The thought that I probably would never score with a teenage girl ever again, was in my mind the day, fairly recently, when I was surprised by a turn of events. It was this way. My neighbour's nineteen-year-old daughter, coming back from a day at college, rang my doorbell...
Here's what I had been thinking: "I'm forty-six. I have been a lesbian since I was about eleven or twelve - or at least that's when I realized what I was, even though I didn't have a name to put to it - that makes about thirty-five years! When I was in my teens I once had a girlfriend in her mid-twenties, and to me she was mature, grown up, a real woman. Nowadays I look at women in their twenties and they seem to me to be no more than overgrown kids! Good grief, I'm closer to fifty than I am to forty! When did it come about that I started to realise that there were things I would never, ever do again? I have been in love with beauty, with femininity as long as I can remember; I never had any intention to find a life partner, and to watch her grow old as a mirror of my own ageing – two sad, old dykes crumbling together. I always thought there would come a time when my sex-life would consist only of fantasy."
Battling against these thoughts, there had been another thread: "I'm forty-six, so what! That's not old - I am far from being at the end of my sex life. The other day, when I was shopping, I saw a woman who was clearly in her late fifties at least. She was elegant, poised, trim, well turned-out. Her hair, though grey, was thick and straight, attractively styled to brush her collar with a neat flick. The perfume she wore was subtle and fragrant. There was happiness and vitality in her eyes. She obviously enjoyed being a woman. She enjoyed it as much as I did. She also seemed to enjoy the admiring glances she was getting. I felt like kissing her! I fancied her - and here I am whingeing on as though I had one foot in the Sunnyview Retirement Home!"
This was all going through my mind when I opened the door to my neighbour's daughter, and as I looked at her on my doorstep, time stood still for me. She was dressed in a very simple outfit - a blue top, a black skirt, and sandals. Her face was youthful. It wasn't quite pretty - it was too pale to be pretty. But it had something which caught and held my gaze. Brightness of eye? Friendliness? Mischief? Sex appeal? Her hair was dark red - the Titian shade, like in his wonderful painting of Venus - and hung right down to her waist. Now that hair was definitely beautiful.
"I said, I'm sorry to be a nuisance..."
"What? Oh, excuse me, I was miles away! My fault - I came to the door with something on my mind. Sorry. Sorry, You have my undivided attention now. It's Nicole, isn't it?"
"Yes, Hi Miss Evans," said Titian's Venus! "I'm sorry to be a nuisance, I left my keys at home, and there's no one in. I'm locked out. Mum said I was to come here if I ever had a problem when she wasn't there. She said you said I was welcome to. If it's a bad time I'll go and wait on our doorstep..."
"No, no! I'm sorry, I was miles away. Like I said, I have something on my mind. No, of course, you must come in and wait. Come along into the kitchen, and I'll put the kettle on. You could do with a coffee, I suppose, after a day at college."
"Thanks. If you're sure it's no trouble?"
"No, not at all."
No, not at all. No trouble at all. What trouble could it be to have a teenage girl rise from the waves and sweep into my house, trailing her auburn hair behind her. Come on, young Venus - plonk your bag down in the hall and follow me!
In the kitchen I filled the kettle, and we chatted. She chatted mostly. She went on apologizing for being a nuisance, until I told her to stop. Then she started chatting about college, with in an almost nervous way, as if she too had something else on her mind. Little by little, she started to slip other things into the conversation - compliments, little bits of flattery - how nice she thought my blouse was, how she had seen me the other day with my hair down and I didn't have to wear it up, how nice my perfume was (where did I get it? What was it?). I held up my hand to stop her. I had heard this all before. I myself had said it all before, to an older woman, when I was her age. I put my hand on my hip, and looked her straight in the eyes.
"Are you flirting with me, young lady?"
She dropped her eyes and, not without a smile, said, "Yeah, I probably am."
"Probably?"
"I mean yes. I am. I'm flirting with you." She raised her eyes again, and looked straight back at me. Girls these days are so brazen! For a moment the very fact that I had thought the word "brazen" seemed to emphasise the generation gap between us. Had I really come up with that word? It seemed old-fashioned even to me! I recall that once the teenager I was once had got over her initial shyness with other girls, she - I – had been very forward ("forward", there's another old-fashioned word!). After all, who was I to entertain thoughts of "brazen" and "forward" behaviour? I had been a little tart in my time!
I came to a decision. If she was going to flirt with me, she would have to take the consequences. I kissed her. She kissed me back, with relish! without any further preliminary, I reached up her skirt and put my hand inside her panties, finding her warm and already moist. She put both hands back against the kitchen work-surface, and levered herself up to sit on it, so that she could open her legs wide. So young - so knowing! Had I been this way at her age?
We could have gone anywhere in my house, but we stayed there in the kitchen. At some point we got naked. At some point I let my hair down, or she had unfastened it and let it fall on my shoulders. At some point we pressed as much as possible of the total surface of our bodies against each other, to feel each other with as much skin area as we could. Her skinny, pale nakedness against my rounder maturity; her small breasts against my fuller; her nipples against mine; her flat belly against mine; her warm sex against mine. Sometimes she brushed me with her glorious hair, and my flesh tingled with it. Her skin smelled and tasted like the favourite dessert of my childhood - tinned peaches, with the syrup drained away, covered in evaporated milk! Her voice in my ear...
"You're really cool ... you're such a beautiful woman... you are pure-dead-sexy!"
When did I hoist her back on the kitchen surface? I don't know. Did she hoist herself again? I don't know. All I know is that at some point she was there, and I was half-kneeling in front of her, exploring her sex with a finger while I licked her clitoris. Her curls were the same Titian shade as her hair, and her sex-taste had a touch of (ha - how strange) ginger about it! I knelt like this, worshiping at the temple of my young Venus - goddess in every aspect but at the same time profane and whorish - until her divine words became thick and incoherent, until they became gasps, almost little shrieks, until she began to bounce on her bottom with barely-contained ecstasy, until the gentle fingers which had been stroking my hair became cruel claws which held my head between her legs. Then a great shudder which, I thought, would bring plates and cups popping, crashing, and tinkling out of their cupboards, and she relaxed. The most wonderful thing ... She cupped my face in both her hands and said,
"My Lizzie!"
Bouncing down from the work-surface, she became a coltish teenager again. I sat in a chair and she, without a moment's hesitation, came and knelt before me, as if I was the object of devotion, and gave me exactly the same treatment I had given her. If I had expected teenage clumsiness I was mistaken. Her tongue and her fingers worked me with such expertise. I have to say she was as good as the best. I tried to think of a better lover in all the thirty-five years I had been aware of this longing for beautiful girls. I couldn't.
When she had made me come, she looked up at me with a cheeky grin. Her face was wet from a mixture of her own saliva and my juice, and some of her hair was stuck to her cheek. Nevertheless, to me she was beautiful! There was a war of emotions going on inside me - I longed to say all kinds of things to her, dirty, romantic, cruel, affectionate. Eventually I to did the cupping-face-in-hands thing too.
"My Nicole!"
Over the next few weeks we saw each a lot. She came round after college fairly regularly, and we explored my house together, finally fixing on the lounge sofa and the bed in my bedroom as our favourite place for lovemaking. Once, when we were relaxing naked on the sofa, I showed her a portfolio of my photos from several years back. I had been a photographic model. No, let's be specific: I had been a pornographic model, specialising in solo and girl/girl work. Nicole looked through the portfolio with avid enthusiasm.
"Lizzie - you were totally beautiful!"
