Got back into bed in the wee small hours (5.30am) to find that Himself and Madam had either mysteriously moved during my brief absence or I realised I had had my portion of the bed reduced to less than a third for hours. Then Madam started licking herself loudly (perhaps I am just jealous) and so I got up and left them to it. It is odd how the mind works, as I got back into bed I had a memory flash through my mind, a night 30+ years ago in Great Yarmouth. What......! Not exactly a salubrious or exciting holiday spot that would attract the idol rich of the world but it was nonetheless an incident that was an important part of my sexual history.
I have searched for the holiday park and it is still there -
Caister of course. The memory that flashed was the night I spent leaning up against a sofa or sofa bed in the living room, that had a drunken boy sleeping upon it with little or no room for me to sleep on their either and so I dared not wake him, move from my station or barely breath least the bubble burst? When he finally woke up he asked why I hadn't climbed up next to him but I just couldn't. It was a typical, tired two-bedroom Hi-De-Hi chalet that I shared with a close friend and her older sister - it was my first holiday away from mum & dad and it involved boys and so we pretended to be grown ups for a week. We all snagged a boy to play with, I presume relatively early on, and the sister had her room so mate and I had to share a twin room and we probably pushed the beds together and had privacy with said boy alternate nights. I have a vague idea my blond bombshell was called Terry (how 1980's...) but I am not 100% sure. My strongest memory of T was meeting in that
kid's playground his mate trying to chat me up and when eventually I got rid of him in favour of the cool Mr T, when we had our moment of first (and only hot) interaction, my knees went weak. I actually do not recall that happening before or since. I thought about him a lot after that holiday - off and on for a couple of years, particularly as my mate went on to marry the guy I didn't fancy. My lovely friend never took any pleasure in that turn of events MUCH not surprisingly within a fairly tumultuous year we were no longer friends.
The [temporary] boy[friend] was gorgeous and ticked all my young girl aesthetic boxes. However he clearly had a girlfriend back in the grim arse-end of whatever inner or outer suburb of London he came from - although the girlfriend was never admitted to and said rejected mate took great delight in telling me about a month later that it was just 'a holiday thing'. I don't recall any finessed counselling techniques - and he said it in front of my mates' assembled family whilst we had 'tea' of spam fritters & chips. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Ah memories.
Despite the smile the weak knees bring to my lips, the vague memory of our turn in the twin bedroom was, well not worth remembering - such potential, no talent of any description. Still it got me back on the horse and I went home with a yearning heart and a trip to the A&E with alcoholic poisoning which resulted in curing me of my vodka and Britvic orange habit forever.
