Never Mind The Face Pt. 01

Never Mind The Face

This is an account of an unexpected office flirtation that snowballed. It is not a quick read, nor a bonk-and-go story, but a full-length novella. There is a long lead-in to the sex. The story reflects chauvinistic male attitudes of the 1970s and does not represent the writer's later, more enlightened attitude to women.

The first part sets the scene and does not contain any sexual action.

~*~*~

Part 1 Sex Miseducation

I'm a voyeur. It sounds perverted when set down like that, yet it's the most basic heterosexual male urge. It's what helps to drive the propagation of the species. No doubt females have similar or complementary triggers to their desires, but it defines many men's sex drive.

In an age that's normalised LGTB mores and minority rights, voyeurism seems still to have the stigma amongst many of a perversion. Where non-binaries are increasingly recognised as a noble non-gender, the most basic appreciation of the female form when detected by another, can be despised as an aberration, debauchery, or deviance.

That is why I kept my self-perceived kinkiness hidden for so long in my mental closet.

But it is not so easy to disguise a natural, appreciative glance. Women tend to spot it, and some are offended by it. When it is followed up by unwanted advances, or a wolf whistle, it may prove intimidating, but what is wrong with natural, non-aggressive appreciation of the opposite sex?

Why do I dwell on that natural phenomenon? Because my predilection for 'attractive' women is taken to extremes. It defines and dictates my perception of feminine allure.

And sometimes it misfires.

One such occasion was when I first saw Sylvia. It was as if I had rejected a book because I disliked its dust jacket, or spurned a music genre because of preconceptions of its origins. Judging Sylvia by her looks proved to be a big mistake from which I was slow learn.

Chapter 1 A Lesson In sexual Pragmatism

"Never Mind The Face" -- that was what a Post Office co-worker advised me, back in the 1970s.

I was a student, earning bit money from a Christmas job at the Royal Mail. It was no fun delivering mail in winter; slipping and slithering over iced pavements on hilly streets in the chilly gloom of winter. Worse was when a door would open and a lady call out after I had delivered mail through the letterbox. I would return in hope more than expectation to the house, sometimes to be met by a woman wearing a dressing gown, but invariably then to suffer a dismissal, "Oh, you aren't my regular post man." One wonders what treats her regular man would have received.

The pay was a pittance. So when I was offered time and a half for an additional night shift, I jumped at the chance. I knew that my upbringing had been relatively sheltered; in later years I would regard it as having been repressive. I couldn't share in other boys' stories of girlfriends as conquests. I'd never been allowed the freedom to meet one. I was naïve and too willing to believe the overblown fantasies of other boys. So I knew at eighteen, with an indefinable certainty, that life had already passed me by.

My education about life had been academic, dictated by the Catechism, and from the pages of 'respectable' literary works. My knowledge of women, bullying older sisters excepted, was deduced from the pages of cheesecake publications such as Parade, where the obscenest portrayals were of bikini clad beauties.

But where life experience was lacking, my mind was enriched by imagination and fantasy. And with that came hopeless optimism, and a desire for the best and finest of everything. When an object of my hopeless aspirations spurned me, I was left with alone my fantasies.

On this portentous evening I was assigned to Bert, a Royal Mail lorry driver, to help him transfer sorted mail from our town's main post office to the regional sorting depot. The job would take around four hours. Bert was known as a colourful character. I would overhear florid rumours about him in the canteen. He was also influential amongst the managers. So being assigned to him was regarded as something of an honour. I sometimes think that perhaps I was seen more as a challenge.

But, first, a digression on the '70s; when nudity didn't yet exist, despite what the media wrote about Sixties' Swinging London. I had never seen a naked woman. So the glorious sight of bare thighs in miniskirts would be enough to excite me like any red-blooded male.

Finding a liberated unmarried woman prepared to let a male inside their clothing meant fishing in a very small pool, though. Legal porn was little more than topless young females. Bare breasts on beaches hadn't yet been invented. As a result, few women were prepared to display their bodies outside of a meaningful relationship, most often marriage. And many a man got caught in a disastrous marriage in pursuit of unclothed-induced lust.

So unsurprisingly, at eighteen, I was still a virgin. Sex was something I could only dream about. I spent much of my waking hours fantasising about it. One can imagine how even mild sexual encounters -- titillating rather than full-on eroticism, could stir a young libido. But I was quickly to discover that being offered the reality on a plate was an altogether different matter.

On my first night out on our return leg on the lorry, I was stunned to be told by Bert that he had arranged for two women to be waiting in a layby after our mail drop-off. He offered me my choice of woman. Staring through the blackness of a lorry windscreen on an unlit road on a cold winter's night, I was being offered a blank canvas, for my imagination to spin a very real scenario.

Yet, far from experiencing mounting excitement, I mentally recoiled. 'Easy' women were always unattractive, and desperate to please; at least that's what I assumed. I had heard stories, about venereal disease, and unwanted pregnancies, and men forever stuck with loose women for wives, gone to seed and a drain on their finances and lifeblood. Was I prepared to have sex with an unknown woman, no matter how much I wanted to rid myself of my virginity? What if I didn't know what to do?

Bert pulled the empty lorry into a dark parking layby on the by-pass, lit only by the lorry's headlights. Two plain-looking, somewhat plump and generously endowed young ladies were waiting. Although I was desperate to lose my virginity, these women's bodies did not match up to my fantasies of Natalie Wood (search Google; other search engines area available), or Raquel Welch.

I had also been brainwashed by my father's oft repeated exhortations never to have sex before marriage. Dutifully, to my father and to my religious upbringing, I declined. Bert asked why, stupefied.

I thought of the least demeaning reason. "I don't fancy them."

Was I was doing them a disservice? I doubt they would have cared. My reason was simply an excuse to protect my self-esteem.

Bert accepted it, muttering disbelievingly as he stepped out of the cab, "That's your loss then."

I could sense him chuckling to himself as he slammed the driver's door and strolled up to the young women on the grass verge. They all clambered up into the cavernous trailer. He was gone half an hour. I could hear nothing of the antics taking place in the back. When he returned, he wore a satisfied smirk. He proceeded to give me my first lesson in practical sex.

"One thing you'll learn in time my boy is never mind the face, it's the body that counts."

~*~*~

Memories often tend to gloss over the realities and the negatives. Many times in later life, when I was between girlfriends, I regretted spurning that opportunity to lose my virginity. It would have sped up my discovery of the joys of sex.

I conveniently forgot how unappealing those young women had looked that evening. His remark had of course been demeaning to just about all women, regarding them as fit for nothing more than as a receptacle for his cock.

I had been indoctrinated to believe that sex should be an inseparable aspect of love and family life. But I wonder how much I might have missed out on by living just a little bit dangerously, earlier on in life?

I'm hopelessly drawn to attractive women. I suppose that's part and parcel of being a voyeur. We get turned on by the package and the thrill of seeing it unwrapped. Maybe I'm superficial, but I'm first attracted by the cover as much as later on by the contents, with or without the wrapper. Of course, that attraction may be to the face, the body, or perhaps something undefinable such as the way a woman moves, talks, or is dressed.

Since I was no Adonis, that meant few truly beautiful women were interested in me enough to respond positively to my overtures. Some would glare at me condescendingly for having the nerve even to show interest in them, when their sights were set on more superficial qualities of other men. I suppose that's a female version of the same attitude as mine.

The were exceptions, one of which led to a brief holiday romance. But in the main, I was spurned more often than welcomed with open arms.

But I would not settle for second best. I remained highly selective. Only later in life did I learn how to attract and keep some truly outstanding women. Because, like me, they had learned the hard way to never mind the face...

~*~*~

Mary at university was my first sure chance. We sat on a bed at a party and held hands behind our backs. She was Irish, ginger, voluptuous and somewhat plain looking. I never followed up on that opportunity, and was to regret it for months, until I met my future wife.

It was some time later that I next saw Mary. She was heavily pregnant and looking very miserable. It appeared to vindicate my cautiousness. Yet years later when between women -- and I don't mean between their thighs -- I fantasised about a naked Mary inducting me into the wonders of womanhood on my cock.

When I met my future wife, she was gorgeous. She fulfilled my fantasies, and I surrendered my heart to her. She wasn't overly fussy. I matched her father's vision for her future partner. Our relationship was mutual in the early years. We spent all our available hours together. We had naked sex in the most outrageous of places, including under bushes on a common, yards from a public footpath, and within inches of members of the public on a Sunday afternoon outside a stately home.

Did I mention that I had thought and read about sex so much before losing my innocence that I knew just about every sexual technique to satisfy a woman? That helped relationships to develop after that initial ice had been broken.

I married that university sweetheart and was determined to be a monogamous married man.

I thought we were deliriously happy, until she recklessly became pregnant. She had an aversion to babies. She got pregnant for me. Yet that changed everything. She later regretted it. Abortion was out of the question for me. We drifted apart, our son attaching himself emotionally to me -- a daddy's boy. That proved fatal for our marriage. She sought pastures new and we divorced. I was suddenly a single parent, but with a highly stressful job, to pay the mortgage, and settle my ex-wife's credit card debts.

That's why I gave up my job in London in favour of working close to home, to avoid having to rush home to relieve nannies. That's how I found myself being interviewed for a job closer to home. But getting a new job was far easier than finding a new mate.

~*~*~

Chapter 2. Never Judge a Book by Its Cover

I was sitting on one of two seats in a corridor. It was quiet as the grave, no passing foot traffic, everybody beavering away behind closed doors. I had lots of time to think, but not of distractions such as naked women, for a change. I was rehearsing responses to potential leading questions, such as how did you manage to conceal all the money you stole in your last job; or personal ones such as when did you last beat your wife?

After a few minutes a woman arrived. She was in her early thirties, about my age. I was puzzled. Were we both being interviewed for the same job? Wasn't it bad practice to throw us together before the interview?

I snatched a quick glance at her as she approached along the corridor. That was enough. Her face was plain and her expression pinched. She had dark hair and a pale complexion. Whilst her bust looked more than ample for her slim, hourglass frame, it somehow looked inappropriate, encased in a tight, striped blouse. She had matched it with a similarly tight, below-the-knee skirt high on her waist. Its material of a grey on off-white zig-zag pattern reminded me of post-war utility upholstery webbing. The whole effect was unappealing. She might have had a decent body, but the wrapper was distinctly off-putting. That assessment may sound shallow, but it was how I was wired in those days. She sat on the other chair beside me. The seats were so close that I could feel the heat emanating from her lower body.

I politely introduced myself. It turned out that in fact we were being interviewed for different jobs. Mine was for a senior accountancy role and hers for audit.

She was shy, and clearly nervous. She said the bare minimum in reply to my few questions. Then we lapsed into mutually self-conscious silence. I paid her no more heed.

~*~*~

We were both appointed to our different roles, and started work on the same day, even attending the same induction programme. I barely noticed her that first day. When she was required to speak, her accent sounded pseudo-cockney and harsh. Today, that type of accent is called 'mockney', often put on by people pretending not to be posh or well educated.

Sylvia was not so much unattractive as unnoticeable. She seemed to have so few redeeming features. I'm ashamed now to record that observation, and how far of the mark it was.

I was to be proven spectacularly wrong.

~*~*~

We worked in different offices so our paths rarely crossed. Then her manager left. I had just qualified as an accountant. I was the obvious replacement. So I was moved sideways to head up the audit function.

The organisation was short of office space, so I chose to base myself in the same room as the two-person construction audit team. I didn't know anything about them. One of them was Sylvia. Space constraints dictated that my table was face-to-face with Sylvia's. There was no dividing barrier between our tables. From that first hour sitting opposite her, I could feel a hostility to me in my new role.

She and John, the office junior, both thought they could have done my job as team leader. Perhaps they could, but the managerial hierarchy operated on professional qualifications. John was an older, embittered man, with a chip on his shoulder. It was soon apparent that he orchestrated their mutual opposition to senior qualified staff. They frequently commented to each other in the first few weeks about how discriminating professional qualifications were. It took me some weeks to establish a working relationship with them, and to begin to build team rapport.

What made it more difficult was that Sylvia and I sat facing each other, without privacy screens between us. Each table had a portable drawer unit on rollers underneath. The organisation operated a clear desk policy, which tended to keep the desk surfaces relatively clear during the working day. So I sat facing her, with an uninterrupted view of her top half across that expanse of desk tops.

Our snatched glances often connected. There was no spark of warmth or sociability in her face in those early days. I tried to pass off her apparent hostility as shyness, but it made it difficult to try to like her or even to get to know her. Sometimes whilst engrossed in work, I would sense something and glance up at her. Our eyes would meet, her gaze filled with speculation. Those looks chilled my bones. I couldn't guess what she was thinking.

John's table was placed end-on to ours. He would often sit there when we had a general conversation, and watch our verbal exchanges like a tennis umpire, grinning like a Cheshire Cat at a debate that he mischievously had initiated.

~*~*~

That first day in my new role, I studied Sylvia's face closely for the first time. Her dark hair was luxuriant and full bodied, her complexion pale. Her eyes were grey-blue. She tended to purse her lips, which made them look thin and mean. That was what made her expression seem pinched and disapproving, that and her perpetual depression. She rarely smiled, perhaps an external manifestation of an inner turmoil. When she did smile, it was little more than a grimace.

But her mood gradually changed over many weeks. What brought that about, I'm not sure. I do recall one afternoon during an earnest discussion, that she leant forwards to make a point to me. Her ample but firm breasts rested on the table. I remember thinking that she must be aware of that. It was as if she was offering them to me, to examine and evaluate, as if on a plate. That was the first time I noticed her sexually. Well, I already knew that she was a woman, but I had not considered her as attractive. My marriage was on the rocks and my wife was seeing another man, unbeknownst to me. We had stopped having sex. My imagination was filled with erotic thoughts, often overspilling into my conscious thoughts at inopportune moments.

Sylvia was prone to wear tight blouses, all of a remarkably similar pattern, as if they had been bought in bulk at some point in her past. They had a vertical, olive-green, black, and grey candy stripe design, that confused the eye and prompted it to look elsewhere.

The buttons were perpetually subjected to intense strain to hold her bust in place. They should have promised so much bounty. Nevertheless, that face and the hideous colour scheme of her blouses put me off, despite her slim but hourglass shape and prominent breasts.

On that day, with her breasts now at rest on the table in front of her, a gap appeared between button holes, showing the merest hint of cleavage. I spotted it and I felt my eyes lock onto to that shadowy sumptuousness.

She stopped talking. I glanced up sharply. Our eyes met. It was clear that I'd been busted, and she wore a faint smile on her lips. That was the first hint of suggestiveness. But it did not make her any more attractive.

She supervised John most of the time, and one afternoon she sent him out to do some basic checking of records in the Works department.

We were, for a few brief hours, just the two of us. I had checked on other staff in the division earlier in the afternoon, and did not expect any external interruptions to my work.

"How are things at home?" she asked. I could have lied or dismissed the question, but I decided not to be too evasive.

"So, so," I replied.

"Not good then?"

"Um, um."

"Married?"

"Single -- single parent."

Her eyes shot up in surprise. Few men got saddled with the kids in those days. I happened to be proud that my son had chosen to stay with me, but I had never mentioned that before.

"So your marriage failed, then?"

Ouch! The proverbial raw nerve throbbed. I needed distraction from evil thoughts of simmering anger and resentment against my cheating, estranged wife.

"Same with me. Alfie's a pig. He's selfish, self-centred, opinionated, and inconsiderate."

She had often spoken about him before, always in disparaging terms. I knew her situation from what I had gleaned from her conversations with John. On this occasion, she volunteered a disclosure that begged some form of response. I didn't want to say anything, but felt obliged to fill in the black hole of the ensuing silence.

"So not good either, then?"

Hardly a conversational gambit of any consequence.

"Any girlfriends?"

She knew how to probe that red raw nerve. I thought, on past form, that that was what she was doing. Should I tell her to shut up and mind her own business? But gentlemen never offend a lady; I couldn't contemplate tossing back a demeaning put down.