Author's Note: This tale turned out longer than I thought it would. So, if you're looking for an action-packed sex romp then this isn't the tale for you. But if you want a rambling coming-of-age story, of a sad lonely teenager in a foreign city who has his eyes opened to a world of lust, set against a backdrop of music references and mid '90s nostalgia, then buckle in and enjoy the ride.
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"Hell no, I'm not sitting next to gaylord."
"No fucking way. Keep moving down. I wanna get near Sam."
"Why? I don't get you. The twins are so much hotter."
"Yeah, but Sam's got bigger tits."
"That's 'cos she's a fat bitch."
Paul tried not to look up from his book. God, he hated those lads, and was glad none of them wanted to sit next to him. Simon, Jez and Matt were thick as thieves, and (in Paul's opinion) as thick as two short planks as well. To a man they were short, thick-set, smarmy; good looking and they knew it, sporty, well-built. The hate between Paul and the gang was mutual, and had been ever since they'd started at the school. Now they were weeks away from finishing their A-levels; Paul couldn't wait for that long summer to begin, so he wouldn't have to see any of them ever again. Most of the class just ignored him, but those three were the bane of his existence. Them, and the group of four girls they were trying to sidle up to.
There was Emma; a foul-mouthed red-head who was rumoured to be in a love-hate relationship with Jez. The blonde twins Izzy (Elizabeth) and Immy (Imogen); drop-dead gorgeous, stick-thin, snide, sarcastic and mean. They all bullied him; Emma was bitchy to everyone, but the twins - Izzy in particular - singled Paul out for constant teasing and belittling. And right there with them was Sam with the big tits.
Sam - or Samantha, rather, as she preferred her full name. "I'm not a boy!" she'd protested in her early years. Not that for a moment you'd think she was now; long light-brown hair fell in gentle curls over a curvy, but most definitely not fat, figure. Paul had secretly had a crush on her for years, but was too terrified of reprisals to have acted directly. The boldest he'd ever been was to send her an anonymous Valentine's Day card this last year, in which he'd written out all the lyrics to Lionel Richie's "Hello", highlighting the torturing phrase that kept him awake most nights: 'tell me how to win your heart, for I haven't got a clue'. Although she'd never been mean to him directly, she had been complicit in the pranks of the other girls. Paul wondered what she'd be like, on her own away from the twins; and pondered if they really were friends or if the twins kept her around because she made them look taller, blonder, sexier. Frankly Paul preferred the softer, shapelier figure of Samantha. But his preferences were irrelevant, since they all had boyfriends outside of school; and even if they didn't, he wasn't even on their radar. Most of the school thought he was gay; a singer whose voice broke years late; effeminate; hated sport and loved musical theatre; brainy and smartly dressed; a goody-two-shoes. Not sexy, not attractive to the girls at all.
Since he wasn't the object of ridicule for once, Paul could just curl up for the whole flight, maybe have a snooze, and see how far through the Hitchhiker's "trilogy" he could get before they landed in Toronto. He didn't like how Simon's gang were objectifying their female classmates, either; but he'd taken enough abuse - verbal and physical - from those guys over their years at school to know not to draw any attention to himself by voicing his objections. He knew they'd quite happily turn on him instead, and were it not for the reassuring presence of Mr Martin nearby, maybe they would have already.
He shouldn't really be here; he wasn't a member of the school orchestra. But his parents had put up a member of the Canadian school when they'd come to the UK last year, and so he'd wangled a place on the return trip. He couldn't really play anything - singing was his passion - but Mr Martin had decided (to percussionist Immy's great disgust) that he could play the triangle and occasionally the cymbal in some of the easier pieces.
His parents had scrimped and saved to gather the not inconsiderable cost of the trip. Even after his father died earlier in the year, his mum refused to take back the money they now so desperately needed. "This is a chance of a lifetime," she'd said. "When life offers you something special, you grab onto it with both hands, and don't let go." He knew he was going to be extremely homesick, and would miss his mother terribly. He'd be thousands of miles away, with no-one he liked around him. Paul's best friend - only friend - had left school after GCSEs to go to catering college, so Paul had struggled along alone for nearly 2 years through A-Levels. Jean-Pierre, the French-Canadian exchange student he was partnered with, was a year older than him; despite occasional correspondence, the only thing Paul really knew about him was that they were polar opposites. Paul would quite happily hide in his room with a book for the week; JP (as he styled himself) was an extravagant extrovert, polysexual, and loud.
But no matter who he was with - how they teased and bullied him, or just ignored him - it was still an adventure. He was going to fly for the first time; he was going to go up the tallest free-standing structure in the world; he'd get to see Niagara Falls. He had his Mum's precious camera and a roll of film to capture some memories. And it was just a week. He'd be sure to enjoy every moment, because it would soon be over.
///
It had been a long day travelling - getting to the airport, the plane, the coach ride from the airport to the music college they were exchanging with. There, they were to meet their host families. Paul found himself wandering aimlessly around, searching out Jean-Pierre. He didn't recognise anyone, and was starting to worry that maybe they hadn't come, when JP peeled himself away from a group of his friends and headed over. He'd grown a beard since he'd been in the UK, which he'd not mentioned in the pen-letters the schools forced them to write to each other. No wonder Paul hadn't recognised him. Paul felt jealous; he wouldn't have been able to grow a beard that rich in a year.
"Hey," JP said.
"Hello again!"
"Over here," he said, nodding into the car park, then walking off and just assuming Paul would follow. He led them to a simple Opel, climbed in the front, leaving Paul to heave his case into the boot and take a seat in the back. JP's mother, Annabelle, was in the front; and in the back beside him was JP's sister Sophie, who was a year under them.
Paul only knew Sophie and Annabelle by name, and hadn't even seen a picture before. Both stylishly dressed, as much as he could tell; both blonde, about the same height and weight. Squint, and they could have been twins.
"Hi," he said, looking over at Sophie as he sat beside her.
"Ca va?" she replied. Paul just stared. In context, he realised it was French, but he had no idea what it meant. He'd got an A in GCSE French, but he must have been sick the day they taught that. Presumably some kind of greeting.
"Now Sophie, what did we say on the way here?"
A heavy sigh. "Fine. Hi." Then to her mum, "Happy?" And she crossed her legs, and pointedly stared out of the window, ignoring him. He stole a few more glances. Sexy, confident, disinterested. A bandana tied round her neck drew the eye to her short hair and strong neckline. Generous curves ran down to a flat stomach, rounded hips and long legs. She was a year or so younger than he was, he judged.
Annabelle pursed her lips, then turned to face Paul, and gave him a warm smile. "Welcome to Canada, Paul. We are looking forward to having you stay with us." Sophie harrumphed, but her mother ignored her. "I'm afraid my husband Francois is away on business this week, so it's just the four of us."
"That is a shame."
