For Yvonne, not her real name.
6
th
August 1967.
There was a time when the only way to get a drink on a Sunday was to be a member of a private club, so everybody, including me, joined some private club or other!
We were a very mixed bag of all age groups and social backgrounds, but with a varying degree of interest in older cars. So it was that on a Sunday evening we would gather at the club to chat about our dream car, and drink improbable amounts of gin. The breathalyser was years in the future and this was simply the accepted culture of the day.
I had just left the closeted environment of a boys boarding school and, at nineteen, very much still a virgin. A virgin with a desire to leave that unenviable state, but with no obvious route in sight.
As you can imagine, most members were men and after chatting about the virtues of downdraught carburettors for a while, my attention was drawn to a middle aged lady, perched on a bar stool at the end of the bar.
She was probably in her early forties, so definitely not in my sights for a romantic liaison, but probably capable of more interesting conversation than downdraught carburettors.
She sat demurely, legs crossed as she perched high on her stool, showing a bit of thigh and sipping her gin. She had short dark hair, and a large pair of circular gold framed glasses.
I thought I could find a topic of conversation to interest us both, and so it turned out. We chatted amiably for a while about this and that, before I had to excuse myself for the loo. At which point she put her hand conspiratorially on top of mine and said.
"Don't get lost."
At the loo I took up the position and was swiftly joined by Bill in the next stand.
"Careful with Yvonne, lad. She's something of a man eater." I, of course, had no idea what to make of this statement as a nineteen year old virgin.
I returned for some more chat with Yvonne and we got on very well, even discussing some topics that I considered rather risqué for a nineteen year old to be discussing with a mature woman, but such is the power if gin. I have to confess I really enjoyed her company, and our conversation, so it was a bit of a disappointment when she announced she was leaving and got up to go.
"You've been very sweet," she said, "and I've enjoyed chatting to you."
She took about five rather unsteady steps, turned round and came back.
"Opps," she said, "I think I may have had one too many gins." And let the words hang, then added,
"I think I'd better not drive just yet." Again she let the words hang.
"Maybe I should have a coffee and see how I feel."
Her ploy worked and I heard my mouth say, "Whereabouts do you actually live?"
"Oh, only about ten minutes away. You're not thinking of being Sir Galahad and running me home, are you? How gallant! Well thank you sir! That's very kind, how could I refuse a knight in shining armour."
I, of course, had said no such thing, but what could I do faced with a much more experienced, worldly wise, mature woman. I certainly didn't want to appear rude.
We headed to my car, and even though I noticed that her walking was suddenly a lot more steady, she hooked her arm in mine and said, "This really is very good of you. I'm very grateful."
I was very naïve and still did not realise that I was falling into a trap as we settled into the car and started off. If I had realised would it have made any difference? I'll never know.
Our conversation continued along even more risqué lines and I felt her right hand on my thigh. It was warm. It was unexpected. It was delightful!
"Oh," she said, giving my thigh a gentle rub, "whatever must you think of me, a middle aged woman with her hand on a young man's thigh."
Naïve and polite to the last, I replied.
"No it's fine. Quite nice actually." And she gave it another rub. Was this rub just a little higher up? I thought so, and as I felt my young cock stir it certainly thought so too, but in spite of the slight tumescence, I still had no idea what was going on, even when she took my left hand and placed it on her thigh.
