager, trouble has a tendency to follow you around like a shadow, I've noticed.
"This is Heather," he told me earnestly, a little less cool than his usual style. She nodded at me and snootily brushed aside a stray lock of that black mane, well aware of who I was. I liked her name. It seemed to befit the idiom she had already taken on in my eyes. D too, seemed smitten. Unfortunately, if he imagined any kind of normal relationship with her, I feared he could be heading for a fall. First impressions indicated that she wasn’t the type. So, I settled in, drunk rubbish, flat lager and tried not to gaze too longingly at the wild, untamed thing perched on the seat next to me.
The plot thickened. Every time D left the table for some reason or other, I could feel her eyes boring into me, sizing me up. When I dared to look and she’d be regarding me with a confrontational air.
Then the questions started. They began innocuous enough: Did I like her perfume? Why was the music in this place always so crap? But it ramped up steadily. Did I want to try her drink? What did I think of the girls in here? Then her hand was on my thigh, eyeing me with that sullen, provocative glare that some girls can carry off. It only happened when D was absent from the table and it was getting progressively more pointed.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the bombshell hit: Did I think her knickers were sexy? She said it next to my ear, quietly and over the noise of the DJ, the punters, everything else, I heard her perfectly. Then, without humility, she parted her thighs and briefly flashed the gusset of some unknown, lustrous and silvery material that clung so tightly to her vagina so as to leave nothing to the imagination.
That image still possesses the power to arouse me to this day and as I found myself wondering about intimate bodily functions like, what her pussy smelled like. I looked up to find her scrutinising me as if she was reading my mind and loving every minute of it. I just smiled politely and ran an awkward hand round the back of my slightly sweaty neck.
Now, obviously this girl didn't really want me. Even at this early stage it was blindingly obvious that entertainment for her would be to play D and me off against each other. I was torn and so n ot long afterwards, unable to bear it, I pushed down my recurrent hardon and escaped to the dance floor to check out the rest of the talent.
Before long I returned to our table empty handed, but to my delight things had taken a step in the correct direction. D and Heather had been joined by a skinny, peroxide blonde who I had noticed earlier, sucking face with some biker in a booth. She had stuck in my mind principally because she was wearing the cheapest, sleaziest pink lycra leggings I had ever seen coupled with a totally inappropriate pair of white heels. She looked a right state.
I was interested.
"I’m Laura," she yelled next to me ear and gave me a funny, squint, but none the less appealing smile.
She wasn’t strikingly attractive like Heather and a shade too thin for my tastes. But like most young, single guys, I was flattered that a girl seemed to be taking an interest in me. She had long blonde hair and I noticed a little tattoo, amateurishly done, of a rose just beneath the level of her breast bone.
That was plenty good enough for me.
Half one in the morning rolled around and I watched, without needing the skills of a lip reader as Heather agreed to come back to D’s place. She tugged a fistful of his hair and bit at his lower lip, taking on a somewhat vampyric aspect.
Keen to seal the deal on company for myself, I found myself lost for moves, too busy obsessing over Heather. In the absence of a slicker plan I just pulled Laura closer, snogged her some more and hoped that they came as a package.
Bingo.
We poured the girls down the stairs into the alley then spilled out onto the black and rain lashed street, across the centre of town, down another alley and back to where the Nova was parked. All the while we had to, dissuade the ladies from shouting abuse at various passersby and tug them away from even worse distractions (other horny males).
Back in the car, music: loud. Girls: demanding more velocity and recklessness than I, personally found necessary. Heather produced a paper wrap of speed to ease any worried minds present.
It was a party.
Ten miles away, up a long winding country road, through two villages and a spread of farmland laid the rural peace of D’s parent’s joint. Said long winding country road proved problematic as no sooner were we outside the industrial belt and into the green, Heather demanded D stop so she could relieve herself. Laura chimed in that she too could not wait any longer and unless we wanted a mess in the back of the car we had to stop immediately. Although, I don’t recall they put it in such ladylike terms.
Obliging as gentlemen should, we pulled up at the side of the road and virtually fell out onto a grassy verge on the edge of a dense wooded area. The rain had kindly stopped and it was dark. No other car headlights on the road. All quiet.
"You can go in the bushes there," I point out helpfully, lighting a cigarette and tossing one at D, trying to look cool.
"Fuck that," Heather laughed at my primness, popping the bubble, "it’s creepy in there, I’m going right here. Turn your backs boys," she ordered, "no looking, or else..."
D caught my eye and winked like a naughty schoolboy as we turned our backs. Presently there came the unmistakable sound effects of a couple of people relieving themselves outdoors. D waited a laughably short time before he chanced his arm. He pivoted towards the girls, sneaking a peek.
Both of them squealed and cussed their disapproval.
"Look," he appeased "is it wrong that this is giving me a monster hardon?" with that announcement he began unzipping his stiffening cock, showing it to them as if to validate his point.
"Yes!" Laura exclaimed, laughing, "fucking perv!"
"It’s a good looking cock though, dirty fucker" came Heather’s voice, making no more of any further objections she had.
I looked as well, too high to care, curious to see what had got him the thumbs up. D’s meat and two was thick and longer than mine and I clearly saw Laura raise her eyebrows in sudden interest at the spectacle.
"Come on girls, let us watch?" he coaxed, half kidding, but maintaining that line of plausible deniability – What? No! I was kidding, I don’t get off on watching girls taking a leak!
Heather mimicked exasperation, "alright, come here little boy..." and in an impressively businesslike display of multi tasking slipped his rapidly elongating shaft into her mouth while squatting beside the car, still mid stream.
"Come here, mate!"
It occurred to me as she hailed me that Laura probably wasn’t entirely sure of my name.
"I won’t get piss on you," she assured as I felt fingers in my belt loops, pulling me towards her.
"That would be appreciated," I said for some strange reason.
With both of our companions busy with their mouths full I was able to get a proper look at the sordid scene as they squatted, knickers round their knees, shamelessly splashing the grass next to the car.
It would be inaccurate to pretend it wasn’t seriously getting me off. Never had I seen such a thing in the flesh. I pressed my own length to Laura’s open, eager mouth. The whole thing felt so wrong, but definitely very, very right!
As I stood there resting a hand on the back of her gently bobbing head I began to turn my dirty young mind back to Heather. I knew I was out of line copping a good look at my buddy getting head but I couldn't have cared less.
Gypsy Heather was making a real meal of D, his cock glistening wet in the moonlight coupled with the glow from the car’s interior lights, obscene strings of spit dripping from the underside of his shaft. It was all very intoxicating and with my jean now hauled down over my haunches and Laura's middle finger questing for my arse hole, it was moving me towards a place where there were few options left but to ejaculate – probably massively in her mouth.
But it was not to be. Abruptly, the girls finished their alluring business and binned the BJs at the same time.
Heather announced brashly "let’s get back to your place. I want drink."
As we mounted up D dropped a bomb on me: "Your turn to drive, man," he said as crazy gypsy girl hung off his shoulder, whispering sweet nothings to him, smiling conspiratorially at me.
"Oh shit D, I’m way too far gone. We get stopped, that’s it – my life is over."
"We won’t get stopped on the back roads, pussy boy!"
He was already being bundled in to the back seat by his girl.
No sooner did I fire up the Nova and hit the road, my eyes wide, scared shitless of going off the road or worse, coming face to face with a police car, it became immediately apparent why I was required to drive. Heather was now leaning over the two front seats, but her rear end remained in the back seat straddling D’s lap. She was being fucked very, very hard; moaning, swearing and tossing her hair, as if oblivious to the fact that Laura and I were just inches from her.
She absolutely loved attention. That much was clear.
As I drove, I suffered from a raging, uncomfortably hard erection, as I tried to think about the road while all I had in my mind’s eye was tight, shiny panties clinging moistly to that sweet opening between Heather’s legs and how much I’d like to be the bloke balls deep in her, making her buck and run her obscene mouth as I grabbed at her, squeezed her flesh, scratched and bit her until she ended up with every drop of cum I had tricking down her inner thighs. I imagined her voice asking me to smell her cunt, imagined her grabbing my hair and thrusting it between her legs, squatting over my face like she had at the side of the road and smearing her pussy and arse all over my face.
But I suppressed my lust for Heather. Back then, I was a shallow boy and I didn’t want to say or do anything that might jeopardise my chance of getting my leg over Laura when we got back to D’s place.
Heather’s hair brushed my face as her buttocks slapped wetly against my mate’s lap, over and over again. I said nothing even when things deteriorated further and I became convinced that one of her huge, milky-looking tits had popped and was right now quivering obscenely, just next to my elbow. The triumvirate of scents – cigarette smoke, hairspray and sex - such happy bedfellows, filled the car and Laura giggled a bit as the little hot cabin of the car began to smell more and more like a mobile brothel.
For second prize, I decided, I wanted Laura’s face in my lap. I wanted her to finish what she started. But she resolutely didn’t.
I thought about Laura sucking my balls, milking them with her lips as I masturbated, until finally, I creamed all over her face, splattering her unkempt blonde hair, ruining her makeup job. Then I’d smear it all over her face with my cock, periodically dipping it into her mouth until she’d basically lapped up the whole load. That was what I wanted at that moment. If it was Heather, I told myself, I’d spunk inside her. If it was Laura, I’d like to see her lick it up. It’s funny the paths of logic that drink and drugs lead you down.
It was a long drive and Bon Scott screamed ‘Highway to hell’ as Heather bounced moistly to the beat.
Somehow I survived and got us home intact with the blood in my body now channelled solely into my cock. I levered myself out of the car, wrapped a protective arm round Laura, showed her inside and cracked open the fridge while D and Heather fucked around drunkenly.
Now, a respectful note to the reader regarding group sex: Two guys getting sucked off simultaneously by the side of a quiet road is one thing. Quite another, to a young, relatively inexperienced guy of seventeen is the concept of a fully lit foursome involving a close friend of the same sex. Let’s not forget, this guy was virtually an icon to me and I didn’t want to make a wrong move, or worse still appear to be less cool than he thought I was.
So, no sooner were we in the door and back onto the cheap wine and pot then I started trying to cut Laura away to the spare bedroom. But she was so focussed on drinking and chatting with her mate that I began to fear a fall at the last hurdle. After all, there is a thin line between fucked up and looking for sex and just plain fucked up and looking for bed. Attracting her attention by skinning a fresh joint, I got her on the couch and prepared to broach the subject.
"Fancy going next door after this?" was my fantastic choice of words.
To outline the point, I nodded in the direction of D and Heather who, after having ingested more booze were starting to get their hands on each other again on the opposing sofa.
"It’s okay here, ain’t it?" she smiled a quirky lopsided grin at me and stuck her tongue in my mouth by way of encouragement, "don’t want to be antisocial," she said.
I had dreaded that outcome, but tried to roll with the punches.
