I'm going to do what they say people of my age (the thick end of sixty plus) are best at; I'm going reminisce about my youth. For me this was towards the end of the nineteen-fifties, when rock-and-roll ruled over drainpipe trousers and drape jackets and everyone jived to Elvis, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, etc. In England it was the time of the 'ton-up boy' who rode motorbikes with British names and who wore leather jackets liberally sprinkled with metal studs. It was also the time when the hardest drug was nicotine, 'puff' was something you ran out of, and 'speed' was what you tried to get out of your bike. My God, but they were good times, and I'm so glad that I lived through them.
It's been said that they were innocent times, and in many ways so they were. Not because we were inherently less adventurous or mischievous than our descendants, but simply because we didn't know as much, and respect for the older generation was very much a part of everyday living. If someone a generation in front of you told you to do something, you did it, regardless of who they were, and you did it without even thinking about it. You'd been told by one of your elders and that was that.
Of course, sex was something that we liked then just as much as younger folk do now (in fact, be honest, if we hadn't, then there wouldn't be any younger folk), but we started later and knew less. Formal sex education had much to do with rabbits and little to do with people. We were told what happened and what equipment we'd got, but not how to make best use of it. That we found out by gossip, hushed conversations behind the bike sheds and fumbled experimentation. Half the things that we now do in bed as a matter of course were thought of then as sexual deviations, if we thought about them at all. Needless to say I grew up knowing a lot less about the female orgasm than I did about the compression ratio of a Triumph Bonneville.
The story I'm going to tell you is about my surprising discovery that women actually enjoyed and needed sex as much as men, and didn't just put up with it for the sake of their partner. It is, in effect, the early story of my own personal sex education and how it came from an unexpected source.
I had known Mike for as long as I can remember, we had grown up together, gone to school together (though he was a year in front of me), rode bikes together, first with pedals and then with engines, and we'd started dating together. We were, as they say, mates. This story starts when I was eighteen and he was nineteen and we'd both joined the darts team at the local pub. It was a cheap night out with a few beers and the 'away legs' got us to pubs we wouldn't otherwise have visited, and it was one night a week when we could get drunk without worrying about driving home. Yes, we did think about it - not because drink driving got the same bad press as it rightly does today, but because our bikes then had narrow wheels and crude suspension and were hard enough to keep upright even when we were sober. Ending up in a ditch or wrapped around a lamppost could be both painful and expensive.
One particular night we'd been playing a home match and were on our way back from the pub, not drunk but just a little bit merry. We'd had a good night, our team had won the match and Mike had won a shaving mirror in the raffle. It was a warm summers night and we stood outside my place smoking, chatting and laughing before I went in and Mike went on to his own home a few hundred yards further on. That was when the taxi drew up and Mrs Faulkner, a neighbour from just up the street, climbed out. Actually, when I say climbed out I really should say fell out, because she was well and truly pissed.
Mrs Faulkner was a woman in her late forties who must have been quite a looker in her day and who still had a reasonable figure then, but who had taken to the gin when her husband, Jim Faulkner, had been sent on holiday to one of Her Majesty's hotels for seven years after being found guilty of taking part in a big horse racing swindle. Jim was a nice guy really, but he owed more to brawn than brain and his ready fists and dubious connections with the local underworld had got him into trouble with the law on too many occasions, and now his wife was taking his absence badly. Mike and I stopped gossiping to watch her stumble across the road and then trip over her own feet, falling flat on her face just outside her own gate.
"C'mon." Mike said, nodding in her direction. "We'd better give her a hand or she'll do herself a mischief, silly cow."
I took one arm and Mike took the other, and between us we hoisted her to her feet and sort of frogmarched her down her own path.
"Thanks, lads," She said thickly when she reached her door. "I guess I've had a drop too much tonight, but I'll be alright now."
We let go, standing attentively to one side, not yet convinced that she'd make it inside. We were right, she fumbled in her bag for her keys, swaying like a tree in a storm, and then when she finally found them, she dropped them on the step.
"You watch her." Mike said. "And I'll get the door open."
He crouched down searching for the dropped keys while I stood with my hands ready to catch Mrs Faulkner the minute she looked like falling on him. She swayed forward, and I moved in reaching out to catch her by the arms from behind to steady her. But then, with the random agility that only drunks possess, she managed to put a foot out to stop herself from stumbling, overcompensated, and fell backwards into against me. Naturally, my hands missed there intended target and somehow managed to encircle her, landing one each on both of her breasts. I was mortified, but I couldn't let go or she would have collapsed onto the concrete path.
"Oh, you naughty boy, you did that on purpose." She giggled and clapped her own hands over mine. I'm not sure if she intended pulling me away or what, but all she succeeded in doing was pressing them more firmly against her boobs.
Thankfully, Mike had managed to find the keys by then and pushed open the door so that, between us we could manoeuvre her through the hall and into her living room, my hands back safely on her arms. I just hoped that she wouldn't call the cops for attempted rape or something; you never can tell with drunks, can you. I must admit though, her breasts felt nice and my cock had responded appropriately. What a bummer, turned on by a drunken middle-aged neighbour.
We deposited her safely on her sofa and then looked at each other with 'now what' expressions.
"I suppose we ought to make her some black coffee." I suggested, eventually, and we made our way into the kitchen.
I think that really we just wanted to get away, but duty stated that we should at least make a token effort to help her. We put the kettle on and spooned instant coffee into a mug.
"Should we call your mum in to help put her to bed?" Asked Mike, while we waited for the kettle to boil.
"Not bloody likely." I told him. "What if she says I tried to feel her up?"
Mike grinned. "Well at least you got a quick feel of her tits for your trouble, and that's more than I got."
We lapsed into silence. I was thinking about the sensation of having my hands on Mrs Faulkner's breasts and how nice they felt, and I think Mike was just feeling jealous.
"Right." He announced decisively after a minute or two of stirring the coffee mug. "Here's what we'll do. We'll take this through to her and stay to check that she drinks it, I've put some cold water in so it's not too hot. Then we'll hang around for another ten minutes just to make sure she doesn't sick it back and choke her stupid self, then we'll leave her to it."
That sounded like a reasonable action plan so I agreed. "Okay. The sooner we're out of here the better."
I was still worried about having touched her breasts. And before you tell me how infantile that sounds for an eighteen year old, remember we're talking about a time when you just didn't feel a woman's boobs, even by accident, without there being consequences.
We took the coffee through to the living room. Mrs Faulkner was sprawled in the middle of the sofa with her eyes closed, half on and half off the seat and with her dress having ridden up to show her stocking tops (and surprisingly shapely legs). We looked at each other, looked at her legs, and then went one to each side of her and pulled her up into a normal sitting position, returning her dress to its proper position on the process.
"C'mon, luv. Drink this." Mike held the mug to her lips.
She stirred, opened her very bleary eyes and looked straight at me. "Oh. Hello Dave. Was it you who copped a feel of my tits?"
I'd hoped that she'd forgotten.
"It was by accident Mrs Faulkner." I told her, hoping she'd believe me.
