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Sex and the unknown

Rock and roll was a great invention.  The girls twirled at speed, their long skirts lifted and eager young men caught a glimpse of their knickers.  Hence at youth club I became an observer rather than a participant.  Aged 13 that was as close as I got.

I did try the occasional exploration but all such ventures were met with a firm No and slap of the hand.  In those days, No, meant No.

My father was posted to Hong Kong and the family went with him.  I mixed with older boys, some of whom had girlfriends.  At 14 I found one of my own.  Had I arrived, was I to discover the great secrets of what lay beneath a female’s clothes?

We held hands, we kissed, we cuddled and my fingers crept down the back of her skirt.  No!  At night I lay in dream only imagining what sweetness waited beyond my reach.  Then one afternoon while walking her home from school we stopped in the park, we sat on the grass and my hand closed over the front of her shirt.  Paradise opened.  I had made it, but no further.

I began to record my adventures, most churned up from imaginings of what I had never achieved.  Hence a writer was born.

At the grand age of 15 I was sent home to join Boys’ Service in the British Army.  No girls there, just a barrack room with 40 other sex starved adolescents.  Outings and privileges were few, so once more I began to write, my imagination running wild.  Bubbling full of testosterone my scribblings allowed me to access the wildest ambitions of a hopeful young male.  I conquered every female movie star, every female singer, even the vicar’s daughter.  My short stories became much in demand by other boys.  Realising a talent and a market, I began to charge, only pennies, but when we were eventually allowed to go into town I had enough money to ask girls to the cinema.  There I discovered the convenience of the back row where I finally touched the tantalising secrets of what lay beneath the blouse. Sitting in semi-darkness, a caress over the knee and the tentative lifting of a skirt hem may have opened new horizons but instead came a clamping of thighs, the barrier of two hands and a firm, No!  This time in an outraged whisper so as not to draw attention but I was not alone in my endeavours.  Throughout the film, every few minutes somewhere along the back row, the darkness would be punctured with the word, No!  In days of old the maidenhood of Britain set strict boundaries.

backrow cinema

For being good, after walking her home I would receive a kiss and if it was not too cold, a little exploration beneath blouse or jumper.  Quite clearly, discovery of the hidden paradise would not come easily.

Go to my website at http://www.crimefiction-jamesmckenna.co.uk