Things were different in those days. More innocent. I suppose that you would say that I was naïve. But there was no internet. A lot fewer television channels and we had people like Mary Whitehouse to make sure that what we did watch on the telly was clean and wholesome. Of course, there were ‘top shelf’ magazines in the newsagent’s shop but they were mostly bought by people passing through. No ‘local’ would be seen buying them! And the closest that schoolboys got to pornography was surreptitiously looking at the pictures of topless African women in the National Geographic magazines in the library.
I suppose that you could say that when I was 16 years old, I was a bit of a tomboy. I enjoyed the outdoors and one of my favourite possessions was my bike. I used to ride it far and wide. I usually went cycling with friends but, if no one else wanted to join me, I was quite happy to go cycling on my own. Of course, there was less traffic on the roads in those days and, in any case, I tended to stick mainly to quieter country roads and forest tracks. With my Bartholomew half-inch to the mile map, I had the freedom of the county!
So, one day, when I am cycling through an unfamiliar bit of forest, I stop at a junction of tracks to try and get my bearings.
I’m surprised to see what I take to be an old man sat beside a campfire, in a small clearing.
He sees me and asks, “Are you lost?” I hesitate, but it is a reasonable question, so I answer.
“I don’t think so,” I reply. “Just a bit confused. There’s lots of tracks and junctions. They all look pretty similar.”
I notice, set further back amongst the trees, a shelter of some sort.
“Do you live here?” I ask.
“Some of the time,” he replies.
I see, now, that he is perhaps not quite as old as I had imagined. It’s just that his clothes are a bit ragged and dirty. My curiosity is sparked.
“Do you not have a house? A proper home?”
“I used to have one of those …” he replies, with a hint of sadness. “But now I have freedom to go and do what I wish,” he adds.
“Don’t you have a wife?”
“Not any more …” again, there is a hint of sadness.
“So, you live here on your own? In this forest?”
“Yes,” he tells me. He seems happy to answer my questions.
“In there?” I ask, indicating the rudimentary shelter that I glimpsed through the trees.
“Yes,” he says, again. “It’s not as bad as it looks. “It’s really quite comfortable... Do you want to see it?” he asks, apparently as an afterthought.
I hesitate, again. I’m alone in the forest, maybe lost, certainly disoriented, talking to a strange man. Should I be cautious? Probably, but I’m also curious. Besides, he seems like a kindly sole. He probably gets lonely.
“Yes, please,” I reply. “If that’s okay.”
“This way,” he tells me, and I follow him towards the shelter.
Close-up, I see that his tiny home is made from fallen tree branches, with some sort of tarpaulin stretched over them, and camouflaged by more fallen branches and ferns.
He pulls back the tarpaulin that covers a low doorway and crawls inside. Then he turns back to me, holding the doorway open.
“You want to see inside, don’t you? Come in!”
I hesitate only momentarily, before my curiosity gets the better of me, then I crawl inside my new acquaintance’s den.
As soon as I am inside, he drops the tarpaulin and it is dark.
“Don’t worry, your eyes will soon adjust,” he says.
The floor is soft. It feels like a blanket maybe laid on top of ferns or straw.
I blink in the darkness, my vision slowly improving. I see him lying down, just a foot or so away from me. I’m still kneeling.
“Is this where you sleep?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Yes. Lie down. Feel how comfortable it is,” he tells me.
I do as instructed. We lie on our sides, facing each other.
“See. It’s not really that much of a hardship, is it?” he says.
“Just you? Alone?”
I see him smile. “Mostly…” he replies, still smiling. He looks me over, taking in my very short shorts and my vest-style top.
I shiver. It’s cooler in here than outside.
“How do you keep warm?”
“I’ve a sleeping-bag,” he replies. “Here, look,” he says, pulling the sleeping-bag out from behind him and showing it to me.
“It’s quite cosy,” he tells me. “You can try it, if you want. Just take off your shoes,” he offers.
I look at the sleeping bag and shrug. Why not?
I push off my shoes and he hands me the sleeping bag.
“What do you wear to bed?” he asks.
A bit surprised by the question, I answer, “My nightie. And panties.”
“I don’t have a nightie for you, but you can borrow a clean t-shirt. You don’t want to be getting in there in those things that you have been wearing all day, do you?”
“Oh, I suppose not,” I reply. It’s his sleeping bag. “But you’ll need to look away while I change,” I tell him.
“Fair do’s,” he says, as he rummages in a bag and pulls out a white t-shirt. At least it looks as if it is clean, as far as I can tell in the subdued lighting.
He passes me the t-shirt and rolls over onto his other side, so that he is looking away from me.
I remove my top and quickly put on the oversize t-shirt. Then I remove my shorts and my socks.
“Are you done? Can I turn around?” he asks.
I pull down the t-shirt so that it covers my panties, which it just does.
“Yes,” I say. He turns over and looks me up and down.
“That’s better,” he tells me. And then he takes another look.
“Are you still wearing your bra? You don’t go to bed in that, do you? That’s what you told me, before.”
“No, I don’t,” I admit.
“Well take it off, then!” he instructs me.
“Sorry,” I say and blush. This time he does not look away.
I struggle a little, but I manage to take off my white cotton bra from underneath the t-shirt. I put it aside.
He looks me over, again. My nipples press against the material of his t-shirt, which has ridden up, exposing the crotch of my white cotton panties.