Sex Objects Reunited

Christine's college reunion doesn't turn out quite as planned

I've always had pierced ears. Even in my youth, earrings and studs were acceptable, if not de rigueur, fashion accessories. Over the years, I have watched, disapprovingly, new generations of young things extend the practice to all parts of the face, and even other, not normally exposed, body parts. Walking metalwork exhibits I deemed them.

Therefore, choosing recently to have a horizontal clit-hood piercing was about as far out-of-character as I could get. I still don't really know what made me do it. Maybe the change of life - clinging onto the vestiges of youthful feminine charisma, who knows? Who cares? What I do know is that I absolutely love it, despite the captive-bead ring being a bit fiddly to remove or replace. It aesthetically improves the appearance of an otherwise unbeautiful, though important, body feature, stylishly accessorising one's pubes the way earrings do one's hairstyle.

It is claimed such attachments also considerably enhance pleasure during the sex act, though this I personally had yet to verify. What I did feel, however, was that the physical awareness of it, when one sits, crosses legs, or even brushes against the kitchen sink, is a reassuring reminder of pride in one's sexuality.

It was probably during one such moment of awareness that I read in a weekend supplement that the most popular sexual fantasy amongst couples was... Yes, I know what you're thinking - probably the same as me: 'magazine editorial staff scraping barrel to get raunchy feature for centre pages... get ideas from people around office... two suggest doctor/nurse roleplay... one leather bondage... one threesome... three go for sex with a celebrity... conclusion that 42 percent of all couples fantasise about sex with a celebrity... etc. etc.' And, of course, magazine pictures of said celebs are readily available from the archives, to provide eye candy for the readers.

So, I was genuinely surprised when their 'exclusive poll' resulted in the winner being 'sex with an ex'. What? For a start, if sex with the ex was that good, why had he or she been allowed to become an ex? Would one not fight tooth and nail to hang on to someone if the sex merited fantasy rating? I struggled to figure it out.

I couldn't count my late husband as an ex, nor a couple of recent flings I'd had with agency dates, neither of which had been at all satisfactory. So, for me, I had to travel back in time to university, and college before that, in order to focus on anyone I could justifiably hang that label on.

But in none of those early shenanigans could I recall any passion, romance or eroticism - they all were just fun, coming-of-age things, drunken fumbles and fondles, experimentation, or plain libidinous release. All I could really come up with was someone back at sixth form college for whom I had an enormous crush, but never even got into a serious clinch with. Often, over the years, I have wondered what might have been, and where and what he is now.

The gods of fate conspired that I receive an email, not a week later, from some guy called Phil, who was arranging a college reunion for students of my year and those years immediately adjacent. More than two decades had elapsed since those halcyon days. How they even got my email, I don't know - the Internet seems to lay one bare. I usually consign such stuff to the trash folder, but on this occasion, I thought about David, my old heart-throb, and although it was unlikely he would even be there, let alone recognise me, I decided to make a weekend of it. I booked a room upgrade at the Travel Inn where they were holding the do, and looked forward to a relaxing time, seeing my old home town again, and maybe having myself pampered at the spa on the following day.

The particular Saturday morning arrived, and I packed my case. My stupid heart started fluttering, as if I was still that same love-struck girl, which of course, I was, except for a few extra pounds and a trace of cellulite, and several years of dubious wisdom. I packed some sexy black silk pyjamas. Well, you never know, do you?

My old stamping grounds looked pretty much the same, except that where the brewery used to be, there now stood the Travel Inn, where I installed myself. I had a couple of hours to dress, do my make-up, get myself looking irresistible, and make it look like I hadn't really taken any trouble doing it. (The tricky bit.)

My rule was never be early at parties. You don't want to seem too keen, and you don't want to get rat-arsed too soon. On the other hand, if there was talent to be mopped up, you didn't want to leave it too late. So, twenty minutes after the advertised start-time, I shoe-horned my feet into some unreasonably high heeled open-toed sandals, checked the security of my hold'em-up, squeez'em-tight, point'em-forward bra, grabbed the glittery clutch-bag which matched my earrings and diamante-motif dress, and launched myself on an unsuspecting, and undeserving public.

If anything, I arrived a tad late. The festivities were in full swing, and everyone seemed busy chatting to one another already. I had a mild panic attack, not being able to see anyone I knew. A nervous but personable and athletic-looking Phil, the organiser, meeter and greeter, quickly intercepted me, explained the layout of the place, and kindly offered to fetch me a drink. As I waited, one by one, familiar faces appeared. There was quiet and timid Kirstie, who, being a good listener, always was a good friend. And weird Paula, the bossy control freak, actually looking very sexy indeed these days, I had to say. And there was wimpy Roland, who, as I recalled, used to hang around with David. I figured it might be worth my while pumping him for news of my beloved.

And there was Jenny - my God, she's put on weight... and Mike - didn't he used to have hair?... and Joanne - still dressing in those frumpy outfits... and Jim, with some poor girl who can't get a word in edge-ways, (is it his wife?), still boring for England. I was beginning to wonder whether coming here was altogether a good idea. Not wishing to monopolise the busy organiser, I slipped away with my drink and sat down.

"Well, hello there." Almost immediately, predatory Paula had sat down beside me. "Lovely to see you," she purred in a velvety voice.

"You too," I responded, trying not to react too nervously to the way her knee was pressing into my thigh. Although never that pally back in the day, we had quite a nice chat, during which I formed the opinion that she wasn't weird after all... just that she was actually a... but her face had now moved uncomfortably close to mine.

"Perhaps we could meet up some time?" she suggested. And as she pouted, I almost was seduced to the other side, tilting my head in readiness to taste her plummy red lips. But I noticed Kirstie out the corner of my eye, sitting alone, watching anxiously.

"Yes, nice idea," I said, "but isn't that Kirstie over there? I haven't seen her in years. If you'll excuse me..."

Kirstie and I used to chat for ages in the old days, particularly about boys. And here we were, doing it again. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me, but it soon became apparent that all my encouragement for her to 'put herself about a bit more' had gone unheeded. She never had married, and if anything, was more introverted now than ever before.

Then I spotted him. Over on the edge of the dance-floor, Roland had moved away, and there was David. Gosh. He still had a full head of jet-black hair, and by the looks of it, was still charming his assembled audience. The DJ started up a slow one. I moved fast.

"David, isn't it?" I said. How could I be so shamelessly false? I knew full well it was.

"Chrissie? You look wonderful. How the devil are you?" At that moment, I was definitely alright.

"Shall we dance?" I suggested.

"Two left feet, me," he said, "you'll have to risk me destroying those toenails - must have taken you longer than a Rembrandt painting them." Not entirely the reaction I'd set my heart on, but we took to the floor anyway. Mental note: go easy on the nail polish.

We shuffled though Stevie Wonder and Lionel Ritchie, exchanging our life histories. He seemed ill at ease each time I tried converting a slow-rhythm dance step into a full-frontal smooch. He had mentioned a partner he lived with - maybe she was here somewhere, watching jealously.

"It was great meeting up again, let's not leave it another twenty years before we do it again," David said, as the dance finished and he rejoined his friends. A bit of an anti-climax, to say the least. But I was rescued from humiliation by old mates Sandra and Maggie, who hauled me back onto the dance-floor, where Abba helped kill off what was left of my poor feet.

So, that and a few other brief chats, was that. Meeting up again with people, some of whom I never much cared for in the first place, listening to life stories of business success, ownership of fancy houses with BMWs in the garage, and perfect children. Lots of people I didn't know from Adam. Some I thought I once liked, but was now indifferent to. I suppose if there were really any people I liked well enough to meet again after all these years, I would have made an effort to keep in touch with them in the first place.

It had been interesting. But that was about all one could say about it. But then, I didn't truly expect anything different. Sparks do not fly just because you want them to - they have a mind of their own. I went off to my upgraded room to crash out in my king-size bed. (Why are they always more comfy when someone else has to make them?)

I got out of the lift and suddenly realised I was without clutch bag. Dammit. Had it occurred to me a few seconds earlier, I could have stayed in the lift and gone straight back down. Instead I had to re-summon it, and wait. It came up again. It stopped. The doors opened. Two people got out - Paula and Kirstie. Paula looking smugly confident, as ever, Kirstie looking shyly apologetic, as ever. We all said goodnight.

As the lift re-descended, with me back in it, I put two and two together. Or to be more precise, one and one. Were they an item? Paula, who I'd slagged off for being strange and controlling, when talking to Kirstie, and Kirstie, who I'd advised to get a feller before it was too late. I resigned to never again go waltzing off to reunions.

I got back to the function suite, hoping that no one had waltzed off with my bag. The room was now eerily devoid of revellers who had drained from it every last drop of nostalgia. And there, on his own, was Phil, our likeable organiser, who had been left to clear up. In my eyes, he quickly became even more likeable, by virtue of him holding up a sparkly clutch bag when he spotted me returning. I took the opportunity to thank him for the trouble he'd gone to in running the event.

"Not at all," Phil said. "I thought it went very well. And organising it was not difficult, given what you can do with the Internet these days. Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Oh, I think I put my foot in it a couple of times... and there were quite a few faces I couldn't put names to." And as I said it, I realised Phil came into that category - I didn't remember him at all.

"Oh, you mean with David?" Phil said, smiling.

I was actually thinking more of Paula and Kirstie, but why did he single out David? How would he have known David was my weekend's lust-target? And who the hell was this Phil, anyway? Then, something about his facial profile nudged a set of memory cells long since deactivated. Of course. Nerdy Philip. Sports nutter. The spotty geek who never talked to anyone, especially not girls. "What about David?" I asked.

"Oh, not important." Phil made light of it. "Just the way you danced with him, I wasn't sure if you knew he was gay."

Gobsmacked. Hit me with a sledgehammer, why don't you? David, and his 'friend' Roland. Shit. Oh, what a twat I felt. The earth may as well have swallowed me up. All these years I had held a torch for him, rueing missed opportunities to ensnare my handsome, charming pin-up boy when I'd had the chance... and all the time, he was batting for the other team. Of course he was. I could see it now, that little mince to his gait, the reluctance to engage in body contact with me. All I could do was come clean. "I never realised."

"I was insanely jealous of him back then," Phil said.

"Really?" I remarked. "Why so?"

"His good looks, wavy hair, confidence, suave personality. And I knew you had the hots for him, but he just strung you along. Whereas I fancied you something rotten, but never could get up the courage to talk to you, let alone ask for a date."

"Really?" I said, resolving not to keep saying 'Really?' all the time. I had never imagined nerdy Philip fancying anyone.

"I had terrible acne back then, and it made me chronically self-conscious. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone suffering embarrassment by being close to me, having to pretend they hadn't noticed. Stupid, I suppose, but I was young. I'm over it now."

Ironically, any traces of acne scarring which remained on his face now gave him a lean, mean, rugged, and by no means unattractive appearance. In fact... behave yourself, Chrissie, I thought to myself - he's probably married with six kids. Funny I could now sympathise with a teenager's plight, whereby an unavoidable physical condition could blight a whole young life. Whereas at the time, he just seemed an unsociable kid who it was best to avoid.

"I wasn't the only one who loved you, of course," Phil added.

Loved me? I suddenly became more conscious of my own self-centred naivety. What was he talking about? Over the years of me fancifully lusting after David, had others had been reciprocating, without me knowing anything about it? This was a turn-on I hadn't been expecting.

"And the other one...?" I asked, pleased with myself for resisting a 'Really?'.

"Obvious, isn't it? Kirstie. She used to worship you. I always remember the day we all broke up to go our separate ways. I was cut up, admittedly, when you disappeared out the door, but poor Kirstie... she burst into tears. Inconsolable."

How could I have been so insensitive, so dumb? I realised now why Kirstie had gazed dough-eyed as I was about to snog her partner. I felt so relieved that I hadn't.

Phil and I brought each other up to speed with our own lives. Apparently, when an effective anti-biotic for his skin condition resulted in a new-found self-assurance, he had injudiciously wed the first girl who came along. An acrimonious, drawn-out divorce had then soured his zest for further relationships.

"And when did I disappear over your horizon?" I enquired, wondering whether the time interval would be measured in hours, days or weeks.

Phil was quiet. Maybe I'd embarrassed him. A habit of mine. "Fancy some wine?" he asked. "We've got all these bottles unfinished, all paid for, shame if they went to waste."

"Mmmm... lovely," I replied. Phil did the honours, then we sat back down together, quite close, on one of the settees.

"Truth is," he eventually confessed, "you never did disappear over my horizon. No one before or since has come close to replacing you in my secret fantasies. Sorry, I'm being pathetic."

I crossed my legs, feeling an unexpected, though pleasant stimulation from my bead. Not that I needed working up - the very idea of someone secretly fantasising about me all those years was arousing enough on its own. We kissed. A light one. Then a heavier one. Then with tongues.

"I think we've got some catching up to do," I said, abandoning all protocols of conventional courtship. "I know where there's a king-size bed going spare. Fancy some company?"

Phil had collected some toiletries from his room, and had joined me in my mine, where he lay naked, propped on an elbow on the enormous bed. I came in from the bathroom, wearing just my slithery pyjama jacket, hanging open.

"You're brave," he remarked.

"Why?" I asked, climbing into bed. He nodded towards my clit-ring.

"It's no worse than having your ears pierced," I said, and then, teasing him, "You should try it."

"No fear," he said with a shudder.

"You big wuss," I giggled. I took the foreskin of his penis where it joins the glans, and gently massaged it between thumb and forefinger. "There. That doesn't hurt, does it?"

He looked nervous as I continued trying to break down his understandable inhibitions. His penis became firmer. "Er... no. The er... opposite, actually..."

As if by magic, the harder I pinched, the harder he became. Then suddenly, something triggered the catastrophic collapse of all resistance, and twenty years of pent-up passion began to unleash itself. And me! I was the sex object - the incarnation of his lifelong fantasies. From a state of mind where I couldn't envisage why 'sex with an ex' would be on anyone's to-do list, and even though in our case 'ex' was only a loose description anyway, I now found myself incapable of comprehending what a totally indescribable turn-on it was.

My rediscovered paramour brushed aside my loose silk jacket and started gently stroking my boobs, then kneading each of my nipples which dutifully responded by erecting themselves. I wanted desperately to give him everything - a sort of payback for years of unreturned adoration of me. It wasn't going to be difficult - my pussy was already awash. I lay in surrender and parted my knees.

Phil transferred his attentions to the tops and insides of my smooth white thighs, real estate which had sadly lacked trespassers for far too long. Moving a hand over my vulva he encountered my little love bead. We both 'mmmmd'. I remember thinking if nothing else, my ring served well as an infallible guide to finding the location of my clitoris.

As he positioned himself and I raised my pelvis, enabling me to wrap my legs around him, I again was reminded of the countless scenarios he must have desperately played out in his mind over the years, including this moment... where he slides purposefully straight and deep into my warm and wet welcoming vagina. My lovely ring was about to take an inaugural pounding.

After our lust had been satiated, at least for the time being, we lay in each others arms, and I spoke.

"When's the next reunion due?"

Phil looked at his watch.

End.