The London Life

Tom was just 19 when he moved to London. That was back in the early 1970s.

On the basis of a couple of years' experience with a jobbing printer in High Wycombe, he had somehow managed to talk his way into being taken on as a trainee by an advertising agency. Initially, he was going to be working as a sort of dogsbody in the production department, but his aim was to become a writer.

'London?' His mother was not convinced that moving to The Big Smoke (as she called it) was such a good idea. 'Where will you live?'

'I talked to Arnold.' (Arnold was Tom's older cousin. He had been living in London for three years.) 'He's going to New York for six months, and he said he'll see if his landlady will let me take over his flat while he's away.'

Tom's mother continued to frown. 'I thought that Arnold lived in a rather ... well ... rough part of London,' she said.

'Notting Hill? No, not rough. A bit bohemian perhaps. But it's on the Central Line. It'll be good. Perfect, in fact.'

The flat was on Portobello Road, above a bakery run by a French woman named Michele. At street level there was the shop: La Boulangerie du Nord - well, north of France anyway. The main bakery, with the three big ovens, was in the basement. Michele herself lived in a flat on the first floor and, above that, there was a small one-bedroom flat that was to become Tom's new home for six months.

Tom moved in on the day after Arnold had moved out. 'I 'ope that you are a bit tidier than your cousin,' Michele said. Tom could see what she meant. The place was a mess. Every flat surface in the small living room was strewn with old newspapers and magazines. The kitchen sink was full of unwashed dishes. There were towels lying on the floor in the tiny bathroom. And the bedroom looked more like a bombsite that a bedroom.

Michele started pulling the grubby-looking sheets off the bed. 'There's a service laundry just down the road,' she said. 'Tell Martha that you need it all back by the end of the day, and ask her to put it on my account. Now I need to get back to La Boulangerie.'

Tom gathered up the bed linen, the towels, and some filthy rags that he assumed had once been tea towels, and headed off to the laundry where he was greeted by a tall West Indian woman.

'Hello. Are you Martha?' Tom asked.

The woman eyed him up and down. 'Ah could be,' she said. 'Depends on jus' who wants to know.'

'Michele said that I should ask if you could do these by the end of the day and put it on her account.'

The woman raised one eyebrow and tilted her head to one side. 'French Michele?'

Tom nodded.

'OK. Come back just before six. And don't be late. I don't wanna be hangin' 'bout. I got things to do. Yeah?'

Back at the flat, Tom filled the kitchen sink with hot water and left the dirty dishes to soak. Then he started tidying up the living room, putting the old newspapers into one pile and the magazines into another. The newspapers could be thrown away immediately; some of the magazines might be worth a quick scan - not so much for the editorial content, but for the advertising. After all, advertising was about to become Tom's bread and butter.

Tom had just finished stacking the newspapers by the door ready for disposal, and was looking around, trying to decide what to do next, when he noticed what appeared to be one more magazine tucked under the sofa. He pulled it out and turned it over to see what it was.

The masthead proclaimed HEALTH & EFFICIENCY. And, according to the legend in a panel along the lower edge of the page it was THE WORLD'S LEADING NATURIST JOURNAL Est. 1900. Between the banner and the legend there was a photograph of two youngish women playing leapfrog on a deserted beach. Both of the women were completely naked.

Tom was both thrilled and disappointed by his unexpected find. Thrilled because the two beach-frolicking ladies were completely naked and really rather attractive. Disappointed because, even though the one doing the leaping had her legs spread, she had no girly bits. No pubic hair. No 'front bum'. The photograph had clearly been retouched.

Inside, however, things got better. Inside, there was rather less evidence of retouching. The tennis-playing, volley-balling boys and girls (of all ages) looked rather more as Tom hoped that they would and should.

You have to remember that things were very different back in those days. There was no Internet. And so there were no porno sites. And there were definitely no endless Tumblr collections of 'wives' displaying their pink bits for all the world to see. There was Playboy. But Playboy didn't even show pubic hair. Even at its best, Playboy was rather like a more colourful version of the front cover of HEALTH & EFFICIENCY. Anything vaguely suggestive of real sex was discreetly hidden behind a pot plant and other such prop. Or it was simply airbrushed out.

Tom slowly turned the pages, studying each sometimes-small and often slightly fuzzy photograph - many in black and white. On Page 17, there was a cheerfully-smiling woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to his Aunt Molly. Not that Tom had ever seen his Aunt Molly naked. But he could imagine that that was how she might look if he ever did see her naked.

And then, on page 24, he saw Maria. And it was lust at first sight.

Maria was perhaps 30-ish. She was shown 'relaxing in her caravan', 'enjoying a refreshing glass of homemade lemonade'. She was perched on a high stool, a little like a bar stool, and her legs were spread for all to see what was between them. Tom felt his heart skip a beat, and an electric tingle ran through his cock and tightened his scrotum.

Tom was so mesmerised by Maria's pudendum, the complex frilly shapes of her inner labia, and the silky tuft of hair that covered her mons and then thinned out as it descended, almost disappearing completely by the time it had reached the lower part of her outer labia, that he almost failed to hear Michele's footsteps on the stairs outside the door. Just in time, he stuffed the magazine back under the sofa and hastily rearranged the growing stiffy in his jeans.

Michele didn't knock. 'Oh, yes. Zis is much better. Much better.' And then she handed Tom a plate with a couple of large croissants filled with sliced ham, camembert, and French mustard. 'I don't know if you've had zee chance to get any food,' she said. 'But these were left over. It would be a pity to throw them out. You can return zee plate in zee morning.'

Later that night, tucked between the freshly-laundered sheets for the first night in his new home, Tom resumed perusing 'the world's leading naturist journal'. There were another three photographs of women displaying their pudenda that caught Tom's eye, and, while each had more than a passing attraction, Maria remained Tom's favourite. It didn't take long for his 19-year-old cock to rise to the occasion. And, as much as he tried to prolong the moment, it didn't take much longer for him to reach a shuddering climax and make a bit of a mess of the freshly -laundered sheets.

The following day was Sunday and, after finishing tidying and cleaning the flat, Tom went for a long walk, exploring his new neighbourhood, trying to figure out where everything was. Where were the food shops? Where was the nearest bank? The nearest post office? The shortest route to the Tube station?

He had not long returned to the flat when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Once again, Michele did not bother to knock. She just walked in and placed a plate with a large wedge of Tarte aux Pommes on the table. 'Such a pity to waste,' she said.

Michele looked around the room and nodded. 'Much better.'

Michele crossed the room and looked into the kitchen. 'Très bonne,' she said. 'Much, much better.' And then she inspected the bedroom and returned with a cheeky smile on her face. 'Ah! You are zee naturist, no?'

'What?' And then Tom realised that Michele must have spotted the rescued copy of Health & Efficiency. 'Oh, no.'

'But you 'ave zee magazine, mon chéri.'

'Oh, that? Yes. The, umm ... the magazines belong to Arnold.'

Michele seemed a little disappointed. 'Oh,' she said. 'So you are not zee naturist then?'

'No.'

She nodded. 'Perhaps it is too cold here in Britain. Perhaps it is better in France. Or Spain.'

'I guess so,' Tom said.

Michele shrugged her shoulders. 'Ah, well. Perhaps one day you can 'ave zee chance to go where it is warmer, and then you can be zee naturist. It would agree with you, I think. Yes? All zee naked bodies.' Perhaps for the first time in his relatively short life, Tom was suddenly aware of a woman - an older woman at that - looking him up and down in a way that hinted at carnal intent.

Monday was Tom's first day at the agency. He arrived early and had to wait almost three-quarters of an hour for his assigned mentor, Warren, the senior print buyer, to arrive. Tom quickly formed the impression that Warren was not happy with his new role as babysitter.

'I don't expect to have to tell you everything ten times,' Warren said. 'Here's a notebook. Here's a pen. Use them.' However, by the time he realised that Tom knew the difference between a zinc and a stereo, and that he could pretty accurately judge the weight of a print stock simply by holding a sheet of it between his fingers, Warren backed off a little.

Shortly after midday, Warren announced that he was going to lunch with a supplier. And he probably wouldn't be back. At least not until the next day. Tom was about to enquire what he should do in Warren's absence when Warren said: 'There's a new business briefing at two o'clock. Jeremy says that you can sit in on it.' (Jeremy was the agency's Creative Director.)

Tom arrived at the briefing on the stroke of two. 'Ah, yes, Tom,' Jeremy said. 'Grab a seat. We're just about to start.' And he indicated an empty chair next to a youngish fair-haired woman wearing a geometrically patterned mini-dress and knee-high boots. 'This is Tom, everyone. Introduce yourselves when you get a moment. And I think most of you have already had a chance to meet Laura. If you haven't, she's the lady next to Tom. Right ... let's get started.'

The briefing went on for a little over an hour; and, at the end of it, Jeremy reminded everybody that the information they had been given was strictly confidential. 'If I find that you've let it get into the wrong hands, you will be on the first stage coach out of here. Understood?'

As Tom hovered, wondering what to do next, a steady stream of the creatives came up to him and introduced themselves. Most of them seemed reasonably friendly.

'So,' Tom said, 'I take it that this is your first day too.'

'It is,' Laura said. 'Have you come from another advertising agency?'

'A craft printer,' Tom said - although why he had described HW Press as a 'craft' printer, he had no idea. 'And you?'

'A couple of years in journalism,' Laura said. 'It didn't agree with me.'

'Oh?'

'Well, I read Classics at Cambridge. It's not exactly the most vocational degree. Unless you want to teach. Which I don't. I thought that journalism might be fun.'

'But?'

'It wasn't,' Laura said. 'So I thought I would give advertising a go.'

Tom nodded.

That evening, as Tom waited on the westbound platform at Tottenham Court Tube Station, he suddenly noticed Laura standing just along from him. 'Hello again,' he said.

'Oh. Sorry. I didn't see you there,' Laura said. 'Where are you off to?'

'Home.'

'And where is that?'

'Notting Hill Gate. Well, Notting Hill anyway. Notting Hill Gate is the Tube station of course.'

Laura smiled. 'It is indeed. Small world.'

When the train arrived, it was already quite crowded. Standing room only. Nevertheless, Laura pulled a paperback from her voluminous handbag and read it all the way to Notting Hill Gate.

'This is my stop,' Tom said as the train slowed.

'Yes. Mine too,' Laura replied.

As they emerged from the Notting Hill Gate subway into the daylight, Laura announced that she thought that they should celebrate successfully completing their first day in the agency world with a small libation.

'A cup of coffee?'

'Fuck that,' Laura said. 'Mine's a gin. But I'll make you a coffee - if that's what you want.'

Laura's flat was in the basement of a Victorian house in Elgin Crescent.

'This is nice,' Tom said. 'You have a garden.'

'It belongs to my aunt,' Laura said. 'But she spends most of her time in Spain.'

'Spain? Yes. I gather it's quite warm in Spain.'

'That's why my aunt lives there. She has a camping ground. For nudists. Or naturists, as they prefer to be called.'

'Have you been there?' Tom asked.

'Spain? Or the camping ground?'

'I was meaning Spain,' Tom said, hastily.

'Yeah. A few times. I've also been to the nudist camp. That's also quite fun.'

Tom tried to imagine Laura without any clothes. She had nice legs. But her geometric-patterned dress didn't really give away too many clues about the body beneath.

Laura took a gulp of her gin and tonic. 'I bet you like a bird in the buff,' she said.

Tom could have said: Well, actually, I've never really seen one. Not in real life. In magazines, of course. Maria on her bar stool. But not in real life. But, somehow, he didn't think that Laura would believe him. 'Oh yeah, who doesn't?' he said.

Laura nodded. 'Let's go through to the bedroom,' she said.

Boy, Notting Hill was certainly a bit different from High Wycombe. In High Wycombe it had taken Tom almost six months to get his finger into Doris Smith's snatch. And that was in the dark. He never actually got to see what he was exploring.

Laura's bedroom was a bit like a library with a bed in it.

'You've got a few books,' Tom said.

'One or two,' Laura confirmed. She sat on the edge of the bed and removed her boots. And then she stood up again. Right in front of Tom. 'Are you going to unzip me or what?'

Tom started to reach around behind her in search of a zip.

Laura smiled. 'It's here. In the front,' she said. 'More convenient.'

Tom found the little tab and began to slowly lower it. He wondered if he should kiss Laura or something, but she didn't seem to be interested in anything other than shedding her dress.

Tom was a little surprised to discover that Laura was not wearing a bra. Not that she really needed to. Her breasts were quite small - but beautifully shaped. Tom was tempted to kiss them. But he didn't.

A couple of inches below the waistband of Laura's bright blue tights, the zip tab can to a stop. 'Thank you,' she said. A brief shimmy and the dress fell to the floor. And then, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of the tights, she removed them - together with her knickers - almost in one smooth movement. 'What do you think?' she said. 'OK?'

'Beautiful,' Tom heard himself say. 'Yes, beautiful.'

Tom tried not to focus on Laura's crotch, but the fact of the matter was that he was cunt struck. No magazine photograph could have done it justice. The plump mound. The soft, sparse covering of blonde hair. The plump outer lips. And the already-glistening inner lips peeping out from within. It was ... well ... beautiful. Just beautiful.

'Come on, let's get those trousers off,' Laura said. And, before he knew it, Tom was as naked as she was.

Laura lay back on the bed and spread her shapely legs, her knees raised slightly. 'And now let's see how good you are at eating pussy.'

Just how good was Tom at eating pussy? It was hard to say. He knew the theory. He'd read a couple of under-the-counter books. But when it came to practical experience, he had had none. No, this would be a first. It looked as if he was going to have to fly solo on his first outing.

Tom positioned himself between Laura's thighs. His hands were shaking, but he somehow managed to control them long enough to part Laura's outer lips and touch the moist folds within with the tip of his tongue. An exciting musky aroma filled his nostrils and his hands started to shake again.

Laura moaned encouragingly.

For three or four minutes, Tom tried to replicate - as best as he could remember - the actions of 'the Master' in 'Anna and the Master of Cunnilingus Castle'. But then he abandoned the script and just fell into doing what felt right - guided by the panting, the moaning, and the giggles of the lovely Laura. And then, after about fifteen minutes, Laura suddenly 'exploded'.

'Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, bloody hell, yes!' And then, after she had caught her breath, she said: 'That was ... that was fucking brilliant.'

'So, it was OK then?' Tom said, tentatively. 'I did OK?'

'Laura grinned. 'OK? It was brilliant. And now it's your turn.' It was time for another first.

By the time Tom got back to the flat that night it was getting quite late. Michele was just coming up from the bakery. She looked at her watch. ''Ello. Your working day is almost as long as mine,' she said.

'I guess so,' Tom replied.

'But it was good? Your first day?'

Tom could not tell a lie. 'It was very good,' he said. 'Very, very good. I think I am going to like this advertising business.'

'That's good. Then I will bid you bonne nuit, mon ami. I need to be up again at four.'

Perhaps understandably, Tom's first fellatio experience had been all over rather quickly. Laura had barely got her lips around the head of his stiff cock before it started to twitch. And, little more than two minutes later, he was filling Laura's mouth with hot cum. At least she swallowed every last drop.

Had Tom been 40 or 50 or older, that might have been him done for the night. But he was only 19. And so, once he was between the sheets in his own bed, he again turned to Page 24 of Health & Efficiency. And this time he took the precaution of having a paper tissue handy.

Tom didn't see much of Laura for the rest of the week. In fact, he didn't really spend that much time in the office. Once Warren realised that Tom knew a thing or two about printing, he started delegating some of the on-press checks to him - especially the ones whose timing interfered with Warren's lunchtime and late afternoon pub appointments.

And then came Friday. Tom was once again waiting on the westbound platform at Tottenham Court Tube Station when - once again - he noticed Laura standing just along from him. 'Hello,' he said.

Laura looked around. 'Oh, brilliant,' she said.

'Brilliant?'

'Yes. I was hoping I might see you. I dropped by your office a few times, but you never seem to be there.'

'Out visiting printers,' Tom explained. 'You know ... checking stuff on the presses.'

Laura nodded.

Their train arrived and they both got on. As usual it was standing room only. And, as she had on the Monday journey, Laura took a battered paperback from her handbag and read all the way to Notting Hill Gate. As they walked from the Tube station, Laura glanced at her watch. 'Yes, I think there's time,' she said.

'Time?'

'I'm feeling horny, and I thought that you might like to fuck me. Only I have to get to a book launch. At chap I went to Cambridge with. I don't suppose it will matter if I'm a little bit late. It's not as if I'm the guest of honour or anything. Do you think we can do it in half an hour?'

Tom had no idea how long it would take. He'd never done it before.

As they made their way through Laura's flat, towards the bedroom, Laura was already getting her knickers off. 'I'd give you a strip tease,' she said, 'but I don't think we have time.' And then she was undoing Tom's belt and lowering his zip. 'Do you have a rubber?' she said.

Tom frowned for a moment. Rubber? Oh, yes. A rubber. 'Umm ... no,' he said.

Laura smiled. 'Just as well I'm on the pill then.'

One evening, when Tom was fifteen, his mother, with several brandies on board, had had 'the chat' with him. It was neither concise nor informative. There were many references to 'respect' and 'responsibility' and even to 'the sanctity of marriage'. And if Tom had had the impression before the chat that the first time was likely to be a big deal, then after the chat he had the impression that it just might be the biggest event in his entire life. And yet, here was Laura squeezing it into a quick 30 minutes before the launch of a book by some bloke she'd met at university.