Thursday, September 08, 2005
First Lover
The first woman I ever went to bed with was Enid Buckland-Evers. I am not one to toss names about blithely in these columns, I try to be more discreet. But her name was so absolutely wonderfully British that I have to include it. It says something about the quaint frame of mind that I embarked upon my new-found lesbianism. And hell, Enid is probably married with six children by now and disgustingly transformed into a proper heterosexual.
I was 22 at the time, she a few years older than me. We met somewhere, I can't remember now. But things became rather vividly clear after we had been out clubbing one night. Somewhere in Soho she grabbed me and pressed me up against the wall of some dark alley and planted a really juicy kiss on me. Enid was hot to trot, and trot we proceeded to do, that weekend. Out to her sister's place in Oxford.
We started out in squeaky camper-style twin beds, but soon Enid ended up in mine. She taught me how to finger her, that's what we ended up doing. It felt nice. Simple, but nice. We laughed and whispered and carried on during the night, trying not to wake her relatives but not at all sure we succeeded. Not that they would say anything about it over breakfast. We're talking proper British subjects here.
Enid also proceeded to leave a lovely array of bite marks and other sweet bruises upon my person, which became the topic of conversation in my office Monday morning.
"Hhmmm, they look like mosquito bites," opined my boss, a lean dark Englishman who spoke a passable French and was the chief wine buyer for a British firm in the Haymarket. The girls in the office knew better. I think I did let out that I was dating a woman. I'm sure I did. I wanted to flaunt my new self, just to see how people reacted.
They also heard from my own lips that I wanted Enid and I to become more adventurous in our lovemaking. I was very into penetration, had been since I was about 13. Bird feeding tubes, zucchinis, anything that looked remotely phallic was soon on its way up my eager little twat. I just assumed all other girls were as eager for this as I was.
Enid was not. She was scared to death of tampons even. She was scared of men because of that. I had not heard of dildos, or strap-ons or anything like that. But I knew from my own home experiments that there was going to be more to my sex life than just diddling with the fingers.
Enid did not want to go there with me. And where she did want to go was not of interest to me at all. She was already smitten with me. Beyond reason, I felt. One time in particular alarmed me. We were downstairs in the living room one night, and we dozed off in front of the fireplace. I woke up later in the night and decided to go upstairs to bed. Enid seemed happily asleep where she was, and I decided not to wake her.
Sometime later she came upstairs and proceeded to chastise me severely for leaving her. "Don't EVER go off and leave me like that again," she said. I could hear the fear and concern in her voice. That scared me. I had only gone upstairs. In her mind, I had abandoned her and taken the shuttle to Mars.
I started retreating from her. I felt bewildered and concerned that more demands would be forthcoming. This was no longer fun.
But I felt guilty backing away from her, wondering if perhaps I had conducted myself badly, if I couldn't be nicer somehow.
I was debating how to handle this when the British government - the immigration authorities in particular - settled my hash for me. When I returned from a two-week vacation in France's Loire Valley that summer, I was grilled at Dover by the authorities. What was I doing all this time in England if I wasn't working, as I claimed? I lied about a non-existent history thesis I was doing, and needed more time here for research. I was getting money from home, I said.
I can talk pretty well, and pretty fast, so I fooled the guys part of the way. But not entirely. They let me back into England, but stipulated it would only be for three months. Then I would have to return to the States.
Return I did. Enid and I proceeded during my remaining time in England as friends. But once I returned to the States and began school in Berkeley, I did not make an attempt to renew a connection via the mail with Enid. Neither did she.
I was a little sad. But not for long. I was in Berkeley, and it was the late 60s. My upcoming adventures in lesbianism were about to begin, big time.
- - - - - - -
I was 22 at the time, she a few years older than me. We met somewhere, I can't remember now. But things became rather vividly clear after we had been out clubbing one night. Somewhere in Soho she grabbed me and pressed me up against the wall of some dark alley and planted a really juicy kiss on me. Enid was hot to trot, and trot we proceeded to do, that weekend. Out to her sister's place in Oxford.
We started out in squeaky camper-style twin beds, but soon Enid ended up in mine. She taught me how to finger her, that's what we ended up doing. It felt nice. Simple, but nice. We laughed and whispered and carried on during the night, trying not to wake her relatives but not at all sure we succeeded. Not that they would say anything about it over breakfast. We're talking proper British subjects here.
Enid also proceeded to leave a lovely array of bite marks and other sweet bruises upon my person, which became the topic of conversation in my office Monday morning.
"Hhmmm, they look like mosquito bites," opined my boss, a lean dark Englishman who spoke a passable French and was the chief wine buyer for a British firm in the Haymarket. The girls in the office knew better. I think I did let out that I was dating a woman. I'm sure I did. I wanted to flaunt my new self, just to see how people reacted.
They also heard from my own lips that I wanted Enid and I to become more adventurous in our lovemaking. I was very into penetration, had been since I was about 13. Bird feeding tubes, zucchinis, anything that looked remotely phallic was soon on its way up my eager little twat. I just assumed all other girls were as eager for this as I was.
Enid was not. She was scared to death of tampons even. She was scared of men because of that. I had not heard of dildos, or strap-ons or anything like that. But I knew from my own home experiments that there was going to be more to my sex life than just diddling with the fingers.
Enid did not want to go there with me. And where she did want to go was not of interest to me at all. She was already smitten with me. Beyond reason, I felt. One time in particular alarmed me. We were downstairs in the living room one night, and we dozed off in front of the fireplace. I woke up later in the night and decided to go upstairs to bed. Enid seemed happily asleep where she was, and I decided not to wake her.
Sometime later she came upstairs and proceeded to chastise me severely for leaving her. "Don't EVER go off and leave me like that again," she said. I could hear the fear and concern in her voice. That scared me. I had only gone upstairs. In her mind, I had abandoned her and taken the shuttle to Mars.
I started retreating from her. I felt bewildered and concerned that more demands would be forthcoming. This was no longer fun.
But I felt guilty backing away from her, wondering if perhaps I had conducted myself badly, if I couldn't be nicer somehow.
I was debating how to handle this when the British government - the immigration authorities in particular - settled my hash for me. When I returned from a two-week vacation in France's Loire Valley that summer, I was grilled at Dover by the authorities. What was I doing all this time in England if I wasn't working, as I claimed? I lied about a non-existent history thesis I was doing, and needed more time here for research. I was getting money from home, I said.
I can talk pretty well, and pretty fast, so I fooled the guys part of the way. But not entirely. They let me back into England, but stipulated it would only be for three months. Then I would have to return to the States.
Return I did. Enid and I proceeded during my remaining time in England as friends. But once I returned to the States and began school in Berkeley, I did not make an attempt to renew a connection via the mail with Enid. Neither did she.
I was a little sad. But not for long. I was in Berkeley, and it was the late 60s. My upcoming adventures in lesbianism were about to begin, big time.
- - - - - - -
