Third Time Getting Lucky

I tried not to giggle at the memory of that pub crawl a couple months earlier. Let's just say giving him a blow job had seemed a good idea at the time, given conversation wasn't going so well. It had pretty much passed unnoticed amongst the riot being caused by the other students, though we'd had to hastily stop and allow ourselves to be thrown out of the pub with everybody else.

A few minutes later, I cockily told Ed, "So: you've just come again. How about my pleasure, eh? Your big mouth's got to be good for it."

Rude? Yes.

Effective, appealing to his ego, making him want to prove himself?

Hell yes.

We were both tiring, so while he was doing a great job with his fingers inside me, and it felt wonderful, I just bobbed along enjoyably on the gentle ride. I could have let him go on for ever.

Eventually he muttered, "Shagging you would probably get you off easier," before returning to his task.

"Might. Not happening."

In the end, I gestured to him to give up when it was getting too much for me.

He propped himself back up on an elbow to ask, "But why? Why not?"

I thought about telling him.

But I didn't feel comfortable opening up about shit stuff with him. I definitely didn't want his sympathy or upset becoming a damper on the night. So I decided to maintain a mystique, for better or worse.

"None of your business."

He accepted that, nodding. "Fair enough. Your loss, though."

"Cheeky git." He agreed with that, too.

We finally gave in to our exhaustion and dragged ourselves under the covers. The change in environment triggered a bit of us snuggling and snogging again, just because we could.

Suddenly, I tensed. Having sobered up slightly, and realising I was naked and vulnerable in bed with a stranger, I was worried about a sneaky penetration in the night.

I grimaced, and sought to wrap myself up a bit in the duvet.

Ed looked at me, slightly sadly.

"You don't need to be afraid. Just because I want to fuck you. I won't, unless you agree. Honest. I'm a slut and a dick, yeah, but I'm not that sort of a dick. Really."

I wanted to believe him.

"Really, Karen. I'd never, not without asking. It's OK, really. I'm really not that kind of arsehole."

I just about believed him.

What clinched it was his final comment before falling asleep: "Can't blame me if I keep asking, though?"

My muttered, "Oh, do shut up," was lost on his comatose body that wouldn't be bothering anyone for hours.

I turned over and slept.

Around five a.m. we bumped into each other and awoke. I wasn't used to sharing a bed with anyone else, not male nor unclothed.

"Will you fuck me, then?"

"Do fuck off," I retorted sleepily.

I rolled to face away from him, and went back to sleep.

It must have been some hours later when I woke, lying on my back and noticing pale winter sunlight streaming around the edge of the curtain.

I felt amazingly happy. Dry-mouthed, tired -- my usual after-party feeling back when I was young enough to escape hangovers -- but very relaxed and happy.

It finally occurred to me why I felt so good.

Ed had slid down the bed and was lying face-down between my legs, performing oral sex with gusto and a lot more tenderness and finesse than he had last night.

My first thought was 'what the fuck?' - but, dodgy boundaries aside, it wasn't anything he had promised not to, nor anything I hadn't proven enthusiasm for, and in the circs, lying back and enjoying it seemed a perfectly fine plan.

Slowly my pussy responded. After some minutes, my level of arousal and awakeness reached levels where I couldn't stay silent any more, but I managed to shove enough duvet over my mouth to muffle the sound for any wakening housemates. As I knew all too well from Ben and Delia's enthusiasm for each other, the internal walls were thin.

When my shaking and my noises abated, Ed pulled himself up from his stuffy lair under the duvet to get fresh air and lie beside me. He looked expectant, like a good dog awaiting a treat.

"Ready for a fuck?"

"Aw, for Pete's sake!"

"OK! Just thought you might feel differently in the morning, you not drunk, me not drunk, and all."

"Nice try. But no. Still no."

There was a short pause while he tried to look nonchalant, but it failed as he persisted, "But why?"

"Cos don't want. And want less every time you whinge. So, do you want some fun now, or I'm going straight downstairs and you'll never play with me again?"

Nearly twenty years later, I found myself using much the same tone and logic on preschoolers.

Ed fought with himself.

You could see that part of him thought the manly thing to do would be to climb on top of me and fuck me into the mattress, willing or no. Every 'romantic' film he'd ever seen would have supported that. Luckily, while he might be an indiscriminate chancer, he drew the line at rape.

And when he did stop to think about it, he was damn happy with a blow job.

Or indeed, anything that was a change from his own hand.

Thus we spent a good couple of hours experimenting. I learned that while I enjoyed my arse-hole being played with with a finger, he didn't -- or claimed so. I suspected that when drunk he might be more open to it. I discovered his nipples were nearly as sensitive as mine, and that I liked my hair being pulled gently.

We found that a 69 can be done comfortably, heads on each other's thigh, but both have to stop before losing control at a crucial moment. And that morning-after stubble bristling across sensitive areas can be erotic as well as painful.

And we talked a lot, too. He was a bit tired of his Jack-the-lad persona, but unsure if he could be anything else.

I was sure he could. "Just treat women like people, not prizes." I couldn't think of a role-model for him to copy, though.

He allowed that he could, probably, but that might well mean not hanging out with Alec. On reflection, Ed decided that didn't seem the loss it would have been when they were still at school.

I agreed that's how Alec seemed to us in the house, after his initial efforts in being life and soul of the party had worn away: entitled to a woman and bitter about not having one, which was counter-productive, apart from anything else!

Ed wondered if the girlfriend he'd been dumped by a few weeks ago might ever reconsider her decision. "I couldn't really blame her. She had enough of me prioritising nights out on the lash with the lads. Figured I was just coming back to her for the sex rather than caring about her. She wasn't totally wrong, neither." He sighed. "I really cocked up, there. Do you think she'd believe me if I told her I regretted being a dickhead and wanted to do our relationship again, properly?"

I had no idea, but suggested that saying he wanted to change wouldn't be enough -- he'd have to demonstrate it, first. "Saying what you are is always untrustworthy -- you have to show it."

"On the subject of saying..." We were putting some clothes on, to go seek breakfast. Brunch, more like. He looked at me cheekily. "So, last time, promise: any chance of a fuck?"

I laughed. "No. Possibly pancakes, though. If you shut up. And coffee."

He nodded. "I'll take the coffee."

"Good."

To the others, we claimed to have simply fallen asleep, though Ben would have told Delia the truth, and probably told everyone else by Monday morning.

In the early afternoon, as Ed and friends prepared to leave, Alec told Ed sourly to watch out for me. "She's the sort of slapper who'd have anyone and everyone, though maybe you'd be OK with that..."

Ed surprised everyone, me included, by his rant defending me: "Fuck off, Alec! Karen's not a slapper! How dare you! Not that there would be anything wrong if she was, right? You, mate -- you're just jealous, aren't you? Bitter, jealous bastard! You don't want a girlfriend, you just want a cunt with a girl's face who'll obey your every word. Fuck that! I don't wanna be judged by your standards!"

Unsurprisingly, Alec objected to this view of himself. Ed stuck by it, adding that Alec was probably guilty of rape.

At the time, I thought that was rather strong. A few years later, it proved merely prescient, though luckily I'd escaped, all bar one incident of non-sexual violence.

Possibly luckily, Alec lowered the fist he had raised, and stomped off. Ed decided that might be time to make a swift exit.

He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, chastely, nothing to feed the rumours that would circulate the next morning. "Thanks, Karen. For everything."

Over the next few months and couple years, Alec appeared to mellow again, perhaps taking Ed's words on board? A good thing, we all thought.

Many of us went to parties at his family home, where his parents were lovely and welcoming, with school contemporaries and local acquaintances of his turning up too. Once I was talking to some when Ed's name was mentioned, so I asked how he was.

"Just a minute -- you're Karen? The Karen? What the hell did you do to him?"

I didn't like to say.

Apparently, ever since that weekend, he'd calmed down. Drunk a bit less, enough to be noticed. But more noticeably, he'd stopped being a mere tart, saying or doing anything to get into a girl's pants, and 'he actually treats girls like real people, now!'

The change had been so marked that his girlfriend, who had indeed got back with him after a few months, was now about to marry him. She, along with his other friends, wanted to know what this Karen woman had done, that had kicked him up the backside into becoming a decent human being.

I didn't explain that all I'd done was to refuse to fuck him.

And that that decision hadn't really been to do with him. It was down to me finally having an appointment to see if I had HIV or not, which was a death sentence at the time -- but oral sex had been officially announced as not being a risk.

If I'd met him a fortnight later, after a few years of fear had been replaced by a clean bill of health, it might have been a better weekend at the time, but turned out worse for him in the long run.

Funny how things turn out. Given how he set me up nicely for the boyfriend I was about to acquire, I'm not complaining.

Part 3 of 3

Having been persuaded that a man, sexual activity and me could be a good combination, I spent Christmas considering my options.

My dad quizzed me about any potential boyfriend, and sighed. "That's what you get for going for Engineering, love. The odds may be good, but the goods are odd..."

"You'd know," I retorted.

"I'm not an engineer! I'm an applied physicist!"

A number of the remaining single lads were, I suspected, just not actually grown-up enough to consider. It didn't stop the rumours flowing -- especially given my inability to follow conversation with background noise going on, I'd often be chatting in a corridor or another room. It became a standing joke at work on Mondays: finding out who I'd allegedly slept with over the weekend. It could have become bullying, but my friends kept it firmly under control, laughing at the rumour-spreaders, rather than me.

Come the New Year, I still loved the online chat, and generally had sufficient time in work to use it.

So did Tom, up in the other main student centre. Tom Andersen, I knew -- nicknames had been assigned in alphabetical order, so Tom Brondesbury had to have an initial added, indignant about becoming 'Tomb'. I vaguely remembered seeing him at one of the early gatherings -- strong and blondish? Or was that someone else? I couldn't remember. He hadn't been to any of our parties, having local friends and, I guessed, a girlfriend.

Tom and I ended up having lots of conversations via Say that ended up just between us, and then increasingly took them private, just because we could.

Tom waxed lyrical about the countryside on his last camping trip, in a way a bloke wouldn't do in front of fifty others. I mentioned I liked camping. We discussed various TV and film -- I confessed I'd never seen Rocky Horror; he said he'd have to show me. It turned out we both liked reading, including SF and some fantasy -- not all, there's a lot of bad fantasy. I introduced him to Pratchett, he introduced me to Le Guin, we argued over Heinlein and whether his characters were remotely realistic.

A few weeks of this made it clear we really ought to meet up. He mentioned not being able to come to the next party as his sister and her husband Bill were having a birthday party. Other sister and boyfriend were there too, so he was expected to put in an appearance. He mentioned that it felt bit odd not having a partner at such events, but he liked Bill and the other chap.

I noted this new fact of his single status.

And wasn't too surprised when the next so-casual comment rapidly appeared on my screen, when I hit Alt-Tab to switch my terminal session to the Say program:

TOM: SAY KAREN you had a boyfriend, right?

Rarely have I found myself typing as fast as that reply:

KAREN: SAY TOM no.

And then realised I cared that he knew, and was invested in his thoughts while he was writing his response.

TOM: SAY KAREN oh, OK.

How could I be falling for words on a screen?

By coincidence, Mike, a student living near Tom, and whose extended family owned a huge shambling house in the hills, announced that day that it was high time for another programme party there, the following weekend. My household agreed to drive up and stay for the two nights, despite the weather forecast's warning of extreme cold. Put sixty teenagers in a couple rooms and it's warm enough.

KAREN: SAY TOM We're coming up to the hill house party next weekend. Can you make it?

TOM: SAY KAREN Definitely!

That was definitely a flirtatious conversation. It did occur to me that not having really met in person, I didn't really know much about his character. Or looks, which I supposed would matter, too. He clearly had my sort of humour, and I'd never seen him type anything nasty about anyone. The rest of the Northern gang seemed to like him.

Time for some subtle research. Fluffy innocent-faced Mike, gossip-monger extraordinaire as well as host of this party, would be the place to start.

KAREN: SAY MIKE who's coming to the forest house from your lot? Is Rich cooking again?

MIKE: SAY KAREN Hope so, will poke him.

RICH: SAY ALL if you want me to cook at the forest house, i need a fiver off everyone. Give to me or karen by wednesday so i can shop.

RICH: SAY ALL you get hog roast friday night, coq au vin sat night, plus breakfast n picnic lunch. sunday leftovers or pub.

RICH: SAY KAREN ta for sortin the the cash

KAREN: SAY RICH ta for the cooking. Who's coming from your lot?

RICH: SAY KAREN: well me of course darling, why would you care abt anyone else?

KAREN: SAY RICH I only love your food. Sorry, sweetie.

RICH: SAY KAREN your breakin my heart you are. Heartless.

KAREN: SAY RICH I could insult your cooking if it would make you feel better?

RICH: SAY KAREN and wed both know it wd be a lie. so if not me who are you interested in then?

KAREN: SAY RICH I'm just trying to find out who else will be there apart from you and Mike!

RICH: SAY KAREN well now mike is a fine yung gentleman of the singel persuasion...

KAREN: SAY RICH ha ha. No, and what happened to him and Cassie?

RICH: SAY KAREN nothings happened since with him n cassie, thats why this party. If hosting the event of the month with finest cuisine of yours truly, plus needin tae snuggle up in bed against the cold dont get them together properly, nothing will.

RICH: SAY KAREN so who are you interested in then?

At that, I decided I needed to get on with my work for a while, rather than reply, so I wandered round the office building collecting contributions to Rich's feasts. He'd had summer jobs in kitchens, chefs in the family, and was actually competent with a barbecue. He loved cooking and it gave him something to talk about, because, bless him, he was pretty boring the rest of the time.

He was the one I'd once ended up snogging him out of boredom. And sucking him off. OK, we were both drunk and it had seemed like a good idea at the time, so while the wind-up merchants tried, neither of us actually wanted to repeat the performance. He was a nice and well-meaning guy though, so no regrets.

KAREN: SAY RICH I've got £60 from us. The Winchester trio promise to come too. Are your lot coughing up OK?

RICH: SAY KAREN grand. ta. ive got nearly a hundred so ill order the roast.

KAREN: SAY RICH Hundred? Nice one. Should be a good party then.

RICH: SAY KAREN aye, pretty much everyones coming. Me, Mike, Cassie, Steve'n'Miranda, dave, davy, Tim, Tom, Tomb, steve e, gareth, Abs...

Poor Tom B was probably going to be known as Tomb or Toom for the rest of his life. Tom was very glad that he'd got in first when usernames were assigned in alphabetical order.

RICH: SAY KAREN so theres talent for ya. Who're you thinking of?

KAREN: SAY RICH Me? I don't know. I'm not even sure I've met Tom, for example!

RICH: SAY KAREN for real?

KAREN: SAY RICH Real. Why? What's he like?

RICH: SAY KAREN oh... tall, blond, broad shoulders... Likes canoeing and camping an all. why, you interested?

KAREN: SAY RICH How do I know, if I've not met him? Divot.

RICH: SAY KAREN no, he's not a divot. sound lad.

KAREN: SAY RICH Anyone would think you were trying to get us together!

It was intentional, going on the offensive. I had to admit, this sounded promising.

RICH: SAY KAREN ah, no. im no doin that.

KAREN: SAY RICH How come? Should I be insulted?

Stirring. Always fun.

RICH: SAY KAREN ah, nothin. hes a fine lad. just, dont know if youd be interested, is all.

Rich stopped there.

My curiosity burned.

Over the week it proved most students would get up to the party. Various chatters needled others about who they might get together with, but given the sex imbalance, it was mainly oblique references to me, Cassie and Helen. Though one afternoon was livened up by Gareth's revelation:

TOMB: SAY ALL so who do you have your sights on Gareth? K/C/H?

GARETH: SAY ALL none of them

TOMB: SAY ALL none of them? You gay or what??

A short pause as nothing came up on my green-lettered screen. Then:

GARETH: SAY ALL gay

TOMB: SAY ALL oh ok.

And, within seconds:

MIKE: SAY ALL So who do you have your sights on then Gaz? Rich, tom, tomb, joe, finn, edwin, abs, Charlie, Stevee, steven, Alec...

GARETH: SAY ALL fuck off

JOE: SAY ALL fuck off

ABS: SAY ALL Not my type soz mate

TOMB: SAY ALL: you fucking knob mike

RICH: SAY ALL you gobshite Mike

CASSIE: SAY ALL He's a man of taste, clearly! Gareth that is

GARETH: SAY ALL ooh looks like your crashing & burning there Mike

MIKE: SAY ALL?

KAREN: SAY GARETH so is there anyone? Got a chap to bring as your plus one?

GARETH: SAY KAREN I wish. All seem bloody straight. Roll on uni, I say.

KAREN: SAY GARETH awww... Let me know if you start getting private messages!

GARETH: SAY KAREN like fuck I will

It was a standing joke for the rest of the year that when Gareth wasn't chatting, he was being inundated with private messages from every man in the company, all 10,000 of them. About ten years later he admitted there had actually been one, which had led to a few hook-ups with the other lad, out of curiosity. Apparently they'd both agreed sex standing up in copses of trees near Mike's family's house was a bit crap, other sex was excellent, but neither could be bothered to travel to see the other, so it petered out.

Tom and I speculated a bit as to whether Gareth would have any takers. He also warned me to watch out for known lairy ladies' man Finn, who had been making enthusiastic comments about my body. But not speaking to me at all...