Davina Does Christmas

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That's how I found myself sipping Diet Pepsi at quarter to eight, listening to Noddy Holder yelling as loud as ever, "IT'S CHRISTMAAAAS!!' and playing gooseberry to Jacqui and Roberta.

'Look at them,' Roberta said sniffily. 'Aren't they pathetic?'

I swapped puzzled glances with Jacqui.

'I'm not with you,' Jacqui said. 'Who's being pathetic?'

'All the guys going round collecting Christmas kisses,' said Roberta. 'And the girls loitering near those bunches of mistletoe aren't any better. Desperate or what?'

I haven't described Roberta yet so here's a snapshot. Most of my circle were ex-fifth form basketball players and consequently tall. At five-three Roberta was a bit of a shrimp but her figure was stunning and her tits could win prizes.

(All my friends had knockout tits! How unfair was that!!)

Roberta had a lovely ass too, but it was her face you noticed first; her face and her complexion. I had met her parents (a pale guy with ginger hair and a good-looking honey blonde with lovely brown eyes) and somehow they'd produced a compact Sophia Loren. There must have been some Mediterranean ancestry in one of their families and I suppose Roberta was a throwback.

But flipping heck, she was hot.

I looked at her closely and suddenly my mouth was doing its automatic speaking trick again. 'I hope I don't seem pathetic,' it said, 'but I'm ready to collect my Christmas kiss off you.'

Maybe it was the self-confidence in my words but Roberta didn't hesitate. She didn't look for approval from Jacqui, either. She simply stepped forward and offered up her mouth.

Never mind Christmas, it was fireworks time. I'm not going to wax lyrical about all the sensations that I had; let's just say she was an excellent kisser and preferred it passionate and steamy.

Logical Dave timed that kiss by music: the tail-end of Merry Xmas Everybody, all of I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day and well into Mary's Boy Child.

'Nothing pathetic about that,' Roberta said as we eventually broke for air.

I was desperately trying to contain Fervent Dave, who had designs on her ass, tits and God only knew what else.

'It was nice,' I managed feebly.

'Do I get one?' Jacqui enquired.

She did; it would have been rude not to. So we snogged through Last Christmas, Do They Know It's Christmas and only stopped when Lonely This Christmas began.

'Anymore and I might do something you'd regret,' she said, grinning at me.

'I rather doubt that,' I countered, returning her grin.

Leaving the two of them together (wishing one of them wasn't there), I headed towards the "dry" bar, doing a mental toss-up. It was heads and a mild cold had kept Jacqui at home. Tails and Roberta had been kept away by a twenty-four hour bug . . .

Then an idea struck me smack between the eyes. If the guys could go round randomly collecting as many Christmas kisses as possible, why couldn't I?

At this point I am going to enlarge a little. Sara and I were the first lesbians to go public. In our school year, I mean. Ellie had been next, closely followed by Jacqui and Roberta and a smattering of others. The reaction of our contemporaries was, quite frankly, amazingly positive. Oh I'm sure some dimwits slagged us behind our backs, but the vast majority couldn't have been more supportive.

And inquisitive.

Yes, I'd had all sorts of individual approaches from girls asking scores of different questions, some of them quite deep and intelligent. But, opening gambits played, they all wanted to know the same one thing:

"What's it like having sex with a fellow female?"

In the early days I tried to answer objectively. Heck, I even tried to describe feelings and emotions. As time passed and my experience grew, however, I became cocky and flirty. "Fancy a demo?" I'd reply. Or, "I'm game to show you how." Now this was to supposedly straight girls, you understand. And I had not got my face slapped even once.

So why shouldn't I chance my arm?

I mean what was the worst that could happen? They couldn't kill me for it, could they?

*****

It was over an hour before I finally bought my second Pepsi and leant against the bar, taking stock. By then I had made at least a dozen approaches and still hadn't been smacked. I had had some sort of a kiss on all occasions too, so if I counted a brief brush of lips, I could claim a hundred per cent success rate.

I grinned at that. I'd targeted straight girls only, casting around until I saw someone who was at least momentarily on her own. And then I'd pounced, playing the confidence card, not asking for a kiss but announcing I was "collecting my kiss". Reactions had been varied but every last one seemed to think I was only claiming what I was due.

And some of them had been more forthcoming than others.

My grin spread as I swigged Cola and realized I'd left a greasy imprint on the can.

How many different transfers of lippy have there been tonight, I wondered.

If I counted girls prepared to snog for at least one of the DJ's records I reckoned my rate to be around seventy-five per cent. And if I counted use of tongues, it would have been maybe fifty. Okay, so some of those straight girls had flinched at the use of tongue, but none of them had gone storming off. I had taken that as tacit consent.

I also took it to be very encouraging indeed.

I never have used handbags so had to tug a hanky out of my front pocket. A swift examination of the tissue confirmed I'd acquired a blend of at least ten lipstick shades. Not that the combination would win any awards. Even in the iffy light of the disco I could see it wasn't going to give frosted apricot too many sleepless nights.

Chuckling, I had another swig of pop. My mirror-less wiping must have achieved because the rim of the can was now unmarked.

One-nil to cosmetic-free ladies!

I haven't mentioned my little red devil, have I? I believe everyone has one but mine is as persistent as heck. He perches on my left shoulder (the one my lovers seem to love to chew) and whispers all sorts of nonsense into my ear.

"Do the rounds again," he said wickedly. "You know there are curious straight girls out there, wishing you'd try them a second time. And who knows what they might try if you do!"

Accepting that as sound advice, I was trying to decide who to go for first. The permissive tongue girls seemed to be as good an option as any . . . or maybe the song-long kissers. Or perhaps some of the lip-brushers might have reconsidered and seen sense . . .

Then I saw her.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lorna was, with the exception of Miss Williams, by far the school's sexiest creature. She was my sort of height (five-eight) with a body to die for and tits that preceded her by a mile. And she was nice with it; not "up herself" at all.

She was also half of the school's dream couple. I guess in America she would have been the state's most prominent cheerleader and her boyfriend would have been the all-star quarterback. In Bingley she was just stunningly gorgeous and her boyfriend captained the rugby team.

I'm aware I earlier spurned "comparisons" but to heck with that; I'm going to make one. Ray, Sara's new bit on the side, was about six foot, very well-built and as athletic as anyone could ask. His good looks and short blond hair attracted girls like flies round you-know-what.

By contrast Lorna's guy, Steve, was six-four. His shoulders were wider than a double-decker bus and he must have weighed fourteen or fifteen stones without carrying an ounce of fat. Sporting opponents broke out in bumps and bruises just looking at him. I'm not a big fan of he-man blokes but, if I was in a bar and a fight erupted, I'd make sure I was on his side every time.

Yes folks, Steve made muscleman Ray look like the guy who'd get sand kicked in his face.

Yet suddenly he wasn't there.

Don't get me wrong, there were rarer sights than Lorna without Steve by her side. The Fab Four doing a 2008 reunion gig on the studio rooftop, perhaps; or maybe Lord Lucan riding Shergar to his second Derby win.

(For anyone who isn't British or Irish, read JFK playing Khrushchev, best out of fifty-one at chess, live from Uranus!)

My brain did/does sometime behave like my mouth and go off unprompted. It did back then, seeing Lorna on her lonesome.

'Hi,' I said, arriving at the edge of the dance floor unannounced, 'fancy seeing you all forlorn. Where's Steve?'

'He's out the back.' The stunner rolled her eyes. 'Apparently they need to do some work on their set lineout for tomorrow.'

'Apparently that leaves you free to give me my Christmas kiss,' I countered.

Now Lorna wasn't only tits, blonde hair and beauty; she had a real presence about her. I must admit my bravado was forced more with her than with all that night's other approaches put together.

But I needn't have worried.

'Thought you'd never ask,' she said before launching herself at me.

*****

What can I say, eh? Me and beautiful women! I can't pretend it works every time but I have been blessed with more luck than I deserve. Me, a plain girl who looks like one of Scooby's sidekicks . . . and not the blatantly sexy one at that!

Being philosophical, I reckon my boyish looks have a universal appeal. Straight girls like boys, yeah? So do bisexual girls. And okay, so perhaps fellow lezzies can be a bit pickier, but a lot seem to prefer butch to femme . . .

Never mind the whys and wherefores. Lorna snogged me like her life depended on it and you can bet I snogged her right back. Don't ask how long or how hot. She went way beyond one or two DJ's discs, up to five or six . . . at least. As for hot . . .

Volcanoes, baby. A trip to the molten centre of the Earth. See where I'm coming from?

Finally, regretfully, we parted.

'Steve will be back,' she said, gasping for breath. 'Steve will be back any minute and I don't have your number. Give it to me right now, this second.'

I may be an IT nerd but I knew how that social convention worked. I recited my number even as I got my mobile out. Lorna entered it as I recited and dialled as soon as I'd finished.

'Gotcha,' she said, saving the details.

'Me too you,' I replied, doing likewise.

'Ring me,' she said, looking around, passing her urgency on, infecting me with it. 'Ring me later, when we're both in bed.'

'Worry not,' said my mouth, 'I'm your gal.'

'You bet you are.' She laughed shortly. 'I guess you're out for drinks after here.'

'It's a distinct possibility,' I admitted.

'So am I, but I'll declare an early night. How does one o'clock sound?'

'It sounds good.'

'Promise me you'll be in bed.'

'I promise.'

'Promise . . . oh crap; here's Steve.'

Steve had two rugby cronies with him. He was grinning and slapping folk on the back as he came (no doubt inadvertently breaking bones and dislocating limbs as he did so).

'Got it sorted,' he said to Lorna. Then, beaming at me, 'Hi Dave; you're looking good.'

'I wouldn't receive at three if I were you,' I replied. 'I'd stay at three and receive at five.'

Steve's face had been in the wars over his eighteen years. It had permanent lumps in it and his nose must have been broken three times, if not more. He was ruggedly attractive, though, even I could see that. At my words his manly brow creased into a scowl.

'Have you been discussing our tactics?' he asked Lorna.-

She laughed. 'Do I look like someone who knows what "receive at three" means?'

He turned back to me. 'Dave . . .'

'Stick at three and take it at five,' I said cheerily. 'Bye . . .'

*****

Back at the dry bar I bought yet another can and wondered what to do next. It was barely half-nine and I was nowhere near pulling. And, of course, I had Lorna to call at one.

I shivered at the prospect. Up until then I'd had very little phone sex . . . and that was what I hoped and expected to have with Lorna. Something along the lines of the late-night calls I'd had with Ellie on several occasions.

Talking about Ellie . . .

I cast around without spotting her and concluded she must have gone somewhere a bit more private, to give Fran his "Chrissie present". It was my turn to scowl. I hadn't been to bed with the blonde bombshell since our housesitting adventure; our more recent sex had been regrettably dildo-free.

Crikey, could I have done with that dildo right then!

I forced Ellie (and her toy) out of my head and resumed brooding. One o'clock was ages away. And my inclination to do the rounds again was gone. It seemed like too much hard work and I had that call to come anyway. Why waste the effort? Why not go to The Old White Horse instead?

Leaving the party early and alone wasn't a concept that fazed me. It was a Main Street pub in Bingley, not The Bucket of Blood in Tortuga. Okay, it was Friday night, but even so . . .

Then I had another "I saw her" moment.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Meryl was as close as we got to an outcast in our tight-knit sixth form community. In all honesty she didn't do herself any favours. She was a bright enough student but had no social skills at all. In fact she went out of her way to be rude to folk (or so it seemed) and answered friendly approaches with grunts and monosyllables. If ever there was a born loner, it was her.

So why was I struck by the sight of her, you may ask. Well, for one thing it was the first time I'd seen her at any sort of party. And for another she looked . . . different.

Normally Meryl dressed in a similar way to me and kept her medium-length hair tied back in a severe ponytail. That night she'd pushed the boat well out. Her usual ragged jeans had been replaced by a brand-new pair in very dark blue. Her trainers had given way to black leather ankle boots and, instead of a sweatshirt, she was wearing what looked to be the waistcoat of a man's three-piece suit.

I liked that waistcoat a lot. It was jet-black, the front unreflective material and the back something silky and shiny. Best of all it left her arms bare, exposing hitherto unsuspected tattoos: a full sleeve on her upper left and a fair old smattering of ink on her upper right.

She'd ditched the ponytail too, letting her hair frame her face in a spiky sort of a way.

Spiky like her personality.

True to form Meryl was there alone. She was sitting on a double chair in a clutter of furniture that had been pushed aside to make room for dancing. I was as sure as I could be that nobody was supposed to be sitting where she was, but I was not at all surprised. The girl wasn't just alone in a crowd; she'd gone and cast herself away on a desert island amid the crowd.

Please don't assume I felt sorry for her. I did, but only a teeny-weeny bit. No, my primary feeling was one of intense lust. I hadn't previously considered her sexually but just then, with her edgy black hair and mostly black wardrobe . . .

Not to mention those F-me boots!

And her blood-red lips were eminently kissable. Mmmm, yum, yum!

I saw her as a challenge too; I freely admit that. There she was, sexy, abrasive and unsociable. And there I was, unexpectedly drooling over her.

On that night for me to think was to act. Without rationally considering what I was doing, I clambered my way through the pushed-aside chairs and tables and said hi.

'Hi,' she replied, not sparing me a glance, continuing to stare out over the dance floor but not seeming to be watching anyone in particular.

'Mind if I join you?' I asked cheerily.

She grunted so I took a seat beside her, taking care to get as close as I could.

'I'm glad to see you here,' I went on, expecting another grunt in response.

Instead Meryl looked at me. 'Am I next on your kiss list, or are you just taking the piss?'

'It's the kiss list,' said my automatic mouth.

'Come get it, then.'

Well, I wasn't going to say no, was I? Thinking I would be the cool, super-experienced one, I leant in and . . .

Wow!! Meryl blew me away. How good was she? How good and how exceptionally passionate? She had me instantly reeling. Then, after maybe thirty seconds, she eased off. I almost wept but there was no need. Rather than backing away she suddenly switched the intensity up by times ten.

Confession time: that change of gear was too much for me. I came instantaneously and had to hang on to her to keep myself upright.

Trust me: a lesser mortal would have swooned like a Jane Austen heroine.

And still she kissed me. I endured it like a good 'un, feeling myself building and building. Then, when I was closing in on cum number two, she abruptly stopped.

'Happy Xmas,' she said (pronouncing it Exe Mass), and abruptly turned back to the dancing.

It took me a while to steady myself and get some air back in my lungs. Eventually, having no intention of being summarily dismissed, I tried again.

'You're a heck of a good kisser, Meryl. Where did you learn to do that?'

Nothing in reply; not even a grunt.

'No, I mean it,' I persisted, 'I could get accustomed to kisses from you.'

'Are you still here?' she said without looking my way.

'You bet I am. I'm staying here until they kick us out.'

'I'm not an easy leg-over,' she announced, surprising me with her bluntness (although God Himself only knows why; "Bluntness" was her middle name).

'Kiss me again and I will be,' I countered. 'I'll be an easy leg-over, I mean. Kiss me like that and I'll let you do anything you want.'

Meryl grunted.

Undeterred, I tried a new tack. 'Are you going to Ralph's eighteenth tomorrow?'

'Not invited.'

Now I did feel sorry for her. I had invited everyone to my eighteenth and took it for granted everyone else did likewise. But Ralph evidently hadn't. And maybe there was a reason Meryl was rarely seen out and about. Maybe she'd been blacklisted and I didn't know it.

'My invite's for "Dave and guest",' I said inventively. 'Come as my date.'

That got her attention. Peering at me through her sharp, dark brown eyes she said, 'Like I was your girlfriend for the night?'

'Yeah. Exactly like that.'

'Anything for the leg-over.' Her laugh was bitter and abrupt.

'Come on Meryl,' I almost begged. 'Give me a break. I'm asking you on a date because I want to get to know you. And yes, I'd like to have sex with you, but not at any price. I won't even touch you unless you want me to. And you can do all the touching, if that's what you prefer.'

She took a moment or two to absorb that.

'You want to be my friend,' she said at last. 'And I get to decide how friendly we are.'

'In a nutshell,' I agreed.

She had another brief consider then came out with: 'Say that's a promise.'

'It's a promise.'

She nodded thoughtfully before saying, 'Okay.'

'Thank you,' I gushed. Then, chancing my arm, 'What about tonight? Can I buy you a drink on the way home?'

'Have to be in by eleven. Sorry.'

'Eleven o'clock on a night like tonight!' I was shocked and couldn't hide it.

'I told Mum the party ends at ten thirty and I'd be in by eleven. If I'd said twelve she'd have been okay with it, but I didn't. So it's like a promise, see? I never break promises or try to change them at the last minute, so I can't even ring and ask for an extension.'

That was far and away the longest speech I'd ever heard Meryl say. By her standards it was up there beside the Gettysburg Address.

(And yes, I know Abe only spoke for a couple of minutes.)

Well, you know me and how I tend to be with promises. I could dig that. 'Let's leave now,' I said after checking the time. 'You live in Poplar House, don't you? We can grab a couple of drinks and be there for eleven, easy.'

'Okay,' she said again.

'Come on then, let's say our farewells and be off.'

'I've none to say. I'll see you outside.'

Chapter Twenty-Four

My farewells weren't much more extensive than Meryl's. One quick cast about the dance floor found Sara and Ray. By then the slow songs had started and it would have been an intrusion to part them. Ellie and Fran were scarcer still; I (probably correctly) guessed that Fran was getting something for the New Year as well as a Happy Christmas. And Jacqui and Roberta were seated with tongues quite clearly down each other's throats.