CHAPTER 1
06:00.
That's what the clock radio said. That was OK. I am an early riser.
Shit.
I don't have a clock radio. Where was I? Clearly not in my own bed. And whose hand was gently squeezing my right boob? Presumably the same person who was attached to my back, bum, thighs and calves. And was breathing, ever so slowly, into my neck.
I thought I had woken from a really vivid and dirty dream, but, no that really was last night, and my memory was vivid and oh so dirty. I was in another woman's bed. With another woman. Naked. My fantasies had never extended to the morning after.
Gorgeous Georgia.
She had virtually swept me off my feet. And made love to me. I had become a woman. I suppose. No; probably not.
What was I to do? I did nothing, as was my wont. The alarm went off at 06:30. Georgia leaned across me and switched it off, unfortunately releasing my boob, which felt really lonely. The bedside light came on, and I felt more orientated. Then she was gone.
I rolled over just in time to catch her tanned, heart shaped arse disappearing to the bathroom. I was busting. I hobbled to the bathroom, one hand over my groin and my other arm clutched across my chest. I heard the toilet flush and Georgia emerged beaming at me.
"Hi, lover. Charley. Stand up straight and put your hands behind your back. You've got nothing to hide. Well, maybe you have," she growled, licking her lips, "But it certainly should not be hidden from me. Go on, before you wet the carpet."
I walked back into the bedroom, with my head, sort of held high. I was used to being naked around other women, but context is everything, and I felt really awkward still.
Georgia placed a finger between her thighs, then sniffed it, and pulled a face.
"Week old tuna. Let's shower."
Georgia shared my slight obsession with personal hygiene, and lukewarm water. It was wonderful, washing with another woman, and she showed me how to do the slippery shower samba. Followed by the fluffy towel foxtrot. And finally drying and brushing Georgia's hair, which was sensual rather than sexual.She had a large supply of spare toothbrushes.
I had not arrived equipped for a sleep over, and Georgia dug me out a T shirt and black thong. Then a quick cup of tea, and back to the pool for twenty lengths. Being gorgeous required maintenance. Suited me fine; although my enforced absence, from the water, really showed. I was so slow. The pool did not have a diving platform, which I found strangely reassuring.
We had breakfast, in the university canteen. A steady stream of students passed by, all waving at Georgia; some stopping for a chat, or just a kiss. They all eyed me up. Some smiled, some scowled, and a few laughed. A few comments were passed. Georgia just smiled beatifically, her hand on my thigh.
Then she whispered in my ear, "Where do you want it?"
"What?"
"The tattoo."
"What tattoo?"
"G.C. My mark of ownership. I like it somewhere visible, like a shoulder blade."
I spat cornflakes across the table.
Tears ran down Georgia's face.
Gorgeous Georgia. It was difficult to get annoyed with her. Much as she tried to provoke it. Gorgeous was not so much a nickname, as a mission statement, and she liked to share her gorgeousness with others. She could not always decide if she was woman, goddess, or girl. Her self confidence, and charm, was legendary. As was her ability to wound, casually. I had a strong suspicion that I was a charity case and had already had my one taste of the Gorgeous Gash.
We went our separate ways, for the day, with no mention of meeting later. I had a busy day, navigating the university, both physically, and intellectually. This only partly distracted me from my yearning, and emptiness. My utter naïveté was letting me down. I had never had a girlfriend before, or a boyfriend, really. What would a "normal" person do? I didn't even have her phone number. How stupid was I?
The previous two years, had really been pretty grim.
I had always been a Daddy's girl, and I was devastated when he ran of with a floozy. Turned out they had been having an affair for ten years. She's not even that good looking. I still blame myself. Maybe I could have done something better. Maybe if I had not spent most of my adolescence sulking, or rowing with my mum, Dad would have been happier. He has cut us off completely. As you know, I hated the move to Yorkshire. I never made any real friends, and really struggled with my growing realisation, that I was gay. I could not tell anyone. I wanted to be straight. I went out with a couple of boys, but neither "relationship" lasted more than four weeks. I was always home by 11. I was never a true teenage rebel; just a mouthy one. I let the boys snog me. Badly. And even a couple of gropes up my jumper. I drew the line at an attempted hand up the skirt.
Most of the girls, in my class, hated me, and my apparent frigidity just confirmed their suspicions. I was called a dyke, but only as part of their general abuse, and bullying. Rather they thought I was too snooty for Yorkshire lads. I threw myself into my water polo and diving. Probably an appropriate turn of phrase, in light of the disaster in Stockholm. I also studied really hard, and got four A grades at A level.
Then, in August, I got glassed; and became Charley, Scarface, Matthews.
Lectures finished at 5pm and I returned to my little room in the halls of residence. It was clean, and warm, but impersonal. I could not complain, though. I was living in one of the most expensive boroughs, in London, and paying peanuts in rent.
My flatmates were a gregarious bunch, and as excitable as you might expect of a bunch of overachieving eighteen year olds, who were away from home, for the first time.
