My marriage ended acrimoniously after twenty eight years; mainly because I realised I didn't like men. As plus points at forty years old I was still in good condition and attractive for my age. Nor had we had any children, so I had no dependants to fret over. And the financial settlement was more than generous, I would have few money worries for the foreseeable future.
As negative points I had worked part-time in my husband's business and the rest of the time had been a 'happy' home-maker. The monetary settlement meant I wasn't going to be going short, but then it wasn't enough to allow me to buy a villa in Barbados and spend the next thirty years ogling eighteen year olds on the beaches.
However if I had one regret, it was that I'd left school at eighteen and got married, rather than go to University. Strictly speaking that's two regrets, but they are linked.
So that's how I found myself one day in late September at Doldersfield University sitting in a draughty lecture hall, listening to a white bearded lecturer talking about the underlying meaning of Jane Eyre in a masculine society. And whilst many of you may find this boring – I have to admit I loved it.
And it wasn't just the education that I loved. It was the girls. Fat girls, thin girls. Black girls, white girls, Asian girls. Girls who had cropped hair and girls whose hair flooded down the length of their back. Girls who spoke with the harsh accents of Northern Mill Towns and girls who spoke as if they had spent their entire lives in finishing schools. Girls with big tits and girls who chests were like ironing boards. Some who were confident and some timid. Girls whose complexion were pure and others who were still suffering from teenage acne.
I loved them all.
But if there was a blot on the horizon it was boys. I admit to being a rarity, a woman who likes other women. It seemed every girl at Doldersfield was a red blooded heterosexual. I sometimes used to sit in the bar or the library and thinking of the waste as these gorgeous young things grappled with the immature adolescent which was the male undergraduate.
Don't get me wrong I'd taken some active steps to get laid. I joined the Lesbian and Gay Society. But whilst I'd met some attractive looking women it wasn't the pick-up joint I'd imagined it to be. Whilst I'm not ashamed by my sexuality I refuse to be defined by it. And all DLGS seemed to be interested in was the politics of sex, as if prefering pussy to cock somehow meant that you should follow a pre-defined political route, have the same hairstyle and wear the most hideous clothes available at the second hand shop.
So I quickly dropped out. And I have to say my first semester was a bit of a waste sexually.
I returned after Christmas with my parents revigorated and raring to get back to studying. This term I was taking a tutorial in late Tudor poetry and I wanted to get started on reading up on it.
So after unpacking my things I gave my teeth a quick scrub and fastened back my hair. I pulled on a coat and wrapped my scarf round my neck and set out to the library.
Using the computer I quickly located the book I wanted. Scanning the titles on the shelf I quickly located it and reached to pull it out. As I did so another hand brushed mine as it too reached for the book.
I turned to see who the hand belonged too. The owner was blushing slightly, 'Sorry' she said. 'you have it'
She was about 5'10, with hair just down beyond her collar, with a hint of a perm in it. She had a small diamond nose-stud, which seemed to glint in the artificial lights and matched her pale blue eyes. Despite the woolly, baggy jumper she was wearing I could make out her tits were larger than average, but not so large as to be disproportionate to her slender body. In contrast to her sweater the jeans she was wearing were tight, accentuating her perfect legs and buttocks.
I could feel myself in turn blushing. Had she read my mind she'd have quickly discovered that reading was now the last thing on my mind.
'I think you were first,' she continued. 'There's plenty of others I can choose from'.
'Well it is the best' I conceded, 'but,' I pointed to another book near it, 'if it's Tudor poetry you're interested in, this one is almost as good.'
I paused, quickly thinking how I could turn this chance encounter to my advantage. 'We could share it.'
The girl smiled, 'Thanks, but that would be a bit rude of me.' I was about to protest, but she continued, 'If you're only going to borrow it for a few days perhaps you could ring me when you're done'.
