Closing the door behind her, Tessa approached the bed. She stopped a few feet short and slowly untied the chord that kept the silky material tight to her curves. The dryness in my mouth returned with a vengeance as I gulped nothing but air. Both ends of the chord dropped vertically, and the dressing gown opened just an inch, providing a tantalising glimpse of the treasure within. Tessa stood for a few seconds before raising her hand to tease the silky material from her left shoulder. With no resistance, it slid down her naked body to the floor.
Her body was every bit as perfect as I’d imagined. I could barely breathe as I lay there staring wide eyed at the first naked female I’d ever seen in the flesh. I had dreamt about this moment so many times, and now I was only seconds away from touching her, having her. I was in heaven. The sensuality of the scene was only slightly marred by Jim Kerr singing ‘Alive & Kicking’ in the background. I’ve never liked Simple Minds.
Tessa edged forwards and pulled the duvet back to reveal my naked body, and now painfully erect penis.
“Somebody is pleased to see me. Room in there for another one?”
I shuffled closer to the edge of the bed and Tessa climbed in beside me. She rolled onto her side so we were facing one another, and then she moved in for more aggressive French kissing. To address the awkward angle of her attack, I raised my upper body and propped myself, somewhat uncomfortably, on my right elbow. My contortion seemed to help as Tessa continued her hungry assault on my tonsils.
Our sloppy kissing continued for a few minutes. I didn't have the faintest idea what I was supposed to do, so I continued to run my free hand up and down her body, in the least sexual manner possible — akin to stroking a dying dog. Pins and needles attacked my right hand which was trapped in an impossible position under my hip. Tessa eventually broke for air, and as if she’d read my mind, she whispered instructions.
“Finger me.”
To your average sixteen-year-old male, fingering is like gravity — you know it exists but you don't understand how it works. The only research I could call upon was a low-budget VHS porn video I’d watched at Dave’s house. I was faced with a dilemma. Did I admit to Tessa that I didn’t have a clue what to do, or did I try to busk it? I decided upon the latter option. As Tessa rolled onto her back, the first problem became apparent. I was right handed, but I was leaning on my right arm which meant I had to administer the fingering with my left hand. I foolishly pressed on regardless.
I ran my hand across Tessa’s stomach as she mewed gently in anticipation. I slowly moved my hand towards the target area until it was roughly in the correct location. That was the point where my plan, if you could call it that, ended. My knowledge of the terrain was minimal, and with no real idea what I was doing, I poked and prodded my way around like a fat-fingered child experimenting with Play-Doh. This pitiful action continued for only a minute before Tessa decided she’d had enough of my assault on her genitals and pulled my hand away.
I didn’t actually know what foreplay was, but I decided it was over, anyway. My penis had been erect for at least fifteen minutes, and my testicles were throbbing. My biology lessons at school never covered exploding testicles, but I wasn’t prepared to take any risks.
“Can we have sex now please?” I whimpered.
Tessa smiled, and without saying a word, she turned to her side. She pulled open a drawer in her bedside cabinet and withdrew a condom. This one act substantiated my earlier view that this was not the first time Tessa had done this. I guessed that she probably wasn’t a virgin. Any lingering doubts to Tessa’s virtuous nature were quickly extinguished as she placed the edge of the condom wrapper in her teeth, tore it away, and pulled the condom out in one fluid motion. Case closed, she had definitely done this before.
She turned back onto her side to face me, and without warning, she grabbed my penis in her right hand. An electric spasm shot through every nerve in my body, my testicles throbbing in complaint. As the spasm subsided, Tessa expertly rolled the condom onto my pulsing member with her left hand.
“Your first time?” she asked, as if the answer was not already obvious.
I nodded, still reeling from having my penis grasped by an actual female.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle with you,” she smiled.
Tessa rolled onto her back and shuffled nearer to the centre of the bed. I took this as an invitation to assume the missionary position above her, arms pressed either side of her head for support, and our genitals in the same approximate neighbourhood. In my blissful ignorance, I was unaware that the docking procedure required some fairly deft navigation. I thrust my hips forward and my penis dug into the mattress, south of the intended target. I repositioned and tried again. I went too high and my penis slid across Tessa’s stomach. This went on for several more futile, and increasingly embarrassing attempts, before she became rightfully impatient.
“Just relax,” she said, with a detectable hint of frustration in her voice.
She then reached down and held my penis in the correct position. I slowly let my hips relax, and finally, felt myself enter her.
“That’s good, now shag me hard,” she ordered.
I let my hips rise and fall in stiff, mechanical movements, like the Tin Man in a porn version of The Wizard of Oz. As clumsy as my technique was, I was too excited to care. This was it. I was actually having sex with Tessa Lawrence. Years of waiting, of dreaming, and finally…
Oh dear.
After barely a dozen rusty thrusts I could already feel the pressure mounting. If I was to postpone the fast-approaching conclusion to our love making, I had to focus on a negative stimulus. I recited lines of computer code in my head. I tried to recall elements from the periodic table — and in a final act of desperation, I pictured the ruddy face of Mr Scott from computer club. It was all to no avail. I couldn’t hold back the tide any longer. With one final thrust, I exploded into orgasm, almost unaware that there was another person engaged in the act below me.
Forty seconds and it was all over.
As the final waves from the concluding event ebbed away, I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was the look of disappointment and mild annoyance on Tessa’s face.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could say.
She let out a sigh.
“Don’t worry about it, Craig,” she said wearily before turning her head away from me.
The next few seconds were excruciatingly long as Tessa gazed into space, and my arms cramped.
“Shall I get off now?” I asked.
Still gazing away from me, Tessa replied curtly in the affirmative.
I pulled backwards and crabbed my body to the side, so we were lying like two spoons together. Freed from my body on top of her, Tessa visibly shuddered and was out of the bed within a second. She snatched her dressing gown from the floor, and I caught a final glimpse of her naked body before it was hidden beneath her silky dressing gown.
“My mum will be back soon. The bathroom is at the end of the landing so get dressed there. And make sure you flush the condom away,” she said flatly as she tied the chord around her waist.
She then stomped across the room and sat down on a cushioned stool next to her dressing table. I watched her for a moment as she brushed her shiny black bob. No further words were exchanged, but I caught her glare reflected at me in the dressing-table mirror. I took this as my prompt to follow Tessa’s instructions.
I gingerly crawled from the bed and scanned the floor for my clothes, which were in a crumpled pile six feet away. Trying to avoid any chance that Tessa might catch my naked reflection in the mirror, I shuffled across the space and bent over to scoop up the pile of discarded clothes. Just as I reached for an errant sock, my body let me down again. Several litres of pent-up wind escaped my colon, rasping beyond my clenched buttocks.
I made a bolt for the bathroom, hurriedly dressed and left Tessa’s house; the forgotten condom dispatching its contents into my underpants a few hundred yards later.
6
On the Monday after my visit to Tessa’s house, she approached me on the way home from school. She told me gently, but firmly, that there would not be a repeat performance. She added that it would be better if we kept what happened just between the two of us — I agreed with some relief. I was utterly heartbroken, but not exactly surprised after my performance. What I wasn’t prepared for was the emotional firestorm that awaited me. From the moment I closed the door at Tessa’s house, my mind trapped itself in an endless loop, analysing every action and every word, over and over again. The more I tried not to think about it, the more vivid and excruciating the memories came.
To make matters worse, we were reaching the end of the school year and my exams were imminent. As I sat in my bedroom and stared at my textbooks, nothing would bypass my introspection of that afternoon, and revision became impossible. I stupidly purchased a copy of ‘Now That’s What I Call Music 6’, and listened to it on a constant loop, torturing myself further. I was an emotional wreck.
I struggled through my exams and a few weeks later, a brown envelope landed on the doormat at home. I felt sick as I tore the envelope open, knowing deep down that the contents would end my dreams. I wasn’t wrong. My grades had fallen off a cliff and there was no way I'd be able to secure a place at college with such poor exam results. As bad as I felt in that moment, I knew worse was to come when my parents arrived home from work, bringing their high expectations with them. It wouldn’t be long before I crushed those expectations.
“Oh Craig, what happened?” Mum said with a look of abject disappointment written across her face.
“We had such high hopes for you, didn’t we, Colin?”
My dad, sat in his favourite armchair reading the newspaper, looked up with a face of stone.
“This is down to that bloody girl you’ve been sulking about, isn’t it?” he asked, ignoring Mum’s question.
I was surprised he’d even noticed my change of mood, such was his general lack of interest in my emotional wellbeing which he’d long-since delegated to my mum.
“I’ve not been myself, I know that,” I offered in defence.
Dad dropped the newspaper to his lap and ran a hand through his thinning hair. I instinctively knew he was about to deliver a lecture.
“Look boy, life is tough and you have to play the hand you’re dealt. You can’t change anything so you need to pull yourself together and concentrate on what you’re going to do next.”
“I could re-sit my exams?”
“And you expect us to carry on supporting you? No chance. You had your opportunity, and you blew it because you sat in your bedroom and, rather than revise, you sulked over some bloody girl,” he bellowed angrily.
I looked towards Mum in the hope she might interject in my defence. She dropped her gaze from mine and remained silent, ever the loyal wife.
Dad continued his rant.
“If you want to continue your studies, do it in a few years’ time when you can afford it. For now, you have to pay your way in life, because I’m sure as hell not going to subsidise you. I’ll give you four weeks to get yourself a job and start paying housekeeping.”
With that, he picked his paper up to indicate that the conversation was over, as were my hopes for the future. Mum offered me a weak smile of condolence before she bustled off to start dinner.
I barely left my bedroom for the next few days. My head was a complete mess, and I spent those days running the full gamut of emotions. It was too much for a sixteen-year-old boy to cope with. On the fourth day of my self-imposed exile from society, a gentle knock on the door woke me from my trance. The door opened and Mum invited herself into my room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed where I lay.
“Are you okay, love? I’m worried about you,” she said softly.
I stared across at her — the woman who had brought me into this world and then dedicated herself to protecting me from it. I suppose it’s part of parenthood that at some point, you have to accept you can’t protect your child from everything. There's some pain we’re all destined to taste, and this was my time.
I looked into her eyes and the dam collapsed. I felt my lips tremble, and my chest heaved gently. My eyes misted with tears, and I couldn’t hold back any longer. For the first time in years, I cried. Uncontrollable, deep sobs. My mum didn’t say a word as she moved across the bed and held my convulsing body. Through stinging tears and with a broken voice, all I could say were three short words.
“It hurts, Mum.”
She waited for a few moments, and slowly released me from her arms, before gently cupping my face in her hands.
“I know it hurts, sweetheart, and it will do for a while yet. But every day it will hurt a little less, and one day the pain will go forever. I promise you.”
She smiled and used her thumbs to brush away the tears from my cheeks. I couldn't have loved my mum any more than in that moment. Her simple act of maternal intervention had allowed me to release weeks of pent-up emotion. My problems were still real, but Mum had at least removed the emotional millstone that had been slowly crushing me. It was enough to build upon.
I hugged Mum tightly, not wanting to leave the sanctuary she provided. Eventually, and a little reluctantly I broke the embrace.
“I’ve ruined everything. What am I going to do now, Mum?”
She smiled and dropped her hand into the front pocket of the apron which she always wore around the house. She pulled out a piece of paper and pressed it into my hand.
“I went shopping with your Aunt Judy before work this morning. On the way back, we passed the video store on Eton Drive. You know the one?”
I nodded in reply. We didn’t own a video player, but I’d seen the store countless times on the way to the chip-shop, which was a few doors away.
“They’ve got a sign in the window. They’re looking for a trainee manager and I thought you might be interested.”
Compared to my revised career prospects which were long-term unemployment or a low-paid youth training scheme, it actually seemed a preferable option.
“The phone number is on that piece of paper. Have a think about it, and if you feel ready, give them a ring. Nothing ventured, eh?”
She ran her hand through my hair, and with a final assurance that everything would be okay, she went back downstairs.
I sat and stared at the piece of paper for some time, like it was a ticket for a journey I didn’t want to take. But faced with few other options, and a father threatening to make me homeless, I thought it might be a short-term solution. Mum was right; nothing ventured.
I traipsed downstairs and took a seat on the fake mahogany telephone bench, which was too big for our small hallway. I placed the piece of paper down, lifted the receiver and carefully dialled the number. It rang nine or ten times, and just as I was about to hang up, a breathy voice answered.
“Hello, Video City,” he said tersely.
“Hello. I’m ringing about the job you’re advertising in the window, the trainee manager position. I’d like to apply, please,” I said in my best telephone manner.
“Hold on,” he replied.
I heard the sound of the telephone receiver being dropped onto a hard surface, followed by some coughing and other assorted noises I couldn’t identify. This continued for a minute until he picked up the receiver again.
“You still there?” said the voice.
“Yes.”
“Can you come in tomorrow for an interview, about four o’clock?” he asked.
“Yes I can. Who should I ask for?”
“Me, Malcolm. I’m the owner. I’ll be the only person here, but we don’t open until five so we can have some privacy,” he replied as his heavy breathing seemed to intensify.
Malcolm asked my name, my age, and a few other basic questions, which he seemed to note down judging by the long pause after every answer. When he finished, I politely said goodbye and put the receiver down, thinking to myself that Malcolm sounded more like a predatory paedophile
than a legitimate businessman. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, so I headed to the kitchen to give Mum the good news.
7
I awoke the next morning, and for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t immediately greeted by bleak thoughts. My actual first thoughts concerned my one-and-only suit, and whether it still fitted me. Mum had accompanied me to Dunn & Co the previous year to acquire a suit for my cousin’s wedding. After an hour of trying on various suits that made me look like either an accountant or a geography teacher, we settled on a compromise; a silvery-grey number with wide lapels, grey flecks and a slight sheen to it.
I pulled open the doors to my wardrobe and scoured the rail in search of the suit. As mild panic rose, I found it hidden amongst a section of clothes that even somebody as unfashionable as me wouldn’t dare be seen in. I laid the suit on the bed and stripped off my pyjamas. I slipped into the jacket, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. The cuffs were about half-an-inch short of my wrists, but apart from that, it still seemed a respectable fit.
Next, and of greater concern, the trousers. I pulled them on, and to my utter relief, I could still button them up around the waist. I dared to face the mirror, and even without a shirt, I thought I looked like a man in a suit should. That was until my eyes dropped south and I realised the hems of both trouser legs hung a good inch above my ankles. Shit. I had no back-up plan, but assuming that Malcolm and I would be separated by a desk, I thought I could get away with it.
The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel Page 4
