Would Lie to Meet. No Strings

This story goes back to when there were no mobiles and no internet or e-mail, so "Dating" personal adverts were largely confined to newspapers, with voicemail for a prerecorded message to be heard and responded to. Telephone kiosks abounded, too. In the UK they had closing doors and were made up of tiny, thick, near-vandal-proof panes of glass and had heavy, self-closing doors.

It isn't autobiographical apart from the neighbour-fixation, and the two glimpses of his neighbour when in his late teens are true events. Names and descriptions have been changed though.

All names are fictional (including, as far as I am aware, the town name) and all characters are over the age of 18.

Although I got a kick out of reading the ads, I never responded to any, so please excuse any inaccuracies.

This is simply a slow smouldering introduction – if you don't like that sort of thing, that's your prerogative, the next chapter will be hotter...

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She stubbed out her cigarette and looked through her latest draft for the advert, having already torn up eight previous versions.

It was hard to phrase it to attract responses without sounding too desperate or slutty. She wanted "no-strings adult fun" – she liked this euphemism for "sex" – but was afraid of attracting the wrong kind of respondent.

She copied out her final draft one last time, folded it and slid it into the envelope she had addressed and to which she had already stuck a postage stamp. Preferring anonymity she did not write out a cheque, but had purchased a postal order for the payment. She enclosed this in the envelope as well, sealed it, and put it into her handbag.

She didn't post it that day, though, nor the next, nor the one after that. She knew that in delaying she had missed the deadline for that week's publication date. Her indecision and the resulting delay annoyed her – she thought she had already overcome her doubts and apprehension.

It was such a sordid thing to do, though. Most of the advertisers in the "personal" column of the local newspaper were seeking romance. She wasn't. She had divorced her husband just over seven months earlier for cheating on her. She had come home early from work one day due to a severe migraine, and had caught her husband – on their bed – with a blonde leggy woman at least ten years his junior with her face between his thighs. The bed springs creaked rudely and mockingly as she bobbed up and down before suddenly pulling away to cover herself up in her shame and shock.

She was now getting over the divorce and starting to recover her self-esteem. She was a long way off recovering her ability to trust a man, though, and most certainly didn't want a relationship. But she missed sex. Not just the physical act, but the emotional release it gave, the assurance of being feminine, desirable, the physical intimacy of holding and being held, caressing and being caressed.

She still wore her wedding ring for much of the time, mainly to deter unwanted attention.

So she had plucked up the courage to try this possible solution. And, on the eighth day after writing out the advert she finally posted it. Even then, she had walked past three pillar boxes with the letter in her hand but had lacked the nerve to post it. When she finally did so, her stomach churned for a while. She had taken a step that, whilst not irreversible, was a pretty major one. Moreover, to her conscience, it was very much a downward step.

She went over the wording over and over in her head, and even though she had agonised over several drafts and even though it was too late to amend anyway, she thought of some better ways she could have worded it. But it was too late now.

She tried to imagine the kind of person who might get contact her. She hoped it would be someone pleasant, decent, and, within reason, their appearance was of little importance. Some pleasant daydreams came to her mind. So did some nightmare scenarios and characters. Excitement, fear and guilt dogged her.

She counted down the days to the publication date. Each day she felt more apprehensive, ashamed, and unsure of herself.

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Dave was visiting his parents for a long weekend. He had taken a few days off work to extend his stay. Since graduating from college he lived and worked about eighty miles away, but visited every couple of months or so.

That morning he skimmed through the local newspaper, and as he neared the advert section he discreetly raised the paper higher to hide from his parents the page he was browsing.

He had often looked through the "Personal/Meeting Place" ads, and on a couple of occasions had even rung the pre-recorded voice message (just to listen, not to leave a message), just for kicks. Two caught his eye today. One was from a "broadminded twenty-five year old, busty, seeking men, any age, looks unimportant, for fun times." He wondered whether the ad was really from a woman who was simply a nymphomaniac or whether it was a slightly sneaky advert from a prostitute.

The other that caught his eye sent a twinge of excitement through him. "Attractive, late 30s blonde, good SOH, med build, disillusioned, WLTM considerate male, 20-30 for no-strings adult fun. Discretion required & assured."

His stomach fluttered with naughty delight. He tried to imagine the woman who had placed the ad. He wondered whether her hair was long or short, straight, wavy or curly. He wondered whether she was tall or short, plump or even fat, plain, or attractive, busty or flattish-chested.

From the need for discretion he guessed that she was married, and smiled to himself as he built up a picture in his mind. A lady with a plain face, slightly plump and with medium breasts, with straight, shoulder-length, dark-straw hair was what he arrived at. And married. Neglected at home and wanting it. Very naughty – and very tantalising!

He cast his mind back several years when he had first noticed these kind of adverts, and thought of the fascination they had held for him in his late teens. He had been too young – and too shy – to act on them then. Now... now he was just too shy. And... well, too decent to get involved in sex with a stranger. Probably.

He also cast his mind back to some of the women about whom he had fantasised in those earlier days. He had attended an all-boys' school and, although he had met a few girls at a youth club, it wasn't until he went to college at the age of nineteen that he had the confidence to ask any out. The only females with whom he had any real contact until then were women rather than girls. And in the main they were of similar age to his parents, friends of theirs or neighbours.

Like most lads his age, he had often masturbated as he called this one or that one to mind.

He cast his mind back now to one of his mother's friends, Kath. She always wore smart clothes that made her seem very sexy, and her hair began to grey prematurely, giving her a distinguished look. There was another lady, Paula, who helped to run the youth club. Then there was the lady who ran the local grocery shop with her husband. All married, all in their late thirties or early forties compared to his youthful and inexperienced eighteen years of age. All were sexy in a natural, non-overt way. All were unattainable –and perhaps the more desirable because of it.

But one other woman overshadowed the rest. Mrs Martin, the next-door neighbour. His pulse quickened even now as he thought of her. She had been in her mid thirties at the time. She and her husband Paul weren't on particularly close terms with his parents, but they passed the time of day and helped each other out from time to time. They had later – three or four years ago – moved out the area.

Mrs Martin...

Even allowing for his somewhat frustrated frame of mind at the time, she was undoubtedly one sexy woman. His dad noticed her. So did other neighbours, though she did nothing overt to encourage the looks and glances she attracted. She was just inherently sexy, yet classy. She usually wore skirts that were quite short (though not so short that she looked cheap in them). She was about five feet four inches tall, and slightly plump without being fat. Her legs were shapely and her thighs fleshy. Her breasts seemed in perfect proportion to her build. In retrospect he guessed now that they were probably B-cup.

She was facially attractive, too, with high, prominent cheekbones and a slightly dark complexion. His mother had said she might have some Italian or Spanish blood in her. That might also explain her near-black hair colour, too. Her hair was always smart and her make-up was applied subtly but to good effect. And she was outgoing and confident. To him she had been the ultimate sexy housewife. He had masturbated to the thought of her time without number. And as he thought back over the past seven or eight years he still remembered her with lust.

Mrs Martin...

He had always felt it would be over-familiar to call her by her first name and had always called her and thought of her by her title and surname. It seemed naughtier, too, to keep in mind her married status whenever he thought of her, which was often, and when he masturbated to mental images of her – which at the time probably averaged at least once a day.

As he pretended to browse through the newspaper at his parents' house he recalled the few but delicious times when she had given him a lift. He had been painfully aware of the nearness of her thighs and her breasts to his hands, and found it hard not to leer at her. Truly those journeys had been delicious yet awkward, being alone in a car with this sexy, married woman. More importantly, was sexually experienced whilst he was a virgin at the time.

There had been two particular occasions from that period that made a powerful and lasting impression on him.

One summer day he was sitting in the garden with his mother. Mrs Martin usually arrived home just after four, and he often found an excuse to be in the garden or near the window so that he could glance at her. On this occasion he heard her car pull into the driveway, and glanced up as soon as he heard the car door close and her stilettoed footsteps on the drive.

She dropped something and, turning her back, she bent forward – right down – to pick it up. He caught a brief glimpse of the backs of her legs and even of her pink lacy knickers. Not a tiny g-string or thong or even brief, flimsy panties. But neither were they big off-putting bloomers, either. They were the sort of practical yet slightly pretty thing a thirty-something woman would wear to work. But he had seen them, even though it had only been a fleeting glimpse. And she had flashed them. She had actually bent forward and let him see right up her skirt. What a minx!

When Mrs Martin had gone into the house and shut the door, his mother had blurted out her shock.

"Did you see that?" she had asked him. He had pretended he didn't know what she meant, and after all he was wearing mirrored sunglasses (they were all the rage at the time) that allowed him to look in a certain direction without giving it away.

His mother had shaken her head and tutted.

"She... she bent right over and... well, she even showed her knickers!"

Dave had just shrugged his shoulders and pretended to read his book.

After that he had found Mrs Martin even more enticing. He wondered whether the display she had given was entirely innocent and unintentional, though her subsequent behaviour or conversation when he was around remained unchanged, even on the odd occasion when he was alone in her car with her.

And yet... she was a grown woman in her thirties. He found it hard to believe that she hadn't been aware of what she had done. And the more he had thought about it, the more sure he became that it had been deliberate. After all, she had seen that he and his mother were in the garden. It was unnecessary for her to bend forward with her back to them to pick up whatever she had dropped, especially as she knew that she was in their view. She could just as easily have squatted to do so. Or she could even have bent forward facing them, which would have kept her bum – that enticing, pink-knicker-clad bum – from sight! Maybe she had even dropped something deliberately in order to flash her bum. The reason remained a mystery, but he was sure it had been a deliberate act.

The other incident was even more taboo, but was certainly entirely unintentional. Even after the passage of several years Dave felt a twinge of arousal as he recollected it.

One summer evening she went out with her husband. They arrived back very late and Mr Martin parked the car on the drive close to their front door. Dave's bed was under the window. He was still awake and, as was his custom on such occasions, he had sat up in bed and gently eased the outer edge of his bedroom curtain aside an inch or so, just enough to peep between it and the wall. The car doors opened, and Mr and Mrs Martin got out. He heard hushed voices, then to his amazement, Mrs Martin suddenly squatted on her haunches on the drive in front of the car and close to the front corner of the house. She was shielded from view from almost anybody on the street – though she had not considered the possibility of her lustful young next-door neighbour watching. Mr Martin disappeared up the drive to the back door as she did so.

Dave had watched in shock and delight as Mrs Martin hitched up her skirt (though admittedly he could see nothing) and remained squatting for a couple of minutes. Then she stood up and straightened her skirt. She glanced quickly to her left and right along the street to check that nobody was looking. Dave was half sorry and half relieved that she hadn't glanced up towards his bedroom window, though he was confident that she would not have been able to see him in his unlit room, nor the slight gap at the edge of the curtain. She then hurried up the path.

Any trace of doubt of what she had done was dispelled by the small pool of liquid where she had squatted. It glistened in the subdued light from the street lamp across the road, and trickled lazily down the tarmac drive and under the car.

The incident had a huge and lasting effect on him. He remembered it vividly still, years later. How he had longed for her to be his first sexual adventure! But, of course, she wasn't.

By now Dave was twenty-six years old and had had several girlfriends, some serious, others less so. He had had sex a fair number of times, too. But to be truthful he still found his head often being turned by the sight of a woman in her thirties or forties.

On and off over the next couple of days he kept thinking about the advert. He played with the sordid idea of ringing the number to listen to a voicemail message of the woman in question, just for fun, to hear her voice. The idea kept recurring, though, and it seemed more and more appealing.

Over the evening meal on the second day of his visit, Dave's dad had joked about misplacing things when he was doing jobs around the house. He admitted that he had recently lost a hammer and a screwdriver on the same day. Dave said that he planned to go into town the next morning and offered to buy replacements for him.

The town centre was within walking distance, and Dave set off. But before he did, he turned impetuously back to that tempting advert and scribbled down the telephone number. After all, it wouldn't do any harm just to ring and listen to the woman's voice. He shoved a handful of loose change into his pocket.

As he walked along he toyed briefly with the crazy idea of going beyond just listening, and of actually making contact. He dismissed it. There was no way he would leave a message to tease or taunt her, or simply to gratify himself at the expense of her feelings. It would be enough – and safer – jut to listen to the voice. Just before he reached the town centre he spotted a telephone booth. He stepped into it, looked up and down the street guiltily through the tiny panes of glass, and pulled out the scrap of paper from his pocket. The door squeaked and closed on its strong hinge. His hands were trembling.

He dialled the number. The dial seemed to take forever to return to its starting position for him to dial the next digit. Eventually he got the ring tone, then a quick general message, then there was a click, and the woman's voice spoke. Her voice was faltering slightly, her intonation was a little strained, she was reading from a script she had written out, and she appeared nervous. He felt a tautening in his groin.

"Hi. I'm Brenda. I'm in my late thirties, and I'm considered attractive. I like wearing smart and slightly sexy clothes. I'm five feet five with shortish blond hair and a curvy 36C figure. I'm a bit disillusioned at the moment – maybe you could restore my faith in men? I'm looking for no-strings adult fun, but I AM looking for a considerate man between twenty and thirty who will treat me with respect. Might that be you? I need to be discreet and if you do, too, that's just fine. Why not call me?"

The message switched to an instruction about the number to ring if wanting to leave a message.

Dave hung up, but his hands were shaking and he felt a growing bulge in his trousers.

He nearly forgot what he had come into town for, and when he bought the tools he almost forgot to take his change from the assistant. He walked several times round the town centre, a battle going on in his mind.

He headed for home. As he approached a telephone booth he hesitated, then stepped inside and waited for the heavy door to close behind him. He glanced nervously up and down the street in case anyone was approaching and might hear.

The phone booth smelled musty, and the receiver smelled of stale cigarettes, but it hardly mattered. He dialled the number for the prerecorded message and listened to the voice again. He scribbled down the number to ring to leave a message.

"Er hi, this is... Dave. I'm twenty-six, and... er... and very kind and considerate. I'd... er... love to meet you. If you want to ring me, I need to be... discreet as well. Maybe... er... maybe you could say you're Phil's mum, as... my parents will probably answer the phone. Oh, and I've never done this before... rung a personal ad, I mean. Anyway.. er... the number is...."

He walked quickly home, annoyed at his foolish stammering on the answering machine. He tried to picture Brenda with her 36C breasts and her shoulder-length blond hair. He wished she had described her legs as well as her breast size.

For the rest of the afternoon he willed the phone to ring before his parents each arrived home from work. Part of him hoped that it wouldn't. He wondered how many messages she had received.

In case his parents answered the phone he also rehearsed who Phil could be and why his mother might be ringing him, Dave. Best to make it simple, he thought – he never was a convincing liar.

The telephone did ring twice. Each time his heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. But the first was just the gas company wanting to arrange a date to service the central heating, and the second was a catalogue company from whom his mum bought some clothes. He prepared the vegetables for the evening meal. He was on tenterhooks for the sound of the telephone.

He kept looking at the clock, counting down the available time for the call to come before his parents arrived home. It was not to be, though. At just after five-thirty his mother arrived, and just over half an hour later his dad's car pulled into the drive.

They sat down at the table just after six thirty. Dave's heart was beating hard. As they began to eat, his dad thanked him for buying the tools and said he would try not to lose them. His mother shook her head in amusement and mock horror. "To lose a screwdriver I can understand. But a hammer...!"