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You know sometimes you see or hear something that gives you a private smile? Well, occasionally I hear or see the phrase ‘3G’, and when I do it reminds me of an incident that took place a long time ago, and some distance away from where I now live. So read on if you’d like to find out why… *** If I remember rightly, I was twenty three at the time. It was just after Christmas, and around the time of New Year, 1974. I’d left home about two months before, and I was still getting used to being my own shopper, washer-up, laundryman, cleaner, clothes-ironer, and general all round dogs body. All this domestic stuff was new to me, because when I’d lived at home my mum had always done all the housework and chores, and I’d pretty much let her get on with it. Now it was a different story. It was up to me to do everything to feed, clothe, and perform all the boring domestic tasks for the most demanding of task masters, myself. The only thing I didn’t do was clean my bed-sitting room, which was on the first floor (first is the one up from the ground floor, for our American readers) of a big Victorian terraced house, in the heart of bed-sit land, near the centre of a large(ish) city in the West of England. I had my own front door key to let me into the house, and my own room key to let me into my room, but there was a cleaning lady who insisted on coming into my private space once a week to mop the walls and polish the carpet. Well, not exactly, but you know what I mean. She was a busybody if ever there was one. She took great delight in dishing the dirt on all the other tenants to me whenever she saw me, so no doubt she had a few choice words to say about me to the other tenants when she saw them too. Well, this story doesn’t concern her, although she does make an appearance in the epilogue, so look out for her at the end of the tale. Like I said, I now had to do my own shopping, and the only time I could do most of it was on the weekends. I didn’t finish work till nearly 6.00pm during the week, and in those days, in good old England, all the shops shut at 6.00pm. And so it came about that one cold and wet Sunday afternoon I found myself traipsing around the shopping streets of my home town. I was looking for a shop that was open (most of them didn’t on Sundays back then), so that I could stock up on cornflakes, bread, sandwich fillers, and all the other vital things a single bloke has to buy. It was cold and it was wet, and I got cold and I got very wet indeed. By the time I got back to my room with my two heavy bags of shopping, my coat was dripping, my hair was dripping, the shopping was dripping, and my soaking wet trousers were stuck to my legs, and dripping into my squelching shoes. Needless to say, the first things to do were put the shopping bags on the draining board next to the sink, then hang my wet coat on the back of the door, and put a towel on the floor underneath it to soak up the drips. After that, I took off my shoes and socks, wrung out my socks into the sink and then hung them over the edge of it, then stuffed my sopping shoes with newspaper and shoved them under the bed. Lastly, I peeled my trousers off my legs, then emptied the pockets of loose change, notes, keys, and wallet, and finally hung them up next to my coat, to drip onto the towel below. I was now standing in a damp jumper, damp and tight T shirt, and very tight, skimpy black briefs (all the rage at the time). I took off the jumper, then found another towel and stood in front of the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door, and watched myself as I dried my shoulder length hair and soft scrubby beard (also all the rage at the time). I thought I didn’t too look bad really. I’d filled out a bit since leaving home, now that my diet had more junk food in it, but I was still the svelte young hunk that I’d been since my swimming days as a teenager. Well, I thought so anyway, and it prompted me to start thinking about girls, and my lack of regular sex with anyone other than my own two hands. Mind you, I was zenci gaziantep escort well practised at it, I’d been practising since I was thirteen, and by now I reckoned I must be pretty much perfect! I remember looking at my sexy young body and thinking, ‘This is purgatory, and very frustrating. I do everything I can to be nice to girls, and all I get is, “But Jim, I couldn’t possibly go out with you. I think of you too much as a friend, but I do think you’ll make some lucky girl a wonderful husband.” It drives me mad!’ It certainly did, and I remember my thoughts moved on to, ‘I don’t want to be a “wonderful husband, I want to be a despicable bastard, girls always go for the bastards.’ Feeling lonely, wet and miserable as I was, I just threw myself on to my bed at the side of the room. It made the bed bang against the wall, and a couple of seconds later the wall banged back. ‘Oops, I’ve upset old Madge again,’ I thought, ‘ah well, can’t win ‘em all!’ and with that I pulled the eiderdown over myself and curled up to try and get warm. I know I succeeded because when I woke up it was gone 7.00pm, and I had to get on with making myself something to eat, and trying to dry out my clothes. The shoes would have to dry for a couple of days, but I had spare ones, so they didn’t matter, and I had spare socks, but I needed my trousers for the following day, so after I’d forced down a rather unappetising meal of a hastily heated frozen fish portion and some baked beans, I had to get out the ironing board and try to iron them dry. *** Time was getting on a bit, it must have been around 9.30pm, and I was happily ironing the steaming legs of my trousers, when there was a knock on the door. I couldn’t think of who it could be at this time of night. I didn’t really know any of the other tenants in the house, and the cleaner wasn’t due till Wednesday. So feeling a bit put out by someone disturbing my busy ironing session, I put the iron onto its stand at the end of the ironing board, and went over to open the door just a crack and look out to see who it was. In the small pool of light that spilled out from my room onto the unlit landing, I saw a shortish, pretty blonde girl of about twenty two, with large brown eyes, a small mouth, and a pale complexion, wearing something light coloured, that was long and shapeless, and standing with a paper cup in her hand. “Hello, I’m from upstairs, and I know this sounds corny,” she said, “but I don’t suppose you’ve got any sugar have you?” I remember I looked into the attractive face the words had just come from, took in the soft brown eyes, the nervous smile that played around the edges of her pale pink lips, and the long straight blonde hair that framed it all so captivatingly, and couldn’t think of anything sensible to say. “I… I… uhhh… don’t have any I’m afraid.” I replied when I’d regained some of my senses. “I don’t use it myself. I’ve got to look after my sylph like figure you see.” and I smiled a short thin smile. It was the same sort of half-hearted smile you’d give a stranger you met in a lift. That was the trouble with being shy. How do you react when a perfect stranger starts talking to you? Especially if that stranger looks to be perfect in more ways than one? I’d always had problems breaking the ice with girls, and even in my twenties, I still struggled to overcome the fear of saying or doing the one wrong thing that could end a relationship before it even had time to realise it existed. The girl smiled sympathetically at my feeble attempt at humour, and I felt the warmth in her eyes like the kiss of the sun on a mid-summer beach. Then her expression changed to one of disappointment, and she turned and walked along the landing and grabbed the banister, ready to go back up the stairs to her room on the next floor up. “ ‘s okay,” she said, “I thought I’d ask on the off chance. The shops round here are all shut on Sunday, and I like to have sugar on my cornflakes in the gaziantep zenci escort bayan morning.” “Sorry,” I said, “I gave up sugar nearly a year ago now, …when I noticed my trousers were getting a bit tight.” She looked back at me with an odd, but not unpleasant expression, and I swear her eyes were scanning slowly down the door, hoping to get a good look at said trousers. Then her face lit up a bit, and she smiled again as she started climbing the stairs. I closed the door, then realised that opening it had moved the towel away from under the coat, and now it was rucked up in a crooked line on the carpet. So I moved the towel and spread it out under the damp coat again, then picked up the iron from the stand and continued trying to smooth the trousers the girl had been so eager to see. A few seconds later I heard the door of the bed-sit above clunk shut. When I heard the door go, I stopped ironing for a second, shrugged my shoulders, shook my head, and smiled to think of the strange encounter I’d just had. Then I dismissed it as a one-off, a never to be repeated event, like winning the pools, or being struck by lightning. On some kind of subliminal level I recognised there was something else going on than just a request for sugar when she’d knocked, but what it was I really couldn’t tell. However, I did notice that not all of me was happy to treat the event as being over and done with, and I had to adjust my pants to allow for what was growing inside them. The trouble was, I couldn’t forget the pretty face, the long blonde hair, the sparkle in the soft brown eyes, the warmth of her smile… I started to hope she might come back and give me the chance to offer her some honey as an alternative to sugar. So I found myself straining to hear any movement in the room upstairs while I turned the trousers first one way, then the other. I’d never really bothered to listen before. The new couple had only been up there for a couple of weeks, and in the past I’d just silently sworn at the noise they made when they clumped around in heels and heavy shoes. ‘Neither of them was brought up in a flat,’ I’d often thought. Presently the muffled sound of voices floated down through the ceiling. I found I could distinctly make out the blonde girl’s voice as she talked to (presumably) her boyfriend, but I couldn’t quite hear what was being said. ‘At least the floors aren’t as thin as the walls in this house,’ I thought, although it felt like it sometimes. The voices stopped, and a little while later the sound of the door opening and closing upstairs sounded with muffled vibration through the ceiling and walls of my room. Then I heard the sound of shoes clumping down the stairs, and after a few seconds there was another knock at my door. This got me worried. I thought it might be the boyfriend coming down to have a go at me for talking to his girlfriend. After all, she’d looked as though she was wearing some kind of night dress when she’d visited me, and perhaps the boyfriend was the jealous kind? I wouldn’t put it past him, most blokes I know are very possessive about their girlfriends, and don’t like any other men even looking at them, let alone passing the time of day with them. After a few seconds, while I was still debating in my head whether it would be safe to answer the door or not, there was another knock, and this time a voice came with it. “Hello? Can you hear me?” said the female voice outside the door. ‘Phew!’ I thought, ‘had me worried there for a moment’, but I still wasn’t sure how many people there were waiting on the landing. The thought came to me that perhaps they’d both come down to have a go. ‘Well if they have I’ll just be as nice as I can and hope to calm ‘em down,’ I thought, ‘and just for good measure I’ve got the iron handy.’ and with that I cracked the door open just enough to look out. The short blonde girl was standing there in the shadows on her own, and looking different somehow from our gaziantep zenci escort last meeting. “Hello,” I said, “you had me worried there for a minute. I thought it was your boyfriend coming down to beat me up for talking to you.” “No,” she said, “he’s going to sleep now, coz he’s knackered.” I remember I smiled when she used the word ‘knackered’. Back in those days it was almost a swear word, and I hadn’t expected someone who looked so sweet to use such a word, and spoken as though it was part of her normal speech. “But won’t he mind you coming down here again?” I said, “Or does he think you’re going to ask one of the other tenants for a cup of sugar?” “No, I told him you looked a bit down when I saw you just now,” she said, “and I told him I was coming down to cheer you up.” And with this she held up a full glass beaker toward me, while she smiled in the semi darkness behind it. I opened the door a bit more, the better to see her in the light. “Can I come in?” she said, “I don’t bite you know.” and with that she pushed the door fully open and started walking in to the room as bold as brass. I was a bit distracted for a second or so by the thought that the towel would get all rucked up again, but then I couldn’t help but stare when she came into the light. The something light coloured, long and shapeless she’d been wearing before had now been replaced with something short, frilly and transparent. At the same time she started to stare too, when she saw me standing there in just a small tight T shirt, and very skimpy underpants that were rapidly getting tighter. “Uhh… are you sure?” I said, and feeling a bit embarrassed, I quickly turned my body away toward the ironing board. “Course.” she answered, eyes aimed squarely at the bulge in my pants while she moved further into my brightly lit room. “Oh! And by the way, you do know your nightie’s a bit see-through? And I can see your uh …nipples.” I said, and looked away for a second. “Course,” she said, “and you do know you’re not wearing your kecks?” Then she stopped, turned, and looked me straight in the eye. “Anyway, I said I was coming down to cheer you up. So I thought I’d wear something that’d cheer you up.” She said, and just stood there. I was a bit shocked. I’d never been in such a bizarre situation in my whole life. My rant about girls not wanting to go out with me earlier hadn’t been directed at anyone in particular, and I didn’t think that any deity had heard it and decided to let me be the ‘despicable bastard’ I’d wished for. Yet here I was, standing in my room, hot iron in hand, with an attractive stranger of the opposite sex standing right in front of me, wearing nothing but a smile and a see-through baby doll nightie that almost reached her crotch and left nothing to the imagination. I didn’t know how to react, or thought I didn’t. “You’re not gay are you?” she said, as she watched my pants getting tighter. “No, I don’t think so. Not the last time I looked anyway.” I replied, and then I realised what she meant as she continued to stare at my now very full pants. I think we both knew then that the situation had changed. Neither of us was decently dressed, so we were both putting ourselves in a vulnerable position, but then it dawned on me that the girl didn’t even have any knickers on, just the short flimsy nightie, and very pale, slightly goose bumped skin showing through beneath it. I also noticed her nipples were hardening under the sheer fabric of the nightie, and I wasn’t sure if this was a come-on or a tease. Then I noticed another thing, she had matching collar and cuffs (as the saying goes!). She was a true natural blonde. Who knew? Well, I did now, and it was pretty obvious to anyone with eyes that I was partial to blondes. She’d known exactly what she was doing when she left her boyfriend upstairs, and presumably so had he. Especially if she’d stripped off her proper nightie and put on the one she was wearing now. To top it all off she’d then filled up a glass with what looked like water, but probably wasn’t, then put on some strappy heels and come down the stairs to try and get into my room. ‘I wonder what else she wants to get into,’ I thought, as her eyes stayed firmly fixed on the hard ridge in my pants. “What’s in the cup?” I said, as a weak attempt to distract her. “Vodka.” she replied without looking up. “Neat?” I asked. “No, it’s about half and half, vodka and lemonade.
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