When I was eighteen I was still living with my parents. I worked a double dayshift so I was always around in either the morning or the afternoon. For that reason my mum often used me as an errand boy.
Joyce was a neighbour that lived across the road. She had a reputation for knowing everybody's business.
Her windows had terylene net curtains. For those unfamiliar with these, they are a type of curtain made from a fine mesh of man-made fibre. If these were hung up over your windows it allowed you to see out through them fairly easily. But it made it impossible for anyone to see in, provided it was lighter outside than inside. Perfect for a nosy person like Joyce.
She was a skinny lady about thirty-five to forty years old. She wasn't a pretty lady, she wasn't even attractive, but not ugly either. So she was plain, non-descript. At that age though, I would shag anything, including her.
She wore blouses and skirts with an apron during the day. She had dark, permed hair. Brown eyes that made her look a bit mad, they always seemed like she was opening them wider than they would be if she was relaxed. It might have been nervousness.
She could talk the hind legs off a donkey, (as my grandma would say) she prattled on and on about anything. At times I imagined her passing out through lack of oxygen. It was just a non-stop torrent of words, no pause for breath. Sometimes there would be a bit of spittle-foam in the corners of her mouth. It was impossible to get a word in edgeways.
Her husband Graham was an upholsterer. He had a day job but he always had jobs on the side, re-upholstering people's furniture in his garage. He was a very quiet, meek man. They didn't have any children.
I hated it if I was in a rush to go somewhere and my mum said, "On your way out could you pop over and give this to Joyce." or, "Could you ask Joyce if I could borrow..." get the drift?
I'd hand back whatever my mum wanted Joyce to have or ask if my mum could borrow whatever. Then she would start. She never asked questions, I guess she'd learned that was relinquishing control of the conversation. I was too polite to just cut in and say, "I'm in a rush Joyce, thanks, bye." and then leg it.
So, I'd just stand there, waiting for her to run out of steam. I'd be looking like I was listening, but I wasn't.
At this point I'm going to digress, to explain something about my personality that caused Joyce to get the wrong idea.
At school I was bright. Come exam time I'd often finish the paper way before most others. You weren't allowed to leave the exam hall when you finished. You had to sit there, in silence.
The invigilator, (a teacher or somebody from the education authority) sat at the front to stop cheating, talking etc. One invigilator guy got up and wandered up and down each aisle of desks. Looking left and right at the pupils he was passing.
On one occasion I could hear him coming up behind me, he passed, walking very slowly, hands behind his back. I'd finished and I was bored. I wondered what would happen if I got up quietly, crept up behind him and slapped him as hard as I could on the back of his head, then ran back to my seat.
I sat there with a silly grin, visualising doing that. All the different scenarios. Would I be able to slap him so hard he fell to the floor? Or at least so hard he was temporarily dizzy and couldn't tell who whacked him, so I could get back to my chair unseen? Would any of the other pupils grass me up?
He started to repeat the circuit, the urge to actually do it was building up in me. I sat on my hands to try and stop myself.
As he passed by me I had my mouth shut tight and ended up making a weird, whining noise in my effort to make myself stay put and resist the urge to slap him. He whirled round and stared at where the whine came from. I was Iooking out of the window. He continued on his way, unaware of his narrow escape.
I think it might be some type of borderline Tourette's syndrome. Manifesting extreme, involuntary, anti-social behaviour, rather than obscene words or tics. Back to Joyce.
So, I mostly wasn't listening to anything she was saying. I was imagining how she would react if I just said, out of the blue, something like, "Can I see your tits?" or, "Can I fuck you Joyce?" would she carry on prattling or would it stop her mid-sentence? What would she do? Slap me? Tell my mum? Show me her tits? Drag me inside?
Other times I wondered what would happen if I kissed her, my open mouth right over hers, would she keep talking into my mouth?
The first one was a real effort, all I had to do was say five words, just open my mouth and let it come out, go on, do it, just five little words, not hard, it's easy, just say it, now, do it, she might say yes... I didn't.
The second one was easier to resist, she might back off screaming as I advanced, then grab a kitchen knife or something. But the first one, just blurting out something outrageous was really hard to resist.
The upshot was I often stood in front of her, gazing at her with a dreamy smile on my face at the bad, but funny thoughts I was having. Imagining her reaction. She totally misinterpreted this, "Oh the dear boy has a bit of a crush on me, how sweet." I know this to be the case, because she told me, decades later.
Because she was thinking that, and she had nothing else to occupy her, most of the time. (Graham seemed to be either at work or doing his own jobs in his garage.) I think she started developing her own fantasies. Fantasies involving me.
I was a good looking lad, fit, toned, over 6'0 tall, I guess at that age I wasn't far off my adult height of 6'3.
It got to the stage where, instead of me standing at her door, fighting the urge to make suggestive, lewd comments. She started inviting me in. This was different!
One thing that was also different is that when I was stood at the door she was higher than me, there were two steps to get into her house. When I was inside I was higher than her and when the angle was right, I could see down her blouse. I could see the swell of her tits, nestling in lacy, white bra cups.
They weren't big breasts, only tennis ball size or thereabouts, but they were tits. Tits give eighteen year old boys a hardon. Seventies jeans were tight fitting and the bulge of a 7 inch, thick, hard cock was clearly visible. Bulges like that in jeans give fuel to randy old ladies' fantasies. So it all became a downward, or upward, spiral. Depending on your viewpoint.
My Tourette's kiss became Tourette's breast cupping. She always stood so close to me. I noticed if I moved away then she'd slowly close the gap between us and get up really close to me.
My urge was... go on, just hold her tit, give it a little squeeze, that's all you have to do, raise your hand, cup it and squeeze... I didn't.
When I look back, my sex life could have been far more interesting if I'd had the courage to act on what I perceived were signals given by the opposite sex.
I wasn't a virgin, I had fucked my Grandma's elderly neighbour, May. The first time just a few months prior then twice since then. And she wanted me to go back and do it again. May gave me plenty of signals and encouragement that I didn't act upon. In the end May had to take matters into her own hand, literally. I was so unsure of myself as a young man.
So Joyce took some initiative to try and progress things. She'd make me a coffee or tea and suggest we sit in her living room. She'd usher me into sitting on the sofa then she'd sit next to me. On one occasion I was sat on the far right of the sofa. My left hand was resting palm down on the cushion next to me. Joyce sat and placed her right hand on the same cushion, palm down, like mine.
Of course she was still gabbling away, looking a bit more mad-eyed than usual, corner of her mouth with spittle-foam. I was thinking, "If put my cock in her mouth would she stop talking and suck me?" and, "Would she suck me and take my come in her mouth?" and, "Would she end up with cum-foam in the corner of her mouth?"
