We had been sixteen and so incredibly beautiful. Despite our teenage insecurities of being too fat, the photograph proved we had both been stunners ten years ago. Germaine; or Gemmy as I preferred to call her; and I must have been the envy of the world in our post-pubescent years.
And now, aged 26, I’m sitting in my kitchen and reminiscing about that somewhat confusing but extremely pleasing summer of 1994, when Gemmy and I had been introduced to one another by our parents. My father Alan, a bank manager, had struck up a friendship with a fellow colleague – Jack. Before long, Jack and his wife Tanya were started popping round to our mansion for Sunday Lunch, then Christmas breakfast and Easter Dinner. It was specifically during the Easter Dinner that I got to know Gemmy. Being the only minor in the company of four adults – my parents, Tanya and Jack, I often felt bored. When I complained to my mother that I didn’t want to sit through the Easter dinner because I was surrounded by a bunch of old fogies, although slightly offended, my mother suggested Jack and Tanya should bring over Gemmy to keep me company.
When Gemmy walked through the door, after her parents, my stomach did a triple-back flip. I had never thought of any female as merely pretty, let alone sexy, but Gemmy was absolutely gorgeous. She has long, flowing curls tinted blonde, and two brown eyes that could speak a million words in place of her pink pouty lips. Much leg and cleavage were exposed through her tiny blue dress. I wondered whether she felt cold, it was April after all.
Gemmy and I had a lot in common. We both loved Mariah Carey, Janet Jackson and the Counting Crows. We both though that Babyface was great and that Salt-n-Pepa were cool in a funny kind of way.
After that Easter Dinner, I got to see Gemmy every Sunday from 1 pm to 7pm. I lived solely and exclusively for Sundays. I obviously tried to suppress the feelings bubbling within, brushing them off as admiration for her perfectly flat stomach, expertly tamed curls and immaculate make-up. During the week I started practicing with my own look. After much self-persuasion, I chopped off my three foot long braid and went for a straight-edge bob with a stern fringe. My new short do combined with my straight, black, glossy hair certainly boosted my self esteem. I gently started to shed weight and opt for darker, sultrier clothing which would allow one to take a peek her and a peek there: plunging V-necks, low-cut tops, two buttoned shirts, low-rise jeans, hipster pants, skirts with slits – you name it.
I never thought my weight loss would in turn come in handy. In June, my mother announced that we would be going on vacation to nearest location promoting sun, sand and sea.
“With Alan, Tanya and Gemmy,” she added.
I was thrilled.
It was on the first night of that same vacation that Gemmy and I had shared our first kiss. She had told me she’d never kissed anyone before and was desperate to kiss someone before she got a boyfriend and scared him off for not knowing quite what to do.
I had tried to explain that everyone kissed differently and that there was no technique as such, but Gemmy was persistent and begged me to help her out.
“You’re my best friend!” she’d whined.
Kissing her blew my mind. I’d kissed guys before, but generally felt very unusual with doing so. But kissing Gemmy made my breasts throb, my pussy moisten. We ‘practiced’ every night for five nights, in her room. Then, on the sixth night, I felt my hand scoot up her waist and cup her breast. I frantically but unsuccessfully tried to control my fumbling fingers. I expected her to be upset, but she moaned gently instead. Then – without warning, she copied me, taking her own soft fingers to my cotton clad tits. Since we were in our bed clothes, nothing more than strappy tops and shorter-than-short shorts, it wasn’t hard for us to raise each other’s nipples into little mounds beneath material. My lips left hers, exploring the soft flesh on her neck, the peaks of her chest, before finding the protruding bud. I was half-way through lifting her top over her head when Jack swung the door handle open and caught us red-handed.
Panic ensued. My parents were completely devastated. In fear that Gemmy and I were going to turn out being full-fledged lesbians, Tanya and Jack left the resort that very same day – taking Gemmy with them. That was the last time I saw Gemmy in flesh and blood. The friendship between my parents and Gemmy’s parents broke down. I believed I would never see her again for the rest of my living days.
And that’s why I married Frank, aged 23. Straight after graduating in Philosophy, Frank and I took our vows and set up a home. I felt I owed it to my parents to be respectable after that unsettling incident which occurred in summer 1994.
But then, three weeks ago, the unexpected happened. As I sifted through the spam in my e-mail inbox, I came across an e-mail entitled “Germaine/ Gemmy here. Remember me?”
My heart went into over-drive. My hands grew clammy, my mouth ran dry, my head started spinning and my stomach lurched. It felt very much like the first time I saw her, sensations multiplied by ten this time round. I took to reading the digital letter. She had found me through an online profile and though she’d drop me a line. Apparently she had also gotten married three years ago, to a bloke called Kevin. Like me, she hadn’t yet found the motivation to think about babies.
We exchanged a few more e-mails after her first, then took to calling one another. Then, three days ago she told me: “Tori, we should really meet up again and catch up on all the things we’ve missed out on.” I could think of quite few, but I didn’t want to read too deep into her invitation.
“How about this weekend? You and Kevin can stay with us. I’m sure the men get on well, plus we have loads of space where you guys can crash. With all the catching up we need to do, even three days don’t sound enough!” I chuckled, terrified she’d refuse.
