Bacall 1

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I had fancied her for a lifetime. When I was a girl my dad always rattled on about Lauren Bacall, the actress who was married to Humphrey Bogart. I am nearly an expert on her since he spent so much time telling me about her. It was not until I was a developing 16 year old that I began to see what he saw and then I would often, I mean very often, jill my way to sleep imagining her. I am not saying my dad, or Ms Bacall come to that, made me a lesbian but, well, they sort of set me on the road. I was brought up in a very ordinary middle class home. Lesbianism was something one knew about but it was NOT something that occurred in our sort of household. The fact that I knew I was that way inclined was unsettling of course and so I pretended not to be. My pretence did not go as far as ‘going’ with boys as my mother would have put it. Oh, naturally, I pretended that I had otherwise all the other girls at my all girl school would have made my life a misery. I invented holiday romances with Italian boys and French boys or boys from wherever we’d been on holiday. The problem was the more I pretended, the more I knew I wanted to touch, feel and kiss a woman. My schoolgirl crushes were focused on a narrow range of people, limited by a strict upbringing and life in a boarding school. My thoughts centred for a while, when I was probably 16 or 17, on the head girl. Her name was Sonia and she was Lebanese. She had dramatic black eyes and black hair that was long, almost to her arse. She played hockey amazingly well and I would watch her as she wove her way through the opposition, her hair tied back but still flying. Her long, firm athlete’s legs captivated me as did her firm breasts, trussed in her sports bra. Occasionally I’d find an excuse to go into the changing room so I could watch her undress, which she did with a total lack of self-consciousness. I learned to cum quietly in the dormitory and less quietly when I had my own room when I reached the sixth form, by which time, of course, Sonia had left the school. There was only one person who knew, my oldest school friend, Ros. We did the gap year thing and travelled all over the world. It was a magical nine months and, in Thailand one evening, we arrived hot, tired and sweaty. We could only get a room with a double bed but neither of us cared. We showered and dropped into deep slumber in the beach hut that cost next to nothing. That was the first time I kissed a girl properly. Or, to be more accurate, that I was kissed by güvenilir bahis another girl. It happened as dawn broke. Something must have woken us and we lay on the cool sheets and looked into each other’s eyes and something passed, unspoken, between us. Ros kissed me. It started as a light touch on the lips and grew, slowly and to my mind deliciously into a deep exchange of tongues. Her hand went to my naked breast and she held it, caressed it and stroked my nipple. Then what had started as a kiss became a much more significant thing as the first finger other than my own entered me. It was also the first time my finger had entered anyone but me. Watching each other intently we fingered and stroked deep inside each other then resumed our kiss. There was no inept fumbling. It was if each knew what the other needed. My orgasm came a little while after hers. By this time we were hungry for more and soon we were head to pussy, both eating the other in a soft, tantalizing way, hands going where they wanted as they wanted. Two more orgasms, hers and mine before we lay sweating and sated. ‘Jesus, Hils,’ said Ros eventually, ‘I’ve always known, you know.’ ‘How?’ ‘Oh, because.’ The remainder of the trip we shared a bed every night and sometimes all day and we enjoyed and explored each other. Ros went off to a University in Scotland and I to Oxford after we’d declared undying love which, quite naturally and without acrimony, died on campus. Ros subsequently married the rugby captain and I was her bridesmaid and on the eve of her marriage she asked me if I minded and I said of course not, which was true. Everything changed completely for me when I went to University. The liberty was, for someone like me, incredible and I went a bit crazy. In my second week I found the lesbian club and joined. It was, however, so fucking dull that I gave up on it. One evening while I was supposed to be working there was a knock on my door in the hall of residence. There stood the chair of the society, Glenys, asking why I had not attended. So I told her and to my surprise she laughed. ‘You’re not wrong,’ she said, smiling. ‘They are a bit up themselves.’ Glenys was a small woman of about 35. She had short, mousey hair and pale blue eyes. Nobody could have been less like my idea of a lover. ‘The problem,’ I said, ‘was that it seems to be more about feminism than about sexuality.’ I invited her in for a coffee. She was great company and we laughed a lot. She listened as I told her about my güvenilir bahis siteleri repressed upbringing, my ghastly, stiff mother. In a different story we’d probably have ended up in bed together but in fact we merely became firm friends. The great benefits that accrued to me through Glenys were a wider group of friends and a consequent loss of anxiety about being and admitting to being a lesbian. By no means all her friends were lesbians but a good few were and the others didn’t give a toss about it. Glenys and I remained friends through my time at Uni and after. I got laid a few times at college but never fell in love. The first was a woman of about 40 who, apparently, liked freshers. She seduced me like a huntress going after a deer. She was stealthy, cautious and wily. I ended up in her bed one Friday night and she taught me more in that one night than I had ever known or imagined about sex. Over the next few weeks she taught me to enjoy my body and hers. The night her finger found my rear entrance was the night I felt I had grown of age. The taboo of anal sex was laid to rest as her fingers filled me and her tongue explored my pussy and brought me to a screaming climax that beat any other I had ever known. She showed me that that and other things people like me thought were taboo were, in fact, joyous. There was almost nothing that she would not do to arouse me and she taught me, gently but firmly to do the same for her. She ditched me after three weeks and I didn’t care. I’d hatched. Ros had been a revelation, this was discovery. It was two years after I left University that I was with Glenys at a party. It was a fairly civilized affair, a celebration of a mutual friend’s birthday. We’d all assembled at one of the City’s best hotels and there was a sit-down meal followed by a bit of dancing and general jollity. There she was. Lauren Bacall. Obviously not THE Lauren Bacall but she so resembled her that I was smitten. She had those eyes, that hair and those legs, clearly on show under a knee length dress that had risen up her thigh as she had sat on the arm of a chair. She wore black stockings and black heels and the dark blue dress was tight across sensible sized tits. She looked incredibly like the actress. I had fancied her for a lifetime. I walked across to where Glenys was making doe eyes at a tall, well-dressed woman with hair drawn tightly back in a bun and thick glasses. She introduced me to her companion, Sylvia, a librarian who actually iddaa siteleri looked like one. I joined their conversation, dying for a moment alone with Glenys. After an eternity Sylvia went to get drinks for us and I squeezed Glenys’s arm. ‘Who,’ I hissed, ‘is the woman in the blue dress?’ Glenys looked behind me and smiled. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is Constance Beecham. Nice, huh?’ ‘You know her?’ ‘Of course. She used to live with Stella Grange,’ here she indicated a svelte, rich-looking blonde who was in the group Constance was sitting with. ‘They ditched each other amicably about four months ago. I’ve known Stella forever.’ She looked at me with new comprehension. ‘Oh, babe, you’re way out of your class. Constance is a big hitter in the local hospital, something to do with management I think. Rumour is that she and Stella did a lot of nurse training if you get my drift.’ ‘Introduce me.’ At that moment, Constance turned her head and seemed to be surveying the room. I looked away and suspected that I had blushed. Sylvia returned with drinks and I swallowed almost all of mine in the first gulp. My mouth had dried and I felt hot. I made excuses to Glenys and Sylvia and went, via the bar, out onto the terrace to take some air. I heard heels clicking on the flagstones and turned. ‘I’m Stella Grange,’ said the tall blonde. ‘Who are you?’ I extended my hand and she took it. ‘I’m Hilary Tenant, nice to meet you.’ ‘You too. You’ll forgive me saying but I couldn’t help noticing how you reacted when you saw my ex in there.’ She did a sort of backward nod to indicate the room inside. ‘You noticed the resemblance didn’t you?’ ‘I did, yes.’ ‘Lots of people do but they are usually a lot older than you.’ Up close Stella’s age was much more apparent and, I guessed, about 55. She studied me. ’45?’ ’43.’ I smiled at her accuracy and explained my dad’s obsession with Bacall. ‘Ah, well, that explains it then. Legacy lust.’ She grinned. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I first saw her. I assumed she made an effort to look like her but she doesn’t, it’s entirely natural. You have a partner?’ ‘We split.’ Stella moved closer and in a strangely intimate gesture, brushed my hair behind my ear. ‘Constance and I parted too. We decided we wanted different things in life. Was it like that for you?’ ‘No.’ I could not bring myself to say more. She was close, very close and I felt like my space had been invaded. ‘Tell me.’ Then, for some reason, it all came tumbling out of me. How Linda had been with me for six years. She spent a lot of time at her company’s head office in New York and I discovered she had a woman there too. They shared an apartment, a car and a bed. ‘How did you find out?’ The awful day came back to me in vivid reality.

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