This is a kind of prequel to The Hen Do parts 01 and 02 and is part of the larger body of work that will become "Saga of Sandra, a Seeker of Pleasure." If I ever get round to putting them all together.
The Lincolns Inn was an actual 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. Activities described probably happened somewhere else, maybe to someone else, or maybe in someone's fantasies. Who knows for sure?
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Tucked away in a quiet corner, somewhere in the vicinity of the world-famous Mathew Street in Liverpool, The Lincolns Inn was a Rockers club. This was a bit of a highfalutin name for what was, essentially, a gathering place for Punk Rockers, Bikers, and Hippies. It was one of those watering holes that ruled its neutrality with a heavy metal fist. While these three tribes of natural enemies often had a strained relationship, they mostly respected the club's ethos. Though saying Hippies had enemies was a bit like implying that the Dalai Lama was a warmonger.
Occasionally, a fight would break out, but the bouncers, all ex-bikers, usually spotted trouble before it started.
Less smelly and much larger than Erics, The Linc was the ground floor of a massive old warehouse. Several rooms allowed the various tribes to segregate or move around, sampling a variety of sounds and dance styles. A patron could sample every style of rock music from psychedelia, through Prog, via Heavy Metal to Punk. Hearing Abba or any kind of Tamla Motown would have triggered a riot.
The club never got lively till about ten in the evening. Pam and I arrived about nine. It was fairly quiet, so we had no trouble getting served at the bar. This, in itself, was a double-edged sword. The upside was, as I said, having no trouble getting served; the downside was having no trouble getting served. By the time queues formed at the bar, we had already consumed sufficient alcohol to send most inhibitions back through the doors. I always kept just enough with me, however, to resist Big Dave and Storm.
Yes, Big Dave was there with his mate, Storm. We called him Storm because his name was Rory Wilde and Marty didn't suit him - it was a Scouser thing. We called the other one Big Dave because he was big, unlike the other Dave who was about my height - we called him Little Dave, imaginatively. Big Dave was an ex-beau; a handy guy to have around when you need that sort of thing, an awful guy to have a relationship with. He was the polar opposite of Jay, and not nearly as good looking. Well, he was nearly as good looking, but nowhere near as good in bed. No, really! He was great for a bit of rough when you wanted it, but that was all he was good for. He didn't go in for the tender, loving stuff.
***
"Hello, handsome!" Pamela was an outrageous flirt, as always. We'd been there for about an hour, and the two had just arrived.
"Alright, Pam," Big Dave replied, as she gave him a brief hug. She spotted Storm over his shoulder. "And my other favourite greaser," she said, leaving Dave and giving Storm a similar greeting, pecking his lips and pretending she'd been going to his cheek.
"Pam!" I admonished. "Behave."
If only Richard knew what his virginal girl friend got up to when she was out, I thought. I often did think that. To be fair, she wasn't so much worse than I was, but I never pretended to be a virgin when I met Jay.
"You behave, mum!"
"Yeah, you behave," said Storm.
"And don't be a hypocrite," Pam's put down. "You drunk enough to dance yet," she said to either or both. I couldn't be certain.
"Nah! Not a chance," was Big Dave's reply.
"Yeah. I prefer to wait till the floor gets a bit crowded as well." She winked and grinned. What a hussy!
Until this point, Pam had expressed some reservations about going to the club. It was not really her kind of dive. She was more into boring, middle of the road pop and soul music. I warned her that under no circumstance was she to ask the DJ for The Jacksons, even as a joke. Once we'd visited the bar a few times, she danced with anything that looked like it possessed a dick. She blatantly teased some of the men, often rubbing her arse into their crotches and her petite tits into their chests.
I have to admit to dancing with Big Dave; though I would never go there again. I avoided any action that might be construed as risqué. Storm was a different matter. He was out of bounds and knew he was. So I could be as risqué as I felt like, and he would never cross the line. I wasn't that certain about their other friends at the club, but it didn't stop me from flirting a little; well, I flirted a lot, actually, but I trusted Storm to save me from anyone over stepping.
The risqué quotient definitely increased in proportion to the volume of alcohol consumed. By about eleven-thirty, the dance-floors were crowded. I was behaving almost as outrageously as Pam by then. God, no! I exaggerate, of course. But, though I thought Pam and I were devoid of inhibitions, what I encountered next was either totally shocking or completely admirable, and I wasn't sure which.
***
I hadn't seen Pamela for a while, so I wandered towards the toilets while I looked. She wasn't in there either. There were three rooms in the club, so I drifted around, looking for Pam and seeing what was happening to the beat of the various musical genres. There were punk rockers trying to pogo and drunken bikers stomping unsteadily. I spent a little time being entertained by the failures. The hippies did their own thing. There weren't many in that night, and a good few were lying around on bean bags.
Since I hadn't found Pam, I made my way to the bar and ordered myself another snake bite, that's half lager and half cider in Liverpool; I believe there are variations around the country.
"Yeah! Me too," came Storm's voice from behind, "and I'll get them."
"Ta, very much," I said. "Didn't realise you were behind me."
"I wasn't. Just saw you at the bar and thought I'd try and beat the queue."
"Cheeky!"
We turned from the bar with our drinks. "Thanks!" I said, holding my glass up. "Cheers!"
We clinked glasses, spilling a good mouthful to add to the sticky mess on the floor. "Slàinte Mhath!" He announced.
"What?" I thought he was speaking a foreign language.
"It means good-health. It's Gaelic."
"Oh! You were speaking a foreign language!"
We both laughed and moved away.
"I'm going to find Dave," he said.
"And I'm looking for Pam."
We parted to look for our respective pals.
Eventually, I drifted back to a room playing Status Quo. No-one seemed to be dancing, but rather standing in a circle. I nosed my way in to see a gorgeous looking red haired biker girl dancing in the middle and soaking up the attention, even though she seemed quite timid. I may have been perfectly heterosexual, but I knew a sexy woman when I spotted one, and this redhead was certainly a sexy woman.
One biker broke the circle and grabbed her hand. This little ginger mouse turned into a big cat and, without breaking her dance routine, pushed him into the crowd with both hands. She looked through the onlookers at him with a beaming smile and peeled off one side of the cut-down denim waistcoat. She pulled it back up and repeated the moves on the other side. Drawing both sides off her shoulder, she let it slide to the floor and her audience cheered. She kicked it in the direction of the guy she'd just pushed back, bared her teeth in a massive mock smile and started pulling at the bottom of her oversized Hawkwind T-shirt, which hung over a denim mini-skirt.
Like a pair of piston rods, her arms pumped alternately, revealing tantalising flashes of midriff on each side. Each cycle revealed more flesh and, when her hands reached shoulder height, the audience cheered.
