Three Steps To Heaven 1

I hope this lesbian love story has turned out okay. One evening I was listening to a 1950s/60s music programme on the radio and an Eddie Cochrane song inspired the story title and chapter headings. Trouble was, I didn't have even an inkling of a story idea, just liked the title with headings, and it took me a while to come up with this. So if it fails, blame me and not Eddie Cochrane (especially seeing that he's in great rock 'n' roll concert hall in the sky). But I hope you enjoy it. There is sex but as always it's secondary to the plot (such as it is).

Characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over.

All characters and places are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 to the author

Step One: You find a girl you love

Men! What is it they say? Can't live with them, can't live without them! Well, scrub that last bit: very definitely can live without them!

I'm Jessie Thorne (middle names Moonbeam Hummingbird but we'll come to that later) and I think I'm fairly intelligent and quite a nice person. But—and it's a big but—I'm one of these women who has a talent for picking absolute rotters when it comes to men. With all the nice guys in the world, why do I always seem to get stuck with with nature's bastards? To sum up, the men I've been involved with over the years have been arseholes, slime-balls, slugs and creepy-crawlies. There, clear on that? Every time, every heartache, every speck of despair, I promise myself "Never again!" My life becomes a banner for all the proverbs and clichés such as: "Caveat emptor!" or "Look before you leap!" And then I do it all over again.

Take Howie for example. Howie is a teacher, a headmaster in a highly-regarded school in fact, quite a catch for any girl (or woman—I'll not see thirty again). When I was in my late twenties I was actually engaged to Howie and we were living together. I'm not even sure that I was properly in love with him, I'd somehow persuaded myself that I was. My parents are a bit unconventional (make that very unconventional) and I'd gone down the rebel route by being the exact opposite, goody-goody almost to the point of nausea. I think now I was just conforming, doing what people expected of me. And Howie's mother is a very forceful woman who probably pushed me, if not us, into the engagement. Anyway, we had the wedding planned, the venue chosen, his mother beside herself with joy. My mum, who has a reputation for being a bit ditsy, had reservations. "Never trust a man who wears a three-piece suit and tie in high summer," she said. That describes Howie's dress code to a t. A weird basis for mistrust, you might think, but she was right. I came home from work early one day and caught Howie with his todger buried up to the hilt in the pussy of a squealing blonde dimwit called Chloe something. In our bed! And he had his socks on! Nothing else, just his socks. Have you ever noticed how silly a man looks with nothing on but his socks?

Of course, I kicked him out. Then very stupidly let him back in. He pleaded, grovelled, said it was a momentary aberration, Chloe had tempted him, seduced him, couldn't help himself, didn't know what he was doing, moment of weakness, major mistake, I was the only woman in the world for him, never happen again, on his life it wouldn't! I forgave him, we kissed, made up, Howie moved back in on the understanding he was on probation. Wedding back on, he couldn't wait to marry me, his own true love.

Yes, you've guessed. I caught them at it once more, just when I'd started to trust him again. I came home to collect some work-papers I'd forgotten and recognised Chloe's enthusiastic squealing as I walked through the front door. This time they hadn't even made it to the bedroom. I found them shagging like bunny-rabbits on the sitting-room sofa. I've never seen an erection collapse so quickly. In Howie's case it just goes to show that intelligence doesn't necessarily confer common sense. In wide-eyed Chloe's case, well, she didn't really see what the problem was—didn't everyone shag other women's men? I honestly believe there wasn't a bad bone in the girl's body but I did say she was a bubble-head. When it comes to glamour and oomph, Chloe's got it in spades, more than her fair share, but the poor girl must have wandered off when they were handing out the brains and got overlooked. You remember what they used to say about Gerald Ford? Can't walk and chew gum at the same time—Chloe in a nutshell.

That wasn't quite the end of it. For a long time Howie kept calling me, begging me to take him back. Again? Fool me once, your bad: fool me twice, my bad. I suspect his mother was the driving force behind the attempts at reconciliation. By this time Howie was living with Chloe and I once asked him if he wanted to be with me so much, what about her? "Oh, I'll just kick her out," was the airy reply.

What a piece of work, eh? It's a good job his academic subject was Maths—I shudder to think what his pupils would have learned if he taught Ethics. I told him to fuck off and I didn't wash my mouth out with soap and water afterwards either.

I saw them in a pub once, about a year after the second split. I thought it wouldn't hurt to be friendly and so I went over to say hello. We chatted quite amicably for a few minutes before poor little Chloe came out with a remark of such staggering stupidity that even the pub's resident cat blinked. Turning to Howie, I smiled and said in my most saccharine possible tone: "See?"

Revenge, a cold dish best sweetened with a little sugar.

* * * * *

Timothy was something else again. He was a senior sales manager in the huge company where I worked in PR. Odd thing about Timothy, there was nothing really attractive about him—receding hairline with chin to match, weak eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, lumpy nose overhanging a wispy moustache—and yet for some reason he was a babe magnet. Powerful pheromones and a silver tongue, I guess. He certainly got me, somehow. I was wary at first, knowing he was married. He sweet-talked me into believing that he and his wife had split up some time previously, even taking me to his new flat to seduce me.

His (temporary) fall from grace came when the police caught him kerb-crawling in a red-light district, in a company car. Most people would have got the sack instantly. Not Timothy, he was a brilliant salesman and brought in too much business for the firm. He was relegated to a desk job for one month as punishment and then turned loose on his clients and an unsuspecting female population again.

Of course, I dropped him. Then I found out that not only was his marriage still intact but he was also knocking off three other women in the company at the same time he was giving me one. A wife, four girlfriends, and he goes kerb-crawling, looking for a prostitute. Another piece of work. It's a wonder his dick didn't die from exhaustion. I found out about the same time that 'his' new flat actually belonged to a friend of his who was working overseas for a few months.

* * * * *

I won't bore you too much more with my tales of woe but I must mention Clifford. He wasn't in the same league as Howie and Timothy but he was definitely strange. He used to write me love-letters in Spanish despite me telling him over and over that I didn't speak the language. He always signed them off with about the only Spanish I worked out:

Te amo siempre.

Clifford's not Spanish, he's from the West Midlands. If he had been Spanish his name would likely have been Cliffio or something similar. I suppose he was trying to impress me. He didn't. I told him several times to knock it off but still the

billets-doux

continued to arrive. So not too long and it was "

Adios

Clifford!",

amo-

ing me

siempre

or not.

There were others. 'Nuff said.

* * * * *

I told you Timothy was a babe-magnet. Me? I seem to be an arsehole magnet. And do you know the worst of it? I never had an orgasm with any of them, not once, only the occasional little spasm which hardly counts. I'd been led to believe that with spectacular orgasms I would experience soaring to heaven while orchestras played crescendo,

tsunamis

thundered, bells peeled out, grand-opera choruses boomed, constellations spun madly and far-flung galaxies whirled. But no, just the occasional little spasm, a hiccup almost.

I'd lost my virginity when I was eighteen. He was the handsome and dashing Captain of the school's First XI cricket and rugby teams and all the girls drooled over him. He took my virginity and I wondered what the hell all the fuss was about. Himself seemed to enjoy it judging by the shrill squeaks he made when he shot his load (after what seemed to be about thirty or so seconds). But, a presage of things to come, it left me cold.

Oh, I got pretty good at faking orgasms, knowing how sensitive most of the pathetic little ratbags are about their prowess but the sex did nothing for me. I just put it down to the fact that I might have a very low sex-drive. Come to think of it, I never even got really wet with a man, only slightly (very slightly) moist. One particularly unpleasant specimen—a one-night stand after a few too many bevvies in a local wine bar—pulled his trousers on and told me I was the worst shag he'd ever had. It was "...like wanking into a lump of warm meat..." was his delightful way of putting it. I didn't stop crying for an hour after he left. I'm not sure whether the tears were because of his shitty remark or the agony of my shitty hangover.

Final whinge coming up, I promise. Not one of them would go down on me, not even Sir Timothy of the Tireless Todger. Oh, they all expected me to play a merry tune on their penny whistles but when I suggested reciprocation you can imagine their reaction...

Urrghh!

Men, eh?

I did once have a heart-to-heart with my mother about the men who've been in my life and about my non-orgasmic sexual adventures. She sympathised but pointed out the bleeding obvious, that I had terrible taste in men and that my judgement was seriously impaired. She added that as for the orgasms—or sad lack thereof—I just couldn't have met the right person yet. Then she said: "Darling, have you ever considered that perhaps you're not made for men?" Now what the hell did she mean by that?

Mind you, I didn't go through life orgasm-less. I had several vibrators of varying shapes and sizes and they gave me what I needed. Funny that, I never once had any problems coming off with one of my toys nor with my hand. Not the full crashing monty, mind you, but enough to keep me happy. Perhaps the fact that I could come by myself with fingers and vibrator should have told me something.

Rant over. Don't get the idea I hate men, I don't. Most I've known are generally decent types. It's just that something about me sends out a siren call to the Howies and Timothys and Cliffords of this world. And I've always seemed to fall for whatever bullshit they come up with. Do you think perhaps I could have been desperate?

* * * * *

I realise I've been shooting off about all the men I wish I'd never met and haven't told you a lot about myself. So here goes, potted version. I'm aged thirty-one with thirty-two peeping just over the horizon. I'm five-seven, although with a bit of stretching I can add quarter-inch to that, curly chestnut-brown hair, hazel eyes and on a good day I can pass for moderately nice-looking. Reasonable figure with smallish boobs, no bad thing that, I've been told that really big boobs can get very uncomfortable. I'll never make it onto a Pirelli calendar but at least my passport photograph isn't too horrifying to look at.

My parents are lovely although, as I mentioned, somewhat unconventional. By day, Dad, a gentle soul, is a copywriter working for a major advertising company; by night he's the big daft twenty-year-old he once was. Gets home from work, takes off his workplace clothes, in themselves pretty casual, dons leisurewear that would make Abba flinch and then gets on with what he considers to be his real work—he writes moderately successful paperback thrillers under a pen-name (Brett Hardman—says it all really, wish-fulfilment I guess) while listening to Seventies and Eighties rock music. Mum has a reputation for being scatter-brained but deep down she's very astute, just manages to hide it well. She paints. On the one hand she produces dashing abstracts in virulent colours which are snapped up by aficionados; on the other she paints bread-and-butter cutie pictures of puppies and kittens and so on, the kind of pictures much loved by small girls that sell very well in several local souvenir shops. So they're comfortably off. I've also got two sets of grandparents, all in their late seventies, all in good health, all beating old age off with clubs.

So there you have me, Jessica Moonbeam Hummingbird Thorne, spinster of this parish, unlucky in love and failed romantic but living in constant hope.

* * * * *

It was another little skunk in human form, I think, who lost me the PR job I loved although I couldn't prove it. His name was Archie McNaughton and he was the Big White Chief 's son. The occasion was one of these executive dinners where they all get together to congratulate each other and hand out thoroughly undeserved (in most cases) awards. I was there to write articles for the house magazine and also to string for a couple of local newspapers and a national trade journal. My three colleagues in PR had all found an excuse to wriggle out of the dinner, having been lumbered with it in previous years. And fate, or someone with an unpleasant sense of humour, sat me next to the McNaughton rat at table.

Coffee had been served, the speeches were beginning and I was scribbling notes to supplement the recording I was making. That's when I felt the sweaty hand crawling onto my knee. Now this would have been unacceptable if he'd been tall, dark and handsome but the McNaughton was small, greasy and ill-favoured which made it doubly so. I glared at Archie who gave me an 'I'm the boss's son, I can do what I like' smirk. I lifted his hand and moved it away. It came back immediately, this time further up my thigh, almost within finger distance of my pussy. I shifted it a second time and he moved fast. He grabbed my hand and put it on the bulge in his trousers. Another smirk, this one saying 'So what are you going to do about it?'

I showed him. I retrieved my hand, picked up my cup of fresh hot coffee and poured it into his lap. "Oops! I've spilled my coffee on you. Sorry about that."

Archie McNaughton went scarlet as he double up and clapped a napkin over his mouth to stifle any moans. After all, it wouldn't do to spoil Daddy's speech, would it? Of course, his trousers and underpants would have absorbed much of the heat but it still must have stung. And the spreading wet stain on his crotch would have caused big-time embarrassment. Shame about my coffee though. What a waste!

Three or four days later I was summoned to the HR director's office. Henry Lassiter was a nice enough man but I think he was too much under the Big Fellow's thumb. Although I suppose with a family to support he couldn't risk his position in the company. He certainly didn't look happy when I entered his office, more vaguely embarrassed than anything.

"Have a seat, Jessie. Now this is always a very difficult job to do. I'm afraid that for financial reasons we're having to cut back on staff. As you're the last one into PR, I'm afraid you'll have to be the first one out. We're having to declare you redundant. Effective immediately. I think you'll find our severance package generous, more generous than the legal requirement."

"Financial reasons, eh?" I said, "That's odd. The most recent figures I've seen showed the company to be in excellent shape."

Henry reddened a little but didn't reply, just passed me an A4 sheet with sets of figures showing payments to me net of taxes.

Henry was right. The package was generous—too generous. "How long before you replace me, Henry?"

He wouldn't meet my eyes. "I'm not sure what you mean, Jessie."

"This isn't about me being surplus to requirements, is it?" I said, "It's because I wouldn't play footsie with that little shit Archie McNaughton." Henry still wouldn't meet my eyes and said nothing. "How often has this happened before, Henry? Now I think of it, several girls have left the company over the past couple of years, all of them with generous severance packages." I suppose I could have kicked up a stink, threatened to go to law, but with no witnesses it would only have been my word against Archie's (the four or five others at our table had their backs to us as they watched McNaughton Senior give his self-serving speech). And I'd poured hot coffee onto Junior's chopper which in the absence of witnesses might have left me open to an actual bodily harm charge.

Hell, forget your pride and accept the too generous severance money

I told myself.

"Jessie... I... " Henry seemed to be having problems answering me and when he spoke it seemed to be to change the subject. "Jessie, do you know Newcombe Parva?"

Newcombe Parva was a town some fifty miles away. "Slightly. Why?"

"It's a small place but has a lot of light industry," said Henry, "An old pal of mine called Bill Laker is HR manager in a small manufacturing company there. They're not our rivals, deal in totally different products. Bill called me recently, they're thinking of setting up a PR office, asked me if I knew anyone suitable." He passed me a card. "If you wouldn't mind moving away from here, give him a call. I think it's a one person job and it would suit you. I'll give you a excellent reference."

"Thanks, Henry." I took the proffered card. "I might give it a try. Mind if I give you some advice?"

He shrugged. "Go ahead."

"I should look for some way to cover your backside. Sooner or later the McNaughton brat is going to slip up badly and if it's found that the company has been covering up for him, the shit will really hit the fan and splash all over everyone without an umbrella."

* * * * *

Bill Laker was middle-aged and pleasant and the interview went well. My work would be much the same as I'd been doing but on a smaller scale. I'd write publicity shots, newsletters, press articles and Bill asked if I'd be able to start an in-house magazine. I'd brought a portfolio of my work so he could see I'm a competent journalist. He gave me a tour of the place, offices and factory floor (they produced 'clean' white goods so the factory floor area was bright and shining), and the upshot was he offered me the position and I accepted.

The salary wasn't as good as my previous job but then living in Newcombe Parva was much cheaper than the city. Bill arranged accommodation for me in a very decent lodging house, mine for as long as I wanted it. I put most of my stuff in store until I could find a house or flat I liked and so started out on a course that in time would change my life completely.

The third day in the job I was invited to a meeting. It was a small group to discuss various staffing matters and I couldn't figure out why I was there. Everything under discussion was a matter for HR, not PR. Bill Laker clarified things when he introduced me to the half-dozen or so gathered there. "I've asked Jessie along so that she can get a feel of how we operate."

The first item on the agenda was a proposed staff recreation area. Two large adjoining rooms on the ground floor had become vacant and were deemed ideal for the purpose. One room would be a furnished sitting room with tea- and coffee-making machines, the other kitted out with pool table, table tennis and similar equipment. The arguments started over what to call the area. One wanted to call it 'Human Resources Division Staff Facilities' while another scoffed and opted for 'Multi-personnel Recreational Facilities'. A third came up with an equally pompous sounding name. Some of these prats seemed to think that the longer and more complicated they made something, the more clever they appeared. Did I have news for them.