A Teenage Story Featuring A Doctored Pair Of Woolly Tights And The Rhythm Of The Swinging Blue Jeans. Musical Memories ~ Angela Goodnight

I was reading a blog by Exposing40 and she was talking about how music forms a huge part of our memories. She describes how important events, like giving her virginity, will be forever linked with certain songs and artists.

I made a comment on the above post that it made me think about the Gurney funfair in October 1964. Here is my story:

As I walked through between Gurney castle and the fire station onto the large flat area beside the canal, all the lights of the fair were flashing red, yellow, green, blue, white, orange and I could hear the noises of dodgem cars, twisty-turny rotating thingies, other rides, the sound of shouting from the coconut shy, candyfloss sellers and the hoopla stall. Above all else was the sound of the Searchers blasting out When You Walk In The Room. It is indelibly printed in my mind.

I had turned fourteen the previous August – now don’t frown, I was a very mature fourteen year-old and Peter and I were deeply, truly in love. I know most teenage love affairs are no more than infatuation, but this was different. We both knew it and the proof that it was true is that we are still making love several times per week in our late sixties. So please don’t frown and judge us – judgemental attitudes spoiled so many love affairs in the mid twentieth century.

I can remember I was wearing woollen tights – special woollen tights – why they were special will become clear. I had a thick pullover on under a rain jacket and my favourite skirt – heavy for warmth. Bright green about four inches above my knees. It wasn’t cold, but there was night-time chill and I had my hands thrust firmly into my jacket pockets. My hair was hanging free, long, black, shiny, down to below my breasts. I was smiling, happy for I knew I was about to meet up with my undying love.

I saw my friend Linda Ley with her boyfriend Jeff, over by one of the stalls where they were throwing darts at playing cards. If you got three different cards with three darts then you won a prize token.

“What’re you trying for?” I laughed as Jeff got a second token.

“He wants to get me that bear,” Linda said, pointing at a plush teddy-bear on the top shelf, surrounded by other cuddly toys.

It certainly was a nice bear. It had a label “FOUR WINS” pinned to his chest. Bears were always male to me. My own Teddy was originally a girl bear, but I stripped the silly skirt off him and he was a far better boy bear. I still have him to this day, a little fragile now, but still gets a cuddle if Peter is away or I go to stay with my mum alone.

I watched Jeff try again, but this time the third dart missed the playing card so he bought another go. I think it was a shilling a play (5p in today’s money).

The next time was a disaster with the first dart missing the card. Linda told him not to worry and it wasn’t worth spending all his money trying to win it, but that just made him more determined. He bought another go.

Suddenly two hands gripped my shoulders from behind, a warm cheek pressed against mine and Peter said, “Hi Ang. Sorry I’m late.”

“I only just arrived,” I said and turned towards him. Our lips met.

Oh, how lovely it was. The warmth of our teenage kisses, our lips mobile and moist, pressing hard and soft and nibbling and opening and all-encompassing in the sensations they produced. I just lived for our kisses. All week at school with barely the chance to hold hands built up the anticipation and desire for these opportunities to spend time together at the weekend.

His tongue brushed the underside of my top lip and mine dashed out to meet it, to sample its flavour, its gorgeous flavour and texture. Oh the texture. The slight roughness. We licked the tips of each other’s tongues – such a wonderful intimacy. My heart missed beats, my cheeks glowed with my love for him and down there, deep inside, there was a stirring which filled me with irresistible desire for him.

The kiss ended, “I love you,” he said.

We kissed again. Oh how I loved him. His voice, his cropped hairstyle, his powerful hands, warm chest and the strength of his shoulders and arms. His thigh pressed into the apex of my thighs and the stirring inside me increased in its intensity.

How easy it is to remember these things, the wonderful joy of teenage love while Johnny Kidd and the Pirates’ Shakin’ All Over thundered across the fairground, followed by Like I’ve Never Been Gone by the incomparable Billy Fury. Such a thrill to be young, in love and living during the most incredible era of music creation, ever.

On the other hand, I have no recollection of whether or not Linda got her teddy-bear, because we wandered off. Our hands were intertwined. I was thrilling to the movement of his fingers between mine, dominating the hand-holding, caressing my palm, the back of my hand, the length of each finger, gossamer light touches of the sensitive pads at the tip of each finger and me replicating the process on his hand. Our hands were making love as surely as our more secret body parts were yearning for the same intimacy.

The DodgemsShe Loves You filled the air as we boarded our dodgem car in the days when no one minded if your intent was to bash everyone around you. There was Mark and Anne – we hit them amidships; Pat and Jane whacked our back-end and caused us to spin away. There were hoots of laughter and threats and promises to execute revenge as we turned in pursuit, only to be hit by Jenny and her new boyfriend, Roger. Huge, huge fun. The session ended and we climbed out of the car to Dave Berry’s languid rendition of Memphis, Tennessee.

Peter bought us two candyflosses, mine pink and his white. We walked towards the canal and followed the path towards the sea lock with all the music and flashing lights of the fair just behind us. The night had calmed. There was hardly a breeze as we turned right on the path around the base of the castle where it loomed over the Storn river. We could see the tide coming in as we sat on the bench overlooking this brackish area of the river estuary with the vast expanse of Storn beach in the distance leading towards the breakwater and sea pool.

As always with candyfloss we got it on our fingers and faces, so spent twenty minutes licking each other’s hands and faces, all the while becoming increasingly aware of each other’s love and the direction in which our attentions were leading us.

Teenage kissingHe turned towards me and pulled me to him, holding me securely as our faces sealed our lust for each other, pressing hard, kissing, biting each other’s lips, caressing our cheeks, running hands through our hair, playing with the ears which were so small and delicate in those days.

“Think we can risk the castle mound?” he asked.

“Thought you’d never ask,” I said enthusiastically.

We got up from the bench and walked another twenty yards along the path beneath the sandy castle rampart. We came to a break in the gorse and began to climb, keeping an eye open that no one else was watching where we were heading. The climb took about the same time as Sandie Shaw’s Always Something There To Remind Me, still clearly audible even from this side of the castle.

We entered our secret place to the beginning of the Hollies Here I Go Again and we both laughed at the significance. At the top of the castle mound was the most delightful sandy and grassy hollow. It was where we’d lost our mutual virginities about three weeks previously. There was little chance of being disturbed although, to be honest, we were taking a bit of a risk on a funfair evening as other lovers must know of the seclusion of this place.

We stood face to face, me on tiptoe, kissing and caressing each other, enjoying our closeness. It was the week after our Illicit ‘Weekend of Love’ and we were both absolutely desperate to repeat the experience. This was as secure and comfortable place as we could find, but we knew it could never come close to making love almost continuously last weekend when his parents were away at a wedding and we had Peter’s bed all to ourselves. My friend Pat had helped me with a subterfuge that I was with her and her older sister in Bournemouth, whereas actually Peter and I were able to experience living together for two whole, beautiful, orgasmic days. We made love as near continuously as my poor Peter’s penis could manage and it truly cemented our relationship. We knew we could never be parted. By the end of the year we discovered how wrong we were, but that is another story.

The music sounded much louder here as sound travels uphill well. Lulu was banging out Shout as we laid our rain jackets on the area of soft sand and lay down upon them with me on his left and he, resting on his elbow, looking down into my eyes in the moonlight. How adorable he was. I was just so amazed that this amazing boy really was mine. His hand found my knees and began caressing my legs, inching their way northwards, eventually discovering that place at their apex which radiated such heat. I could tell I was already moist for him.

“Have to get these off, Ang,” he whispered as he tried to find the waist of my tights.

“No need. I’ve made an alteration to them where it matters,” I said laughing.

He felt around and found the neat cut in the crotch. In seconds his fingers were inside, my panties pushed to one side and I experienced the gorgeous feeling of a finger penetrating me. Then another.

“Oh, Peter. Lovely.”

“God, you’re not just brilliant, Angie, but brilliantly ready, too.”

“Yes, I know,” and I reached for his trousers, undid his belt, opened his clasp, slid them down to his bum and reached into his Y-fronts to find Zebedee, ready, willing and prepared for me.

There was the usual struggle to get his erection out of the pants, but finally its heat was in the palm of my hand, being squeezed and kneaded by both my hands. He materialised a Durex Fetherlite and I took it from him, opening it and, slowly, teasingly pulling down his foreskin, rolled it along his erection and pulling up the base skin of Zebedee to ensure it was all in its latex Mackintosh.

Ironically, as he climbed aboard and I helped him find his way past the tights and panties, the Merseybeats were screaming out Don’t Throw Your Love Away, and then we were one.

I have three favourite parts of lovemaking. The first is that incredible opening, filling and occupying sensation of his first penetration; the second is the closeness and warmth and slow rhythmic grinding of our favourite lovemaking and the third is in two parts – his orgasm and my orgasm and they come in one order or the other and sometimes together. Those favourite things have always been the same for me throughout my life.

That first penetration was phenomenal and I held him tightly at his furthest point, enjoying being possessed by him, taken by him, having him buried deeply inside my body. I can still remember it to this day. The heat of Zebedee and the glow developing throughout my intimate parts.

It is amazing how rhythmic the Swinging Blue Jeans’ You’re No Good is. Peter just kept up the rhythm throughout the song and we both began to laugh which made the loving even more fun. Can’t Buy Me Love followed on and I recall feeling that I was getting close towards the end of it. You know, that tingling heating sensation all around the instrument of pleasure which was providing so much friction within me.

There was another song, but slower and I don’t remember which one it was, but by now all of my concentration was on that astounding build up of heat and seeming physical expansion of my genitals to take in more and more of him, feeling his pubic bone rubbing my clit through our underwear, causing a heat which was almost, but not quite, uncomfortable. The sort of roughness which you apply during a ladywank when the urgency overtakes you.

Hotter and hotter. I remember gripping his shoulders and crying out as Herman’s Hermits saw the end of our passion. That inexplicable and unstoppable rise of feelings within. A rush of emotion and sensation coming from deep within, up through the length of my vagina and meeting the irresistible heat from my clitoris. The two seemed to unite to stop me breathing, making me grip Peter even harder, crying for the sheer joy of what I was experiencing.

Pow! I came in a long, beautiful sequence of contractions, feeling his climax arrive as mine ended, causing me to come a second time almost immediately. Wow! Unforgettable. So unforgettable that I am reliving the feelings as I write this and will have to go find Peter this afternoon and jump him.

When Peter finished and my second O had released its hold on my ability to breathe, I cried, “I love you,” and it was repeated back at me over and over from the man who would be mine forever, despite our decades apart.

As he caught his breath and relaxed, while we were still in our intimate embrace, he chuckled and said, “Do you realise what the name of this song is?”

“Oh yes,” I said as we both listened to the last line.

It was the Hermits number one from a week or two back, I’m Into Something Good.

“They’re dead right, Angie. I can’t imagine being inside something which felt better.”

“And having you in me. It was so lovely, Peter. I’ve so missed you this week.”

I felt his hand find its way to his penis to hold the Durex as he withdrew. Oh, oh, oh, I detested contraceptives and the fact they made us come apart before I was ready. I hated the feeling of him leaving me.

He cleaned up, put my underwear back into the right places and I turned over to lie in his arms, listening to the music from the funfair.

The Beach Boys’ I Get Around serenaded us during our post coital cuddle.

Wow. Such memories.

Well, that’s the story. Now I’m off to find my pensioner husband to satisfy my lust, which hasn’t reduced at all in the last half century!

Angela Goodnight, 15th May 2016

[Apology: Our stories are always true unless prefixed Question or Fiction, but we do, occasionally, use some writer’s license. The music. You’re No Good was definitely the rhythmic song during our lovemaking, but I must own up to having lied about the song during our mutual orgasms – it wasn’t I’m Into Something Good, but it did seem so appropriate, so I thought the white lie was forgivable. In fact I do remember what it actually was – Tobacco Road by the Nashville Teens. Doesn’t quite have the same relevance or ring to it though, does it? Anyway, sorry, forgive me.]

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