Lucy Loves Her Granny

My name's Lucy and I'm a 21-year old student from Cornwall, in the south-west of England. I recently came out to my parents, and that's where my story really starts.

I've known since I was 11 years old that I was a dyke. Well, I didn't know what I was for a couple of years, I just knew that I got a hot flush when I looked at other girls in the school changing rooms after swimming, and that I liked frigging myself off to the pictures of nude women in the dirty magazines my holier-than-thou father thought he'd hidden at the back of his wardrobe. Even though I knew I liked women, it was years before I did anything about it: there isn't really much of a gay scene in a small, stifling town in the middle of nowhere, and even though the nearest big city, Plymouth, was an easy trip by train, it seemed miles away when I was 15. So, like most of the other girls I knew, I lost my virginity to a boy the same age as me one night in the bus station, which just convinced me even more that I wasn't attracted to the male sex. I tried a few more, just to be sure, and to relieve the boredom of the place, but basically I couldn't wait to get away to university in London when I was 18. Once I got there, it took me two days to sleep with my first girl, and I've never looked back since.

To be honest, if it hadn't been for my gran I don't think I'd have ever gone back to Cornwall. It's not that my parents are bad people; not really. It's just that they're like the town itself, small-minded, hypocritical and out of touch with the real world. My dad, who's something big in the local Freemasons, runs the family grocery store and, like everyone else in town, my folks are happy to take money from the tourists who swamp the county every summer, and are pretty much its only real source of income, then complain bitterly about them to each other and wish them away.

Gran was almost the only positive thing about my youth in that town. Her name couldn't be more Cornish – May Tregowan – but she's actually from Bethnal Green. She met my granddad when she went on holiday to the Butlins holiday camp at Minehead with her sister when she was 19. He was working there, and they had an energetic 'romantic encounter' on the crazy golf course one night. To cut a long story short, Gran didn't go back to London with her sister, she and her new husband returned to his home town to help his father run the shop, and the old boy popped his clogs two years later, leaving my granddad in charge of the place at the age of 24. That same year my mum was born, the oldest of their three daughters.

I never really knew my grandfather – he died from a heart attack when I was two, always a worrier, Gran said. Typical of the parochial nature of the townsfolk, to this day Gran has never been accepted as one of them, even though she's lived there over 40 years and ran the shop with my dad for almost as long, until she retired four years ago at the age of 63. They're very polite and friendly to her, of course, but even folk 20 years younger than her refer to her as "Mrs Tregowan from London." (She's never entirely lost her East End accent.)

It was always Gran I turned to whenever I had one of my frequent rows with my parents, or whenever I was worried about something. I remember when a friend and I decided to go Goth, and I dyed my chestnut hair black and painted my face deathly white. My father shouted at me the moment he saw me, and my mother went on and on at me until I ran from the house in floods of tears, straight down the road to Gran's cottage. She took one look at me and cracked a big grin. Then she said "Come on in Morticia", and gave me a nice cup of tea and a cuddle. Gran and I both thought I looked better with black hair, and I've kept it ever since, although the white make-up's gone, thank God.

It was Gran who told me when I was 13 that my schoolteacher was "talking bollocks" when she said I'd go straight to Hell if I didn't stop denying the existence of God. It was Gran who dragged me, my face burning with embarrassment, straight down to the local doctor's surgery for a prescription of the Pill when she found out I was screwing around; and it was Gran I told when I was 17 that I thought I was a lesbian.

I was terrified how she'd react. I was worried that she'd throw me out of her home, that she'd hate me. In fact, she came and sat next to on the sofa and took my hand between both of hers. Then she said, "Oh Lucy love, that can't have been easy for you. I think you're very brave telling me. We both know, though, that if you are you're going to have to get out of this poky little town. Let's face it, someone like you's going to have to anyway if you don't want to be suffocated."

I hugged her, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Oh Gran, I love you." After I'd calmed down a bit, I asked her, "Do you think I should tell Mum and Dad?"

She rubbed my back gently, and muttered, "Best not Luce, you know what they're like. One day, maybe., when you're quite sure, and you don't have to live with them." It was good advice; but that day finally came a few weeks ago. Uni had finished for the summer and, with enormous reluctance, I was going to spend the break back home. A depression fell on me the moment the train drew near to the town, and was only briefly lifted by a visit to see Gran that same evening.

My parents seemed worse than ever: unpleasant, bigoted little people I could scarcely believe anymore that I was related to. Dad was full of snide comments about how little they heard from me, then started asking what hours I wanted to do in his bloody shop. The first thing Mum said to me was, "We wondered if you might bring a young man home with you." That was one of the reasons I didn't see or speak to them more often. Every time I spoke to Mum on the phone she'd ask if I had a boyfriend yet, whether I'd been on many dates, that kind of thing. I wasn't sure she'd have been too impressed if I told her that my last date was with a Polish bodybuilder called Hannah!

I was totally unprepared for the full horror of Mum's onslaught though. Honestly, she was like something out of Pride and Prejudice. Just to shut Dad up I agreed to work part-time in his store, and my first day there Mum kept almost physically pushing me at one of the staff members. "Peter's a nice lad Luce. Very good looking, don't you think? Bit shy though; he hasn't got a girlfriend at the moment." It would have been hilarious if it wasn't so bloody annoying.

Then, one Sunday, Mum reached new heights of toe-curling embarrassment. I got back from a walk in the hills, just to get away from them for a few hours, to find the dining room table laid out for afternoon tea. That in itself was strange; we usually ate meals on our laps in the front room, so my parents wouldn't miss a moment of whatever shit was on TV that night. I found out the reason after I'd showered and changed. As I re-entered the room, Mum turned to me and said, "Oh Lucy, this is Mark, our new vicar's son. He's very keen to meet you."

They must have heard the sound of my jaw dropping 20 miles away! I almost turned round and walked straight out, but I was too shocked. Mark was nice enough, in his own way; but it was obvious he was a milksop, and whenever he spoke I found it difficult to keep my eyes off his huge Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He seemed quite surprised at some of my 'radical' opinions, and was clearly disappointed at my view that all religions were a load of balls. In the end I just started taking the piss out of the poor lad, and it became clear he couldn't wait to leave. As the door closed behind him, my mother turned to me and snapped, "For heavens sake Lucille, what is the matter with you? How do you ever expect to attract a man with that sort of attitude?"

I leapt to my feet in anger, my dining chair falling backwards, and shouted back, "I don't want to attract a sodding man! I'm not into fucking men, okay?" The silence which followed that outburst was deafening. My mother burst into tears and rushed into the front room. My father gave me a poisonous look and followed her. I took a deep breath, a long draught of wine, then threw my glass against the wall in sheer fury. I stared at the shattered fragments on the carpet then slouched after my folks. They were sitting on the sofa, Dad's arm around Mum as she pressed a tissue to her eyes.

Feeling as guilty as hell I sank down in an armchair opposite them. "Mum, I'm sorry I shouted at you. Look, Mum, Dad...there's something I need to tell you. I've wanted to tell you for a long time, but I didn't know how to. I didn't mean it to come out like that, but...well, I'm gay. I've always known I was. Please try to understand."

For what seemed like an eternity they both just stared at me. Then Mum leapt to her feet, sobbed, "Oh Lucy, how could you?" and fled from the room. Dad looked apoplectic with rage, his face scarlet around his ridiculous little moustache. He stood up and, like some Victorian landlord, pointed to the front door and said in a low voice, "Get out of my house, you bloody pervert."

That really annoyed me. I stood nose to nose with him and snapped, "Oh for fuck's sake, father..." I got no further; I felt a stinging blow across my face as he slapped me, hard enough to make me stagger sideways and make my cheek glow. I stared at him in total disbelief, then stalked from the room and up the stairs, determined not to let him see the tears of shock and rage that were welling in my eyes.

As quickly as I could I threw my belongings into my rucksack and raced down the stairs. My father was standing in the doorway of the front room, his arms folded and his face still distorted with anger. As I dragged open the door to the street, he roared after me, "That's it, go on, get out you fucker. You disgust me!" I raced away from the house, unable to prevent myself from crying.

I had no idea where I was going, but my feet did. Without me even realising it, I found myself ringing Gran's doorbell, choking on my tears. She opened the door and without a word, took me in her arms and led me into the house, stroking my hair and shushing me. Between gulps of breath I told her what had happened. Her lips compressed in anger, and she hugged me to her. Then she said, "I never did like that stupid little man. And as for your mother, I'm ashamed, I didn't bring her up to be a bigot." Gran cuddled me a bit more, then made me a cup of coca and packed me off to bed early in her spare room.

I slept for something like 12 hours, and felt so much better in the morning. I decided to go back to London early – I couldn't stand much longer in that ugly, hateful little town. But I wanted to spend a few days with my granny first, as I hadn't seen enough of her in recent years. We fell into a daily routine: breakfast together, then I'd help her with her housework, then I'd go out for the day, either walking in the hills or borrowing a mate's car and driving to one of the pretty little villages on the coast. A couple of times I persuaded Gran to go with me, and we enjoyed Cornish cream teas in twee little harbour tea shoppes. In the evenings we'd watch the rubbish TV stuff Gran enjoyed – I suspended my critical judgement in order to be with her – and share a glass or two of her homemade wine. I could tell she was upset about the falling out with my parents, and I did phone them once to try and build bridges; Dad answered and hung up on me, so that was that.

One evening, after a good few glasses of wine, we somehow got onto talking about relationships. I told Gran about some of the lovely girls I'd dated – and some of the truly awful ones! – then asked her coyly if she'd ever had ay boyfriends. She gave a sort of sigh, then said, "No, I've been on my own ever since your granddad died."

I was a little surprised, and rather sad about that. "But Gran, that was 18 years ago. You were only in your 40s. Surely you've...I mean...well, when was the last time...."

I felt my face flush as my words ground to a halt, but she knew what I was asking. She gave me a little smile and said, "The last time I had sex was 14th February 1989, two weeks before my Roger passed on." She grinned at the look of astonishment on my face. "Well, let's face it Luce, I'm an outsider, and I had a business to run, and there's never exactly been a ready supply of attractive, eligible, middle-aged men in this inbred shithole of a town."

I'd never heard Gran swear before, and I'd never heard her talk so frankly about her feelings. We were both lost in our thoughts for a while after that. For my part I was thinking how lonely Gran must have been since her husband died. I mean, even now she's a good-looking lady for her age: about four inches shorter than me (I'm five-eight), short silver-grey hair, a relatively unlined face with a nice smile and her own teeth, a still trim figure and, I had previously noticed, a shapely pair of legs.

It was Gran who eventually broke the silence. Out of the blue, she said, "You know, Luce, you're so lucky living in an age when you can be who you really are, and you can sleep with whoever you want without anyone turning a hair; well, no-one except tossers like your mum and dad." I just stared at her, wondering what on earth was coming next; it was clear the wine had loosened her tongue, but then what she did say next really floored me. "I nearly had an affair with a woman once. She was an older lady, in her thirties I s'pose, Miss Simpkins. She was a tutor at the secretarial college I was attending."

I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. Half of me wanted to beg Gran to stop before she embarrassed herself, the other half was desperate to hear this tale. Staring into space, and into her past, she continued. "I was 18, and I'd only been with one feller. Miss Simpkins invited me out to a little tea shop one day. Oh, I felt very special. 'Course, all the girls reckoned she was a lezzie. Anyway, she held my hand under the table, then she started stroking my leg through my skirt, then she kissed me – I mean really kissed me, not just a peck on the cheek. She asked me to go back to her flat with her, but I chickened out. After that I could never face her in the college without blushing, and wondering what it would have been like to have sex with another woman. A couple of times I nearly went up to her and asked if I could go to her place with her after all. Then, that summer, I met Roger and fell for him, and that was that. I've often wondered, though, how different my life might have been if I had gone home with Ruby Simpkins that day."

I went to bed in an absolute daze that night, and had an incredible dream featuring me and Gran. I woke up in the morning bathed in sweat, and with a different kind of moisture pooled between my legs. As I lay there, distractedly stroking my pussy lips, I thought about my dream, and a wicked, bizarre plan began to form in my mind. It was absolutely crazy, unthinkable. If I made a mistake I risked losing for ever the love of the one person who mattered more to me than anyone else in the world. Yet I couldn't stop myself wondering whether the alcohol had lowered Gran's inhibitions just enough to drop a bit of a hint to her lesbian granddaughter.

I couldn't meet Gran's eyes at breakfast that morning. If she noticed anything was different to normal she didn't let on. For once I couldn't wait to get away from her, and I excused myself as soon as I could and went for a walk in the hills to think things through. Then, about lunchtime, I boarded a train to Plymouth, still not really sure if I had the nerve, or maybe the insanity, to act on the thoughts that were in my head.

The first thing I did in the city was to go to a trendy hair salon and ask them to cut my shoulder length hair. By the time they'd finished it was as short as a boy's. Then I phoned the one half-decent restaurant in our town and made a reservation for that evening. After that I called Gran and told her to get her glad rags out: I was taking her out to dinner that evening. She was quite surprised, and a bit hesitant, but I wouldn't take no for an answer, and eventually she happily agreed. Next I went to one of those supermarket megastores that sell everything from a loaf of bread to a three-piece suite and bought myself a suit. Not just any suit: this was a stylish man's dress suit, with a bow tie, frilly shirt, cufflinks and shiny shoes, as if I was dressing for a night out at Casino Royale. Finally, I went into a 'sex aids shop' and, thinking I probably had finally lost my mind, bought a little toy.

I realised I wouldn't have time to change when I got back to Gran's, so I nipped into the ladies loo on Plymouth station while I waited for my train. I changed in a roomy disabled cubicle, and when I emerged I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I'd even amazed myself – with my short, slicked hair, and that suit, I looked for all the world like a young gigolo. I've got nicely shaped boobs, but they struggle to fill a B cup and they didn't show at all under the shirt and jacket. At that moment a woman walked into the toilets and gave me the oddest look, clearly wondering what a man was doing in the ladies!

On the train back I stared out of the window nervously, trying to pluck up the courage to follow through. I was vaguely aware of the ticket inspector bustling along, and held out my ticket and student railcard without a glance. A moment later I heard her say, "Fucking hell Luce, is that really you?"

I turned round in surprise and looked into the face of Rosie Jenks, one of my classmates from school. I had never much liked her – she'd screwed her way through half the boys in town – but looking up at her from my seat I was reminded what a glorious big pair of tits she had. She was staring at me with her mouth hanging open, a look of astonishment on her face. "Christ, it is you. You look great. I'll tell you, if you was a bloke I wouldn't half fancy you."

I was slightly embarrassed, and without thinking I blurted, "Yeah, well Rosie, you don't have to be a bloke to fuck girls."

She looked startled for a moment, then gave me the sort of coy smile I remembered from whenever she was chatting up a boy she wanted to shag. Leaning towards me, she said, "Yeah? Really?" I watched stunned as she scribbled something on the back of my ticket and handed it to me. "Look, that's my mobile number, give me a call sometime and you can show me what you mean, all right?" Then, winking at me over her shoulder, she sashayed off down the train corridor. I shook my head in disbelief. I knew Rosie was a slag, but I couldn't imagine she was into women. Then I realised she was probably into anyone she thought could give her a good fuck, and I looked the part.

When I got off the train I ducked into a florists and bought a small bouquet, and a white carnation buttonhole for myself. Then I walked back to Gran's. It took me about ten minutes to finally pluck up the nerve to ring the doorbell. Gran opened the door; she looked great in a black evening dress which shimmered with woven-in silver strands, accompanied by silver high heels that almost levelled our height. She looked at me then did a double-take. "Oh sorry, I was expecting..." She peered more closely at me. "Luce? Is that you?"

Brandishing the bouquet at her, I flashed her my widest smile and husked, "Lucy is not here. I am Luis, your Latin toyboy. Now my little Mayflower, are you ready for romance?"

That was the moment when it could all have gone horribly wrong. Gran stared at me quite perplexed for a moment, then burst into a fit of giggles, whether at my playacting or at my cod Latin accent I wasn't sure. To my relief, however, she joined in the game. "Oh Luis, I've been waiting here for you. Let me just put these in water then you can whisk me away." While Gran dealt with the flowers I quickly hid my secret purchase, then called a taxi. The restaurant was only ten minutes walk away, but I didn't want my date to cripple herself in those heels before we even got there!