You Can Steve Your Hat On…

In my twenties I was an absolute car crash of a girl. I think it’s important to state here that I was definitely not a woman yet; I look back on that decade now (as a 31 year old in some semblance of togetherness) and wonder what the hell that person was doing with herself. I didn’t know who I was, what I wanted or what I liked – in any aspect of life. I meandered along on auto-pilot for the most part, not really knowing how I felt about very much at all.
So, mid-twenties I’m bumbling through life, minding my own business, and I meet Steve. Steve was definitely the most attractive man to have shown any interest in me up to that point and I was certainly appreciative of that.
Steve and I met at a party, got talking, and I think the attraction between us was mutual. Steve was all Indie and arty but stereotypically good looking at the same time. He was fair haired and was wearing a Lyle and Scott jumper which, at the time, was what any self-respecting man was donning despite the balmy spring weather and the definite chafing and sweating that was going on beneath that navy lamb’s wool encasing. I could tell he had the same jumper in multiple colours – he looked the type – but to me that didn’t expose a lack of fashion individuality. Oh no! It told me he fit snugly into the ‘socially acceptable’ box which was another pro to continuing on to the dating stage with our guy, Steve-o.
The texting stage was every bit as wonderful as it usually is. Breaking the normality of sleeping patterns to converse into the small hours and smiling when you wake up to the first ‘Good morning, sorry I fell asleep!’ text. That’s my favourite bit; before any of the touching and attachment begins. The touching part I dislike because I generally just don’t like being touched. The attachment part is because I get attached easily if I like them – blame it on my innate Daddy issues. At the point of any first date I usually become a psychological hunter, poised at the ready to find even the slightest reason to be put off so I can bail out of the situation before I form aforementioned attachments. I know I am going to find something – anything – to put me off, I expect it. So I allow myself to enjoy the feeling of being wanted safely from across the waves of 4G. Steve had great banter, he was intellectual and he was an artist, like me-but better. He asked me out the following Friday and I, of course, willingly accepted.
I had that awful ‘I don’t want to go’ feeling getting ready but Helen had agreed to drop me off; I knew she would get me excited for the date on the journey there with her talk of pulsing vaginas and such. We agreed to meet in Windsor and, as we approached like sleuths on a drive-by stake out to catch a glimpse of him waiting outside the bar for me, I had visual confirmation that my assumption about the buffet of Lyle and Scott lamb’s wool owned by Steve had been quite correct; grey marl for our date – a good, safe choice. I fancied him even more than I remembered and I was pleasantly surprised to note that nothing he could do or say was giving me my freedom card to cut ties and ghost. He was saying things about meeting his friends, about how he knew my friend Emma (whose party we met at) and what he felt about the pending break-up between her and his friend, John. Like a perfect gentleman, when the date was over he offered to drive me home to Mum’s house (in hindsight, I now realise he was totally drink-driving but this didn’t occur to me in my Pepe-La-Pu love-sickness at the time).
Naturally, I didn’t want the night to end there so I invited him in. I had absolutely no intention of sleeping with him and I made that quite clear. But a cup of tea and a bit of Family Guy on the sofa wouldn’t hurt, surely? He felt the same – shock – so we proceeded to the parlour.
To set the scene of the horror that is about to ensue, I should give you an idea of the backdrop. Mum and her new fiancé, Paul, were in the depths of slumber upstairs and had kindly left a couple of lamps on downstairs for me. Steve and I walked into the hallway and turned left into the Living Room (layout is crucial to this memoir); I left the hall lamp on for a bit of romantic ambience and closed the living room door so as not to wake the parentals. It was one of those gridded glass doors with eight square panes in rows down the length of it, the glass bumpy and wavy so you couldn’t see much through it, just shapes on the other side – perfect to allow that soft hall lighting through. I was going to nail this setting – but not nail Steve, obv…
Clearly, Steve had taken my ‘I’m not sleeping with you,’ with a pinch of salt and we began kissing early into the venture. For once, the touch of man did not repulse me and I was encouraged by this. His long, artistic fingers were in my hair and lightly sliding along my jaw bone as he coaxed me closer to his body and I voluntarily melted toward him. His hand moved down to my neck, shoulders and back and, fingers splayed as if he was desperate to touch every part of me, he gently took control of the upper half of my body. I was utterly powerless to stop him even if I wanted to. This was the first time a man had seduced me and I felt the pulsing in my knickers that Helen kept telling me about, incredulous that I had never felt it.
I felt like I wanted more of him (though I was determined there was going to be no P-in-the-V) so I willingly clambered onto his lap and as we kissed a natural rhythm of dry humping commenced. I LOVE LOVE LOVE dry humping – it’s my favourite sexual act – probably because of the heavy barrier of clothing between genitals. I was more than happy to set up camp and stay there. So, picture the scene: I’m on top fully clothed, loving life, grinding away. I feel his erection combined with my Jamie Topshop jeans seam simultaneously helping out those flutters when he suddenly stops kissing me and looks deeply into my eyes. I genuinely thought ‘he’s going to tell me to stop before he gets carried away,’ but, to my surprise, he glanced downwards towards where our groins were mashing.
I can’t convey in words my absolute amazement at seeing the skinny pink helmet of his penis poking out from the waist of jeans. Let me tell you, how he had managed to work it loose was a feat of pure skill and genius. To this day, I cannot fathom how Steve, without the use of his hands, had worked himself loose of boxers, a belt and a tight waist band of some pretty skinny jeans. But there it was, slim, hard and popping out at me like a little turtle head coyly emerging from its shell.
There I am, straddling this guy I’m thinking is the whole package, thinking he’s a gentleman and I’m being seduced to within an inch of my life when, the whole time, this was a distraction so his penis could tunnel itself to freedom like an anatomical Steve McQueen. I wanted to be appalled and tell him I wasn’t that sort of girl. I could have just been polite and said it was too soon. But, pink cheeked and throbbing vaginally, I decided to take Steve’s dick in my hand and wank him off – at the time I rationalised that act retained enough dignity and self-respect to walk away with my head held high. It didn’t take long for Steve to reach his climax and he squirted his little swimmers all over his Lyle and Scott jumper, which he swiftly removed to reveal a little white All Saints T-Shirt beneath (of course). He actually left that jumper at my house – I washed it on a forty and inevitably shrank it so had to buy him a new one and pretend it was the same jumper. I guess he was grateful for the swift relief as he kissed me appreciatively while his penis limply retracted back into the confines of its denim container, spent and flaccid.
It was at this moment movement caught my eye to our left.
The mother had clearly awoken and, half asleep, wondered down the stairs to switch off the lights. Potentially she had heard me come home and assumed I hadn’t turned off the lights. Whatever the reason, she had come downstairs to turn off the lights…naked.
Steve turned to see what I was looking at. It all happened so fast. There was Mum’s naked white body shining in the romantic lamplight, distorted but clearly naked in the wobbly glass doors. Worse still, she was now bending over to turn out the hall lamp. Mortified (and still with Steve between my legs) I exclaimed ‘MUM!’ Jumping, she turned on her heel, bare soles squeaking on the laminate flooring, caught by surprise by my nightmarish squeal of humiliation. For some reason, she threw her arms into the air, bent at the elbows (as if she was being put under arrest) and revealed her nakedness front-on. I was momentarily reminded of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus as her white skin glowed like a beacon in the mottled doorway. Time stood still.
She made for the stairs, legs pumping fast in the moonlight like a razorlight Catherine Wheel rolling uphill. I was left, staring at the empty space where her nude form had just been, not daring to turn and look at poor, semen stained Steve. Shame engulfed me as I realised that man would never be between my legs again.
Surprisingly, I saw Steve for another two dates after that and I actually slept with him on both occasions (mediocre but at the time I thought it was the best thing ever). Both times we went back to his, of course, and never spoke of my naked mother and the whisper of dark pubes on the lily-white silhouette in the doorway again.

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