First Summer Fridays Passions

Foreword

These stories are based in Australia and deliberately written in the idiom the characters would use.

I know from previous comments many readers have enjoyed that very aspect of it. Some issues in language variations I anticipated and built translations into my narrative, others - especially on this site - have caught me by surprise especially in their intensity.

Crutch/crotch has caused an awful lot of hassle. But the Macquarie Dictionary defines a meaning of crutch as "the crotch of the human body". "Crutch" is most commonly used in Australia and to our (my) ears, crotch has a much harsher (unintended) tone.

"Swimmers" was another that caught me by surprise. In Australia that means swimwear (not sperm).

More amusingly, in Australia "root" means have sex and "thongs" refers to flip flops. So never tell an Aussie you're rooting for a team! And when a club says "No Thongs" it doesn't mean they'll check your underwear.

Generally Australians shorten words or expressions by ending them in "ies" (cossies, boardies, townies, Aussies etc).

*****

Story

In the last edition, we left our lovers as they emerged from the surf after a second passionate root on the water's edge on the day Karen gave up her virginity to Greg...

I invited Greg back for lunch at our house. My mother was reliably good about unexpected friends her kids dragged home. On the way back I played some mental games on how to introduce him.

"Hi guys, meet the guy who's just defiled your daughter." No, too medieval.

"Hi guys, this is a virtual stranger who's screwed your erstwhile virginal daughter twice since you waived goodbye to her this morning." No, maybe a bit too confronting.

"Hi guys, this is a guy I sort of know from Uni who has just given me the most incredible introduction to penetrative sex." A bit clinical but close to the mark. I wondered how they would react to something like that. If it was an American movie scene the father would no doubt go chasing after the guy with a shotgun; blasting away at his car as he drove off down the road. Australians are a bit more in the reserved British mould. You can just hear mum going "That's nice dear, did you use a condom?" Just like a skit out of a Monty Python movie (sorry to the rest of you under 40, my family are all fans - look them up). Probably in the Australian version of the movie, there'd be a bigoted dad piping in with "What footy team does he follow?" and when I answered "He's not a fan of footy dad", throw back with "He's not a poofta is he?" Hmm. Think about that for a minute dad.

When we got there, everyone was still at home, sitting out the back in the sun. Enough mental frolics, I was going to play a safe dead bat.

"Mum, Dad, this is Greg. He's a good friend of mine from Uni I've just discovered lives in the town. Do you mind if I invite him for lunch."

If my parents thought there was some incongruity between Greg's description as a mere 'good friend' and the fact I had his hand clamped in mine like they were stuck together with araldite, they didn't show it. The more diplomatic approach worked, and Greg was welcomed for lunch. But it did strike me how little parents really know about their kids. It wasn't I was being deceptive. I've never made it plain to my parents how far my relationship with boys has gone. For all I know they might assume I lost my virginity years ago. Still, I've just experienced the most magical changing moment in my life and they'll never know. In a way I regretted I couldn't sidle up to my mum later on and tell her what had just happened. Maybe there are some families where that happens but I suspect my situation was the more normal. I don't think she'd freak out if I did; indeed given her condom precaution I'm sure she wouldn't. I suppose it all comes down to the words my mum used when she raised the condom issue. The job of a parent is to try not to encourage their children to embark on things like sex before they are ready while at the same time trying to protect them if they do. Of that ambiguity parental relationships are made, even if at 20 it might reasonably be argued I was by any standard ready.

I also regretted I didn't have the sort of friends I could spill the beans to; the sort of girl relationships that Sex and the City show. You know, one where I'd send out a little broadcast text to the effect of "OMG just got laid for the first time" and get back a whole lot of "Go girl" and "Good on you girl" replies. Maybe that's why I'm writing this book.

The lunch with my family went well enough. Inside I wanted to act like any other new lover; be all over my partner like a rash to the point of inducing nausea in those around you and barely able to keep my hands out of his intimate spaces. We managed to play it a bit cooler than that. Sitting next to me, Greg and I usually just had our shoulders overlapped and touching; his arm resting behind my back, my hand occasionally on his thigh. Even that was clearly enough to make my family wonder what was going on as I saw mum and dad exchange raised eyebrow looks from time to time. As far as they knew at the start of the day their daughter didn't even have a boyfriend and now she was acting like she'd been in a relationship for years. If only they knew.

I didn't realise there had always been just a little bit of tension between die hard surfers and the Surf Lifesaving movement (or 'clubbies" as the surfers tended to call them).

Fortunately neither my family nor Greg were really in to that grudge sort of thing, so it developed more in to a light banter that I could see neither side took seriously. Probably more challenging to dad was the fact that Greg wasn't actually a great fan of watching sports and didn't really follow any of the footy codes. I think he sort of got away with his claim that he "was a participant, not a watcher", even if what he participated in wasn't necessarily on dad's top 10 list.

On the other hand, he completely charmed my mum. I'm sure he was actually flirting with her! I wasn't sure whether to be jealous or thankful that he'd have one strong supporter in the family.

Even as he'd accepted my invitation for lunch, Greg had told me that he'd promised to help out at home that afternoon and had to be home by 3. So I knew as I walked him to the door that I wouldn't see him for the rest of that first Monday. My heart was racing as I waited to see if he'd ask for another date before he said goodbye. I would be exaggerating for effect if I said that with the emotions I was feeling, uncertainty could just as easily turn me in to an obsessive cyber stalker of him if I was left waiting for him to make some follow up contact. But it would certainly spoil my week. As we walked down the front path to his car my cool and calm exterior hid the fact that it was all I could do to stop myself from hyperventilating.

As we reached the car, he hesitated. "Karen, it's been a really special day today and I'd love to see you again. I work on Tuesdays and don't finish until 7. Would you be willing to join me for a late dinner? Somewhere light maybe, since it's no fun going to bed with a full stomach?"

My brain was going "WOULD I, WOULD I EVER", but I managed to answer with a reasonably calm "I'd love to. Pick me up when you finish work". With that I put my arms around him and give him a goodbye kiss and hug; one that was far more controlled than my inner self was wanting, but at least one that didn't reveal too much of the demon Greg had unleashed in me.

Never the less, it meant day time Tuesday would be Greg-less. A concept that 24 hours ago had no meaning had suddenly confronted me like a prison term.

The rest of that Monday passed in a blur as I floated around my family in some sort of dreamy state. It wasn't until I was lying in bed that night that my brain really started to process the day that had just passed. There were no regrets; I was still feeling like some love sick puppy floating in a cloud of sexual energy. But the analytical side of my brain was trying to work out what the hell was happening to me.

I was actually shocked by how much I had flaunted myself at Greg. I might be willing to dress attractively - even a little what you might call sexily. What I had done today - deliberately letting him see my bare breasts and teasing him with the way I hitched my clothing, let alone teasing up his cock and having sex with someone I'd just meet - was totally out of character. I still thought of it as the most special day in my life - just that I didn't really recognise the person who was there. I was stunned by the impact Greg had on me and by the way he'd stirred up the hormonal soup in my body and made it boil over in the way it had.

Displaying the personality traits that made me want to be an accountant, I eventually decided I must be ovulating; it was about the right time of the month. Maybe the whole thing was pushed along by seeing up Steve's pants and the thought process that activated. It was almost disappointing to contemplate the mere possibility that I might wake up in a few days' time and see Greg as just another guy. I couldn't see how that could be and I can't say I really believed it.

I calmed myself by turning to the sexual fantasies the day had stimulated and almost seamlessly went to sleep as fantasies morphed to night time dreams of bodies rolling together in a gentle surf; oblivious of the need to breathe; naked and joined. Can girls have orgasmic dreams? All I can remember is waking up knowing that I just dreamt of having one. Whether my body actually experienced it didn't really seem to matter.

But the thought I might be ovulating did raise a couple of concerns the next morning. Even if they were still necessary for STI's, I wasn't sure I really trusted condoms alone to prevent pregnancy, especially if I was having sex often - as I now rather hoped I would be. I set as my first task for that Greg-less Tuesday the need to get a script for the pill.

So I made an appointment with the local town doctor. It was easier for me when I discovered that the doctor was a newly minted female doctor - there on some sort of rotation programme. I hadn't really fancied having to try and justify myself to one of those grandfatherly types. Even if it is an everyday thing for them to write scripts for young girls, it was a very novel experience for me to have to ask for one.

But I was also keen to understand whether my reaction to Greg would be the same when I was over ovulation, without my hormones being further disturbed by the pill, so I wanted to finish my cycle before I started on it. That meant that the conservative accountant in me decided I'd best not have sex with Greg again until I knew my period of peak fertility was over. It was an easy enough decision to make in the cold hard light of a Greg-less Tuesday; but I found it was quickly and regretlessly forgotten when the test came.

Dinner on Tuesday was wonderful. It was just a cheap and cheerful Italian place, but the food didn't matter. The two hours we spent there just flew as we talked and talked. I just melted in his presence. By half way through I wanted him; I mean wanted him physically. I fantasied about taking him on the floor of the restaurant in full public view. I had to make a special effort to keep my legs crossed because I was fairly sure my light panties were now transparent with my body's wetness.

As he drove me home, my mind was trying to work out how to make this in to a sexual encounter; the morning's resolution quickly set aside. There was no hope at my house, so unless he was willing to drag me down to the beach before we went inside I was going to bed unfulfilled. As we got out of the car, each of us hesitated. I knew I wanted to go down the beach and I was fairly sure he did too. One look at his tented crutch was enough to confirm that. And yet he knew as well as I did that this was only our second date. Whatever might have happened on the first, I suppose there are certain protocols and expectations. I knew all I need to do was suggest a walk on the beach to get what I wanted, but I hesitated too.

As we stood at the front gate, Greg held my hands and looked me in the eyes. "Would you like to hang out down the beach tomorrow?"

"I'd love to Greg, but my whole family is driving up to see some friends who live in the farming hinterland. We're meant to be leaving at 8 am and getting home late. What about Thursday?"

"I'm working again and we have a family dinner with friends afterwards. What about Friday?"

"Friday it is. What time do you go for your morning swim?"

"7 am. Why, would you like to come with me?"

"You bet."

"OK, I'll pick you up at 7."

Even as he kissed me goodbye, my mind was screaming at me to suggest a walk along the beach, but my courage failed me. I was elated that we'd arranged another day out, but in despair that there would be two whole days without him.

I glided through Wednesday and most of Thursday still in love sick puppy mode; pining for Greg presence but euphoric with the new found sense of all consuming love. Celine Dion and Michael Buble played on an endless loop through my brain. When "My Heart Will Go On" actually came on the radio, tears were rolling down my checks. By Thursday afternoon I was starting to become aware of new forces at work. One certainly was the sense of anticipation at the fact Friday was nearly here. It took me a while to get a handle on the other. There was a restlessness and sense of physical deprivation. Because I'd never really felt a full blown case of it before, it was not until that evening I recognised what it was.

By Thursday night I hadn't seen Greg for three days and it had been nearly four since we had sex. As I climbed in to bed that night and lay down, the feeling that had been building all day broke upon me and overwhelmed me. I was randy; desperately, achingly, throbbingly randy. This was a really new experience for me.

I tossed and turned as the clock in my room circled through two whole hours, sweating in the humid night air. Eventually I decided I'd take my usual nightie and panties off and put on one of my bikinis to try and induce some sort of erotic dream. I lay there drowsing for about another hour. I'm sure during that time I drifted in and out of some stage of sleep and, although it's hard to remember these things after, I'm also sure that Greg entered my head in some sort of dream, but it was obvious I wasn't going to get a good night's sleep.

My fingers started to play against the front of my bikini, gently stroking the mons just above my clit. I enjoyed that, so then I moved them down over the area of the clit; stroking lightly back and forth very much enjoying the sensation, but also bringing myself to a really heightened state of arousal. By then there was no going back. Lying on my back, covers thrown off and legs apart, I slid my fingers down the front of my bikini and started working my clit.

I was surprised by just how wet and slimy I already was down there and even more surprised by how much wetter I became as I played with myself. With my other hand I started playing with a nipple. Closing my eyes and relaxing as much as I could I brought Greg in to my head; seeing him, feeling him laying naked on top of me; bringing to mind the sensation as he entered me for the first time.

Surprisingly quickly I recognised I'd reach that intensely pleasurable moment that immediately precedes orgasm. Naïvely I thought I could slow things down and savour that moment. That was not to be! My orgasm exploded inside my body. Like on the beach that first morning my hips arched skyward in an involuntary movement, my hand still firmly clamped in my crutch. It took all the concentration the passing orgasm would spare me to stifle the moans that wanted to escape my body. I didn't really want my family asking about it the next morning.

All I remember after that are a few moments spent lying unmoving on my back savouring the post orgasmic bliss before sleep crept up and captured me; a glorious restful sleep in which Greg visited me in my dreams and did it to me all over again.

The next thing I was truly aware of was reaching that strange sense of semiconscious that is the first stage of waking from the deepest level of sleep. The morning sun was seeping into the room around the edges of the curtains, creating a low moody light which complimented my semi-wakefulness.

Slowly different parts of my brain emerged from their slumber. The first part tried to replay and fix in my mind the erotic dream I'd had; vaguely aware that it would disappear with the coming of full consciousness. But that just simply raised my already enhanced state of arousal. Then at some point my brain registered I was still laying uncovered spreadeagled on my back, legs apart with a hand still tucked in to the front of my bikini pants. Slowly, without immediately removing the hand, the brain figured out that either my body hadn't moved since completing its nocturnal activities, I'd tossed and turned all night with my hand still down my pants or my hand had relocated itself there during my sleep. Then my senses told me that the sheet under me was wet with sweat and who knows what else and with it came a hope no-one in my family had come in to my room before I woke up; even more so that it hadn't been a brother with a camera.

I was just processing these thoughts when the sound of Greg tapping lightly on my window penetrated into my consciousness. Crap. I'd arranged to join him for his morning training swim and run and he'd caught me still in bed with a hand down my pants. The next two seconds can be best imagined by picturing someone woken from a deep sleep by a piercing alarm from a clock out of each reach of their bed. The adrenalin rushes into their body; creating a panicky need to silence the alarm. Then there's that mad flailing forlorn attempt to reach it with their arm. Failing that they scramble out of bed, their feet tangling in the bed clothes so they end up on their knees on the floor. Half crawling, half getting back on their feet, they move toward the direction of the alarm; arms outstretched, desperate to make contact with the alarm and silence its brain invading noise.

If you substitute opening the curtain for turning off the alarm, that was me; flailing arms, tangled feet, crawling and all. The panic reflected an irrational fear that he'd somehow run away if I didn't instantly acknowledge his presence. And then when I reached the curtains, still only half on my feet, I pushed aside the curtain a bit too vigorously. Given my state, a demur parting of the curtain just enough to expose my face would probably have been most appropriate. Instead I flung them open enough to completely expose myself to him; that dishevelled, still only half awake, half on her feet self.

Almost blinded by the sudden invasion of light, in the moment before I had to shield my eyes I had a vision of Greg standing in silhouette with the sun behind him; light radiating in a halo from all around his body like some deity in a medieval painting. As I stood fully upright he in turn copped a fully length view of me in my night time bikini; at the very least dishevelled, possibly showing a very prominent damp patch and for all I knew at that point in my semi awake state and haste to respond to his tap, with a boob hanging out. In what must have appeared to him as a rather strange sight, I gave him a quick wave indicating I'd let him in the front door and closed the curtains again.

Only then did my brain have time to catch up and do an audit on what I'd revealed.

Fortunately the boobs were both in and nothing too obvious was showing dampness wise. But I'd originally intended to change out of my night-time bikini as the crutch now had a slightly stiff feel and my morning state of arousal meant it was already being permeated by a new dampness. Now he'd seen me, would changing raise more question than I really wanted to deal with? We'd be in the water soon any way, did it matter?