So long ago, but the memory remains strong. As it should, no one ever forgets their first sexual experience, whether it be with shame, disappointment or pure joy, it fixes itself into the memory bank. After many decades, I still classify that time as a mix of all three, with perhaps the addition of shock and surprise.
Summer, and I had a long break before starting university, where, I was informed, there were girls galore, all longing for their first sexual experience. So, my casual mate, Lenny Canning, affirmed. A few days earlier, he had told me how he'd had Betty Danton in the long grass in Byker Park.
"Everybody's had Betty Danton," I told him, knowing I shouldn’t have said anything.
"You haven't."
Lenny Canning, I should have known, would make the most of my ignorance, "You've never had it with any girl, have you?" Always rubbing it in about how "slow" I was.
Finding somebody like Betty Danton, a girl who was "easy", seemed beyond me.
This made Lenny Canning's added taunt, sadly true when he sneered, "I'll bet you don't even know that women have a moustache, a bush, down there."
That summer, I was also faced with the prospect of having our two bed-roomed flat to myself for the very first time. My parents had decided to take their first continental holiday, and my father had enthused, "Seven days on the Costa Brava. What could be better? Sun, sand and ssss-" He deliberately spun it out as my mother nudged him, "-ssangria!"
As they left my mother was full of warnings and advice, "Don't just live on fish and chips. I've left plenty of food in the fridge. And keep the place tidy. No wild parties."
"And no loose women," my father had laughed.
"Be careful who you open the door to," was my mother's final advice.
It all looked good. Late nights at the local pubs with some pals, late sleep-in mornings. Eating when I felt like it. Going to the cinema, keeping my eye open for a chance with the girl to help me lose my cherry before I reached university. Trouble was, I didn't know how. None of the girls I had tried to get "into the long grass" would have any of it.
Then came that morning. It was a Wednesday, and there was no sun. I was out of bed before ten, and, wearing thin summer pants with an unbuttoned shirt, I was down in the kitchen to make myself coffee and toast. I was trying to decide how to spend the day when there was a knock at the front door.
Not expecting anybody I went through into the front room and peered through the curtains. A figure with a long red and black shawl, that covered her head and reached down over the top half of her body, was standing there.
A gipsy. Of course, it was the fortnight of the summer fair, when several caravans and an assortment of stalls and rides were set up in the field just two streets away. At such times gipsies calling at the door were no surprise, as they did their rounds selling lucky white heather or clothes pegs.
My mother always used to say, "I'll give them short shrift. One once said she'd put a curse on me." She would laugh then and add, "That was the year you were born. Funny that."
I went to the door, a mug of coffee still in my hand, and ready to give this visitor "short shrift." But the moment I opened the door, the world turned around, my breath caught in my throat, my heart pounded inside my chest and the mug shook in my hand.
I had been expecting some old crone. In front of me, framed by the shawl was a young, bright face, with wide brown eyes that strayed from my own face and down the opening in my shirt. This was a face, with full moist lips, high cheekbones and such delicate skin, so stunning that it was as though I had never seen a woman before.
Her lips parted as she said in a voice that, to my befuddled mind made her words sound like a song, "Tell your fortune for half a crown?"
Her lips remained parted as the tip of her pink tongue licked lightly over them, and, filling my abject silence, she went on, "Tell your fortune for a cup of that delicious smelling coffee." And she sniffed her delicate little nose in the direction of the mug I was holding.
"Would you like one?" Was that my own shaky voice speaking from the stupor I was in?
Her face lit up as she asked, "Is that okay?" And that lighting up sent a warm surge into my chest.
I tore my eyes away to glance nervously up and down the street, which appeared to be deserted, but unable to think straight I immediately said, "Better come through to the kitchen."
"Are you sure?" she asked but immediately added, "Thanks," and stepped over the threshold.
No, I wasn't at all sure. A voice in my head screamed to know what the hell I was doing. My legs felt as though they belonged to somebody else, as I led the way to the kitchen. I waved vaguely at a chair while thinking, My mother will go nuts. A gipsy, loose in the house! But it was the only way I could keep that wondrous face in view, even though it had me all a-tremble.
I fumbled with a mug and the coffee preparation, and again her voice wafted around me, "You don't live here alone, do you?"
Somehow I managed to stammer where my parents were.
"I imagine it's lovely there. So hot. No sugar, thank you." She had seen me scoop into the bowl with the teaspoon. I turned towards her with the mug, and, wow, did my trembling increase. Her shawl had been had shrugged off over the back of the chair, and I was looking at nothing less than a pure dream image.
Her hair, cascading to her shoulders, was not black as I had expected but was a light sandy colour. A vivid red blouse seemed to emphasise subtle curves underneath, but with two buttons undone, I could see the flesh tones of the beginning of those curves. With the table in the way, I could only imagine a continued line of her trim figure.
"Don't you want to give it to me?"
Was I hearing right? "I beg your pardon?" I asked dumbly.
"The coffee," she said, a slight smile on her lovely lips.
God, I needed to collect myself. "Oh, sorry," I said, placing the mug in front of her. "I thought gipsies always had black hair."
"I was adopted by the Mantelas when I was a baby. My real parents were killed in a motor accident."
"I'm sorry."
She shrugged, "I never knew them. The Mantelas have been so good to me. It was good growing up with a travelling fair. They put me through university. This is good coffee,"
I had sat across the table from her, still slightly bewitched. "I'm glad you like it. University, you say?" I couldn't understand how she could be doing this door to door stuff. "How long ago?"
She grinned, "I'm still there now. Entering my final year at Edinburgh. Doing a relaxing fortnight stint with the show. My gipsy roots."
Grateful for her quick clarification of her situation, I reckoned that if her final year, she would be twenty-one. Three years older than me, but why did that matter? Managing to relax just a little, I told her I was starting at Loughborough in September. But that gap at the neckline of her blouse kept catching my eye.
I told her I was studying Mechanical Engineering with some sport. "Ah, yes," she said, and didn't her eyes glance down at my open shirt once more? "I thought you looked--quite athletic. I'm doing psychology, with French and Spanish."
Psychology? The way her brown eyes lingered on me, I wondered if she could read my mind. At that moment I was wondering what it would be like to kiss those full lips. But I grappled to hang on to my composure as I observed, "A lot to cram into a three-year course."
"It's a four-year course. I'll be an old woman of near twenty-five when I qualify." I voiced my puzzlement at her maths
"I didn't start until I was twenty," She looked away, far away it seemed, before adding, “A romantic entanglement that-" She shrugged and her eyes fixed on mine as she pushed her empty mug away, "Anyway, thanks for the coffee. If you give me your hand I'll do your fortune."
Uncertainly I held out my right hand and the moment the fingers of her right hand nestled underneath it, keeping my palm upwards, darts of electricity shot up my arm. Those fingers were so smooth so gentle, so alive, my breath quickened.
"Now just relax," she said, as she leaned forward to look down into my palm, before bringing her left hand to hover over it, and for the first time, I noticed her long, unpolished fingernails. The next instant one of those nails on her left-hand index finger was tracing a line up the centre of my palm, and what had been darts of electricity, became lasers that probed way beyond my arm and were felt deep down low in my belly where the twitch in my cock startled me.
Her voice lowered as she said, "I don't know your name." When I told her she went on, "Mark's a manly name. Call me Melita. It's from the Spanish. Ah, you have a very long lifeline. That's good."
Her nail changed direction slightly, and she whispered, "And you are going to be very successful, oh, yes, all very positive." Another movement and each trail of that fingernail sent a fresh surge through my body.
God, just her touch on the palm of my hand. What might it be like if--? I buried the thought and watched that face brighten and then darken. When she spoke again there was a surprised tone in her voice, "Strange I cannot find a trace for your romance line." Her eyes were wide as she looked up into my face, "Is there no girlfriend?"
When I admitted that there wasn't, she leaned forward to look more closely, before her fingernail seemed to be scratching at one section of my palm. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mark, am I reading this correctly? You've never experienced a woman's body?"
How had that probing fingernail revealed that worrying fact? Now there was an intensity in her eyes as they fixed on my face Those eyes were so deep, and I was sure my face must be so red. Hell, she had discovered my basic immaturity. All I could manage was a despairing shake of my head.
At this point, she gave a little tug on my hand and said, "This is uncomfortable across your wide table. It's too strained. Could you come around and sit alongside me?"
I could, but I was very aware and worried she would notice the pressure that had developed in my pants. Edging around the table, I saw that, below a trim waist this gipsy called Melita wore a wide summer skirt of mixed colours. As I took that in, I was pretty sure her eyes glanced down to where my pants had to be bulging.
Sitting so that my knees were almost touching hers, I kept my left hand across my lap in a vain attempt to disguise my lack of physical control. I was just wondering whether it would be sensible to end this whole business immediately to save me further embarrassment, when she gave a kindly smile, reached for my right hand, and that magical fingernail began to trace once more over my palm.
Again electronic spasms ran through my body. How, from such a small surface area, could this happen? But her face, that smile, even her voice seemed to have alerted my skin to receive messages that my wild imagination fed on.
"There's no doubt, Mark," her voice was low and haunting, "that your course is set for good fortune." Her eyes came up to hold mine and her brow furrowed as she said, "But no female experience, that is unacceptable for a handsome man like you."
Why should that bother her? I could only let out a stammering, "Y-y-es," as her hand pulled mine gently towards her.
"You have kissed girls and women, I hope?"
"Of course, " I said with a positivity I wasn't feeling.
"Touched a bare female breast?"
My God, what was she asking that for? Involuntarily my head shook and my whole arm trembled as she placed her right hand against her blouse front, bringing my fingers to rest on the smooth skin where the buttons were unfastened, and the subtle rise of her breasts began.
Had she made that move on purpose? I didn't dare let myself think that. Heat filled my face, and a less subtle rise was increasing in my pants, but her next question left little doubt about where this might be leading...
"Would you consider kissing me?"
Breath shuddered in my throat. Raw anxiety filled my mind. Was I supposed to act with confidence? Was she just teasing me, seeing how inept I was? Or had she just simply read my mind? Whichever it was, lying about it seemed pointless.
"That might be nice," I mumbled. God, how dumb did that sound?
"Then move closer," she whispered, leaning forward herself.
My fingers were trembling against the warm skin of her upper chest, and the moment our lips touched, her hand released mine for just a second, made some vague movement before returning to grip my wrist. As my mouth relished the sweet softness of her lips, they parted slightly, and her tongue probed, to set my whole mouth tingling.
Such warm, sweet moistness, but then the hand gripping my wrist dragged my heated fingers under her blouse to slide over the incredible smoothness of her left breast. She guided my fingers over a firm nipple, before releasing my hand, and some instinct beyond my own experience had my hand closing completely over that glorious globe. I was touching a real live breast!
My tongue, as though already trained, wrestled madly with hers as my mouth became an oven of pulsing heat. All incredibly sensuous apart from the discomfort of my imprisoned erection
Melita broke the kiss, and I had a moment of disappointment, but when she drew back her head I could see immediately that this break was only temporary. The expression on her face had completely changed.
From that fresh openness, her lustrous brown eyes were clouded as they looked at me, her lips were parted, and when she spoke her voice no longer tinkled. It had become so husky, it was almost a growl as she grunted, "You have a lovely touch. Finger my nipple, rub it. Oh, yes, just like that."
Crazily, I almost had a sense of power as I drew my fingers together on that hard little bud, and I watched her face appear to melt, eyes closed, mouth agape, brow furrowed and pink tongue fluttering at her upper lip.
Melita's knee pushed along my inner thigh as she leaned forward, the constriction of my eagerly swollen cock became a real pain. I could not recall ever having such an erection.
Her face came close to mine and I anticipated another kiss, but, with her eyelids lowered, her warm breath on my face, and the spicy scent of her storming into my head, she whispered huskily, "I like how I'm feeling with you, Mark. Would you like to learn more about a woman's body?"
Her words were so startling that despite what had happened up to this point, I could not let myself believe she would go further. One part of my brain was telling me to refuse, I wasn't ready for this.
I would be like a blind man in a garden of delights. She could end up laughing at my ineptitude. At the same time, a crazed imp in my head was screaming, "Not ready? With an erection like that? Go on, man, grasp this nettle, squeeze out the sting, make yourself ready for the promised joys of university."
My broken responses made me sound like a retard, "I don't—Can we-? It'll be-" Yet even while I was struggling with an answer, her left hand had trailed up my thigh, and was suddenly resting on my bulging pants. That touch had me jerking, and a gasping croak escaped my lips, so she was able to answer her own question.
"Oh, you would, wouldn't you?" A sensuous smile was lighting her, now, lust-filled face. "Is there anywhere a bit more comfortable?"
We both stood up, facing each other, and I immediately saw that she had, somehow unbuttoned all the buttons on her blouse, so it hung like a curtain tempting to be opened to reveal the already half visible twin mounds. My breathing had never been relaxed, now I felt I was gasping for air. Melita moved in close, saying, "You hesitate?"
Putting her arms around me, she ground her lower belly against my bulge. She was about six inches shorter than me, and her next instruction surprised me. "Bend your knees slightly." I did as I was told, and immediately knew what she was doing as my bulge pressed up between her parted thighs, and that sensation seemed magnified by the thinness of her skirt.
She ground against me and sighed, "That's only the beginning."
With the gap in my open shirt, against the gap in her blouse, I was getting, apart from the hint of what lay between her thighs, the sensation of how amazing skin against skin might be.
There could be little more resistance as my strained voice gasped, "My bedroom. My bed."
She released me and said, "Good. Lead the way." But as I half turned to move to my bedroom, she gripped my arm to hold me back. I looked again into the promise in those deep eyes and that unbuttoned blouse.
She almost whispered, "Mark, before we go ahead, I want you to know this is not normal for me. Near four years in university, and I have only had three brief, less than satisfying, liaisons. So, I'm probably in need of this as much as you are. Understand?"
I understood but at that moment, I wouldn't have cared if she was the biggest whore in the world. I nodded, turned away, pushed open my bedroom door and hurried to the window to draw the curtains.
Turning to face her, I felt my heartbeat increase like some mad thing. Between the kitchen and my bedroom she had slid out of the red blouse, and under her lasciviously smiling face, her two perfectly formed breasts pointed brown nipples directly at me.
Before I could absorb it all, in she had moved in close, whispering, "You are overdressed." Her two hands came up and with a flourish, she pushed my shirt off my shoulders. Then those exquisite breasts were pressed against my bare chest. How right I had been in anticipating the pleasure of skin against skin.
Our lips and tongues went into a repeat overture. Her hands roamed over my back, and I explored up and down hers, heaving at the circling of her belly against my bulge.
Then she broke the kiss to move her lips to nuzzle close to my ear as she murmured, "If you just let your hands push under the waistband, my skirt is elasticated. It should go down quite easily.”
The invitation alone was stimulating, so the action of stripping off her remaining clothing was a gift to add to my highly charged libido. In pushing under the waistband and down my open palms discovered the edge of her panties, and again she broke our kiss to hiss, "Yes, yes, take them too." It just got better and better.
Now my hands were basking over the glories of her rounded buttocks. I could have allowed them to play there forever, such silkiness, such curves, but she gave a little wriggle, as skirt and panties fell away to the floor.
Immediately, she took a couple of steps away from me, and struck such a sensuous pose, saying, "Like what you see?"
I drew in a deep breath. We had been strangers less than an hour ago and there she was completely naked, all subtle curves, as she swayed her hips in a teasing dance. From head to toe she was perfect, shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs, and that patch of hair, her "moustache", was not a triangle as I had read it could be. It was more of an oval shape and only a slightly darker tawny shade than the hair on her head.
The total image had my blood surging through my veins, bringing a pounding in my head, in my chest, and in my groin. God, if I couldn't perform with this kind of stimulus, I never would? Would I?
She swayed towards me, and I feared I was about to find out. "I think we should free that poor creature you have locked in there." Her hands reached for my belt buckle, and now my skin changed from heated to chilled. I had just viewed a willingly naked woman for the first time, and it had been thrilling. But another first was only seconds away, and it was terrifying me.
No woman had ever set eyes on my erect penis!
With alarming speed, Melita had my belt undone and my pants tumbling to the floor. I could see the playful smile on her face as she bent to pull down my boxer shorts. Oh, God, the touch of her hands on my bare hips, as the shorts snagged on an obvious obstruction.
A further push and boxers dropped away and my erect cock appeared to leap out right under her nose. My embarrassed gasp must have sounded like a duet with Melita's gasp of approval.
"Jesus, Mark, that is impressive." And as I stood transfixed, her hands wrapped around it, and she stooped to place her lips on the bulbous purple head of my so delicate throbbing cock.
Kissed and stroked! In just a few minutes I had fondled a bare breast, played with a nipple, and gazed at a totally naked delectable woman. Now this, as her fingers and lips lightly caressing my bulging tip.
It was all too much for my virgin cock. In despair, I knew what was going to happen. I cried out a warning as she moved her lips away, a dam burst deep inside me, and I groaned as the surge poured through my untrained cock. With a mixture of anguish and release, I looked down to see the first spurts shoot whitely up Melita's arm.
Swiftly she was reaching to where her blouse lay and from there, she produced a bundle of kitchen paper she must have collected on the way through. Now she clasped it over my spouting end. "Just as I thought," she murmured.
God, she had thought ahead. Had prepared for this debacle. I just wanted the ground to open under my feet. Even though Melita looked completely unperturbed, I had to groan, "Oh, I'm sorry, so sorry."
"Don't be," she said quietly as she wiped her arm. "How many women have stroked you there?"
"None."
"Exactly. And I'll wager ninety per cent of men have that first touch result, some just from anticipation." She cast the towel into my waste bin.
Unable to shake off the despair that had come over me since my ill-timed ejaculation, I mumbled, "But I won't be able to-“
Melita held up her hand to silence me, as she asked, "What was our reason for coming through to your bedroom?"
My mind was still in no controlled state to think that far back, "To do it?" I asked lamely.
Her smile was kindly, as she took my hands and drew me close, skin on skin, and my limp cock, thankfully, out of her view. "Well, that may yet be the outcome. But I asked if you wanted-"
As though, having her warm breast feathering against my chest, suddenly restored my memory, I butted in, "To learn about a woman's body."
"Exactly," she said, and, drawing away from me, she clambered up onto the bed as she added, "That tool of yours will be redundant, while you become my stimulus."
Saying that she lay back on the bed, her thighs slightly parted, and was that the beginning of a crack I could see amid the bush of hair down there? I stood there bemused by the luxury of this image spread open on my very own bed.
"Aren't you going to kiss me?" Melita asked, and climbing alongside her, I heard her add, "Everywhere?"
Confident as our lips came together and our tongues meshed, I was on recently familiar ground. My left arm lay behind her head while my right hand snuggled into the concavity of her waistline. It was great having her hands stroking up and down my back and over my buttocks.
Melita broke our mouth tingling kiss to whisper, "Stroke my shoulders, and down onto my breasts."