Type of Short Story: Short Story
Liverpool, England 1960s
“Are you sure we can’t be seen from the path?” Pam whispered, snagging her gymslip on a bush as she peered into the gloomy clearing.
“’Course not. I’ve staked it out. It’s quite private.” Colin assured her, settling on a grassy patch.
Pam, unsure of the next move, inspected the damage to her clothing,
“Sit down,” invited Colin. “We can use our satchels as pillows.”
Pam sat mutely beside him, knees tucked under her chin and encircled with her arms. In the expectant silence the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees. It was eerily quiet until Pam sighed and turned resignedly to Colin. “Well, what happens now? It’s up to you to start.” She flicked her long dark hair in an effort to look sexy.
He gripped her shoulders and pulled her lustily towards him.
“Hang on,” she said, pushing him away.
“Aren’t you going to get rid of that chewing-gum first?”
“Sorry.” He spat out the offending gum and tried again. “Come on, lie down. It’s more comfy.”
Pam lay back and clasped her hands behind her head, a move she’d practised to better reveal the outline of her budding breasts. Colin gently brushed her lips with his. She sprang upright as if stung.
“What’s wrong now?”
“This grass is damp. I can feel it right through my knickers.”
“Here, lie on my blazer.” He hastily placed it under her bottom.
He tried nibbling her ear. He wasn’t sure whether he should be licking, nibbling, or kissing it. Even after re-watching a movie he still hadn’t been able to make out the exact technique.
Pam lay unresponsive, her eyes closed. He was about to attempt a love bite when she unexpectedly turned her head and gave him a rather painful bang on the nose.
“What homework have you got?” she demanded.
Colin rubbed his nose in a violent effort to stop his eyes watering. “Just maths. Why?”
She giggled. “Funny they never give us homework when it’s sex education.”
“Perhaps they’ll give us a ‘do-it-yourself’ manual when we leave school,” Colin said, grinning. Furtively unbuttoning her blouse he gradually slid his hand inside, hardly daring to breathe lest Pam should object. His mouth was drying up, partly from excitement, but mostly because he was afraid to breathe through his nose in case it made him sniff.
“Colin, do you love me?”
“Course I do.”
“Do my geography homework.”
“Geography? You know I hate geography!”
“There. I knew you didn’t love me,” she said, removing his hand and sitting up.
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” panted Colin, whose hand had almost reached her bra. Satisfied, she lay back and allowed Colin to slip his hand inside her blouse again. She began to wriggle and heave her buttocks. Colin couldn’t believe his luck. “Are you enjoying it?” he whispered, pressing eagerly against her.
“Enjoying what?” she asked scornfully. “Something’s biting me bum.”
Colin, somewhat deflated, hunted fruitlessly for the offending insect. “Must have been a piece of grass. Lie down again,” he pleaded.
She glanced at him quizzically. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you? If our David finds out, he’ll kill you. He might even tell me Dad.”
“Don’t you trust me? I love you. This is something beautiful between just the two of us.” He’d read that in a book. He kissed her, wondering whether he dare try a French kiss, thinking it might distract her while his hands sought their target.
Her bra was unfastened and he eased it up to expose ripe, young breasts. Breathlessly, he stared down at them half-expecting Pam to object. Encouraged by her silence, he tentatively touched one. Pam shrieked in alarm.
“What’s wrong?” He hurriedly withdrew his hand.
“Your hands aren’t half cold.”
“Sorry.” He rubbed them together before cautiously trying again. “Warm enough now?”
“It’s all right.”
He moved his hand experimentally. “Hey, look, your nipples are standing up.”
“So that means you’re aroused.”
“What do you mean – aroused?” There was a hint of disdain in her voice.
“Y’know, when a man’s thing becomes erect it means he’s aroused. Same with a girl. When her nipples are erect it means she’s worked up.”
“Doesn’t make me feel any different,” said Pam. “They go like that when I wash them anyway.”
He was about to argue when she pressed her fingers against his lips. “Sshh,” she cautioned.
“I heard a rustle in the bushes. I think someone’s coming.”
“Well it’s not me,” said Colin, giggling.
“Shut up, stupid. It could be our David.”
“There’s no one there,” Colin reassured her.
But Pam found something else to worry about. “Colin, how do you know I won’t get pregnant?”
“You can’t get pregnant the first time.”
“Rubbish! Miss Marsh says that’s a story all boys tell. It’s a lie. You can get pregnant the first time.”
“What does she know? What I meant was – girls can get pregnant if it’s their first time, but if it’s the boy’s first time he won’t make her pregnant.”
“How do you know?”
“Peter Wilder made love to a girl last month and she didn’t get pregnant.”
Pam digested this new piece of wisdom. “D’you think Miss Marsh has ever, y’know, done it?”
“Doubt it,” said Colin. “She’s old. Must be at least thirty.”
“Don’t you think people over thirty bother anymore?”
Colin considered his reply as he undid his belt. “My Mum was thirty-four when she had me, so they must have done it at least once after thirty.”
Colin had unzipped his trousers. Taking Pam’s hand, he was about to place it inside when she pulled away. “Come on, what’s wrong now?” he implored.
“Aren’t you going to take your shoes and socks off first?”
“Why should I?”
“My Mum says she can’t stand men who make love with their socks on.”
“But I’ve still got my shirt and trousers on. Why should I take my socks off?”
“Don’t you want to take them off? Do your feet smell or something?”
“No, of course they don’t,” he said, resigned to exposing his bare feet. She watched while he wrestled with his shoelaces.
She made him feel stupid and he could feel the anger welling up. He grabbed her shoulders and forced her back on to the blazer, pinning her underneath him like he’d seen Clint Eastwood do.
“Ooh,” she said, wriggling with delight.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes. You’ve got a huge spot on your neck with a big white head. Please let me squeeze it.”
“No,” he said, exasperated.
“If it was Roger Moore you wouldn’t be asking to squeeze his spots.”
“Course not. Roger Moore doesn’t have spots.”
He glared at her. She glowered back defiantly. “Get on with it then.”
He kissed her angrily, thrusting his tongue into her mouth while he fumbled under her skirt. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead.
“Colin, do you think I’m sexy?”
“Yes,” he croaked.
She nuzzled his neck, avoiding the spot. “Are you sure you haven’t done this with anyone else?”
“Course I’m sure.”
“Perhaps that’s what’s wrong,” she declared. “The man is supposed to be experienced so he can show the woman what to do.”
“I know what to do,” said Colin, unaware that anything had been wrong. “It’s your fault. You’re not reacting like you’re supposed to.” He circled her breast with his hand, stroking and squeezing. She stared at him with a bored expression. “See what I mean,” he complained. “You’re supposed to moan and groan and look as if you’re enjoying it.”
Pam contorted her face into feigned expressions of ecstasy. “Is that what you want? Heavy breathing and lecherous looks?”
“You’re not supposed to sound like a steam train and look as though you’re having an epileptic fit,” Colin protested.
“How am I supposed to look then?”
“Like this,” he said, producing a crumpled and well-thumbed photograph from his pocket.
Pam gasped in shocked fascination. “Where d’you get this? It’s a porno picture.”
“Gary Hewitt. When he showed it to Sylvia Wainwright it really turned her on.” He waited for Pam’s reaction. “She charges y’know,” he added.
“How do you know?”
“Gary told me.”
“You mean he paid her money?”
“No, she makes the guys do her homework.”
“That’s disgusting! It’s cheap, like being a prostitute,” said Pam.
She looked at him quizzically. “Are you sure you haven’t been with her?”
“I told you I haven’t.”
“I don’t know whether to believe you. My mother told me all men are liars, and never to trust them.”
“But I love you. “ He took her hand and cautiously moved it inside his trousers. Pam looked round nervously. “I don’t like it here. It’s spooky. I’m sure someone is watching us.”
“Stop chattering,” he demanded. “It’s putting me off.”
“Aren’t we meant to talk?”
“It’s supposed to be romantic – or just moans and sighs.”
They were silent until Colin said, “Move your hand up and down.”
“I can’t. You’re lying on my arm and it’s gone dead.”
Colin shifted his weight.
“What’s the time?” she said, twisting his wrist to see his watch. “It’s twenty to six,” she gasped. “I’ll have to be going or me Dad’ll come looking for me.”
“Just a few more minutes,” implored Colin, whose body was throbbing painfully.
“No, me Dad’ll kill me.”
“But I thought we were going to be lovers,” he wailed. “You promised.”
“Perhaps next week, but not here, it makes me nervous.”
“What about under the gym, next Thursday?”
“I’ll think about it. You promise you won’t tell anyone about this?”
“Of course I won’t,” he said, reluctantly dressing. “You’d better leave first in case there is someone around.”
Pam sneaked away through the shrubbery. Colin watched her go and then waited as six schoolboys emerged from the bushes. He took a book from his satchel and checked the names against those of the boys. “Right, pay up,” he said.
“Hey, look here, Colin,” said a pimply-faced red-head, “I’m not paying the full amount. I hardly saw anything.”
“That’s your fault,” replied Colin. “You chose where you wanted to watch from. Pay up or else.”
“I agree,” said another. “I’m not paying five shillings for a look at your bum!”
“Yes,” said another, “I only saw one tit and not even a nipple.”
“If you don’t pay up you won’t be invited to the gym next Thursday,” threatened Colin. “And by the way, it’s an extra two and sixpence for Clive because of the binoculars.”
“What!” demanded Clive. “But they’re my binoculars.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s extra for close-ups.”
The boys reluctantly handed over their money, muttering their disappointment, "Didn’t even get her knickers off.”
Pam ran home and was out of breath when she greeted the girls who were sitting waiting on her garden wall. “Well?” they chorused.
“Get the paper and pencil,” she panted. These were produced and Pam spanned her hand across the paper indicating where the line should be drawn. “Who's got the chart?”
“I have,” replied an untidy-looking girl, extracting it from the rat’s nest of her bag. Giggling, they compared paper and chart. With a theatrical flourish Pam announced: “That’s Roger Worth still last, followed by James Smith and Colin. Steven Farrow and Gary Hughes tie for the biggest.” She turned to the girls. “Who shall we do next?”
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