I still had Simone to look forward to and I got a thrilleach time a new letter from her popped through the door, even though I’d readthem all dozens of times before. They were coming in thick and fast throughoutAugust.
I never replied to any of them, my predecessor had alreadydone that for me, so there seemed little point. Now, lying beside the pool, Iknew that I was one day away from seeing her.
Like when I’d met Sarah in Ibiza, our holidays had notexactly aligned, and I knew that Simone had left the park before I had. Myholiday had ended on the 11th of August, but she had left on the 6th.
I knew she was going to be in the next caravan to us, so onthat morning I was out of bed the second I awoke, pulling aside the curtains onthe static caravan, to try and get a glimpse of her next door. Sure enough,there she was, wearing the orange blouse and black skirt that she had in one ofthe pictures I’d kept of her.
Her parents were in an advanced state of loading up theircar to go home, so I dressed quickly and hurried outside to see her.
They were nearly ready to leave, so she excused herself fromher parents to take a quick walk with me around the site. Her father seemednone too happy about it and was pretty grumpy when she said she’d be back soon,telling her to “dépêche-toi”.
We walked hand-in-hand up towards the entertainment block bythe pool, where she pulled me to her and kissed me deeply. There were tears inher eyes as she repeated “Je t’aime” over and over again.
We had time only for the briefest of goodbyes before wereluctantly parted, she promising in her broken English to write as soon as shegot home.
It wasn’t difficult to see why I’d been attracted to her.She was fiery and passionate, and I found her French accent incredibly sexy. Imust have had a thing about accents, because it had been just the same withSarah and many others.
As for the sex with Simone, it was some of the best I’d everhad. It went on for several days, all over the site, in the showers reservedfor the campers, on the beach at night, wherever and whenever the opportunityarose.
The first time it happened was in my caravan, when myparents had gone out on a wine-tasting trip to a local vineyard. I knew theywould get drunk and not be back for hours.
It was only the third day of my holiday, but we were alreadyan item by this time. She was all over me as soon as she joined me at the poolthat morning, as I soaked up yet another day of sunshine.
When she began kissing me passionately on the sunbed,getting extremely heated, I knew what she wanted. And no one could have wantedit more than me. This was a pivotal moment in a young man’s life. I was aboutto lose my virginity.
It wasn’t going to be quite the cause for celebration for methat it was for every other male on the planet, though: quite the opposite infact. I was going to have to savour this because it was going to be the lastshag I’d ever have.
I wondered to myself how many people living a normal lifeknew when they were having their last shag? Not many, I reckoned, and even ifthey did and were very old at the time, the likelihood was that their sex drivewould have waned and they wouldn’t be that bothered anyway.
In my case, I had to face years of rampant teenage hormoneswith nothing to look forward to at the end of it. It was a depressing thought,but I wasn’t going to let it spoil the moment. That last afternoon in my tinysingle bed in the caravan was one of the most memorable of my entire life.
I couldn’t really complain. From Marie to Simone, and allthe others in-between, I’d had more than my fair share of sexual adventures, aswell as an extremely fulfilling marriage. I’d truly had the best of bothworlds.
December 1984
I didn’t give up trying to have sex with more girls in theyears that followed. After all, perhaps, I’d be able to use my unique knowledgeto my advantage in the same way that I had with Carol. But sadly the only thingI managed to pull in my early teenage years was myself.
Once I reached my fifteenth birthday, I knew the game wasup. Contrary to what some of the boastful idiots in my class said, girls justweren’t ready to go “all the way” at that age. At least not the ones I knewanyway, and my choice was limited.
I had been at an all boys’ school between the ages of elevenand sixteen which hadn’t helped, and the girls at the church youth clubcertainly weren’t willing to indulge me. I managed a few snogs at parties andthe odd hand inside a bra here and there, but that was about as far as it went.
It was incredibly frustrating and depressing. At least theaverage teenage boy, wanking two or three times a day, had the realistic hopethat sooner or later they would manage to get a girl to have sex with them. Ididn’t even have that consolation.
So, by December 1984, I had resigned myself to a life ofcelibacy. Sex wasn’t the only avenue of pleasure that was becoming closed offto me. Gambling had long gone, and I also had to adjust to a life withoutalcohol. Even The Duke wouldn’t serve kids as young as me.
A brief dalliance with the Kidlington Young Farmers provideda couple of drunken nights at barn dances on dubious home-made cider from thefarm, but teetotalism was looming large.
Perhaps it was just as well, because my tolerance to alcoholwas fast disappearing. A week before Christmas 1984, I’d attended a house
