by Limey Lady
But I needn’t have worried.
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ she said before launching herself at me.
*****
What can I say, eh? Me and beautiful women! I can’t pretend it works every time but I have been blessed with more luck than I deserve. Me, a plain girl who looks like one of Scooby’s sidekicks . . . and not the blatantly sexy one at that!
Being philosophical, I reckon my boyish looks have a universal appeal. Straight girls like boys, yeah? So do bisexual girls. And okay, so perhaps fellow lezzies can be a bit pickier, but a lot seem to prefer butch to femme . . .
Never mind the whys and wherefores. Lorna snogged me like her life depended on it and you can bet I snogged her right back. Don’t ask how long or how hot. She went way beyond one or two DJ’s discs, up to five or six . . . at least. As for hot . . .
Think volcanoes, baby; think a trip to the molten centre of the Earth. See where I’m coming from?
Finally, regretfully, we parted.
‘Steve will be back,’ she said, gasping for breath. ‘Steve will be back any minute and I don’t have your number. Give it to me right now, this second.’
I may be an IT nerd but I knew how that social convention worked. I recited my number even as I got my mobile out. Lorna entered it as I recited and dialled as soon as I’d finished.
‘Gotcha,’ she said, saving the details.
‘Me too you,’ I replied, doing likewise.
‘Ring me,’ she said, looking around, passing her urgency on, infecting me with it. ‘Ring me later, when we’re both in bed.’
‘Worry not,’ said my mouth, ‘I’m your gal.’
‘You bet you are.’ She laughed shortly. ‘I guess you’re out for drinks after here.’
‘It’s a distinct possibility,’ I admitted.
‘So am I, but I’ll declare an early night. How does one o’clock sound?’
‘It sounds good.’
‘Promise me you’ll be in bed.’
‘I promise.’
‘Promise . . . Oh crap; here’s Steve.’
Steve had two rugby cronies with him. He was grinning and slapping folk on the back as he came (no doubt inadvertently breaking bones and dislocating limbs as he did so).
‘Got it sorted,’ he said to Lorna. Then, beaming at me, ‘Hi Dave; you’re looking good.’
‘I wouldn’t receive at three if I were you,’ I replied. ‘I’d stay at three and receive at five.’
Steve’s face had been in the wars over his eighteen years. It had permanent lumps in it and his nose must have been broken three times, if not more. He was ruggedly attractive, though, even I could see that. At my words his manly brow creased into a scowl.
‘Have you been discussing our tactics?’ he asked Lorna.-
She laughed. ‘Do I look like someone who knows what “receive at three” means?’
He turned back to me. ‘Dave . . .’
‘Stick at three and take it at five,’ I said cheerily. ‘Bye . . .’
*****
Back at the dry bar I bought yet another can and wondered what to do next. It was barely half-nine and I was nowhere near pulling. And, of course, I now had Lorna to call at one.
I shivered at the prospect. Up until then I’d had very little phone sex . . . and that was what I hoped and expected to have with Lorna. Something along the lines of the late-night calls I’d had with Ellie on several occasions.
Talking about Ellie . . .
I cast around without spotting her and concluded she must have gone somewhere a bit more private, to give Fran his “Chrissie present”. It was my turn to scowl. I hadn’t been to bed with my favourite blonde bombshell since our housesitting adventure; our more recent sex had been regrettably dildo-free.
Crikey, could I have done with that dildo right then!
I forced Ellie (and her toy) out of my head and resumed brooding. One o’clock was ages away. And my inclination to do the rounds again was gone. It seemed like too much hard work and I had that call to come anyway. Why waste the effort? Why not go to The Old White Horse instead?
Leaving the party early and alone wasn’t a concept that fazed me. It was a Main Street pub in Bingley, not The Bucket of Blood in Tortuga. Okay, it was Friday night, but even so . . .
Then I had another “I saw her” moment.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Meryl was as close as we got to an outcast in our tight-knit sixth form community. In all honesty she didn’t do herself any favours. She was a bright enough student but had no social skills at all. In fact she went out of her way to be rude to folk (or so it seemed) and answered friendly approaches with grunts and monosyllables. If ever there was a born loner, it was her.
So why was I struck by the sight of her, you may ask. Well, for one thing it was the first time I’d seen her at any sort of party. And for another she looked . . . different.
Normally Meryl dressed in a similar way to me and kept her medium-length hair tied back in a severe ponytail. That night she’d pushed the boat well out. Her usual ragged-kneed jeans had been replaced by a brand-new pair in very dark blue. Her trainers had given way to black leather ankle boots and, instead of a sweatshirt, she was wearing what looked to be the waistcoat of a man’s three-piece suit.
I liked that waistcoat a lot. It was jet-black, the front unreflective material and the back something silky and shiny. Best of all it left her arms bare, exposing lots of hitherto unsuspected tattoos: a full sleeve on her upper left and a fair old smattering of ink on her upper right.
She’d ditched the ponytail too, letting her hair frame her face in a spiky sort of a way.
Spiky like her personality.
True to form Meryl was there alone. She was sitting on a double chair in a clutter of furniture that had been pushed aside to make room for dancing. I was as sure as I could be that nobody was supposed to be sitting where she was, but I was not at all surprised. The girl wasn’t just alone in a crowd; she’d gone and cast herself away on a desert island amid the crowd.
Please don’t assume I felt sorry for her. I did, but only a teeny-weeny bit. No, my primary feeling was one of intense lust. I hadn’t previously considered her sexually but just then, with her edgy black hair and mostly black wardrobe . . .
Not to mention those F-me boots!
And her blood-red lips were eminently kissable. Mmmm, yum, yum!
I saw her as a challenge too; I freely admit that. There she was, sexy, abrasive and unsociable. And there I was, unexpectedly drooling over her.
On that night for me to think was to act. Without rationally considering what I was doing, I clambered my way through the pushed-aside chairs and tables and said hi.
‘Hi,’ she replied, not sparing me a glance, continuing to stare out over the dance floor but not seeming to be watching anyone in particular.
‘Mind if I join you?’ I asked cheerily.
She grunted so I took a seat beside her, taking care to get as close as I could.
‘I’m glad to see you here,’ I went on, expecting another grunt in response.
Instead Meryl looked at me. ‘Am I next on your kiss list, or are you just taking the piss?’
‘It’s the kiss list,’ said my automatic mouth.
‘Come get it, then.’
Well, I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Thinking I would be the cool, super-experienced one, I leant in and . . .
Wow!!! Meryl blew me away. How good was she? How good and how exceptionally passionate? She had me instantly reeling. Then, after maybe thirty seconds, she eased off. I almost wept but there was no need. Rather than backing away she suddenly switched the intensity up by times ten.
Confession time: that change of gear was too much for me. I came instantaneously and had to hang on to her to keep myself upright.
Trust me: a lesser mortal would have swooned like a Jane Austen heroine.
And still she kissed me. I endured it like a good ‘un, feeling myself building and building. Then, when I
was closing in on cum number two, she abruptly stopped.
‘Happy Xmas,’ she said (pronouncing it Exe Mass), and abruptly turned back to the dancing.
It took me a while to steady myself and get some air back in my lungs. Eventually, having no intention of being summarily dismissed, I tried again.
‘You’re a heck of a good kisser, Meryl. Where did you learn to do that?’
Nothing in reply; not even a grunt.
‘No, I mean it,’ I persisted, ‘I could get accustomed to kisses from you.’
‘Are you still here?’ she said without looking my way.
‘You bet I am. I’m staying here until they kick us out.’
‘I’m not an easy leg-over,’ she announced, surprising me with her bluntness (although God Himself only knows why; “Bluntness” was her middle name).
‘Kiss me again and I will be,’ I countered. ‘I’ll be an easy leg-over, I mean. Kiss me like that and I’ll let you do anything you want.’
Meryl grunted.
Undeterred, I tried a new tack. ‘Are you going to Ralph’s eighteenth tomorrow?’
‘Not invited.’
Now I did feel sorry for her. I had invited everyone to my eighteenth and took it for granted everyone else did likewise. But Ralph evidently hadn’t. And maybe there was a reason Meryl was rarely seen out and about. Maybe she’d been blacklisted and I didn’t know it.
‘My invite is for “Dave and guest”,’ I said inventively. ‘Come as my date.’
That got her attention. Peering at me through her sharp, dark brown eyes she said, ‘Like I was your girlfriend for the night?’
‘Yeah. Exactly like that.’
‘Anything for the leg-over.’ Her laugh was bitter and abrupt.
‘Come on Meryl,’ I almost begged. ‘Give me a break. I’m asking you on a date because I want to get to know you. And yes, I’d like to have sex with you, but not at any price. I won’t even touch you unless you want me to. And you can do all the touching, if that’s what you prefer.’
She took a moment or two to absorb that.
‘You want to be my friend,’ she said at last. ‘And I get to decide how friendly we are.’
‘In a nutshell,’ I agreed.
She had another brief consider then came out with: ‘Say that’s a promise.’
‘It’s a promise.’
She nodded thoughtfully before saying, ‘Okay.’
‘Thank you,’ I gushed. Then, chancing my arm, ‘What about tonight? Can I buy you a drink on the way home?’
‘Have to be in by eleven. Sorry.’
‘Eleven o’clock on a night like tonight!’ I was shocked and couldn’t hide it.
‘I told Mum the party ends at ten thirty and I’d be in by eleven. If I’d said twelve she’d have been okay with it, but I didn’t. So it’s like a promise, see? I never break promises or try to change them at the last minute, so I can’t even ring and ask for an extension.’
That was far and away the longest speech I’d ever heard Meryl say. By her standards it was up there beside the Gettysburg Address.
(And yes, I know Abe only spoke for a couple of minutes.)
Well, you know me and how I tend to be with promises. I could dig that. ‘Let’s leave now,’ I said after checking the time. ‘You live in Poplar House, don’t you? We can grab a couple of drinks and be there for eleven, easy.’
‘Okay,’ she said again.
‘Come on then, let’s say our farewells and be off.’
‘I’ve none to say. I’ll see you outside.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
My farewells weren’t much more extensive than Meryl’s. One quick cast about the dance floor found Sara and Ray. By then the slow songs had started and it would have been an intrusion to part them. Ellie and Fran were scarcer still; I (probably correctly) guessed that Fran was getting something for the New Year as well as a Happy Christmas. And Jacqui and Roberta were seated with tongues quite clearly down each other’s throats.
Two more not to be parted, I wisely decided.
I was about to split when I spotted Lorna and Steve, sexy-dancing. Lorna had her head on Steve’s so-very broad shoulders but sensed me looking her way. She glanced up and raised a hand in a wave.
I raised my own hand and wiggled my fingers in goodbye sort of a way.
She responded by closing her fist and raising her middle finger . . . but not at all offensively. She was not giving me the finger; she was giving me a reminder.
I closed my fist and raised my middle finger in reply, signalling I hadn’t forgotten.
*****
I had assumed that by “outside” Meryl meant the cloakrooms. Consequently I had a moment of panic when she wasn’t where I’d expected. Grabbing my short leather jacket I hurried to the real outside . . . and drew in a big breath of relief.
Meryl was out there, wearing a black hooded cape contraption. On anyone else it would have seemed bizarre. On her it was ace. It even had a blood-red lining to go with her lips. She reminded me of those babes in Scottish Widows adverts and my self-lubrication was faster than fast.
Not that I was lusting over TV ads, you understand. Why should I do when I had a real-life babe within my grasp?
‘Permission to flatter,’ I said, ‘but how hot are you?’
‘Leg-over hot,’ she countered, surprising me yet again. ‘Shall we get under way?’
She obviously didn’t intend to take my hand so I took hers. When she flinched I squeezed and . . . one heart-stopping second later . . . she squeezed back.
It was a bit of a trek from the sixth form block down to the Keighley/Bradford road. Meryl seemed to be happy do it in silence but I’ve never done silences well myself.
‘So tell me,’ I said after perhaps fifty yards, ‘where do you go? When you’re out of a night, not getting home before midnight, I mean.’
‘Gigs,’ she replied, back in monosyllabic mode.
‘What sort of gigs?’
‘Rock.’
‘What sort of rock?’
For the first time Meryl smiled at me. And don’t ask me if she looked good for it. Put it this way, I could not contain that second cum any longer.
‘I love all rock,’ she said in blissful ignorance of the state of my knickers, ‘particularly glam and punk, hard and progressive.’
I had another look at her hair then I noted the eyeliner and finally twigged: ‘Joan Jett, circa 1980!’ I exclaimed.
‘Fuck that,’ she said, her language making me wince. ‘I saw her only last year, touring with Motorhead and Alice Cooper. Imagine that! Lemmy, Alice and Joan one after another!! I was masturbating for weeks afterwards.’ She laughed. ‘Lemmy and Alice even got the odd look-in.’