The early nineteen-eighties was a different time. AIDS was not widely known, most STDs had been almost eradicated and Chlamydia was a girl's name! The liberation brought about by the birth control pill, meant that unprotected sex was the norm, and lots of it.
This is the first published extract from what will become a series in the Saga of Sandra, a Seeker of Pleasure. The stories being relayed to me by Sandra herself and dramatised to make them interesting.
Everything told within these stories is one-hundred-per cent true, apart from the bits that have been embellished to make them sexier, which are many, and the bits that have been invented, which are also large in number.
The Lincolns Inn was actually a rock club in Liverpool during the 1970s/80s. The fictional Lincolns Inn in this story bears no resemblance to that club bar for the rock music.
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The Linc was not the place I would associate with hen parties. And it was not a place I particularly associated with Pam. Though she had been with me a few times, I would have thought the Top Rank was more her cup of tea, with its unceasing soul and plastic pop music. The closest thing to pop she would hear in the Linc would be Status Quo! And I'm sure Status Quo would not be please with that connection.
Only ten of us had met outside the club, but many more would arrive soon. Most of the girls from work would be there, and her sister and cousins. She was hoping for about thirty women. Though it was a hen party and our men were not allowed, it wouldn't stop her from inviting in a few strange bikers and punk rockers; I was sure of that.
Pam was that opposite pole that attracted people like me. Her hair was a beautiful shade of blonde for a start, while mine was straight, greasy, and an unremarkable mousey colour. While she usually left hers straight and flowing over her shoulder blades, she'd recently pushed the boat out and had it styled. Now it was a little spiky on top and feathered at the back. One of my buttocks took up the same space as her complete arse, and her tits were like two halves of a lemon. The old Scouse expression, "I've seen more meat on a butcher's pencil," epitomised my mate, Pam. And she didn't care whose boyfriend she shagged; I always cared. Polar opposites.
Always one to make an entrance, Pam led the way through the club. The turned heads were hardly a surprise. Even in this place, she was underdressed. I don't mean that she dressed down compared to other women, but that she was wearing comparatively little. That may be a bit unfair since I had seen women there wearing far less; my mind wandered to the already scantily-dressed rock chick, a few years ago, who stripped in the middle of a circle of admirers. Hell, in a haze of drunkenness, I'd once performed an exotic dance (let's call it that) there, myself. Although, I had been wearing a lot more to start with. That was my most enduring memory of the Linc; well, that and getting fingered by a total stranger after watching him piss in the gents. Another story for another time.
Back to Pam's arse. She wore denim, which was a similar faded blue to mine. The difference was that, while my denim took the form of full-length, flared jeans, Pam had fashioned hers into a pair of hot pants. Although, calling them panties would be more accurate. While half of each buttock undulated in the denim as she strutted through the club, the bottom halves clenched and relaxed, like a pair of throbbing iced buns, below the frayed, and very high, V-shaped hemline.
"Fuckin' hell!" shouted one of the bikers to his mate. "Throw one right up that!" His mate elbowed him in the ribs as Pam turned to look at the owner of the voice. She was grinning as if she'd just won the big one on the football pools.
"You really love attention, don't you?" I called to Pam over the music.
"Wouldn't you?" she replied. That cut deep. She never meant to be cruel or intend any malice, she just never thought. None of the others heard.
"Don't the comments piss you off, Pam?" said Mary, Pam's cousin.
"Why should they. I'm shaggable, and I love being shaggable."
And, yes, she was. If I were a bloke, I'd want to. And, to be fair, being leered at often got me tingling in the tufty club.
Above her scorching hot pants, Pam wore a black halter top that plunged almost to her navel. With no bra to spoil the effect, the flimsy garment dangled from her almost priapic nipples like a pair of black, silk scarfs on adjacent coat hooks. Bending over the bar gave everyone nearby a grand view of her pert and perfect tiny tits.
By contrast, above my faded jeans, I bared a narrow band of plump flesh. Above the flesh, I wore my favourite lightweight, cotton, denim-toned shirt of Jays. As usual, I tied the shirt below my larger-than-Pam's tits, accentuated by my bag's dark blue shoulder strap nestled in the valley between them. The shirt and jeans were almost a match. Not my usual attire for a night out on the town, but this was no ordinary night out. I was not on the pull; I did not want to attract anyone's attention; I did not want to get pissed; I certainly did not want to repeat my legendary performance on the dance floor. I just wanted to be there for my mate, Pam. Well, it was her hen party, after all.
Yes, Pam was marrying Richard the very next week. I had no idea why since Pam had shagged anything with a dick since she first found a taste for it. I wasn't one hundred per cent certain that a dick was a prerequisite, either. Ever the teenage puritan, she had never even let a boy grope her. Then someone found her sex switch, and she never found the off position again, which was probably the only position she had not found. Then she had met Richard, and still never found it. I would never dream of using the "s" word about another woman, but she was a tempting exception. She enjoyed sex, and good on her for it. She was one of the most attractive women I knew, and she did not need to work hard for her thrills. And who was I to judge? After all, I was no angel when it came to pleasures of the pussy. The difference between Pam and me, though, was that Richard believed that he was the only bloke that she had ever been with. Yes, he believed she was a virgin when they met and that she'd not looked at another man since. I have difficulty holding in a guffaw whenever I think about it.
Yes, this was Pam's hen night, and she'd made me promise to stop her if she got pissed and copped off. This was a bit out of character for a woman whose idea of a grand night out was getting staggering drunk and wrapping her legs around the naked waist of some hunk.
Hence the sensible dress code and the resolve not to get pissed. Well, that was going to last, wasn't it?
***
The Lincolns Inn had recently acquired the ground floor of the building next door. So, there was now a separate function room, which they hired out for special events, like hen parties. While they had installed a PA system capable of playing the heaviest metal, they hadn't got around to installing a separate bar. So we still had to queue up for the main bar. This was a small price if it meant we'd be able to rub up against lots of rock chicks and rock cocks.
"Right! Drinks time," I said once we'd established ourselves at a standing table in the corner and installed a table guard in the shape of Mary. Suzanne, being the boring teetotaller, would have been the obvious choice for this key role if she had not already been assigned the key role of Keeper of the Kitty. We had all thrown a fiver into this pot for the first few rounds of drinks, which was a fair amount of money back in the late seventies, so it should have lasted most of the night. Pam hadn't been allowed to contribute as it was her special night.
I say she was a boring teetotaller. That was not the only aspect of Suzanne that made her less than interesting. Her one concession to the wild side was wearing an oversized T-shirt emblazoned with "Jesus Was a Rock Star" on the front. I'm not sure her Methodist Minister would have approved of the sentiment.
It did strike me as odd that Suzanne was not the designated chaperone as well, if she was always sober, anyway. I wondered if this had been Pam's way of imposing some control over me. Best of friends we may well have been, but we weren't immune to a bit of mutual jealousy.
The bar pile deepened while we crept closer. I imagined I felt someone's cock stiffening against my buttock. Not an unpleasant feeling. What? I was not intending to cop off; allow a girl a little pleasure!
Despite our obvious feminine charms, there was some difficulty attracting the barman's attention over the assertive calls from the men at the bar.
"Flash your tits at him, Sandra," called Jennifer-Not-Jenny, using my full title.
"No need," Pam responded and raised herself on her toes to lean across the bar. "Barman!" The barman's head turned and he stared right into her gaping halter top. That did the trick. We each bought a pint and two shorts. We were not going to get much drinking in if we had to wait for half an hour to get served each time.
I turned with my drinks, and a pair of sapphire eyes pierced my brain, blocking the signal that told my knees to hold me upright. A waterfall of blond curls framed the picture-perfect face of the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. This was Roger Daltry's double. I willed my knees to behave and hold me steady. Christ! If Jay had looked like that, I would never want to fuck another bloke again. Hell, if Jay looked like that, I'd never allow him out alone. A faint flutter flittered around my fanny as I considered the possibility that my determination not to cop off may have weakened a little.
"Come on, San," I heard someone call from a distance. I immediately teleported back to the here and now. "Come on," Pam said from right next to me. I turned my head back to the Adonis but he had gone.
"Did you see..." I began.
