Giving 'n Getting

"Do you have any particular aspect that you still might obsess about?"

"Bottoms."

"Pardon?"

"I just love bottoms. And I love the word, which sounds like it ought to."

"Well that seems fairly harmless unless you succumb to 'wandering hands syndrome'. Anything in particular? I mean do you know why they have this allure for you?"

"It's partly aesthetic."

"I think I follow, but isn't the aesthetic appeal very variable?"

"Not really. If we didn't all have one we'd appreciate the look of them as an abstract work of art."

"Does this enthusiasm stretch to anal activities?"

"I love to play with the rear orifice, because it can bring such pleasure and is part of the whole sexual orchestra. I have a bit of a problem with anal intercourse because it seems too much like an act of aggression, a violation, and often painful"

"Interesting. Some women apparently love it, but that may be because it is playing to the submissive in their psyche."

"Maybe. I have a similar sort of reservation -- or rather dislike -- of a woman fellating a man from her knees, with the man standing over her. I'd like a world without domination or submission, and that seems to be both."

"So what you want is 'vanilla sex'?"

"Do I? You're the expert," I replied.

"No, actually I don't think that's what you want. In fact I think you'd get bored with repetitive performances. I think you want to vary the context: how it happens is as important as what happens. You will get braver, and I'll try to help. But don't stop trying to innovate."

We both needed to pee. "Don't go away and hide now," Martha said. "Just stand there and pee against the tree, and I'll squat beside you and irrigate the leaves."

I watched a stream issue from her and looked at her wiping herself with a tissue from her little bag, while I tucked myself in and zipped up. It felt very erotic with a frisson of the taboo, and I'd never been watched peeing before. We picked up our things and walked back to the path and went on our way, holding hands and matching strides with ease. I had never felt closer to anyone.

Ashdown Forest is lowland heath, and I'm not sure that an equivalent landscape exists in North America. These heaths exist on impoverished, often sandy, acid soil. Because they were very unsuitable for cultivation they have often been left as wild places with important wild-life and scientific value. The Forest is now in public ownership with open access.

We had been able to pick a route that took us over the sparse grass with outcrops of heather, gorse and bracken, and into woodland. The woodland is largely oak and birch, and is sometimes dense enough to form a canopy, but often quite open to the sky. In summer this woodland has a magical quality, with the filtered sunlight constantly altering, and the colour of the filters a kaleidoscope of changing colours.

It was in every way a wonderful afternoon. The weather was dry, sunny and warm and not too hot, a situation which occurs about three times a year. We were in relaxed and joyful mood, delighting in the company. We had learnt enough of each other in our short time to feel comfortable, and I felt extremely lucky.

I suppose I was also feeling safe, which is a strange thing for a male to admit, but lots of us males are not really equipped to face the world alone, whatever we may try to pretend. I was just prematurely aware of a frailty which many will not admit until later in life.

***

As a result of intense discussion (Supper? /Fish and chips? /Yes, good) we stopped on the way from Kentish Town station to acquire our smelly, newspaper-wrapped parcel. Usual practice is to eat it from the paper as you walk along, but our up-bringing would not permit such 'common' practices, so we took it home, giggling at our own hang-ups, and ate it off plates, accompanied by mugs of tea. We then slobbered over a couple of large slices of fresh melon, and Martha produced a half bottle of a sweet wine from Bergerac to top it off.

I had been commissioned to install a record player and speakers on one of the shelves thoughtfully enlarged for the purpose, so we put on a record of Mahler's 1^st Symphony, turned the lights down, and relaxed together on the sofa. Well, perhaps 'relaxed' is not entirely appropriate as we kept fiddling with bits of each other, though always with the utmost decorum i.e. we didn't take anything out of its proper covering.

Our energetic day, far from exhausting us, proved rather invigorating when we went to bed. There was a lot of "you go this way and I'll go that way," and then "we could try it back to front and/or upside down; or get out of bed and sit on it -- you on the bed, and me on you." It was enormous fun, and I found it much easier to sustain the Prince's interest, and for that matter Cinderella's interest, than I had thought possible. When we finally arrived at a mutually appropriate moment to climax (I was sitting on the bed with her sitting astride facing me) we could possibly have wakened the neighbours if they were light sleepers.

There was a reverential silence for a few minutes. We toppled over onto the bed and I leant over and took in a mouthful of buttock on the way.

"You're on the brink of Division 1 now young man. It's encouraging me to work even harder." I noticed she was panting slightly. I brushed hair from her eyes, and gently stroked her forehead and kissed each nipple in turn.

"Are you still fully functioning old lady?" I enquired solicitously.

Not unexpectedly she reached round and smacked my bottom. It was getting quite sore.

*

Our leisurely Sunday morning started with a long session of mutual stroking and cuddling; I got painfully erect, and she was dripping with inviting emission making a coming together urgent. However it was done quietly and tenderly in the 'missionary' position, fully savouring the sensuality we had aroused in each other, and it was another 20 minutes before we chose to bring it to a successful conclusion. I smothered her with hugs and kisses, feeling gratitude that I was in a place that I could hardly have dreamt of being, and I told Martha so.

"It may surprise you to know that I feel the same. I'm just coming to realise that up to now I've made a series of false starts. I trust you as no-one before...and I adore you. Now we'd better get up; I'm sure we both have other things to do," and as she said it she pulled back the bedclothes and took off to the bathroom.

While we had breakfast we discussed the next weekend. I really had to go to see my parents, who were on the point of moving across country, so that my just-promoted father could start his new job. Martha felt it was time she went to see her mother so we agreed that the next weekend we would go our separate ways. The weekend after that was different: we could plan a project.

"Have you been to Coventry Cathedral" I asked. The new cathedral had been consecrated 7 years before. I had been to see it soon after consecration, but I felt I needed to see it again.

"I went to visit in 1963, but I'd be delighted to go again. Is there a particular reason for wanting to return?"

"Last time I went it was primarily for the wedding of the daughter of one of the Coventry clergy, and I was, aged 17, hopelessly in love with one of her fellow secretaries at our London office. I was seriously distracted," I admitted slightly sheepishly.

"Oh how lovely! I shall definitely take you there and hold your hand tightly and carry a supply of tissues in case you burst into tears. At least you won't be distracted this time with any teenage emotions -- except nostalgia."

"I think I'm over it now."

"Oh I wouldn't count on it. First love always leaves an indelible mark -- or stain."

"Who said it was my first love?"

"I shall pretend it was even if there were loads before her. What was her name?"

"Rosalind."

"Ah! Rosalind: and you were hoping to be her Orlando and carve her name on every tree?"

"Just 'cos you were already nearly over your first marriage, there's no need to mock my innocent young self."

We couldn't keep it up and both burst out laughing, but we were just serious enough to plan our trip for a fortnight ahead.

I didn't want to leave, but I was eventually more or less shooed out of the door.

"Go on young Master Vesey, be off with you, I've got me housework to see to," she said in her best crone's voice, waving a broom at me.

***

So it was nearly a fortnight before we met up again. I had become impatient. I missed Martha dreadfully. Not only had she introduced me to a sex life that I couldn't even have fantasized about, but it was a refreshing change to be with someone of a different generation, and with a different outlook.

I had been together with the same group of friends now for four years. In some ways it was great to have people my own age around, with similar preoccupations: architecture, art, music of all sorts, sport, the opposite sex, where to live, what to eat and where to drink on the few occasions we had enough money spend on it. But the other side of it was a kind of institutionalisation, which made you think, talk and act too often in a way which would conform to group expectations.

We embraced quietly and with relief. Murmurings about missing one another and anticipation of our time together. Her age was significant: she managed to be both warm and slightly detached, and that was something I couldn't manage: my embrace was definitely heated and far from detached.

It was my turn to cook, and I'd been to the fishmonger and greengrocer in Marylebone High Street before I came to buy prawns, tomatoes, shallots, cucumber, fennel, rocket, a little green lettuce, and a small pot of cream. I cooked Robert Carrier's 'Prawns in Whisky', a rich and extravagant dish, served with boiled rice and a green salad.

I am famous for the amount of debris I accumulate in cooking a meal. Most men seem to have similar reputations. The difference is that I clear it up -- some as I go and the rest later. Aren't I good?

"That was sumptuous." It had all gone anyway. I had explained to Martha that I was largely self-taught, driven on by the quality of my mother's cooking, which made me unwilling to live, as at least one of my flat-mates did, on pies, kippers, sausages, bacon and eggs. I wouldn't be surprised if he died in his thirties.

Before I started I had been equipped with a fine green apron, which Martha explained really needed to be put on for me. Why? "Because I felt like it, why did you think?" So her arms went round me to fasten the ties at the back. Somehow this took longer than expected... "Oh why, why can't I have you for always?" she sighed, but then let go of me, as if to confirm that she couldn't.

I had sat her down with a drink to wait, and put some music on, took off her shoes and lifted her legs onto the sofa. I tickled her feet, then I left her in peace, and cooked the supper.

When we had finished eating she insisted on clearing up, while I sat and chose a record to put on. I was delighted to find one of the Bach Double Violin Concerto. You may think 'what the hell is that?' but you'd probably recognise parts of it if I played it, so much has been used in film and television. When Martha joined me, we lounged indulgently together and chatted about our respective parents, but we were really quite keen to go to bed.

Once again I learnt so much in bed. It helps to be naked: I felt a more attentive pupil without any clothes on.

For a start I was given a guided tour of the vulva, with explanations of the clitoris, the labia, and the urethra. Martha's mother had been a nurse and made sure that her daughter was well-informed about her body, but what I wanted to know was how best to please her.

"I'll show you the things that I really like. Bur what is most important is what we've talked about before: trust. I want to feel that we each have the other's best interest at heart, will do what we love and avoid what we don't like. It's extremely simple really, and I've absolutely no complaints so far with what we've managed together."

"Come on then, I'm a willing learner."

"I love being stroked -- anywhere. The head and neck, my ears, the spine, the insides of the arms, my buttocks, the insides of my thighs, my feet and toes."

As she went through this list she was stroking these parts herself.

"Now, when it gets to the more intimate bits you should take it slowly, and very gently. If the lady wants it harder she'll tell you." She demonstrated, first with her breasts, then labia and clitoris, all the time maintaining the lightest of touches. "Be guided by the lady; she'll tell you if she wants more pressure."

"Any other special things you like?"

"Yes, I just love having my rear orifice played with. That's a personal thing, and I guess not everyone likes it. But I don't want you to do things just because you have been told about them. Follow your own inclination, as well as mine or hers. And try out new things."

"What about the G-spot? Does it exist, and if so where is it?"

"Yes, I think it probably exists, and I'll try to get you there by remote control when the time is right!"

"I really think that I need practice, don't you?"

"Well, obviously that will be rather tiresome. But in the cause of education I will agree to it. Now, my young student, is there anything you'd like to try that isn't illegal, immoral or too painful?"

"Will you lie on your tummy please? Now put this pillow under your pelvis and spread your legs wide."

This was such a gorgeous sight that I nearly lost concentration, but I pulled myself together and knelt between her knees and began to stroke the backs of her legs. I tried to keep my touch as light as possible, sometimes just my fingertips. I lingered on the area round the knee folds, and then moved up onto the thighs. The touch was a bit firmer here -- almost a light massage.

After several minutes I dug my nails in and started to scratch, deep enough to leave some red marks. I'd now got my thumbs on the insides of the thighs, and I had to control my urge to plunge into the glistening opportunity that lay between them. Instead I moved on upwards, and caressed the beautiful buttocks, rubbed the spine and stroked shoulders.

Now I really was out of control. I grabbed two handfuls of buttock and pushed them apart, giving my tongue access to the deep red lips of the vulva. At the same time I managed to get my thumbs to do a test run around the wrinkled orifice which I had anointed with saliva, and then for one of them just to open the sphincter enough to get a centimetre or so in. After a few minutes of this there was a sighing sound, "O.K. you win. Please, please get your stiff cock up my very wet pussy."

I did, of course. Can't say I lasted long though. I came with what felt like a torrential offering. That's what it felt like: giving a part of me away with joy.

"Do you need some other help?" I asked.

"No I don't. Just stay where you are and keep your thumb moving."

Martha had pulled her knees up to lift her bottom, but after a minute or two she subsided and lay prone while I detached myself.

"My goodness me," she said as she rolled over onto her back and looked me in the face. "Aren't you proud of yourself?"

"Why? I was just doing what I'd learnt at Martha's Academy for Backward Boys."

***

We lay together in a half-and-half embrace: that's to say I was half on my back and she was half on her front, legs interlocked.

"Is this how you thought it would turn out when you invited me to be your slave 4 weeks ago?" I asked.

"Well I hoped it would turn out better, of course, but all things considered I'm not too disappointed."

I had a hand in the vicinity of an armpit, so I was able to administer a severe tickling.

"I love it that you manage to maintain a sense of humour in what could have been a humiliating situation. Being seduced by an elderly lady may sound exciting, but as you had little experience it could have been a bit of a nightmare. For us both," Martha concluded.

I nuzzled into her. "I know you told me of your reservations about the word 'love', but I can't really find another word to express what I feel for you. Admiration, gratitude, fascination, lust, friendship, even a bit of intimidation still. But I can't say all that every time I want to convey affection."

She was silent for a while. Then she kissed me, tenderly, on the lips. "I caught myself using the word 'adore' a couple of weeks ago."

I remembered. "At the time I thought that you had regretted it," I commented.

"You're too sharp. I am very conscious that I have got you into this situation. I'm reasonably sure that it will be helpful to us both in the long run, but there is a risk. Still, it was true, I do adore you, and share all the emotions you say you feel including, you'll be surprised to learn, lust. I'm just wary of us finding ourselves without a satisfactory outcome."

I could see what she was getting at, but I didn't want to think about it. I still felt like a youth, and for youth 'tomorrow' is another country. For now I was happy for us to fall asleep in each other's arms.

***

The next day was fantastic. We caught a train from Euston to Coventry, and a 10 minute walk took us to the Cathedral. The new Cathedral stands next to the remains of the 14^th century 'Old Cathedral', which was bombed in WW2, in a 500 bomber-plane raid that killed 568 people, destroyed 4,000 homes and much of the commerce and industry of Coventry.

The tower and spire were left intact, together with walls of the chancel and parts of the nave and these are linked to the new building by the new porch They form a separate part, dedicated as an outdoor chapel to Peace and Reconciliation.

We talked about the concept of new joined to old in this way, an idea of which we thoroughly approved and had put into practice. It seemed a remarkably imaginative thing to have done, and it was the architect of the new Cathedral who had insisted on keeping the remains. I told Martha that I had no objection at all to joining up with the old leftovers!

Martha had reservations about the outside of the building, although we agreed that the entrance porch joining new to old is impressive, and the east elevation (the Cathedral is oriented more or less N/S) works well enough.

But the interior is a triumph. It is full of the works of a collection of great artists and craftsmen, at the top of their game at the latter part of the 1950s to early sixties. Yet it still manages to be a coherent and moving experience.

We walked around hand-in-hand, knowing that we shared both knowledge and appreciation. To take it all in we needed a couple of hours, and we each had our favourite bits, not always identical.

I should have explained before that Martha was an exceptional lady. She began her architectural education in 1946, when the number of female students was tiny. Even when I started 18 years later the proportion was less than 10%. She then entered the Civil Service and succeeded in that male-dominated world. Later in the 1970s she was appointed to one of the country's most important building conservation roles.

I'm telling you this because, as we strolled and studied and discussed, I felt privileged to be in her company. Once again I was pupil, she was the gentle tutor.

***

Our very satisfying tour was completed. Martha had brought her camera and had been taking pictures and now wanted one of us. A helpful bystander pressed the button for us while we stood in front of the entrance porch.

We found a pub called the Golden Cross that seemed to have reasonable beer and food. My memory is that we ate a classic of the time: scampi and chips, well cooked and washed down with a pint of best bitter, and it was great. Having used the facilities we tottered off back to the station.