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The first car I ever owned was a 1953 Ford Prefect. If you want to know what it looked like, Google E493A. Like many of its brothers and sisters, mine was grey. It was certainly not a great looker. But it was remarkably reliable. And it had a top speed of about 65 mph. Although to reach that dizzying velocity, it helped to be going downhill.
Henry (I think it was my mother who dubbed the car Henry) had a side-valve engine. To this day, I’m not sure what a side-valve engine is; but Henry had one. And it had a three-speed gearbox. But the best thing about Henry — certainly on the night that I’m thinking of — was that it had a bench front seat.
Chrissy had gone to high school with my sister. But by the time that I met Chrissy she was studying at Teachers’ Training College.
Chrissy and I got talking while we were standing next to each other, watching a game of rugby between a Teachers College team and Gloucester-London. As I recall, the Teacher’s team was getting well and truly dikmen escort thumped. ‘Oh well,’ Chrissy said, ‘my second team is doing OK.’ And that’s when we discovered that we were both from the Cotswolds, albeit it now living in London. One thing led to another, and we agreed to go and see an exhibition of paintings by Peter Lime on the following weekend.
The paintings were rather interesting, and Chrissy and I found much to talk about. And then, just as I was about to wave goodbye to her, outside the Bond Street Tube station, I asked her if she might be interested in going to hear Distant Thunder, an emerging jazz rock outfit, playing at The Black Orchid the following Saturday.
‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘I have no idea who they are, but, yes, I’d love to.’ And she laughed.
The following Saturday evening, Chrissy caught the Central Line Tube into Lancaster Gate where I was waiting to meet her and walk her the hundred yards emek escort or so to my flat. Then we got into my car and drove up to Muswell Hill, to the Black Orchid.
Distant Thunder did not disappoint. And Chrissy seemed to really enjoy them too.
After the show, I drove Chrissy back out to Ealing Broadway where the Teachers’ Training College was back in those days. We pulled up near the hostel where Chrissy was a resident, but Chrissy didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go inside. We chatted for a bit, and then Chrissy leaned across and kissed me. I mean she really kissed me.
There we were, sitting side by side on the bench front seat (and there were no seat belts in the ’53 prefect) and so I slipped my left arm around Chrissy’s shoulders, drew her closer to me, and I kissed her. I don’t remember intentionally placing my right hand on her thigh, but I guess that I must have. And Chrissy spread her thighs slightly so that my hand eryaman escort sort of fell between them. I remember that the inside of her thigh was not just warm, it was almost hot. And then, as we kissed again, Chrissy took my hand and moved it higher, past her stocking tops and onto the smooth patch of bare skin above.
I must confess that I was a bit of a late starter in matters of carnality. But I assumed that Chrissy knew what she wanted. And who was I to rain on the lady’s parade? Chrissy spread her thighs still further and my hand made its way still higher. And then we were there. There was no more thigh to traverse. We had reached the warm, damp gusset of her knickers. I hesitated for one more kiss, and then I pushed the silky fabric to one side. Even after all these years, I can still remember the magic moment when my fingers found their way between her slightly plump and furry labia and into the hot and slippery valley of her delicious cunt. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, god, yes.’
The following weekend, Chrissy came over to my flat for supper and stayed all night. The first time that we went ‘all the way’ was everything that I had hoped that it would be. And possibly more. But, even after all these years, it’s still that first finger fuck on the bench front seat of the ’53 Prefect that stands out in my mind.
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