Foretaste:
He didn’t know what to do with her at first. Her behaviour was erratic and daring. Her love, the tactile touch, their passion, intoxicated him. Then, when she came to him, he smelt the animal scent on her, she savoured his strange taste, and they lost all self-control.
July 1972:
He arrived at the end-of-terrace house dressed in a smooth velvet jacket, shirt, and cords, carrying a litre of Malibu. The stained-glass door was open, the opening riffs of Schools Out could be heard in the street. He checked the house next door. Its curtains were drawn, the lights were out.
When he went inside, he found himself in a small hallway with a door on the left, stairs on the right, and a narrow corridor. The atmosphere was thick with smoke. He choked on the acrid fumes: cigarettes mixed with a rich aroma of cigars, burning josticks, candles, other, less familiar smells. There were couples huddled on the Indian rug, sprawled over the stairs: eating, drinking, smoking, talking, kissing, embracing. Careful not to tread on them, he entered the living room to find the party in full swing. The place was heaving with strangers, their arms wrapped around each other’s necks, pretending to slow dance.
The girl stood at the heart of the throng swaying her child-bearing hips to the music. She twisted her head to the left, noticing him in the doorway. He assessed her. She was short, stocky, with long blonde hair, blushing cheeks, and a bronze suntan. Finding her sexually attractive, he moved in, closer to her.
The lights went out. She went into a dancing fit. Her breasts flopped out of her flimsy summer dress. She made no attempt to cover herself. He’d never forget the wild, glazed, drug-crazed look in her eyes. The girl was high, flailing her arms about clumsily in front of him. The other dancers formed a protective ring around her. Intrigued, fascinated by her distorted state of mind, her distending body, he joined in, keeping an ever-watchful eye on her. She implored him, stoned out of her tiny mind, seeking his permission to continue,
‘Shall I?’
‘If you want to.’
He watched beguiled as she pulled off her dress. She whirled, a spinning drunken dervish, colliding into friends. They pushed her, shoving her, egging her on, roaring their approval. She slumped against him. He felt her soft, supple body, her breasts, squashed against his chest. The girl was sweating, clearly in distress. He held her. Then, he freed her to dance. The rock anthem reached a crescendo. All her inhibitions lost, she peeled off her panties and danced naked for her appreciative audience, who joined in, tearing at each other’s clothing in an orgy of unspent lust.
Somebody changed the record. The music slowed to Without You. And he left the room.
Tension:
There was no sign of Janis, the other twin. She was identical to Lindsey in every respect, apart from her hair which she wore cupric red. He assumed she was upstairs, making love to a boy. Either that, or she was in the kitchen. The tension gnawed at his stomach. He felt hungry. Clambering over the scattered human debris, he made his way to the scullery.
He eased his way past humps of entwined teenagers as far as the sturdy oak kitchen table. Half the table was taken up with Party Sevens, spirits, open lager cans, full foil ashtrays. The other was allocated to food: decadent displays of fatty cocktail sausages, pineapple-and-cheese on sticks, chicken vol-au-vents, sausage rolls, mini pork pies, salted peanuts, and crisps. Famished, he grabbed a plate and helped himself.
She was standing by the bar pouring herself a glass of the real thing, gorgeous in a plain white t-shirt, drainpipe jeans. His heart leapt in his chest at the sight of her pale angular face, tinted wispy hair, slim, petite, scant figure, her fake drop-pearl earrings. She cried, happily, above the din,
‘Hello! Come here often?’
She was Australian. He stopped eating. Didn’t know what to say. He gave her his bottle. She unscrewed the top. Poured herself a large shot. Mixed it with Coke. Drank a swig,
‘Ah, thanks! Needed that. Gets boring when you don’t know anyone, doesn’t it?’
He didn’t answer. She topped up her glass, found a clean glass, half-filled it with Malibu, and offered it to him,
‘Fancy a drink?’
She was tipsy. He started to sweat. His hands shook. She made him apprehensive. His mouth was parched. Desperate for a drink, he took the glass from her, downing it in one.
He struck her as the silent type, vulnerable to her charms, pleasantly shy. She wanted him badly, wanted to push her hand through his wavy hair, stroke his face, kiss his split lips, and feel his slim-toned body. He excited her. She needed to touch him,
‘Feeling lonely?’
The drink went to his head, ‘Yes, very.’
‘My name’s Georgie,’ she disclosed, ‘Shall we go outside and play in the garden?’
*****
From Strange Taste and Basque: Love Stories on Amazon.
Can’t wait? Visit my website for the full story / uncensored pics at https://www.isittodayhjfurl.com
