Johnny was in the bathroom, trying to do his hair. Somehow, no matter how much laundry starch he put on it, he could never quite get it to spike up as perfectly he wanted, though he was determined to get it as good as possible for the gig tonight. For the start of the gig, anyway. By the end it'd be a sweaty mess, but so would everybody else's. Recently he'd gone back to having it orange again, after a period dying it black in tribute to Sid (RIP). He studied his reflection. Not too bad. Maybe the start of a zit on his chin, but one of the good things about punk girls was they didn't seem to mind so much about that sort of thing.
Johnny certainly hoped he'd meet some girls tonight. At eighteen, he was permanently horny, and found himself wanking two, three, sometimes even four times a day, but still he could never seem to satisfy his urges. His mum had thrown away his stash of porn recently, and he'd had to fish the magazines out of the dustbin and sneak them back into the house. A certain amount of contamination from the leftovers of a meal meant the magazines were now literally, as well as metaphorically, dirty, and his beloved Miss October had been catastrophically disfigured by congealed gravy.
As for experience with actual real live girls, there'd been some, but not nearly enough for Johnny's liking. His most closely guarded secret was that he'd never actually gone all the way and done it. Of course that wasn't what he told his mates. As far as they were concerned he had a different bird on the go every week, every one of them a rampant nymphomaniac. They said the same - but he strongly suspected that quite a few of them hadn't done it, either. Surely spotty, ugly Gary couldn't have shagged twenty-seven girls, as he claimed. Johnny had never even seen him talking to a girl.
...
The closest Johnny had come so far had been with a posh bird called Catherine Carmichael. She'd been in his class at primary school, and a few months ago he'd bumped into her on the top deck of the bus, and she'd recognised him and cadged a cigarette. Whereas he'd left the secondary modern at sixteen, and was by then well into his second year of work at the cake factory, she was in the upper 6th form of the local grammar, and about to sit her A-levels. They got chatting about music - it turned out she was a secret Sex Pistols fan - and she'd ended up taking him back to her house, one of the massive places off Victoria Park.
Up in her bedroom, with her enthusiastic encouragement (whether from experience, or more likely a lucky guess, Gary’s assessment of posh birds as being 'goers' seemed to be correct, if Catherine was anything to go by), Johnny had managed to get well into her school uniform and underwear, and was looking forward to finally getting a proper fuck, but proceedings had been abruptly halted by the cut glass tones of her mother calling, "Are you home, darling?" and the woman's rapid ascent up the stairs, which had forced him into hiding in a wardrobe. Catherine was eventually able to sneak him out of the house after he'd endured twenty minutes in cramped conditions, hugging his bundle of clothes, an eighteen year old's ever-hopeful erection not quite subsided, while waiting for the girl and her mother to finish negotiating the finer points of revision schedules and violin practice. Afterwards, he'd eventually got up the courage to phone her, but for whatever reason she'd seemed uninterested in making a second attempt on his virginity, so that was that.
Johnny's reverie about Catherine's lovely little tits and wet cunt was interrupted by his own mother shouting, in far less refined cadences than those of Mrs Carmichael, "Jonathan, Daniel's here for you!" He wished she wouldn't call him Jonathan - was Johnny so hard for her to remember? Apparently so. After a final adjustment to his hair, he bounded downstairs, ignoring his mum's standard protestations, ("you're not going out looking like that, I brought you up to take pride in your appearance, what are those stains on your jeans?" etcetera), and left the house, slamming the door behind him.
...
Johnny and Daniel, who these days styled himself 'Danger,' made their way to the gig venue. The band, The Vomitones, were terrible, of course, but wasn't that kind of the point? The scene may have already moved on in 'that London', but out in the provinces, the spirit of '76/'77 lived on, in DIY bands, and the kids in DIY bondage trousers, like Johnny and Daniel - sorry, Danger - who pogoed to them.
Seven pints in, and Johnny was feeling reckless. Having tried, unsuccessfully, to chat up a seriously cute Debbie Harry lookalike, and a sexy, but rather scary girl called Jean, whose commitment to punk fashion involved showing a lot of cleavage and a hint of nipple through her ripped tee shirt, he'd resorted to talking to Crazy Sue.
Everyone knew Crazy Sue, or Wino, as she was often called. A serious drinker, it was rumoured she'd give a blow job for half a pint of bitter, and full sex for a pint of cider. Exactly what she'd do for a Watney's Party Seven was the subject of some speculation amongst Johnny and his mates, although so far none of them had dared to try and find out, not least because they didn't want to risk that amount of alcohol on an unsafe bet.
Sue, who was very short and somewhat round, was wearing what appeared to be a bin liner and fishnets, and with her blobby features, wonky makeup, and spiky dyed black hair, the overall effect was rather akin to that of a Mr Potato Head in fancy dress as Siouxsie Sioux. Johnny was drunk enough that he was contemplating the sex-for-cider option, the only problem being that he'd spent all his money getting himself into that state, so now couldn't actually afford to buy the necessary pint. Not that Sue looked like she needed it, she was already plastered, and from the way she was pawing at Johnny's leg seemed potentially in the mood to give freebies. In a bizarre way, getting free sex from Wino was actually more distasteful and embarrassing than a transactional arrangement, and a few of Johnny's slightly less drunk brain cells were sounding an alarm that he'd never live it down, but his ability to heed this was rather impaired by the alcohol, and the ever present ache in his balls.
"Lesh go oushide," Sue slurred, giving a loud hiccup as punctuation.
"Yeah awrigh," mumbled Johnny. They staggered out of the venue's side door and into the alleyway. Sue was immediately all over him like a rash, but being five feet to his six, and extremely uncoordinated, was not able to land a snog, and ended up headbutting him on the chin, causing an equally uncoordinated Johnny to stagger backwards, taking her with him. They landed in a heap, but cushioned by all the booze were not hurt. Now that the height difference wasn't an issue, Sue lost no time in sticking her tongue down his throat and unzipping his fly.
Johnny's half dozen still-functioning brain cells were screaming, "noooo, don't do this!" but his cock had no intention of wasting any opportunity, no matter how unpromising, and sprang to attention at her touch. It was his stomach that managed to stage the intervention, by choosing that moment to heave violently.
"Urrrgghhh, I'm gonna puke," said Johnny, although this came out more as "urrggghh argghhh ugh," due to the impediment of Sue's tongue. He pushed her off and rolled over, and vomited extravagantly.
Having been deprived of getting her kicks from sex, Sue resorted to violence, and started beating him about the head with her little fists. Just at that moment Danger came out of the door, closely followed by the Debbie Harry lookalike. Danger pulled Sue off, and Johnny at least had the presence of mind to discretely do up his fly before staggering to his feet, a lucky escape for his reputation. As he swayed unsteadily out of the alley to make his way home, he tried not to notice Danger and Debbie apparently trying to eat each other's faces. Of all his mates, Danger was the one most likely to have done it, and possibly with twenty-seven girls, although unlike Gary he kept closed-lipped on the subject. Girls all seemed to love Danger. It was so unfair, surely he could leave a few for everybody else?
When he eventually stumbled home, he thought he'd have a little consolation wank, but on feeling under the mattress discovered his stash of magazines was gone. A trip down to the back yard confirmed his worst fears - the dustbin had been emptied that day. From now on he would have to resort to merely his fevered imagination.
...
Sometimes where that took him was disturbing. One day he caught himself in a fantasy about Margaret Thatcher while he beat the meat. The subsequent memory of it sent a hot flush of shame and confusion through him. It was a hate-fuck, of course, he loathed the bitch, everyone did, well everyone he knew, anyway. Clearly some people liked her because she'd become prime minister. But he certainly didn't, and still less fancied her. So why was it so arousing to think about taking her? Fuck! It surely must be sheer desperation. He was starting to think he'd completely lose his marbles if he didn't get his end away soon.
...
One dinnertime at work, he was out of ciggies, and his mum's friend Janice Ogelby, who also worked at the cake factory, took pity on him and gave him a couple of hers. Whereas Johnny worked on a big mixing machine, spending his days loading it up with ingredients, Janice was on the final decoration line, putting the finishing touches to the cakes before they were packed, ready to be distributed to supermarkets in the region.
Of all his mum's mates, Janice was probably about the least annoying, and unlike most old people, actually seemed capable of calling him Johnny, rather than the hated Jonathan. After her small act of kindness in the canteen, he would often find himself thinking about her. Even though she was well ancient - at least thirty - he couldn't help noticing she had a good figure, and great legs. Recently separated, she had started wearing more makeup, and nicer (or at any rate, more revealing) clothes, of late. He became convinced she was flirting with him. She always said hello when she saw him at dinner break, and would make a point of exchanging a few pleasantries with him when she called for his mum on their bingo nights. Maybe she was in the market for a younger man, now that Mr Ogelby had been sent packing? Johnny reflected that perhaps his lack of success in losing his virginity was down to his choice of partners. With girls his own age seemingly unwilling to assist him to achieve his goal, the idea of an experienced older woman was starting to seem very appealing. The problem was how to make something happen when he only ever saw her at work, or when she was with his mum. He wondered if he could engineer a way to visit her house.
In the event, an opportunity came quite soon. Johnny's mum was in bed with a nasty winter flu, and asked him if he would pop round with a fiver she owed Janice, since she wouldn't be going to bingo that night. He felt mildly panicky about what to wear. Should he try to smarten up a bit? Did it even matter, since Janice had seen him in the horrible hairnet he had to wear for work, and still seemed to fancy him?
"Are you going, or what?" shouted, or rather croaked, his mum, the flu having affected the timbre, but not the volume, of her voice. He hurriedly changed into his least ripped jeans and headed out. Janice only lived in the next street, and within a couple of minutes he was knocking on her door, feeling nervous and excited. He reflexively tapped his ticket pocket to feel the condom that he carried everywhere, just in case. He expected Janice would be on the pill, but no sense in being unprepared. When she came to the door, he stammered about the fiver, suddenly shy.
"I need to talk to you about something, actually," said Janice. Do you want to come in for a minute, Johnny, love?" This was it, he was sure. Cock bulging with anticipation, he followed her into the living room.
"This is going to sound a bit strange coming from me," she said, "but there's someone that likes you, and she could really use a friend at the moment."
"I know, and I like her too," said Johnny, smiling in what he hoped was an appealing and friendly, yet smoulderingly sexy way.
"Oh! That's good then! I was going to ask you to take her out. She'd like that."
"I'd love to," he said, thinking that going on a date wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, but if a few drinks would loosen Janice up, maybe it would be worth it. It fleetingly crossed his mind to wonder why she kept referring to herself in the third person, but maybe it was just her way of being coy. He'd have to choose a pub where his mates would be unlikely to see him. He moved a little closer to her. It didn't look like he was going to get a fuck quite yet, but surely a snog was on the cards. "Mrs Ogelby...."
"You can call me Janice."
"Janice." He launched himself towards her and tried to plant his lips on hers, only for her to leap back in alarm.
"What on earth are you doing, Johnny?!"
"I thought.... I thought you liked me! You just said you wanted me to take you out!"
"Not me, you daft boy! I'm practically old enough to be your mother. What ever gave you that idea? I was talking about my cousin, Sue. You know, short girl, black spiky hair? She's having a rough time at the moment, since her dad died. Between you and me she's drinking far too much. I'm worried about her."
"Ohhhhhh," said Johnny, the penny dropping with an almighty clang. "But you always say hello, and talk to me, and stuff."
"Yes, because I work with you, and you're my friend's son. Just because a woman talks to you, doesn't automatically mean they fancy you. Bless you, you've still got a bit to learn, haven't you?" She looked at him, her face a mixture of amusement and pity. "Go, on, get yourself home, and let's forget it ever happened. Try to be kind to Sue, if you see her."
He slunk home, his face burning with embarrassment. Oh well, she was far too old for him, he told himself. When he'd got close he'd even spotted a grey hair. Yeah, well ancient.
…
After the debacle with Janice, Johnny decided to stick strictly to his own age group, and a couple of weeks later was at the bus stop snogging a girl called Tracey.
He knew Tracey from school, although these days she worked with her dad in his butcher's shop. They didn't fancy each other, but the amount they'd had to drink helped, and for both of them it was a case of getting off with anyone being better than getting off with no one. They'd bumped into one another in The Globe, a pub in the town where the punks and Tracey's gang of heavy metal fans congregated. Occasional fights broke out between the two groups, but for the most part they co-existed reasonably happily, profiting both the pub's landlord and the local speed dealers.
As far as Johnny was concerned, the main attraction of Tracey, other than willingness to snog him, was that she had huge tits. While massive mammaries were not the be all and end all for him, unlike for one or two of his friends who seemed completely obsessed with them, there was a certain novelty value in being able to handle a pair the size of Tracey's, and he was determined to make the most of it. The problem was that it was a freezing night in early December, and even drunk as she was, Tracey was being rather squeamish about having Johnny's cold hands up her tee shirt.
Eventually, the bus arrived and they headed upstairs to the back seat. After rubbing his hands together to warm them up, Johnny started a fresh ascent of Tracey's twin peaks, this time approaching via the back route. He managed to get her bra undone on the way round and grabbed handfuls of the freed flesh. Tracey responded better this time, and her nipples pleasingly stiffened at his touch, although whether from arousal, or his still chilly mitts, it was hard to know. In turn she put her hand down his jeans. His prick initially shrank from her icy touch, but soon got its act together.
The bus ride passed in a pleasant blur of happy mutual groping, but all too soon it was Tracey's stop. Not yet willing to relinquish her fabulous fun-bags, Johnny disembarked with her, and some further fondling and snogging took place in her back yard, but with her parents still up watching telly there seemed no hope of her sneaking him to her room as they'd hoped, and their ardour quite quickly cooled in the frigid night air. A cold mile walk the rest of the way home, and yet another wank, squeezing a pillow in poor imitation of Tracey's tremendous titties, was Johnny's destiny that evening.
...
A few nights later, Johnny was back at the Globe for a showcase of local punk ‘talent’, a double bill of a dreadful band called The Snot Rags, supported by the truly execrable Ruby And The Garbanzas. It being a Tuesday evening, and the bands being as awful as they were, even by the standards of the local scene, the pub was not busy, and almost all of the sparse crowd was male, to Johnny’s intense disappointment. Jean was there, as drummer for the Snot Rags, and was as scary and sexy as ever, and Wino was slumped in a corner, but that was about it, as far as girls went. Since the conversation with Janice, Johnny hadn't exactly been nice to Sue, but he had at least stopped speculating with his mates about what sex acts she would perform for what amounts of alcohol. That was as far as his warmth towards her went, though.
In the interval, after the hapless Rubys had been bottled off the stage, Johnny got chatting to another lad about his own age, who he’d seen around but had never spoken to before. After a bit of chit-chat about music, and gigs they’d each been to, the conversation turned to girls. His new friend Ant was having a ‘dry spell’, and Johnny said the same, without mentioning that a ‘wet spell’ was yet to materialise for the first time.