When my doorbell rings just after 8am, I have no idea that I am about to have the most extraordinary experience of my life.
I am a perfectly normal 43-year old middle class Surrey housewife, happily married to a City banker - the only man I have ever 'known' sexually – and mother of a 19-year old daughter and a 15-year old son. I am quite pretty of I say so myself, only five-feet-one inch tall and petite, with short copper red hair, jade green eyes set in a creamy complexion, a naturally smiling mouth, and a nice figure with pert B-cup boobs.
It's the 5th of January, my husband has left for work, my son has travelled up to London with him to spend the day around Piccadilly Circus, and my daughter is away staying with her cousin and her aunt, my sister. I am alone in the house, sitting in the kitchen sipping a cup of tea, dressed only in a housecoat – a modest one, buttoned to my throat and extending to my calves - and a pair of slippers. When the doorbell sounds I just assume, at that time of the morning, that it must be the postman; I'm expecting a parcel from relatives in America. To my surprise, though, it's my daughter's boyfriend Peter.
Peter looms over me, he must be at least six-foot-three, and he's a member of his university rowing team with a barrel chest and huge biceps. He's 20 years old with an unruly mop of blond hair, big blue eyes and what I suppose a romantic novelist would describe as a ruggedly handsome face. I'm surprised to see him – he's aware Jenny, my daughter, is away, but I remind him anyway. He gives me a big white-teethed grin, like a young Burt Lancaster, and cheerily replies, "I know Mrs Turner, I came round to wish you happy New Year".
I feel awkward, but I don't have any choice to invite him in and offer him tea and toast, which he gratefully accepts. He leads the way to the kitchen and, as I follow him along the hallway, my tummy clenches nervously. I've always felt a little nervous around Peter; not because he's like a giant compared to me but because, well, he is very good looking, and he has a lot of natural charm. More than once in the past when he and I have been chatting, and he has turned on that smile, I have felt myself blushing – very embarrassing. And, perhaps the biggest single cause of my nervousness, I did something a bit silly just before Christmas.
We held a party, just family and close friends. Naturally the house was decorated with tinsel, baubles – and mistletoe. At one point, quite late in the evening, after I'd had a few glasses of sherry, Peter and I happened to be passing in a corridor right under the mistletoe. I honestly can't remember which of us suggested it but it seemed natural to honour tradition and exchange a kiss. Of course I intended it just to be a chaste peck, but somehow it lasted longer than it should have done and our lips were pressed together for several seconds. For a moment I felt Peter's tongue pushing against my lips and between them, stroking against my teeth and gums, then he pulled away and, his face still inches from mine, he whispered "Merry Christmas Mrs T". I felt a dreadful burning warmth in my tummy and my crotch, my nipples felt stiff and my face was blushing furiously. I was very relieved when the party broke up just a few minutes later and Peter left.
And now here he was in my kitchen, sitting beside me at the kitchen table – not opposite me – drinking tea. I reassure myself that I have nothing to worry about, I have no doubt he and Jenny are in love, we had both had rather too much to drink at the party, and Peter had never before acted towards me in any way which was not normal between a girl's boyfriend and his mum. Nevertheless, as we sit there, talking about what we did in New Year's Eve, and about his university course work, I cannot help but be aware of his...I can't think of a better term for it, his rugged manliness. Deep inside myself I am begging my face not to start blushing.
