Love, life and being a teen in the 50s...
When did you have your first girl friend. They ask. They do. Honest, they do. And I am completely tongue-tied. So here goes…
Let’s be honest. Those first events were hardly what anyone wants to know. And yet… I think her name was P****** (all names have been changed to protect the innocent).
She was the daughter of my mum’s house cleaner or char as we used to call them. Big Margaret behind her back. Her daughter (lets make it Pauline) and I played together at the age of 6 or 7 in the front room. On this occasion Pauline arrived with a doctors and nurses outfit…
In keeping with the MCP age we lived in she donned her outfit and I donned mine – Dr Richard and Nurse Margaret of course. And the game began.
I stripped fairly completely and Pauline examined what she found – with some enthusiasm I seem to recall. I did enjoy whatever it was I enjoyed but the reality at six or seven was pretty unrealistic.
And then it was her turn. She too stripped and I examined. I was puzzled by the lack of externalia and sought to probe further but was rightly and rapidly rebuffed. It felt interesting but that, as they say, was that.
This was nothing to discuss – Pauline and I were blissfully unaware of what might, or indeed, might not have occurred. A few days later I attended her birthday party and, during Postman’s knock or whatever, found myself secreted with her in a good hiding place. We kissed. Blimey, I was at most 7! Anyway that counts as event 1 on my horizon.
Event 2 is a few months (years?) later when I and a chum called John and a young lady called… damn… I cannot recall even her first namel. We were in a tepee in our garden in Harringay. She was what we would have called a ‘sport’ and she offered to be examined by us. We did. Interesting how by now her pudenda turned out a lot more enticing than had Pauline’s only a little earlier. However nothing beyond examination occurred so once again it would not register on the sexual encounters scale.
Ditto was the occasion a few weeks later when a young girl of what we would now have to call dubious sobriety stormed naked into the boys’ changing room at the local swimming pool and gave a highly erotic dance using her own pudenda as the object to which we were intended to attend. We did. Hair! I remember hair – the first I saw in that area.
At age 10 I will confess to some longings. The blonde friend of a guy called Leslie was a critical object of affection. By some chance, six years later we were to meet again and I was to become enthralled. But more anon. Saturday morning movies provided some release – Joan of the stunning blonde hair and X (why can I not recall) of the long dark locks were keenly observed. But Leslie’s friend was the key.
And then came Patricia. I was about 12 or 13 and old enough to be seriously smitten this time. She lived in Turnpike Lane and her parents were, as we said then, on the buses (although they later ran a petrol station in Muswell Hill). Pat was lustrously enchanting – titian haired and that carries forward - but she failed to notice me. I once travelled on the train from Hornsey to Ally Pally sitting close enough to smell her hair – oh the pain of it! Bunches of flowers on Valentine’s Day were to no avail and years later she married a guy I knew called Roger – red hair and big with it I recall.
(Oddly I met her some years later in hers or a friend’s flat in Highgate. And as I tried to behave cool standing by the big-mantled fireplace I was no less entranced. But by then I was also entirely in thrall to the lady I was to marry. Still not sure if Patrica noticed me anyway…)
To continue, and now being 15, serious sexual encounters were to occur. Firstly of the upright and heavy petting variety with Hilary, Margaret and Minnelle. I was about 14-15 then. And there was Liona whom I hopelessly loved but had to settle briefly for her younger sister Cathy (er, sorry Cathy).
Cherries were to be lost in those far off days and Beryl it was who had mine. The good news is this – I wore a condom (thanks Tony the barber) and it happened in bed. My bed, on a hot summers days in 1960. I was 17 – late by the standards of the day it seems and even later by the claims of my friends (liars to a man/boy). In fact it went so well we instantly repeated the event and returned a few days later for a reprise. But that was it. Why? I know not. She was very pretty and my kind of lady but somehow it never moved on - even though I had in fact nicked her extremely romantically from a pal, Brian.
I hankered seriously after that for a friend’s (Roy) girl – Jenny, she of the amazingly lovely singing voice and a face so pretty it was unreal. But he had her in thrall and I learned to live with the pain.
And then, in 1960 my brother started to play sports with the Boys’ Brigade in Green Lanes (the Methodist Church) and he met up with a lad called John who had a sister called Pamela. And that sister was the 10-11 year old I had lusted after before I even knew what lust was. And we met and, well I made a pratt of myself over her. It was heavy, it was joyous and it was doomed. I actually think I owe her an apology for what happened when we baby sat for her sister in Potters Bar. But I am not sure and live on that doubt.
For six months we seemed destined for chapel bells but then she announced that she had a long time love for a guy… well anyway… they married some time later. I did not handle this well but it has to be said she was very patient – for which much thanks, Pammie.
Fortunately, and after I had seriously pranged my motorbike, I met Janet and all was well with the world. Love, sex, fun – nobody could ask for more. And so we ended up with two daughters, three grandchildren and happiness all around.
But I will admit I do wonder… where are they now?
PS – In fact regarding my other love Pammie I know the answer, happily. Thanks to Friends Reunited and now Facebook we are back in touch. She has had an equally happy life with her man as I have with my lady. Children have grown, married and had their own. But thanks to the wonders of the internet Pammie and I know that what we had was good and what came after was even better. C’est la vie then. Mind you, that Patricia Eliot… hmm where art thou now?
Let’s be honest. Those first events were hardly what anyone wants to know. And yet… I think her name was P****** (all names have been changed to protect the innocent).
She was the daughter of my mum’s house cleaner or char as we used to call them. Big Margaret behind her back. Her daughter (lets make it Pauline) and I played together at the age of 6 or 7 in the front room. On this occasion Pauline arrived with a doctors and nurses outfit…
In keeping with the MCP age we lived in she donned her outfit and I donned mine – Dr Richard and Nurse Margaret of course. And the game began.
I stripped fairly completely and Pauline examined what she found – with some enthusiasm I seem to recall. I did enjoy whatever it was I enjoyed but the reality at six or seven was pretty unrealistic.
And then it was her turn. She too stripped and I examined. I was puzzled by the lack of externalia and sought to probe further but was rightly and rapidly rebuffed. It felt interesting but that, as they say, was that.
This was nothing to discuss – Pauline and I were blissfully unaware of what might, or indeed, might not have occurred. A few days later I attended her birthday party and, during Postman’s knock or whatever, found myself secreted with her in a good hiding place. We kissed. Blimey, I was at most 7! Anyway that counts as event 1 on my horizon.
Event 2 is a few months (years?) later when I and a chum called John and a young lady called… damn… I cannot recall even her first namel. We were in a tepee in our garden in Harringay. She was what we would have called a ‘sport’ and she offered to be examined by us. We did. Interesting how by now her pudenda turned out a lot more enticing than had Pauline’s only a little earlier. However nothing beyond examination occurred so once again it would not register on the sexual encounters scale.
Ditto was the occasion a few weeks later when a young girl of what we would now have to call dubious sobriety stormed naked into the boys’ changing room at the local swimming pool and gave a highly erotic dance using her own pudenda as the object to which we were intended to attend. We did. Hair! I remember hair – the first I saw in that area.
At age 10 I will confess to some longings. The blonde friend of a guy called Leslie was a critical object of affection. By some chance, six years later we were to meet again and I was to become enthralled. But more anon. Saturday morning movies provided some release – Joan of the stunning blonde hair and X (why can I not recall) of the long dark locks were keenly observed. But Leslie’s friend was the key.
And then came Patricia. I was about 12 or 13 and old enough to be seriously smitten this time. She lived in Turnpike Lane and her parents were, as we said then, on the buses (although they later ran a petrol station in Muswell Hill). Pat was lustrously enchanting – titian haired and that carries forward - but she failed to notice me. I once travelled on the train from Hornsey to Ally Pally sitting close enough to smell her hair – oh the pain of it! Bunches of flowers on Valentine’s Day were to no avail and years later she married a guy I knew called Roger – red hair and big with it I recall.
(Oddly I met her some years later in hers or a friend’s flat in Highgate. And as I tried to behave cool standing by the big-mantled fireplace I was no less entranced. But by then I was also entirely in thrall to the lady I was to marry. Still not sure if Patrica noticed me anyway…)
To continue, and now being 15, serious sexual encounters were to occur. Firstly of the upright and heavy petting variety with Hilary, Margaret and Minnelle. I was about 14-15 then. And there was Liona whom I hopelessly loved but had to settle briefly for her younger sister Cathy (er, sorry Cathy).
Cherries were to be lost in those far off days and Beryl it was who had mine. The good news is this – I wore a condom (thanks Tony the barber) and it happened in bed. My bed, on a hot summers days in 1960. I was 17 – late by the standards of the day it seems and even later by the claims of my friends (liars to a man/boy). In fact it went so well we instantly repeated the event and returned a few days later for a reprise. But that was it. Why? I know not. She was very pretty and my kind of lady but somehow it never moved on - even though I had in fact nicked her extremely romantically from a pal, Brian.
I hankered seriously after that for a friend’s (Roy) girl – Jenny, she of the amazingly lovely singing voice and a face so pretty it was unreal. But he had her in thrall and I learned to live with the pain.
And then, in 1960 my brother started to play sports with the Boys’ Brigade in Green Lanes (the Methodist Church) and he met up with a lad called John who had a sister called Pamela. And that sister was the 10-11 year old I had lusted after before I even knew what lust was. And we met and, well I made a pratt of myself over her. It was heavy, it was joyous and it was doomed. I actually think I owe her an apology for what happened when we baby sat for her sister in Potters Bar. But I am not sure and live on that doubt.
For six months we seemed destined for chapel bells but then she announced that she had a long time love for a guy… well anyway… they married some time later. I did not handle this well but it has to be said she was very patient – for which much thanks, Pammie.
Fortunately, and after I had seriously pranged my motorbike, I met Janet and all was well with the world. Love, sex, fun – nobody could ask for more. And so we ended up with two daughters, three grandchildren and happiness all around.
But I will admit I do wonder… where are they now?
PS – In fact regarding my other love Pammie I know the answer, happily. Thanks to Friends Reunited and now Facebook we are back in touch. She has had an equally happy life with her man as I have with my lady. Children have grown, married and had their own. But thanks to the wonders of the internet Pammie and I know that what we had was good and what came after was even better. C’est la vie then. Mind you, that Patricia Eliot… hmm where art thou now?