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The two weeks either side of the August Bank Holiday weekend are the peak tourist season in England and both the Campsite and Stables were fully booked. With being so busy at work, Amy and I had agreed not to worry about meeting up with each other again before the Saturday.
Her family were due to leave on the Friday morning and I suggested that she stay that night at the farmhouse, partly to reduce her commute but also to have an evening meal with my parents and me. To my surprise, she politely declined. I didn't push the issue, but as we were going to lose our virginities to each other the following evening, I reasoned that she might well want to spend some time on her own and, with her work schedule at the riding school, that would be difficult enough without staying over with me. Perhaps she also felt that a period of minimal intimacy between the two of us would make the first time that little bit more special. In the event, one of the members of staff at the Campsite called in sick on the Friday and so I worked a double shift into the evening.
Outside of work, there were a few things I had to do to get ready for Cambridge, which proved a decent distraction from the business of the weekend to come. Exam Results Day had triggered an avalanche of paperwork, which had arrived in the post early that week. All of a sudden, I was putting my barely practised signature to my rent agreement and all manner of other contracts. A few days later, one of the second-year students at my College messaged me on Facebook to introduce himself and to say that he'd be mentoring me for the first couple of weeks.
There were also some preparations to make for Saturday night. Firstly I'd been trying to do some 'research on the internet' into how to have sex with a girl for the first time. I knew that Amy was likely to experience a lot of pain, but I wanted to mitigate that as much as possible. Inevitably the vast array of resources online were fairly unhelpful, but the more useful advice suggested lots of foreplay and plenty of lube.
Uncharacteristically for me, perhaps, I'd also thought about what I was going to wear. Clearly Amy and I would be naked for 'the act', but maybe I could be a little sexier in my attire beforehand. (The thought had crossed my mind that Amy had been intending to save the lacy nightie that she'd worn the previous weekend, for her first time.) In the end I decided that it was more important that I was as relaxed and comfortable as possible, than that I arrived dressed anything too exotic.
I did allow myself to fork out for the relative extravagance of two new pairs of boxer briefs from a well-known sports brand (white ones of course - I knew that Amy preferred them to the black); they seemed to cling a little more closely to my butt and to show off the outline of my bulge more effectively than my usual bottom-of-the-range supermarket stock. I'd also agonised over splashing out on a bottle of aftershave, but in the end had decided that it just wasn't 'me'.
I clocked off at the Campsite just after three on Saturday afternoon and drove straight into town to buy a bottle of wine and a bouquet of red roses. If I couldn't give Amy red roses on that day, when could I?
I felt just a hint of nervousness as I parked the car back at the farmhouse. There were two hours to go before I needed to pick my girlfriend up from the Stables; even if I dragged out showering, shaving and changing, there'd still be at least an hour before I needed to leave. There was absolutely no point rushing, yet every bone in my body was urging me to leap out and to start getting ready.
Grabbing the flowers and the bottle, I unlocked the front door of the house and headed to the kitchen. Fortunately my parents were out, and I had the house to myself. I dunked the flowers in some water and squeezed the wine into the freezer to cool it, then headed upstairs to pack and get ready.
One of the strategic purchases that I'd made that week was a cheap battery-powered shaver and hair trimmer from the catalogue shop in town. I'd toyed with the idea of tidying up my pubes several times over the previous few months, especially as Amy and I became more intimate with each other. She always kept her own hair short and neatly trimmed, and this was something I noticed and appreciated when going down on her. I thought it would be nice to surprise her by reciprocating, especially as it seemed likely that she would blow me a couple of times over the weekend. I'd also read that it made your cock seem longer.
I stood in the bathroom, with the door locked safely behind me, brandishing the electric shaver. I could see the area in question, reflected in the mirror, but was unsure how to proceed. Should I sit on the floor and try to bend forward to see what I was doing, or was standing up in front of the basin the better strategy?
I decided the floor was the best option and, juggling a mirror and comb in one hand and the shaver in the other, cautiously began my topiary. I decided to be conservative, on the grounds that trimming less was probably better than overdoing things - I didn't want to end up with big bald patches, just a little neater all round. I finished my work, uncertain as to whether I'd made any improvement, although the small pile of hair of dirty-blond hair between my legs showed that I had at least removed something.
I'd toyed with the idea of a tactical wank to head off a premature ejaculation, but decided I wanted my only orgasms that day to be with Amy. So instead I climbed into the shower, making sure that every part of my body was clean. I shaved my face, then pulled on my new boxer briefs. I posed in front of the mirror, before putting a little gel on my hair. I recalled the last time I'd paused to admire myself in the same way, in the hotel bathroom at the Prom, half-expecting Ritchie to appear behind me ready to cause trouble. I shuddered and tried to banish the image of his sneering face from my mind. Why was that spectre rearing its head on today of all days?
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I sat in the car waiting patiently; Amy was late finishing at the Stables as usual - something wrong with a horse, or something. The bottle of white wine that I'd tried to chill in the freezer, was now the same temperature as the inside of the car and the roses would doubtless be roasting in their hiding place in the boot; but none of that mattered - I was spending the weekend alone with my girlfriend - I didn't mind waiting.
I flicked idly through the messages on my phone, scrounging off the riding school wifi. Most of my classmates were posting updates from their travels - endless photos of smiling faces from towns and cities across Europe and beyond, enjoying their first foreign vacations without their parents.
My cousin had posted a selfie standing on the Charles Bridge in Prague, arms round one of my best friends - she seemed as besotted as she had been when she'd left. She'd appended a message: "Standing on the most romantic bridge in Europe with my amazing boyfriend! Can't believe it's been four months already!! I love you Danny Curran XXX." It was enough to make anyone puke.
Lauren wasn't the only one; James had posted a string of photos from the beaches of Spain and Portugal. Almost all featured his girlfriend Becky, cavorting around the frame as she showed off the assets that had bewitched almost every boy in the school. The bikinis she wore (different in almost every shot) left little to the imagination. To my shame I found myself feeling a tiny pang of jealousy - Becky was hot, there was no denying it - that had been obvious even when she was wearing school uniform. I chided myself - I had no need and no right to envy James; Amy was the most beautiful girl in the world - and she had the brains to match; an airhead like Becky simply couldn't compete.
Perhaps James was the one whose relationship had changed him the most, I mused. He'd always been more confident and outgoing than Danny and me. But now there was an added layer of materialism on top - he'd be the party king at uni, no doubt about it. I flicked to the next photo; there was the smug bastard, lying on a sun lounger by a pool, wearing sunglasses and board shorts, drinking a tall cocktail.
No I wasn't jealous, I really wasn't.
But Amy and I weren't the only ones still in Blighty; Ritchie was languishing in a Young Offenders' Institution awaiting his trial. The plans he and Ross had had to screw their way through the party islands of the Mediterranean, had been well and truly dashed. The only action he'd see this summer, would be in the prison showers.
I heard the clang of the gate opening and Amy emerged from the Stables, red-faced and embarrassed. She opened the car door and placed a peck on my cheek. It was about a quarter to seven, but at least we'd be well clear of the traffic as we headed back to her house.
She was flustered - I could tell - she was talking very quickly. No matter what she'd said earlier in the week about not over-planning for the perfect evening, it was clear that she'd wanted us to be well into cooking supper by now. Perhaps her agitation over the timetable slipping was to cover other nerves, but it was clear to me that I needed to step forward a little and to show her I was calm.
"I had a message from Lauren," I ventured, once Amy had rattled through her day and paused to draw breath. "They've made it to Prague."
"Oh that's nice," she replied. "And do you know where they're going next?"
"I think it was Berlin, but I'm not sure, it might have been Munich instead." I thought for a second. "No it must be Berlin, because they were going to meet up with Nick and Frankie."
"And she hasn't got tired of Danny?"
"Not that I'm aware of," I answered. "I'm sure they'll come back as loved up as they went away."
"It's strange," Amy mused. "Almost everyone's doing it at the moment, backpacking round Europe. It just wasn't a 'thing' at my old school - at least I don't think it was."
