Remembering Thomasina

It's funny how some things stick in your mind.

I think it was probably 1983. Or maybe 1984. It was the week before one of the classic coastal yacht races. I had cracked a couple of ribs playing touch rugby. (Yeah, I know; touch rugby is not supposed to include full-on crash tackling; but these things happen.) And so my mate Ron was going to take my place as navigator and tactician on the good ship Penny Lane.

'Any possibility that I might be able to borrow your NC77?' he asked when he phoned. (The Tamaya NC77 was the bee's knees in hand-held nav calculators back in those pre-GPS days.)

'Yeah. Sure,' I told him. 'Do you want to come and pick it from my place? Or do you want to perhaps meet up at Delia's after work? Perhaps tomorrow night?'

Delia's was a pub. I can't remember what it's real name was. The Duke of Norfolk? The Duke of Northumberland? Something like that. But it was run by an Irish woman named Delia. And so that's what everyone called it: Delia's.

'Yeah,' Ron said. 'Why not? Delia's. About six. Maybe a little before. I'll buy you a pint.'

I got to the pub early and Ron, as was his wont, arrived late.

'Sorry. My bitch of a boss,' he said. 'Every time I try to get out of the door on time, she has some urgent question that needs an urgent answer. Except it usually doesn't. She just does it to piss me off. Bitch.' He looked at my empty glass. 'What is it?'

'Empty,' I told him. 'But you could replenish it with a pint of finest mild if you felt so inclined.'

Ron went and got a couple of beers and I handed over the NC77.

'What do I need to know?' Ron asked.

'There's an instruction book in the case,' I told him. (The NC77 came in its own red wooden case.) 'And while you can program in all the waypoints, I'd tend to just take it one leg at a time. Tell it where you are; tell it where you want to go next. It'll give you the heading and the distance. Simple really.'

He nodded. 'And the course?' he said, taking a much-folded mini-chart from his rucksack. 'Anything I should know?'

I quickly walked him through the possible traps and hazards, and some possible opportunities. 'And don't be tempted to cut the corner at Cain Point,' I told him. 'The bricks are the bricks and they're pretty obvious. Even at night. But there's also a sand bar.'

Ron took out a pen and scrawled:

Cain Point - sand bar

on the chart.

'That's Heron Point,' I told him. 'Cain Point is the next corner.'

'Yeah, I know,' he said. But I'm not sure that he did.

'Oh, and keep an eye on your heading when it gets dark. Jack's OK, but some of the lads have a tendency to sail by ear. They fall off the track going uphill, seduced by the sound of going faster. And, next thing you know, you're a couple of miles off course. Maybe more.'

'One for the road?' he said.

To be honest, I probably should have said no thanks. I had already drunk two pints and I was beginning to feel a bit ... well ... light-headed. I think it was the combination of the beer and the drugs that the doctor had given me for my ribs. 'Yeah. OK. Just one more,' I said. 'For some reason I have a bit of a thirst. Probably these drugs they gave me.'

Ron only drank about half of his second pint and then he said that he had to go. 'Wish me luck,' he said.

'Just make sure that you bring the NC77 back in one piece,' I told him.

For most of the time that Ron and I had been chatting, I had been aware of a girl - a woman - sitting just behind him, occasionally sipping on what seemed to be a half of lager. She was probably in her late twenties, early thirties, dressed in a stylish tan suit with a dark pink shirt. I could imagine her as a high-powered sales rep, or maybe someone in advertising or PR. There were several advertising and PR agencies around Lancaster Gate back in those days. She was sitting where she could keep one eye on the door, as though she was waiting for someone. When Ron left, the girl and I were suddenly looking directly at one another.

'I'm probably going to get a half,' I told her. 'Will you join me?'

She looked at me with a bit of a frown. And then she sort of looked around her as if to check that I wasn't talking to someone else.

'Lager?' I said.

She was still frowning. But then she nodded. 'Thank you,' she said.

I collected our empty glasses and went to the bar. Yes, something strange was happening. My feet were about half an inch off the ground. And, for the first time in several days, I was definitely feeling no pain.

'Tom,' I said when I went back with our drinks.

'Thomasina,' she said.

'No. I mean that's my name,' I said. 'Tom.'

'And mine is Thomasina.'

'Oh. Right,' I said. 'What's the chances of that, eh? Are you ... umm ... waiting for someone?'

'Waiting for someone?'

'You seemed to be watching the door.'

'Who knows?' she said. 'Probably not now. I think she must have got a better offer. And you?'

'Waiting for someone? No. That was it,' I said. 'That was Ron. The chap who just left. He just wanted to borrow my NC77.'

She nodded and smiled. '

Your

NC77? Oh? So you're a sailor?'

'Yeah. Well ... part-time,' I said. 'Whenever I get the opportunity. I was due to sail in the coastal race this weekend, but I've cracked a couple of ribs.'

'Ouch,' she said.

'Could have been worse.'

She smiled and nodded again.

For some reason, the longer we talked (it turned out that she was also into sailing), the better she looked. Or was it the more we drank, the better she looked? 'Knickers?' I said, somewhat to my own surprise.

'Knickers?'

'Yes.'

'Whose? Mine?'

'Yes. For some reason, I'm wondering what colour they are.'

Thomasina frowned. 'Gosh. You mean today?'

'Today,' I said.

Thomasina briefly glanced at the ceiling. And then she frowned again. 'Umm ... gosh. Sort of coffee-coloured - I think. Why? Is it important?'

'Umm ...?' Was it important? 'Not sure,' I said. 'Probably more a case of interesting rather than important.'

'We could check,' she said. And she looked around the bar before dragging her stool closer to mine and then, very discreetly, spreading her knees and inching up her skirt until her crotch was peeping out.

'Yeah. Coffee-coloured,' I said.

She readjusted her skirt. 'Feel better now?' she said.

'Better? I suppose so,' I said. 'I think the pills they gave me for my ribs are doing something to my head. It's quite nice though. I feel like I'm hovering just above the surface. Looking down on the world like a god from a distant place and another race.'

She smiled and nodded. 'It probably says somewhere on the bottle not to take the pills with alcohol,' she said. 'It normally does.'

'Probably,' I said. 'So ... what are your plans? You know ... if your friend isn't coming.'

'Not sure,' she said. 'Where do you live?'

'Notting Hill Gate,' I told her. And I vaguely pointed in what I hoped was a westerly direction.

She nodded. And then she said: 'I think my place is probably closer. In fact I know it is. It's just around the corner. Probably easier, don't you think?'

'Yeah. Probably,' I said. And that was it. Next thing I knew we had left the pub and we were walking back up towards Paddington Station. But we didn't go as far as Paddington Station. About halfway there, we turned right into a side street. And then right again. Or was it left? I can't really remember. We were talking at the time.

'This is me, just here,' she said, and she took out her keys and unlocked the front door of what would probably once have been a railway worker's cottage. I followed her inside and she locked the door behind us. 'Upstairs,' she said, leading the way.

I followed her up the stairs - which was a bit of a challenge when you're hovering an inch or so above the surface - and into a bedroom. I wish that I could say that my bedroom was ever as neat and tidy as hers was. It was like a hotel room just after the maid had left.

To be totally honest, I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen next. We had only just met. And I still felt as if I was floating - pleasantly floating, but floating nevertheless.

I waited for Thomasina to make the first move. She did. She removed her suit jacket and placed it carefully over the back of a chair. Then she removed her skirt and carefully placed that beside her jacket. And then she unbuckled my belt and lowered my zip. I think it was at that point that I suddenly wondered what the pills were doing to my cock. But it turned out that I needn't have worried. It was still working.

I placed my hand over her crotch and immediately felt the soft spring of bush under her knickers. Perfect. I slid my hand inside. Yes, perfect. Her mound was warm and damp, and her groove was warmer-than-warm and slippery. I gently pushed her back against the wardrobe door and then lowered her sort-of-coffee-coloured knickers. When her knickers reached the ground, she half stepped out of them, still wearing her red high-heeled shoes. Then she shuffled her feet and spread her legs slightly.

I kissed her neck and she half moaned, half giggled. For a minute or so, she worked my stiffening cock before placing the head at the entrance to her slippery tunnel. 'Ready?' she said.

'Ready,' I confirmed.

I pushed, and my cock slid into her like a hot knife into butter.

As fornicating goes, there was nothing very subtle about our little encounter. For perhaps eight or ten minutes, we just ... well ... did it. Thomasina was certainly a noisy fuck. Her initial moans gave way to a mixture of yelping and giggling with a full-on hallelujah chorus as she crested each of her two orgasms. Goodness knows what her neighbours must have thought.

Afterwards, we held each other, still in our standing position, with Thomasina backed up against the mirrored wardrobe door. 'Well ... that was fun,' she said.

'It was,' I said. 'Yes. Yes, it certainly was. But now I probably should be going. Before I fall over.'

Thomasina nodded, smiled, and reached inside the wardrobe for a bathrobe. 'I'll see you out,' she said.

At the front door, she kissed me lightly and told me once again that taking prescription medicines with alcohol probably wasn't such a great idea. But then she placed her hand on my crotch and said: 'But ... on the other hand ...'

At about six o'clock the following Wednesday I once again headed for Delia's. It was something of a long shot, but I thought that perhaps Wednesday might be Thomasina's 'pub night'. However, when I reached Delia's front door, there was a sign saying: Closed for Renovations. And the next time that I went to investigate Delia's, it wasn't even Delia's. It had morphed into a Thai restaurant.

Yeah. Thomasina with the sort-of-coffee-coloured knickers. Funny the things that you remember.