While there were a few sustained friendships, we were for the most part a disparate group of women in our mid-forties, bound by a single event twenty five years earlier: We'd all been members of the field hockey team at an unfashionable, provincial university, which to the surprise of everyone -- not least ourselves -- won the national collegiate championship. On leaving Uni, we'd all gone our separate ways and got on with our lives; we'd held a few reunions since, but this time it was special and we'd pretty much got a full turn-out, with a few hangers-on besides.
That unbeaten season being twenty-five years ago was significant in itself, but additionally the anniversary date of our clinching that title coincided with Abigail -- our goalkeeper -- finalising her divorce. I'd stayed in touch with Abi and met her husband Charles on a few occasions, thus I was able to vouch for the veracity of her assessment: "Charles is a jerk; but fortunately, he's a very rich jerk!" To celebrate her new-found freedom, Abigail had used a small part of her reputedly multi-million pound settlement to underwrite the cost of this weekend extravaganza.
While it was Abigail's Party, another of our number, Annabelle, was actually organising it; after college Anna had carved out a career as an Impresario and Theatrical Agent, so she was well qualified and had all the right contacts for the task. It proved a great success: We'd gathered on the Friday evening at a spa hotel in Leicestershire to enjoy an informal get-together and chin-wag; some of those girls I'd not seen since the day I left University. On the Saturday a few of the girls went sight-seeing, but most of us just enjoyed a day in the hotel's sauna, spa, pool and treatment rooms - Abigail had booked out the whole place! - ahead of our Gala Dinner in the evening.
That certainly fulfilled expectations: The food was first class, wine flowed like water; there was a disco and a live band, both well versed in the music of our heydays, plus a saucy comedian who'd clearly been well briefed on some of the characters and incidents of our college days. Top of the bill and closing out the evening was a male dance troupe, 'The Full Montys', whom Anna reported would be: 'Going All the Way and then a little further'; unsurprisingly, this had generated major excitement amongst we girls.
It was approaching midnight when the Full Montys arrived on stage, I cheered and whistled as loudly as the rest; by good fortune I was at that moment sat at a table almost beside the stage, so was going to enjoy a ring-side seat! Rumour had it that these young men were all students at a local university; though I and perhaps none amongst us, had considered whether it was wholly appropriate or even decent, for a gang off forty-something women to be ogling -- and perhaps more -- boys who were likely no older than their own kids. A minute later and I had my answer to that question:
There were seven young men and fifth in the line, with the stage-name 'Spartan' was a guy called Dylan; my son Dylan! He's a student, but not in Leicester, Dylan's campus is a over a hundred miles away; what the hell was he doing here? Nor did Dylan need to work, at this or any other job. To avoid such distractions to their studies, my husband and I cover all the tuition fees, accommodation expenses and provide generous monthly allowances too for both Dylan and his sister Rachel.
I'm unsure as to how long I remained frozen in open-mouthed silence, but on realising that my continued inaction would mark me out in the crowd, I once again, albeit less enthusiastically, rejoined the lewd encouragement and appreciation. It was embarrassment not repugnance which had so discombobulated me; I'm far from prudish or reserved and have even enjoyed the odd casual dalliance. Watching this energetic display of toned male flesh -- more of it appearing with each passing moment! - was in the normal course of things, right up my street.
Despite Dylan's presence amongst them - he'd certainly spent some time in the gym since last summer's family holiday! - I was still captivated and more than a little aroused by the dancers' performance; the noise around me suggested that I was far from alone in that. But it was my son up there and if the other girls discovered that connection I'd never live it down; obviously all those young men were somebody's son, but Dylan was mine!
Save for their Fedora hats, the lads were already naked to their waists when it happened: A roving spotlight settled upon me in the same moment that Dylan looked in my direction; he missed a couple of steps in the routine and the look on his face confirmed that he'd seen and recognised me. Our eyes met and I suspect that my own expression reflected Dylan's silent plea: 'Oh Fuck! Please don't tell anyone!' We each gave a discrete nod of agreement and Dylan was quickly back in step with the rest of the troupe, while I, more shamefully, was again soon whistling and cat-calling along with the other women too.
The performance ran for perhaps fifteen minutes, the boys finishing by ripping away their matching Calvin Klein jockstraps and a millisecond later covering their embarrassment with those Fedora hats. Then and in response to the cacophony of screaming women, those hats were almost casually returned to their heads and the guys posed, hands on hips and stark naked before us. As the men bowed and exited stage left, the crowd -- yes, myself included. - to coin a phrase 'Went wild!'
We only calmed down when Annabelle returned to the stage and promised that after a few minutes rest and refreshment, the Full Montys would be returning to 'Get Serious'. The floor shuddered and the windows rattled with the strength of applause, cheers and foot-stamping that this news garnered. I managed to hold my own in the conversations and debate which ensued and took great but secret satisfaction in hearing that Dylan was getting marked highly in the fuckability stakes, though judiciously, I adjudged him somewhere in the middle order when asked myself.
We were so deeply engaged in our discussions that Annabelle and the Full Montys were back onto the stage almost before we realised; this time the boys arrived clad in only their black jockstraps and those powder-blue Fedora hats. Having quelled another round of cheering, Annabelle outlined how the Full Montys' final act would proceed and how the seven ladies which this part of their performance required would be selected. At that stage I wasn't worried; there were above forty of us to choose from and I wasn't a close friend of Anna's.
First-up was Abigail -- It was her party after all -- to select which of the young men she would 'assist'. To a backdrop of our rousing cheers and salacious advice, Abi with apparent, though not well faked reluctance climbed onto the stage and chose Trojan. He would've been well down my preference list, but in some respects he was a rather obvious selection; Trojan was as black as the ace of spades and hung like a horse!
The remainder, Anna then explained would be selected by ballot; we were all instructed to hold our room keys aloft, whereupon each of the Full Monty boys would pick a numbered ball from the cloth bag which Annabelle held. As each man drew his ball, he handed it to Anna who raised it aloft for all to see, called out the number and the guy dropped down into the baying crowd to haul the lady with the matching key number onto the stage.
The noise level ratcheted ever higher during this selection process and I certainly contributed to the hullabaloo; those women chosen, showed varying degrees of reluctance as they were dragged onto stage, though none really appeared genuinely so. Even as the moment for Dylan to draw a ball neared I remained unconcerned; I work as an Actuary so was comfortable with the long-odds of his drawing my room number and should one of the other boys do so, I'd by then decided that I'd be more than happy to comply. Dylan was hardly in any position to tell his father or indeed anyone else what I'd been up to!
