Strange sexual encounters

Being the first in a potentially long series

Have honeymooned, dived, swum, munched, lunched, loved, partied and especially slept. Am now back at work and looking forward to a post-crazy summer of picnics and baking and white wine spritzers, after which all my autumn energies will be directed into the Sinonautical sortie.

Have travel notes from Zanzibar to transcribe, and 100s of wedding pics to sort out. I imagine some will make their way onto here from other corners of the interwebz at some point.

In the meantime, I found myself mulling over this long-gone escapade at about 4am this morning:

Once, as a grungy 14 year-old, I went to see the Levellers playing somewhere in Birmingham. I was, and still am, quite short, and found myself on the shoulders of a friendly, taller lad called Peter.

He was quite cute, and I was a little disappointed when he melted into the crowd after the show.

About a year later I’m seeing the Levellers again, this time in Wolverhampton, and who should be standing next to me but Peter. Clearly fate, I reason, so I get his phone number (scribbled on the back of a crumpled receipt) and give him a call a few weeks later.

Said phone call results in me getting a train up to his hometown and finding myself in his parents’ house at about 3pm one afternoon in the school holidays.

We sit awkwardly on his bed for a while, make out, have sex and then afterwards (this is where it gets slightly strange), he silently hands me a tissue and starts playing a tune on his penny whistle.

I sensibly declare that I should be leaving, and go downstairs on my own. At this point (stranger still), I meet his parents, who shepherd me into a big pine-dressered kitchen and insist on having tea with me.

This I dutifully do, making polite conversation about a boy I barely know, while Peter remains upstairs playing his tin pipe. I eventually make good my escape, and perhaps unsurprisingly, don’t call the cute but crazy Levellers boy again.


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