Knocking on Lisa's Back Door

Although it all happened quite a long time ago now, I'm pretty sure that I still have a clear memory of the first time that I took Lisa's knickers off.

I had just ended a reasonably long relationship with Chrissy. Well, perhaps not long in absolute terms. But long for someone who had just turned twenty-four.

Chrissy and I had been introduced by some mutual friends. The friends were into post-bop jazz. Miles Davis. John Coltrane. Herbie Hancock.

'We should introduce you to our friend Chrissy,' Judith said one day when I dropped a re-issue of Mulligan Meets Monk around for her and Neil to listen to. (It was back in pre-Internet days. There were no online streaming services back then.) 'Chrissy's a big fan of Gerry Mulligan.'

Chrissy and I started out as casual friends. As Judith had rightly noted, we shared an interest in music from a certain genre and era. But, as we got to know each other better, we discovered that we also shared an interest in a few other things. 'J P Donleavy,' she said to me one day.

'J P Donleavy? I give up,' I told her. 'What does he play?'

'James Patrick Donleavy. He's a writer. A couple of novels. Some short stories. A play or two. He's a bit like James Joyce. But funnier. At least I find him funnier. I'll give you a couple of his books to read.'

Chrissy lent me The Ginger Man and, yes, J P Donleavy was one to add to our list of shared interests. I could see why Chrissy had said that he was a bit like James Joyce. In some ways, he was very like James Joyce. And some of his stuff was delightfully bawdy.

I can't remember how Chrissy and I got from Miles Davis and J P Donleavy to cowgirl and doggy-style, but we did. And we seemed to be pretty good at it. But then, after a couple of years, some of the magic began to fade. 'Maybe we need to try something new,' Chrissy said.

'Like what?'

'I don't know. Judith and Neil are always dropping hints. Maybe we should call their bluff. Maybe a foursome.'

I think I may have laughed. But I could see where Chrissy's mind was heading. 'Or Larry and Jade,' I said. 'I think they quite enjoy wandering off piste from time to time.'

Chrissy didn't say yes, but she didn't say no -- not at the time anyway. However, later, when we were fucking to the accompaniment of John Coltrane and McCoy Tyner playing My Favourite Things, she did seem to find an extra gear. Something was lighting her fire. And later still, she casually floated the idea that maybe I should have a word with Larry. 'It might be easier coming from you. Perhaps suggest a drink. Maybe some supper. And then... well... you know.'

A couple of weeks later, we did get Larry and Jade over to super. And we did 'give it a go'. But, for some reason, the sex part of the evening wasn't that great. And afterwards, I think all four of us knew that we probably weren't going to do it again.

Chrissy and I bumped along for another few months, and then Chrissy had to go to Brussels for a conference. When she got back, she said that she had been thinking.

'Is this good?' I asked.

I think she laughed. 'You and me...,' she said, 'it's just not working, is it? Not really. Not the way that it used to anyway.'

'Everyone has their ups and downs,' I told her. 'Not every post can be a winning post.'

'We're only in our mid-twenties,' she said. 'We don't want to spend the rest of our lives like this. I certainly don't.'

There were a few other conversations, but in the end we agreed to go our separate ways.

It was about a month after Chrissy had moved the last of her stuff to her new flat that I met Lisa. I was working for Ayto-Markworthy, the publishers of Signature (among other rags). Ayto-Markworthy had offices on the fourth floor of the Rothbury Building. Lisa had just started working for an advertising agency that had their offices on the floor above us.

It was about eight in the morning. I had just stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the fourth floor when Lisa came bursting in through the front doors. Gentleman that I am, I held the lift for her.

'Thank you,' she said. 'At least the lift is working. It was playing up last night. I wasn't looking forward to having to hike up five flights of stairs.'

I probably nodded.

'We're up on the top floor,' Lisa said.

'Right. The advertising agency?'

'Smith Colebrook Meyer.'

I pressed the button for the fourth floor again and added the fifth floor to the list. The lift started to move, but then stopped. Then it started again. And stopped again.

'This is what it was doing last night,' Lisa said.

I tried pushing a few other buttons, but this time the lift seemed to have stopped permanently. It was going nowhere. 'Oh well, let's see if anyone is monitoring the emergency phone, shall we?' I said.

To cut a long story short, yes, someone was monitoring the emergency phone. The good news was that she said she would send a service engineer. The not-so-good news was that it would probably take about half an hour for a service engineer to get to our part of town.

'I'm Jake,' I told Lisa as we sat on the floor to wait.

'Oh. Yes. I'm Lisa,' she said.

While we waited for the service engineer to arrive (the telephone woman's estimate of half an hour was a bit optimistic; it was closer to an hour before he reached us), I got the story of Lisa's life.

She was born in India where her father, a noted QC, was working for the UN. Her mother was the daughter of a property magnate. Lisa herself went to a smart school before winning a place at Oxford where she read English Literature and Art History. And... (and what are the chances of this?) she was now living in her parents' townhouse which was just at the other end of the street in which I lived.

'It's a great location,' I said.

'My parents are thinking of selling. I'm doing my best to dissuade them. For the moment anyway.'

'So that you can remain there?'

'Well, I have to live somewhere. It's handy to the bus. A short walk to the Tube. And there's that perfect little park that nobody really seems to know about.'

'A bit small for cricket,' I said.

'But perfect for George.'

'George? Who's George?'

'My dog. She's a German Shepherd. You should come and meet her.'

I did meet George. She came to visit me. It was a Saturday afternoon, and George and Lisa turned up at my door.

'Oh good,' Lisa said. 'I couldn't remember whether you said that you were at 46A or 48A. I thought I'd start with forty-six. George and I are going to the park. I thought you might like to join us.'

'Umm... yes. Why not?' I said. And we set off for the park that nobody really seemed to know about. George led the way.

The park was a bit like an over-sized garden square -- except that it was tucked in behind houses on all four sides. Lisa told me that it had been a World War Two bomb site and that it had subsequently been the subject of an ownership dispute. I'm not sure how she knew this. Perhaps there was something on the title deeds to her parents' townhouse.

The entrance to the park (that nobody really knew about) was hidden away. But George knew exactly where it was. Lisa and I followed on.

We strolled around the park's perimeter, and then we went to 'inspect' the small clump of ancient trees at the park's centre. Lisa clambered up onto the lower branches of one of the trees, from where she continued to deliver her local history lesson.

'You're... umm... flashing your knickers,' I said as she stood above me explaining that the trees must have once been part of someone's garden because they certainly pre-dated not just the Second World War but, possibly, the Crimean War too.

'Oh, good,' Lisa said. 'You noticed. I thought that you were ignoring me.'

'They're bright red. Your knickers. A bit hard to ignore.'

'Yes. That's what I hoped when I bought them.'

We spent about half an hour at the park. And then we went back to my place for a cold drink. 'What do you think?' I said, after I had found a bowl and filled it with water for George. 'Lemon squash? Or white wine?' And then I answered my own question. 'I think it's probably wine o'clock, isn't it? Well... I'm sure that it is somewhere in the world.'

I poured us a couple of glasses of cold white wine and we took them out into my tiny backyard (where George was already making herself at home in a sunny corner).

'This is nice,' Lisa said.

'The wine?'

'Well, the wine is nice too. But I was meaning this little patio.'

'Cheers,' I said. 'And thanks for the local history lesson. You should conduct walking tours.'

We got about halfway through our wine before Lisa asked -- without a great deal of subtlety -- 'Well... are we going to do it?'

'It?'

'Yes. Are you going to put your cock in me?'

'I could do.'

'I think you should.' And she looked around the little backyard. 'Mmm. Nice as it is out here,' she said, 'perhaps you have somewhere more suitable inside. Somewhere less exposed to your neighbours.'

I picked up our wine glasses and led the way back inside to the bedroom.

'Not as blokey as I had expected,' Lisa said, as she looked around.

'Oh? You think I need a couple of football posters on the wall or something?'

'No. It's just... well... not quite what I was expecting.' And then Lisa unhooked her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Yes, her bright red knickers were hard to miss.

I helped Lisa remove her top, and I was immediately struck by how substantial her boobs were. I guess I was used to Chrissy's boobs. Lisa's boobs were certainly a size or two up on Chrissy's. I knew that Chrissy took a size 34B bra. We had been shopping together. Lisa's bra had to be at least a couple of sizes north of that.

While we kissed for the first time, Lisa undid my belt and lowered my zip. Even then, it was pretty clear that it wasn't the first time that Lisa had helped a chap out of his trousers.

When my jeans had joined Lisa's skirt on the bedroom floor, I returned to the matter of her bright red knickers. I lowered them slowly, little by little exposing her beautiful hairy mound. And then I slowly pushed her back onto the bed and began covering her cunt with kisses. 'Oh, fuck yes,' she said. I was not about to argue.

'Oh, fuck yes indeed.'

I was also about to get another surprise. Chrissy had always taken a minute or two to 'get wet'. But when I dipped a finger into Lisa's cuntal valley, she was already as wet as an otter's pocket. A very slippery otter's pocket at that.

'Very nice,' I said. 'Very nice indeed. Do we need protection?'

'We probably should,' Lisa said. 'Or you could fuck me in the arse.'

'Oh? Would you like me to fuck you in the arse?' I asked.

'I do like a bit of backdoor action,' she said.

And so that's how Lisa and I got started: with a bit of backdoor action. And very nice it was too.