It was Christmas 1975 and we had just returned to work after having had our Christmas lunch at the pub, although in truth calling it Christmas Lunch was perhaps a bit of a stretch and makes it sound much grander that it actually was.
In the 1970s pub grub wasn’t
very unsophisticated fare and invariably consisted of Chicken in a Basket or a Ploughman’s.
The more up market establishments
might well offer Scampi in a Basket and a selection of Ploughman’s including a variety
of cheeses as alternatives to the normal cheddar.
The Pig and Whistle
however was not an up-market establishment in any way shape or form and offered
Chicken in a Basket or cheddar cheese Ploughman’s, however in addition to that,
as it was Christmas you got a Mince Pie as well.
So, after our “Christmas
Lunch” we all arrived back at work with some of our number much the worse for
drink.
I myself had perhaps overindulged
to a small degree with an unspecified number of Light and Bitters, so as a consequence
I was wearing beer goggles and even scabby Carole was looking passable.
So was Wonky Wendy, so
called because she had a wonky eye, she had one eye that looked at you while
the other one was looking for you.
Ok I admit “Wonky”
wasn't a very imaginative nickname but there you have it, it was the 70s and we
were simple folk, well anyway through beer goggles even she looked quite
appetising.
Another of the girls I
wouldn’t normally have looked at twice was Pat Warner.
Although she had nice eyes
and a pretty smile, other than that she was a plain looking girl about a year
younger than me, and over the previous year Pat had made no secret of the fact
that she fancied me.
I on the other hand
did not fancy her and not because she was plain or because she was stick thin and
featureless or even because she was ginger the truth was, she just didn’t do it
for me.
However, that was
without the benefit of alcohol fuelled lust.
On returning to the factory,
we continued the party in the canteen, my tipple of choice from what was
available was Light Ale while for Pat it was Port and Lemon and that day, we
both necked a few, and with every bottle of beer I drank Pat was getting
prettier and prettier.
It reached a point that
when she went off to the loo, I followed a few minutes later and intercepted
her as she returned and took her in the rubber room, no not that kind of
rubber, it was the room where the rubber bands were sorted and counted.
It was a small room
about 20’ square with glass on two sides but with the lights off it was dark
enough in the shadows for what I had in mind.
As soon as the door
closed behind us though she was all over me like a rash and her tongue was in
my mouth like an Excocet, and her hand went straight to my fly.
“Blimey you're keen” I
thought to myself
I thought I had better
join in quick and yanked her blouse from the waist band of her skirt and partly
unbuttoned it before going in search of her tits.
It was when I found
them, such as they were, I made a startling discovery.
When I got my hand on
her breast, I found something I wasn’t expecting, and no, it wasn’t anything to
do with Scaramanga.
What I found was something altogether different.
Now I was just a
callow youth and I wasn’t hugely experienced in the ways of the world, but I had
had sufficient experience of breasts to know that nipples shouldn’t be hairy.
“This needs further investigation”
I thought and proceeded to complete the unbuttoning of the blouse.
, and then I steered
her gently around, so the meagre light fell across her equally meagre and exposed
breast.
I broke away from her
mouth and let her tongue my ear instead while I looked down at her tiny breast
surmounted with a perfectly formed swollen nipple surrounded by two-inch-long
curly ginger hairs.
“That can’t be right”
I thought
But a moment later Pat
wrestled my old chap from my jeans and began tugging on it, this distracted me
from the hairy nipple as with my penis in her hand she got my full attention,
so my hand abandoned her hairy tit and headed south.
I got my hand up her
skirt easy enough and was attempting to get it into her knickers when she said
“No” and pushed my
hand away
I kissed her again and
after a few moments I tried once more to invade her pants, I even managed to
get my fingertips beneath the elastic of her knicker leg that time before she
stopped me again.
“I said no” she
reaffirmed
“Why not?” I asked
“Because you have a
girlfriend” she replied
Well, I don’t mind
telling you I thought it was a bit indelicate of her to mention that I had a
girlfriend as she was in a semi darkened room with me and she had my old chap
in her hand.
I was about to point
out the hypocrisy of her position when the door flew open.
“Aye, aye” Shaft said
Shaft was the foreman,
his real name was Ted, but his nickname was Shaft not because he was black but
because he was shafting Beryl from picking.
I did the gentlemanly
thing and positioned myself between Ted and Pat so she could redress herself.
It also enabled me to
force my stubborn erection back into my jeans which it seemed reluctant to do,
he had come out to party and didn’t want to go home early before he had popped
his cork.
“I’ve just come for my
coat” Ted said with a chuckle as he took his coat off the peg
“Carry on” he said and
closed the door.
I would have liked to
carry on, but Pat wasn’t going to let me carry on as far as I wanted to, so we
went back to the party and that was that.
I never had another
close encounter with Pat and in the light of the hairy nipples I had no desire
to as in the sober light of day I didn’t fancy her.
I should also state
that I never ever encountered any other hairy breasted women over the following
years.
It was many years
after the Christmas grope in the Rubber Room that doubts entered my mind that
it was anything other than what it appeared, and these doubts first surfaced
after I watched a documentary about Ladyboy’s, which I found quite shocking.
You have to remember we
were very naïve back in 1970s Stevenage, and we had never heard of Ladyboy’s, we
weren’t complete yokels though, we had heard of homosexuals, though no one I
knew admitted to ever meeting one.
I always assumed that
Pat was short for Patricia but after the documentary I wasn’t so sure, maybe
she was really a Patrick.
We tended to take
things at face value back then but if I had managed to gain entry into Pat’s
knickers I would have known for sure if she was either fish or fowl.
