To Be Frank Ch. 07

The usual disclaimer – this is (mainly!) fiction, the characters' names are disguised, and it's better to start reading about Frank at Chapter One. Thanks to all of you who've provided feedback and suggestions, all of which have been gratefully received, even if I've not replied personally (sorry!)

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Tim and I enjoyed many adventures over the next few months but all that came to a close very suddenly.

4 April will forever remain etched in my mind as the day I lost Tim forever. He was keen on flying, and his parents had bought him a pleasure trip in an old Tiger Moth biplane as a birthday gift, which he took on this day so many years ago.

The experienced pilot was showing off doing stunts, apparently, as he had done hundreds of times before to equally enthusiastic passengers. On this occasion though, some fault in the plane structure meant the wings folded up at about 3,000 feet, and the plane came straight down into a field. Unlike Hollywood, there was no explosion, but paradoxically the rescue crew had to dig the plane, and the body of my boyfriend, out from under the six feet of dirt they'd been buried under on impact. It had been instantaneous, I'd been assured, but all I could think of at the time was their last few seconds in that vertical dive watching the ground rush toward them.

I closed in on myself after that, didn't see anyone, wouldn't communicate, and kept myself to myself. I lost all appetite for life, and the only thing that kept me going was concentrating on my A level exams that June, the outcome of which, if I was successful, would get me out of the living hell that my hometown had become, with all of its' awful memories for me.

Unsurprisingly, having done nothing else but work and revise, I passed everything with more than flying colours, got a couple of school prizes into the bargain, and was duly accepted at UCL, London University, to study geography.

The university was woefully short of student hall lodging, and I failed to get in to one of the few halls they had, due to my slackness in sending off an application. My parents, extremely supportive through all my troubles, went the extra mile for me and bought a two-bedroom flat in Camden Town, North London, a short walk from the university campus, with the intention that I live there, and look for a lodger to help them pay the mortgage after I arrived.

The last week of September was the important one, and my parents loaded all of my stuff into their car and drove me down to London, against the traffic on a Friday afternoon. They helped install me in the flat, waited for me to make the statutory cup of tea to christen the place, then drove home, tearfully in my mother's case, leaving me with a couple of days to sort myself out before 'Fresher's Week' at college.

I sat down in my new flat, a quiet place in a side road just off Albert Road in Primrose Hill, an area destined to become spectacularly expensive, and which my father made a fortune speculating on. As with most first floor London flats of the type, there was a living room at the front, a kitchen behind, followed by a bathroom and small bedroom, with the main bedroom being up further stairs in the converted attic area.

I'd made a promise to myself, which I intended to keep, that I'd leave my past behind me in Walsall, and try to start living my life again at college, figuring that no one would want to hang out with a moper. As I sat in my lounge that first night, unpacking the records and tapes I'd bought down, listening to Bob Marley's 'legend' album on loop and demolishing a bottle of champagne, I made my plans for the coming year at college – get known, get around, get a course pass and get my life back.

The next week was a riot of new sensation as I enrolled officially at my department then spent the day wandering round the Fresher's Fair – a whole host of university societies out to sign up members to increase their student union grants, all promising fun, games, experience and (in all cases except the Christian Union) copious quantities of alcohol along the way. Of course, I had to join Geogsoc, and added a couple of other oddies to my collection, allowing me free access to their annual party, whenever it might be, and allowing me to make a few friends along the way – difficult if you're not in a student hall from day one, when people usually manage to get themselves organised.

At enrolment I found myself chatting to a few of my future classmates, getting to know them, their backgrounds, likes and dislikes, and (more importantly!) seeing whether or not I'd like to continue getting to know them.

I found myself gravitating to a couple students over the others, and also surprised myself laughing a few times, something I'd not done for some months.

Simon was a Bristol boy, very earnest in a cute sort of way, with a devastating smile and warped sense of humour, leaning heavily on Monty Python influences, coupled with other earlier stuff that I only knew because of my father's tastes, but which made me laugh and which I knew he appreciated I understood. "Bluebottle!"

Clarissa was half Chinese, but she'd lived in the UKsince she was a baby and she had a keen ear for my taste in music (indie, rock and reggae at that stage) and an infectious laugh that made you want to join in. My height and build, but with astounding good looks, she immediately made me feel comfortable in her presence, and we had a great day wandering around college, finding the classrooms, the toilets, Jeremy Bentham's stuffed corpse (don't ask) and the student union, with it's cheap bar, cheap cafeteria and graffiti-covered walls, legendary across London for some reason.

Looking back, I think both of them caught some of the edges of my mindset, and I theirs, and we subconsciously empathised, which is why we drew together. More later.

The climax of the week was the Fresher's Ball, which everyone went to, not just us new kids, and the party, with live bands, discos, magicians, acrobats and all was due to roll till 1am, with an all night film show in the theatre next door afterwards for those insomniacs who wanted back to back horror. I'd arranged to meet Clarissa, Simon and a few others from our course at the main bar at 8.00, and as we left our last class I set off wandering what I was going to wear. I was in a world of my own, half way up the road to Euston, when Simon caught up with me.

"Um, Kate", he started. "um. Sorry. Um. This isn't erm..."

I interrupted, spotting he was uncomfortable. "Simon – take your time. It's not going anywhere else."

He stopped, grinned that grin at me thankfully, took a breath and started again.

"I'd like to meet you in the union bar before the ball, Kate, and I'd love to buy you a drink if you'll meet me there."

"Are you trying to ask me for a date?" I asked, one eyebrow arched quizzically as I looked into his emerald eyes (and I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed those before!). I took him all in. About six feet, tousled brown hair that you sensed couldn't be styled by anyone as it had a life of its own, those eyes, that smile, a frame built about around 160lbs dressed in jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket and Doc Marten boots. "What the hell" I thought to myself. "I'm already comfortable with him; let's see where my new life takes me."

With a silent apology to Tim as Simon nodded hopefully I relaxed my face into a big smile.

"I'd love that, Simon. I really would. 7.30 OK?"

I hugged him quickly as he started to stutter his thanks, and we went on. Simon had got lodgings in the main hall for new students up in Camden, ten minutes walk up Kentish Town Road from my flat, so we shared a tube to Camden Town and parted company there, promising each other not to be late back at college that evening. I wasn't sure who was more nervous, me or him.

Back in my flat I quickly undressed and showered. One huge advantage of not living in halls was having the bathroom to myself, and my stuff was already all over it – all the usual girlie bits and pieces, a couple of candles, a radio (I hate being without music) and a set of plastic ducks to keep me company in the bath when I wanted to soak.

Showered, I wrapped a towel round myself and did my make-up. I'd decided tonight was going to be a bit of a goth night, so I overapplied everything, giving myself deep black mascara and eyeliner, a scarlet lipstick and silver crucifix earrings.

I dressed in black stockings, a black miniskirt, black lace bra, black shirt, and teased my blonde hair into something resembling a bird's nest before wrapping it in a multicoloured 'topless turban' scarf. Looking at myself in my bedroom mirror I was reasonably happy with the result – my legs carried the miniskirt well, while the shirt was filmy enough to offer some exposure of my upper body within and hint at my well shaped breasts and flat stomach.

Throwing all my essentials into a patent leather bag I set off back to college, and arrived bang on time at the union bar. Simon was already there, and (oh, miracle) he'd done his best impression of Robert Smith, my idol from The Cure, albeit slightly better looking in my opinion.

"Hey you."

"Hey you."

"Drink?"

"Bourbon and Coke, please."

"Bit early for the heavy stuff, isn't it?"

"No – this is my morning drink usually."

I cracked a smile so he knew I was joking, and, ice well and truly broken, we sat down at the quiet end of the bar for a drink before moving into college for the ball proper.

To this day I have no recollection of our conversation, other than that there was no awkward silence, no embarrassed pause and no false laughter to lift a bad moment.

We met the other at the main bar, and the night passed quickly as we wandered between the main venues on campus, from the main disco, through the band stage, in the cocktail lounge and all areas in between. Everywhere you looked there were young people having a good time, and the disease was infectious – there was no way anyone could not enjoy themselves. Tim and I gravitated to the garage, where the indie disco was in full swing and we danced the night away to Theatre Of Hate, Sisters Of Mercy, Killing Joke, the Sex Pistols, Shriekback and countless other favourites from the era. I made great friends with Andy the DJ by showing off my knowledge of the records he was playing, suggesting a few he'd not thought of playing and generally horsing around.

Before I knew it the lights were up and the bars were closed.

"Film show, Kate?" Simon asked me. He obviously didn't want the night to end either.

I shook my head. "No, not in the mood for horror, Si." I said. "How about you take me back to my place and I return the favour with coffee and a scotch?"

His face lit up. "Love to!"

We made our way out of campus, and back up the road we'd travelled earlier that day. Tonight though, instead of getting the long-closed tube, we walked, arm in arm, drunk on the atmosphere of the evening, and quite at ease.

As we passed Camden Town the heavens opened. One of those rare night-time dumps of rain in London where it appears a whole month of rain is being dropped in ten minutes. Shrieking with laughter, we ran the last few hundred metres to my front door, where, predictably, we got even further drenched while I searched for my key, then missed the keyhole five times before managing to get in.

We stumbled up the stairs, and I let us into my flat, where I guided him to the kitchen. I looked at Simon, shaking my head as I put the kettle on.

"We need to change. Give me a moment."

I rushed up the stairs to my bedroom and stripped off my clothes. My make up was history, and I quickly wiped my face and towelled my hair. I put on a little pair of cotton panties, a long plain blue cotton T-shirt and my terry dressing gown. I grabbed another towel, T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, my preferred sleeping wear, for Simon and went back down to the kitchen to find he'd managed to find my mugs, the coffee and the milk and was busy fixing a hot drink.

"Here – use the spare room and get changed" I threw the dry clothes at him and finished up making coffee. I dug out a couple of small tumblers and drew us each a generous measure of scotch off my medicinal bottle.

We ended up sitting side-by-side in the lounge, his clothes in the drier, Bob Marley still on the stereo, us sipping scotch and coffee, smoking Marlboro and chatting about our evening. As the scotch was emptied and replenished and our reserve dropped, we ended up getting into the 'deep and meaningful' part of the evening and were discussing the fate of the miners, the ignorance of Margaret Thatcher and the possibilities of getting a decent job armed with nothing but a geography degree (I remembered the graffiti next to the toilet roll dispenser at college - 'geography degree, please take one' it said). Simon suddenly blindsided me with a change in conversation direction.

"Did you have a boyfriend back home, Kate."

I couldn't help myself. All of a sudden I was sobbing hysterically into his shoulder, arms wrapped tight around him, as if to let him go would be to let go of my fragile life, as he tried to hold me, stroking my hair and whispering "shhhhhhhhhh" into my ear.

Slowly I came to my senses, and, haltingly, told him the tale of Tim and myself, culminating in the accident so fresh in my mind. There were tears in his eyes too as I finished, and he held me tighter against him.

Swallowing hard, I tried to move us past the barrier I'd suddenly created, desperate to make things better and to go forward.

"What about you? Girlfriend?" I asked.

His face was expressionless as he looked into my eyes. "I did have."

"She was called Joanna. We'd been going out together for a while, and before I left for London we swore we'd never be apart."

"We were both virgins," he continued "and one night, at her place while her parents were out, we tried to correct that. We'd been fooling around, and were in her bed, and we both decided that was the moment. I got on top of her, and after a bit of trial and error, found my way in and we started to screw."

"Moments later though, she's shaking her head, saying 'no, no' like it's all some big mistake, and pushing me off her. I'm left standing there in my altogether while she's acting like I've just raped her and saying she never wants to see me again. I swear, Kate, we were both keen, then suddenly...."

He shook his head, looking both hurt and confused. I realised then that we'd hit it off together due to our unresolved issues, and that something, fate maybe, had drawn us together to get over it.

I turned my mouth up to kiss Simon's chin, unexpectedly for him, but not so that he didn't try to respond. I used my free hand to put my fingers on his lips.

"I'm so sorry, Simon. You deserve better than that. You really do." We held each other tightly for a long time, words no longer necessary between us, two young people wounded so deeply, so recently in love, for different reasons, but with the same miserable outcome.

I moved my hand and tilted my head up, lips slightly parted. He took the hint, and the next moment we were French kissing passionately, my tongue dancing around his, he running his tongue over my teeth and then me responding. I'd not felt remotely like sex since Tim, but the timing was absolutely right, I felt, to change that.

I broke the kiss. "Simon, I promise to you that not all girls are like Joanna."

I pulled him down the couch onto me, so we were horizontal, me on my back and he on his side to my right as we carried on kissing. Hesitantly, slowly, his hand came up the front of my dressing gown and cupped my left breast through it, squeezing gently, kneading and stroking through the material.

I pulled his head closer, kissed him deeper, as a non-verbal signal that everything was OK, and started stroking his back through the T-shirt he was wearing. Tim's hand crept inside my dressing gown to cover my small breast through only my nightshirt. The increase in sensation was wonderful, and I felt my little nipples responding, growing longer and hardening beneath his teasing fingers.

I gasped at the feelings flooding through me. For the first time in months, I felt my pussy moistening, my desire growing and my resistance melting to nothing as I lost myself in Simon's kisses and caresses.

Almost as one we broke off the kiss, my hands grabbing the hem of his T-shirt to pull it over his head, he going to my dressing gown cord to untie it and open my front to a closer examination. I pulled my nightshirt over my head, exposing my acorn-nippled B-cup breasts to him and we closed the gap once more, naked skin to naked skin, in just undies, and I felt the warmth as his well-toned chest crushed my titties to him while we kissed once more, hugging and holding.

This kiss seemed to last all night. I don't remember coming up for air, just the rush of sexual intensity as we Frenched.

His hand came back to my breast again, finger and thumb searching for, and finding, my nipple, gently rolling over it, holding, squeezing, then circling round it, spiralling out over my breast to the crease with my chest, then back to my nipple. Over and over, as we kissed.

Eventually he moved South, tracing lazy circles over my stomach, teasing me by missing my mound as he took a detour up and down my upper thighs, then cupping my mound through the cotton of my knickers.

"Ahhhhhh that's good" I moaned as I broke the kiss again. "Let's take this to the bedroom can we – it's got better prospects."

We pushed each other upright, reluctantly, stopping at the vertical to kiss once more, and I noticed the hardness of his penis pressing into my stomach through the boxers he was wearing.

I led Simon up the stairs to my bedroom, the big double bed and duvet looking much more inviting than it did when I was just going to sleep in it.

I lit a couple of candles, and sat on the edge of my bed, stopping him in front of me, and with a smooth tug, pulled his boxers down to his ankles, allowing his erect dick to spring out in front of my face. He was uncircumcised, about seven inches, a good thickness, and very, very hard.

Putting my hands on his buttocks I pulled him toward me, and opened my mouth to take him into me. I kissed his helmet, then tickled him with my tongue before grabbing his shaft with one hand as I opened my mouth fully to go down on him.

My other hand grabbed his balls as I sucked on him, juggling them softly, holding, weighing them, squeezing lightly then releasing. I kept up my rhythm with my mouth at his head as my hand wanked his shaft gently.

Simon put his hands to the side of my head.

"Oh, that's good, Kate. So good." He began to work with me, thrusting his penis in and out of my mouth as my hands got to work properly on his cock and balls.

Every now and again I'd let his knob out of my mouth to run my tongue up and down the underside, and occasionally take his balls into my mouth before returning to his head. The variation helped keep him off balance and on the edge.

All too soon he was warning me "I'm going to come if you keep that up." I ignored his warning, and I sped up, my head bobbing up and down him until I felt his balls tighten in my hand as he unleashed his love offering onto my tongue and into the back of my mouth. I felt the hard spurts of his male essence, that familiar salt-aspirin-sugar tang with that unique stamp that set it apart from anyone else's. Spunk tastes different from every cock, I now know. Simon's tasted good as I swallowed it.

As soon as I'd cleaned every last drop from him, Simon released my head, allowing me to lie back on my bed as he lay next to me. He turned his attention straight to my breasts.

"I love your breasts, Kate." He moaned. They are so perfect." As if to emphasise his comments he kissed each nipple, repeatedly, running his tongue around each one then tugging it with his teeth nibbling gently before releasing them. My tits are sensitive at the best of times, but this time round it seemed as though they'd acquired a new sensitivity, stronger feeling and he'd opened a window into my heart as he caressed them with his mouth.