“Hi. We're going for lunch. Want to join us?” It was my mother talking. She had just found me leaving her friend Edna's house, she and their other friends Dorothy and Grace having just “happened” to park in Edna's street to walk to the pub.
As I left her house this time we had just enjoyed an incredible morning of water sports as part of our programme of taking the self-consciousness out of sex and just doing whatever we wanted, the more taboo the better. What we had nominally been doing was working on a way to get Edna, a recently retired teacher, some work as a proofreader in the publishing world in London, where I was an illustrator.
The ladies insisted that Edna join us for lunch; I had no excuse but she had to be somewhere that afternoon, so it required all the pressure three old friends could exert. We sat at a table in the beer garden of a twee old pub that probably looked more olde worlde now than it ever had in its early days.
“So how's it going, you two?” Mum asked.
“Coming along,” I said, while Edna mumbled, “Possibilities, we've explored a few avenues.”
“Avenues indeed,” Grace said with a rather bitter smirk. She was one of nature's malcontents, a troublemaker, and if ever I had fucked a woman and worried about the repercussions, it was with her. Having tempted me into her house, she had contrived to give me an upskirt show through no fault of my own, and I had ended up being the first man since her long-dead husband to lie between her legs and invade her private space. And very nice too, I have to admit, but I could tell she wanted to turn it into a complicated situation. “And how are your avenues after all this time?” Grace asked with a sickly smile. “Still lined with leafy trees or has autumn set in?”
“Oh, Philip's been doing a bit of sprucing up,” Edna said. “He's very handy with the metaphorical equipment.”
“I bet he is,” Grace said, a flicker of lust wakening her eyes as she remembered the maintenance I had done with her. “Why bother with the shears when you can chew the leaves, eh Philip?”
“Bizarre,” my mother said dismissively, accustomed to Grace's bitchiness.
Dorothy was subdued. Mum had told me she was fond of me and she clearly felt uncomfortable at the tone of the conversation, although Dorothy was probably worried about it turning in her direction, because she knew nothing about my adventures with Grace or Edna.
Mum managed to steer the conversation onto safer ground and we found ourselves in a happy, lunchtime-drinks haze, talking about the way people had changed, how standards had dropped and there was so much swearing on TV and films, and how girls had descended to the level of the tattooed yobs to whom they gave their bodies. This was largely Mum's view, but there was general agreement around the table. Then something bumped against my leg, retreated and landed again, gently and firmly, staying put. I leaned back and subtly glanced under the table to find Dorothy's bare foot on my sockless ankle.
“Naked shoulders,” Dorothy said. “That used to be a way of attracting a man, but now...” I remembered with a brief flush of my cheeks that I had told her how much I liked her shoulders during our hour together. “I'm sorry, Philip, I'm embarrassing you,” she said, touching my hand. “You're one of the nice guys.” This seemed to please Grace, who knew for a fact that I wasn't all that nice, if nice meant not being interested in seducing women, or being seduced.
“Ah, there's so much crap talked these days,” Edna interrupted. “Isn't this disgusting, isn't that outrageous, and it's all because they wish they were doing it themselves, but because it's somebody else, it's wrong. Live and let live. If some man wants to kiss your... let's say shoulders, and if it leads to something else, so what? As long as nobody gets hurt.” She looked at me for support and I gave her a bland smile of affirmation. “Anyway, I've got to fly,” she said, and off she flew.
The rest of us settled down for something of a session, which surprised me considering I was in the company of three middle-aged ladies. But why not? They had no commitments to honour, no kids to pick up from school, no husbands to cook dinner for.
Dorothy continued to play footsy with me and I returned the compliment as far as I could, without attracting attention. Grace was beginning to get drunk, and like the respectable citizen she is, she decided to take the spectacle home, away from the public gaze. So half an hour later we were at her house and I was sitting where I had been the last time.
“Sherry?” she called in the loud, confident way her upbringing had instilled in her. She was Celia Johnson crossed (in her own mind, at least) with Joan Sims , the classy but naughty hostess keeping the party going.
Mum, sitting next to me, whispered in my ear, “Oh god, this could get silly. She's a bugger when she's had a few. I'll have one and then I'm off. You coming?” I said no, I would hang around for a bit, and soon it was just me and the two secretly naughty girls.
“Let's play a game,” Grace bellowed. “Find the star. I have some sticky stars like they use at schools. We'll draw lots for who's 'it', and he or she lies on the floor with their eyes closed and has to find the star. Okay?” Dorothy and I mumbled our dubious consent and Grace got us to draw matchsticks from her pudgy fist. I drew the short one.
“On the floor!” Grace commanded. “On your back. Close your eyes.”
I did as I was told while she and Dorothy conferred above me. I could hear them walking around, giggling, and eventually there was gasp from Dorothy, followed by a shriek of laughter from both of them.