Losing it: Part I

Unlike most of the guys round our way, I was never in love with her. It's hard to explain why, but I just wasn't. She was very pretty, full of life, sexy as fuck, with almost 'sly' (my mum said she looked sly), dark, playful eyes; she made me laugh and obviously liked me... and I liked her too. As a separate issue, I wanked while thinking about her plenty of times... Not falling in love with her doesn't make sense at all, because I've often fallen in love with a pretty face that just smiled at me on a bus; so why didn't I fall for her, despite trying very hard, several times? I suppose Judith was, well, let's be honest straight away, just too fucking good for me so I never took her seriously as a prospective partner; though there were only three years between us, she was like a 'proper woman' and I was just a little boy. I might as well have fallen in love with Sophia Loren for all the good it would have done me.

She (Judith, not Sophia) lived about a hundred yards from me and I walked past her house loads of times on the way to my mate Steve's house. I'd see her virtually every day at the school bus stop - though we never got on the same one (there were different buses for different school years) - and also in her garden occasionally, sunbathing, playing her guitar. Despite her obvious femininity, she was a bit of a tomboy, and tagged onto our gang when I was about eleven or twelve, I suppose. There were four, later five of us in the gang, all boys (I was the youngest), and we, among other things (e.g. playing football, climbing trees, exploring the moors and woods around where we lived), played tennis at the local municipal courts a lot. She asked to join us one day and thrashed us all. It became her against us, a running battle, and eventually, after several months, she lost a match. One day, much later, I beat her too. I was so pleased with myself, feeling I had 'arrived'.

 

Over this time she changed; she grew into a young woman. She was always slender with well-toned muscles, had long, straight, dark hair, wide dark eyes, skin that easily tanned, and she was very athletic, very competitive and driven; her legs were long and her arse looked great in the tight shorts that she wore a lot. But her breasts now became her most admired feature: they were suddenly stunning - inordinately large for the rest of her frame. I loved the way her tits curved out then her waist curved in, then her hips curved out again... adored the long legs that eventually, incredibly reached the floor... the inviting gap between the top of her thighs which always filled me with wonder... She became almost a caricature of the perfect woman. When she ran for a short shot her succulent breasts bounced hypnotically and I found it hard to keep my eye on the ball when I played tennis against her.

 

I remember one of the older boys in the village sitting with us one day as we all lazed in the sun in the park across from her house during the long summer holidays. Out of the blue he suddenly said she wore a padded bra. I was quite embarrassed and sniggered with the rest of them, feeling guilty I wasn't brave enough to speak up and defend her. She didn't need support at all; well, except in the frilly material way we're talking about. She laughed and said:

'What? Course I don't,' and went quickly home over the road.

We didn’t know what was going on, and   looked at each other with puzzled faces till she returned with something behind her back. She thrust the white garment into his face, turning the cups inside out, like a magician asking the crowd to guess where something had vanished to. He said:

'Yeah, well, you stick tissue paper down it or something.'

She burst into a fit of giggles, the guy blushed. 'Girls don't do that, and anyway,' wiggling her chest, 'I don't need to,' she gushed, laughing at the idea of it, not at him.

She passed it round and I touched it and marveled at the feel of it, as if it was something from the moon; I thought how it had been next to those delightful orbs and soon would be again. I looked closely at her chest now and felt the material for warmth hoping she had just removed the one she'd been wearing to show us, but alas, she still had one on... Anyway, it was her bra in my hands; her underwear, her intimate clothing, and I had touched it with the same fingers with which I regularly touched my cock... That fuelled some boyhood night-time fantasies I can tell you (sad little git that I was), which produced easily enough semen to fill at least one C cup of that 16 year-old's bra; no, probably both, to overflowing.

 

That's as close as I'd got to a girl at that time. Not quite true: I kissed a girl at the school disco when I was 12. She was my girlfriend for a few weeks, though I didn't really fancy her; I said OK when her friend popped the question, just to see what it would be like. I never touched her, didn't realise I could, or that I ought to want to. Oddly - seeing that I wanked every night - I didn't feel the urge at all. It was a few years later that I realised there was much wanking material simply walking about through the streets or sitting on benches in sun-drenched pedestrian precincts and I suddenly would have loved to get my hands on them. Call me immature but, in my early teens, sex was an image in my head, in a magazine, or on a screen, not a real live girl. A female-physical-presence to size-of-erection correlation was not made until the back of my hand accidentally brushed the breast of an older girl at school. I was amazed by how soft it felt, not like a boy at all, like another species altogether. I could have drowned myself in the luxury of it; the pure sensuousness of that unintentional touch stays with me. It was the first cut in the golden key to a jewel-encrusted door that is still, to this day, slowly swinging further ajar.

 

Maybe a year after she joined our merry band, I caught one of the lads (the boy who made four into five) in a clinch with her while we were playing 'lost man in the dark' - a variation on hide and seek - in the building site where the old allotments had, until recently, been. 'Just checking out the architecture', he wittily said, and she giggled from the darkened alcove they were covertly sharing, the only sign that she was in there with him. I was shocked. I instantly felt the huge gulf in development between them and me. I also somehow felt humiliated and very stupid. Sadly, inevitably, things changed after that.

 

You can only watch two people eat a bag of Quavers by slowly sharing each one - nibbling down from the ends to the middle till their lips meet and they French kiss - for so long without feeling nauseous. Oh, and continually hearing how much condoms are and where he gets them from/how he disposed of them in his auntie's house after they'd obviously been shagging in there, didn't help either. Soon we all sort of drifted apart, their intimacy was the wedge that came between us all. I got more wrapped up with my school friends (I went to a grammar school in another town), the older guys started work, Judith soon started work too... we grew up and, sadly, grew apart.

 

In the summer holidays before Judith's first started her job, I arranged to play tennis with her at a club I'd just joined. I can't remember how it happened; maybe I bumped into her in the village and she asked me if I was still playing? Anyway, we both turned up on the day, played a set or two, despite the odd roll of thunder and very threatening skies. Then came the summer downpour the weather men had promised, the kind you just can't go outside in, and we ran dripping to the green wood and glass hut that served as a clubhouse. We were, effectively, cut off from the world for as long as the shower lasted. She stretched out on the old sofa and I sat in a wooden chair by the table, taking every opportunity to secretly scan her fabulous body. Her erect nipples showed through her wet top, a detail she made no attempt to hide, and droplets of water trickled across her golden thighs. She looked like a porn queen in the early stages of a photo shoot - the type when, after slowly and suggestively removing all her clothes, she lies back and parts her glistening shaved bits for all the world to see. So I was hard as hell, my tongue clumsy in my mouth, my head was light and spinning. Then, to add to my embarrassment (because 1970's shorts didn't hide much) she said a couple of suggestive things: 'You know I've always liked you,' and, '...if you were a couple of years older...' her eyes smouldered and she giggled an irrepressible giggle. A part of me believed her, a part thought she must be taking the piss - but I was still a skinny, awkward kid and just smiled my skinny, awkward smile.

 

She told me about her boyfriend and asked if I had a girlfriend yet. I said no. She said it was a waste, I ought to get a move on and that it's not such a big deal - a girl probably wouldn't want to go anywhere flash or expensive; a nice intimate walk through the park would do for starters. She said I should ask someone, someone I fancied... 'What is there to lose? Worst she can do is turn you down'. All too soon the rain stopped, we resumed our game. I somehow forget the score, but I probably lost - would Stan Smith have beaten Ilie Nastase at Wimbledon that year had he played with a 7" stonker in his sprayed-on shorts? We eventually walked home together and said goodbye at the top of our street - but I revisited that scene many times alone in my bed. She usually walks (I say 'walks' because, to be honest, I still run that old film even today) sexily over to me, index finger playing against her lips; she bids me stand, unzips and pulls down my shorts, and performs extraordinary oral feats on my very impressive cock.

 

Years later I mentioned that occasion to her, told her of my frustration, and she said that if I'd tried it on, we would probably have got it on (What? What??? Aaaaaghhhh! ...followed by uncontrollable, very sexy, giggling).Yes, I've wanked more times over that girl than anyone else on earth. And that's fucking loads of times because I've done lots and lots of wanking. I feel another one coming on too...

 

I walked up from the main road with her once soon afterwards, when my school bus and her bus from town coincided. She looked fabulous: good clothes; make-up (I'd never seen her wear it before); still slim, and her delicious tits seemed bigger than ever. She still spoke to me the same as she always had, but I now coughed and stammered my way home feeling totally out of my depth - I was still climbing trees and going to the youth centre whereas she had a new boyfriend/manfriend with a car and lots of money, and to me she oozed (though she was only eighteen or so) maturity and sophistication. The laugh was the same though - still conspiratorial, giggly, bubbly, very sexy - and I made her laugh a couple of times too which made me feel a little better.

'How's the old gang?' she asked. 'I really miss you lot and the things we did,' she smiled, as we parted at my house. And, do you know what? I had no doubt that, despite the trappings of her new life, she really meant it.

Continue reading Losing it: Part II

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