Is It for Real

Both of them, 1985 versions, at once?

Good grief yes, yes please.

Reluctantly accepting time had passed (as it always does), I left WYB at one in the afternoon under a shower of admiration and shrugging off two proposals of marriage and one of something much more fundamental.

There always was a lot of (paid!) lads in there on a Saturday and they never did show due respect for my rank.

There again, I never discouraged them so probably deserved all I got.

Heck, leaving that early afternoon I even got called "Snow White", a moniker I'd forgotten I had.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I hadn't really forgotten. That's why my guard geese are named after the seven dwarfs. Not that I needed guarding at home, work or anywhere else. My geese are there to guard a lavishly restored farmhouse when I am not home, not to guard me personally. Personally, I can look after myself.

And I needed absolutely zero protection there at WYB.

Face it, I only ever got insinuations and the sort of admiration any girl would cherish, be it insincere or not.

Opportunist or not.

Hey, I even took advantage of the occasional proposition. What red-blooded girl wouldn't?

*****

Part of me wanted to tour our beautiful part of the world, drawing admiring glances as I went. But I didn't drink and drive and supping tomato juice all day didn't really appeal, not even if sauced with Lea and Perrins.

Worcestershire Sauce! I ask you!! How can anything from outside God's Own County taste so good?

In the end I drove away from the office, gaily waving over my shoulder as I went, and headed uphill (very much uphill) to Dick Hudson's, on the fringe of what is incorrectly known as Ilkley Moor.

Sorry if I'm sounding like a schoolteacher, but Ilkley Moor is relatively tiny. The larger moor is known as Rombald's Moor, of which Ilkley Moor forms but a fraction. As well as the famous one, Rombald's Moor includes Burley Moor, Hawksworth Moor, Baildon Moor, Bingley Moor, Addingham High Moor and Morton Moor.

And probably others I've forgotten.

That's quite a few moors, isn't it?

Purely for information, Rombald was a legendary giant who threw enormous rocks at his enemies, his wife much among them. One of those rocks was big enough to create the famous Cow and Calf formation on the (this time correctly named) Ilkley Moor.

Another more recent legend relates to poor old Rombald's genitals. Apparently, back in the 1970s a bronze statue was erected in Keighley's main shopping area. And pretty soon, persons unknown did an imasculating act on him.

Maybe, not being giants themselves, those still unidentified kids felt overwhelmed.

Or should that be underwhelmed.

No, make that inadequate.

Whatever it was, vandalism is never the answer. So far as I'm concerned vandalism is like dropping litter hither and thither. Plastic bottles that won't decay for a thousand years? God knows what else that might pollute the globe for even longer?

Don't mistake me for a do-gooder but my mother taught me to take care in all respects. On the farm

almost everything was automatically recyclable, and littering was forbidden. Off the farm everything, be it cardboard, plastic or whatever, I held on to until I came to a bin.

Chuck anything carelessly away?

Okay, so in a bedroom I'd gladly chuck items away . . . sweatshirts, bras, panties . . . but never any of them forever.

And I'd never drop litter under any circumstances. Weed aside, I've never smoked but, if I ever had, I wouldn't have let cig stubs fall under my feet.

I love our environment, just like Mum does. I'd never do anything to harm it.

Chapter Four

Skipping over my weekend home alone I'll just say I made extensive use of my equally extensive set of sex toys. The only excuse I can come up with was that I feared there was a sexless week ahead of me, and I wanted to get my fair share in while I could.

Problem was I did the job too well. By Monday morning almost everything was in the dishwasher, on the way to being thoroughly cleansed. I'd packed in advance without considering toys. Then, when it was time to be on my way, I realized my play drawers were as good as empty. There wasn't a rabbit to be seen and I was reluctant to take one of the two remaining vibrators.

They were so loud!

They were also virtually antique. I only kept them for sentimental reasons.

Honest.

The best remaining option was a dildo marketed as "monster", one which always seemed to be far too large to me. Still, it was needs must, wasn't it? So, into my case it went, along with a jumbo-sized packet of condoms.

No dishwashers likely to be available on course, and the need for dildo re-use was likely to re-occur.

And re-occur again and again.

Hence the need for multiple condoms.

A girl can't be too careful, can she?

Here's a confession. Already being "management", I dressed that morning as I would on a working day: shortish skirt, stockings and suspenders, court shoes, slightly revealing white blouse and no bra.

I've never needed a bra and have hardly ever worn one (the discarded ones I mentioned all belonged to other girls).

That's right, on the few occasions I've tried I've felt less than at ease if not downright uncomfortable. And, although I am not lacking in that department, I am as good as self-supporting up there. Why be uncomfortable just to avoid the odd bounce or three?

Having my lovely boobies out in the shop window pleased everybody, didn't it? What was a bounce or three when weighed against spreading worldwide happiness?

Anyway, I got to WYB bang on time to find my two colleagues ready and waiting, with cases of their own. And both dressed far more casually than me.

Curses, I thought. They're kitted out like the student I used to be.

Then, suspicious as always: I bet Vic's given them background info she "forgot" to give me.

Expressing admiration for those admirable wheels the two of them piled in, Lottie bagging the front seat, Rebecca spreading herself comfortably in the back.

And off we went. Off on our expedition like Cook, Columbus and Magellan, magically rolled into one.

*****

Our route was largely chosen by circumstance. Millions upon millions of pounds had been spent on the Aire Valley Trunk Road but, as far as I could see, the builders had got as far as Saltaire and given up.

That's right, Keighley and Bingley had been successfully and efficiently bypassed (moving the Leeds and Liverpool canal a tad in the process) but getting through Sir Titus Salt's UNESCO World Heritage Site had been an insurmountable problem.

And Saltaire didn't even have Swampy and his swarm of tree protesters in the South Bog.

Not to mention the discovery of a supposedly rare orchid there, amongst the protesters' general filth and bodily waste.

I won't bore you with the history, but Sir Titus was a mill owner of the opinion that giving workers a decent lifestyle would increase output whilst making everyone happy. Consequently, he moved his operation out of the hell hole of Bradford and installed his workforce in tidy, newly built houses.

He even made bath houses and all sorts of other conveniences for workers, unheard of at the time.

And his new mill was, back in those days, the largest industrial building in the world. The largest and the least polluted/polluting.

A great idea, I believe, except he was allegedly a teetotaller and expected his workers to be likewise. In other words, anyone fancying a pint had to walk the mile or more to the Travellers Rest in Shipley.

For over a hundred years after his death, Titus's rule held sway: licenced premises were forbidden in his model village, full stop.

Nowadays there are, thank the Lord, exceptions, not least Fanny's Ale House (which I love), but I still feel for those old mill workers sentenced to trudge home from the Travellers in all weathers.

Beer is a major part of British life, isn't it? Teetotal or not, how could he be so cruel.

If I'd been about there and then he'd have got a kick up the ass, at the very least.

Back to the yarn.

Getting onto the trunk road was too much for me so I headed direct along the old Keighley/Bradford Road, passing a myriad of large, terraced houses, wincing as we went by Bradford City's ground.

Forgive me but I can't help it. That terrible Bradford City Fire took one of Dad's labourers who'd only gone to see the presentation of the Third Division championship trophy, which City had won already, long before that last match of an otherwise successful season.

According to Dad the poor sod didn't even like football but, being a proud Yorkshireman, felt obliged to be there.

And there he perished, safely out of the blazing stand but brought up against a turnstile, along with a lot of other misfortunate souls.

All of them inches away from safety but barred by locked gates.

Forgive me, but I can't drive past without thinking of that tragedy and always will.

As I keep saying, back to the yarn.

Keeping my eyes on the road ahead I steadily drove us south, skipping past Wakefield and Barnsley and avoiding Sheffield (site of another terrible football disaster) as much as humanly possible. For most of the way Lottie chatted flirtily with me while Rebecca chipped in here and there. They both kept referring to Vic as "Ms Hanson" in a way that amused me until Lottie referred to yours truly as "Ms Hunter".

'Hey, hey,' I said, still concentrating ahead. 'Think of the next five nights as the Christmas Party. And what's the unwritten rule?'

"What happens at the party stays at the party," they chorused as one.

'Too true,' said I, conscious as ever of my occasional Australian twang. That's a legacy of a big part of my gap "year". There are certain words I simply cannot utter without that twang. And I can never say "good day" without grinning and adding "sport".

'Listen,' I went on, 'never mind the party rule . . . although please stick to it . . . this week is all about us. I've got virtually unlimited credit so we can be like that old pools winner, what's-her-name.'

'Viv Nicholson,' Rebecca volunteered instantly. 'Spend, spend, spend.' Then, taking our silence I do know not how, she added, 'I saw the film on some old movie channel just the other week.'

'Haven't you better things to be doing of an evening?' said Lottie. 'No, don't answer that. I'd rather not know.'

I'd have rather liked to have known. Instead, I pressed on with my pre-planned lecture.

(Need a management course? Me? As if!)

'Victoria is not a "Ms",' I began. 'She's a married woman who chose to keep her surname. I find that admirable and always will. To me she's been Vic for just about ever. To you two, she can be referred to as Victoria at the most formal, Vic if you prefer, for the next few days, anyway.'

'You're close, aren't you?' Lottie put in, quick as a flash.

'Yes,' I conceded, 'couldn't be closer. If it weren't for that pesky husband of hers, we'd share a bed a lot more often.'

'Oh,' went Rebecca.

'Knew it,' went Lottie.

'This is all subject to party rules,' I reminded them. Duly acknowledged, I told them I wasn't at all like Snow White and was known to best friends and lovers as Hev.

'Would those lovers all be girls,' Lottie prompted. 'I heard a rumour about Tiger Woodhead.'

I laughed at that. Tiger was a blast from the distant past. He was gone but by no means forgotten.

'I'm unashamedly bi,' I announced unashamedly. 'But please don't lose sleep over it. I'm not going to assault anyone in her sleep. Not unless she genuinely wants to be assaulted.'

'I'll take a rain check on that,' said Rebecca.

'And I will too,' said Lottie. 'But probably not forever.'

Chapter Five

We finally arrived in Hathersage an hour and a half after setting off (and no, I hadn't gone at it like a racing driver, much as I fancied Lewis Hamilton and much as I admired Stirling Moss and the beyond

suave and humorous Graham Hill).

Petrol head? Moi?

Anyway, we got there and thanks to GPS soon found our temporary home, which was perhaps a mile out of the village. And what a village. Having spent time in East Morton I'd expected one pub at best. This similar-sized "village" had six or more boozing venues.

Okay, so we'd have to hike it like those poor old Salt's employees . . . but where there's a will and all that.

Registering was a cinch. We were all expected and welcomed with open arms (not least by a young lady who I'd have welcomed anywhere, anytime). But that was as far as it went. Before I knew it, we were in a reception class with a dozen other females, eying each other up, assessing possibilities.

Leastways I was. Tell the truth and shame the devil, I cannot be deposited in a room full of females without eying up the talent. I'm as bad with men . . . but by no means as extreme as I am with girls.

Not knowing is a big part of it. About sexuality, I mean. Quite often I can read another girl, but I can also miss the target by miles. Having short hair and bulging muscles signifies a possibility.

My ass!

How many times have I had my face slapped due to over-eagerness and mis-read signals?

Well, none at all, truth be told. My reflexes are too good for anyone, except maybe Muhammed Ali.

Everyone else misses by light years and then cringes when I flex a fist and threaten retaliation.

Please understand, I'm not a predator (apart from those increasingly rare occasions when I pick on guys), and I'll always be that way. Mutual desire; that's me all over. Without that I'd be lost.

Well, without that I'd be back home, emptying the dishwasher and picking out the best options.

All seventy-five of them.

Joking apart, that morning was amusing. Our very male course leader couldn't have been nicer. At his insistence we went around the ranks, introducing ourselves. I was first and very much used to a process like that.

'Hi guys,' I began, 'I'm Heather Hunter from WBS, already management but keen to learn more. In my spare time I drink gallons of Timothy Taylors and occasionally work out.'

'Occasionally?' some unseen person observed. 'You make Denise Lewis look like Chubby Checker.'

'Hey,' said I, 'no offense to Chubby, but Denise is my idol.'

For some reason that got me a round of applause and I sat down again while the going was good.

Lottie was next as far as intros went and, surprisingly, she was coy. She got through it though, as did Rebecca, hot on her heels.

In fact, Rebecca was awesomely cool. She made me seem like a bumbling amateur.

And she left Lottie trailing in our wake.

Come to that she was awesome enough to stop me assessing all other talent.

Listening to the others introduce themselves, hardly taking notice, I found my eyes constantly drawn to Rebecca. And, miracle of miracles, hers seemed constantly drawn to me.

Maybe she wasn't so straight after all.

And, judging by the attention Lottie was paying to a blonde called "Helen", maybe there might be an opportunity after all, albeit in the direction of the unknown.

*****

As I intimated earlier, I've been into girl-on-girl for just about ever, but my gay-radar is lacking. Put it like this: my typical "chat up" process was to get a girl merry and take it from there. Not that I'd ever do anything untoward. I nearly always asked a new partner at least three times before indulging.

Well, guys aside, I did. And guys don't count when it comes to consideration, do they?

How many "yesses" does the male of the species need?

One?

Minus one?

Stuff guys. Think about it. A cheerfully merry girl, happily naked, ready for whatever comes her way.

Yum, yum.

Moving on, still watching Rebecca aslant, I did my best to absorb key points of the lecture. To tell the truth there weren't many applicable to me, but there were a few that gave me pause for thought. If nothing big they resonated, and all the fine-tuning I got I gratefully took on board.

Hey, everyone can fine-tune, can't she? And the damage is zero. Fine-tuning makes us girls stronger and can only help, no?

Too right it can (in yet another Aussie accent).

*****

Helen butted into our plans over a very acceptable lunch. At one time, this establishment had been a part of British Steel. Nowadays it was independent but most of the attendees still came from the last of that dying industry; everyone else was there to boost the coffers and help keep the place going.

Helen was definitely BS.

(Goodness only knew what she exactly did, but it was probably something physical. Big muscles or what? Even I was impressed, if not actually awed.)

At this point I'd say the establishment was an old manor house, probably once owned by the Duke of God Knows Where. Put it this way; it was top drawer.

I'd live there at the drop of a hat.

And I already have one of the most desirable residences in Yorkshire.

Call me greedy and ask if I care.

What did I just say about my dodgy gaydar? Well, there was nothing off target in watching Lottie and Helen. Those two were hot to trot without a doubt.

Any hotter and we'd all be watching an unscripted porn show, right there and then.

Good luck to them, I thought, dismissing possibilities, vocally offering to stand the next round. That's to say the magic card stood the next round, all fifteen drinks of it. Then, recalling Vic's words, I went for another round, this time offering shorts as an alternative to pints and glasses of wine.

Talk about popular! I instantly acquired at least six new best friends.

Then, fortified by lager and Bénédictine, Helen addressed the whole crowd of us.

'It's traditional to go out on the town on an evening,' she began. 'I'm sure a lot of you know that. Tea is at six thirty. I'd suggest we set off straight after.'

'What,' said Rebecca, 'all of us?'

'That's right; all of us.'

'Will the pubs let in such a big gang of girls?'

'Trust me, honey, they'll wave us in and phone ahead, so everyone knows exactly where we are and what's coming their way.'

We all laughed at that. Girls Aloud or what!

Chapter Six

Trust me, I gave that night's attire some consideration before venturing out. My case was filled with jeans, T's and sweats but I was strangely reluctant to change tack so soon. It'd be like admitting that I was wrong. And a couple of other girls had been in office dress as well. I didn't want to be the only one to conform with herd mentality.

Well, not until tomorrow morning, at the soonest.

So, in the end I carried on as was, not bothering with slap or lippy because I didn't need it and rarely bothered. Those legendary, super-secretive Christmas parties were about my only exception.

Hot red ready to be smeared over some innocent girl's mouth, if not a lot further south.

And yes, I did have the sense to ditch those court shoes in favour of stylish, ladylike trainers.

Down in the refectory I was pleased to note that other couple had taken the same decision and I felt a certain sisterhood with them. That is to say we felt like we were going to be the girly-girls, out with four times as many much more butch sisters.

Four times as many very shaggable sisters.

I struggled to classify the rest of the gang. What's the percentage of lesbians in the UK? Allegedly it's one point something, with bisexual girls bringing up the total to about two per cent.

My ass.

At The Manor (that posh school of mine) it was more like eighty per cent. And at uni it just had to be fifty, at least. Okay, so I know those environments are out of the ordinary, areas where young people simply have to experiment and push boundaries.

But good grief, less than two per cent! I always thought mathematicians were crazy, but statisticians are only too obviously bonkers.

And unable to count, into the bargain.

By my reckoning, out of the fifteen of us, Lottie, Helen and myself were dead certs. I'd had a lot of lingering glances from others as well. That could have been thanks to all the drinks I'd bought, but maybe there was a little interest out there.