First Time

By Frank Wall

You don’t forget your first time. Remember yours? Of course you do.

Featherstone certainly does. It happens in the 1960’s, when most girls keep their knees pressed firmly together during passionate embraces. They try to hold out until they marry. That ‘other kind of girl’ is incredibly rare. But boy is he eager to find her.

He daydreams through school, wishing his life away, waiting for weekends to come around. Casting aside grey flannels, Featherstone dons his garb of crazy colours to set out in search of his First Time.

Things go far from smoothly. He has the equipment, and the urge to succeed, but lacks the information to score. It is a time before easy access to sex education. Parents and teachers keep the secrets to themselves. He makes mistakes. Well, what can he expect if he listens to his mates?

This tale takes you through Featherstone’s encounters with some quirky, but fabulous girls. They know little more, or even less than he does about the finer points of lovemaking. You can imagine how this leads to some hilarious happenings.

No, don’t imagine, see for yourself. Do Featherstone or his paramours fare better than you?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Wall
• Release date: Sep 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301142958

Frank Wall

Like his characters, Frank Wall imagines his life to be more exciting than it actually is. When it came to writing a biography he stated, “Make something up; I’ll go along with it.” This attitude has muddled him through life, 3 marriages and six wonderful children. That is the truth. Frank has been a writer since he became a grown up, not seeing the point when at school. For twenty years he wrote; mostly advertising copy and letters to creditors. He started using joined up letters at the turn of the century, producing five reams of manuscripts fit for the shredder. In 2013, Frank Wall introduced Featherstone, an affable young man who meets life in the mid 1960s. It is seen by some as an account of the author’s own experience. Sadly, that isn’t the case. FEATHERSTONE Rogue Tales is now available POD through CreateSpace and also Ebook at Amazon.com. Well, it’s a good place to start.

Book preview

F E A T H E R S T O N E

R O G U E T A L E S

* * *

V O L U M E O N E

F i r s t T i m e

Published by Frank Wall

Smashwords Edition / Copyright 2013 Frank Wall

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

It happened on the flagstone floor of her kitchen one wet afternoon not so very long ago. At least, it doesn’t seem that long ago. It was in fact August 1965; Friday the 13th to be precise. I had been of a mind that it would never happen. I certainly didn’t think it would be with Jean. She was so much older than me and the boss’s daughter no less. Beautiful Jean with the bright green eyes; she took charge, showed me how, and quickly added me to her long list of lovers to be forgotten. But I’ll always remember her. She was my first time.

First times don’t always come easy, so the song goes. Sometimes, poets tell the truth. It certainly didn’t come easily in my experience.

I’ve always been fanciful; even more so when I was a boy. I spent most of my time daydreaming of girls while teachers droned on about this and that but never the other. I would sit and half listen while in my mind I’d replay and edit my favourite night-time fantasies.

Thoughts of Gloria outweighed the importance of mathematics as I recalled every tender kiss we’d shared the night before, and I before E except after C sounded nonsense, and made me think of Gracie with the teasing smile. Victoria may well have once been Queen of England, but the Victoria I knew, lived in the house on the corner and I’d imagine the words she whispered in her sister’s ear as I walked by. That’s the one, that’s Featherstone. Isn’t he wonderful?

I’d had a few real girlfriends as well. Some of them nearly as beautiful as fabulous Virginia, who sometimes smiled, and I think would have liked me to speak, but I didn’t dare. Most were quite pleasant. Helen and Diana come particularly to mind, but none of them were ‘that kind of girl’.

Then again, I didn’t know what any kind of girl was really like. I learned all that I knew from school yard chatter. I’d listen to older boys talking of coming and fucking, and sticking cocks in quims and other strange sounding places. That’s how you get babies, you know. Wanking and fingering, why doesn’t anyone else tell me of such things?

The dictionary proved useless with no mention of fuck under fu, and as for cunt…Even virgin was missing. But whatever it meant, I didn’t want to be one. I wanted to be like my mates, the initiated, but chances of that were slim. The girls I met in my younger years held on to their ‘not below the neck’ doctrine, and kept their knees firmly pressed together whenever allowing me into their passionate embraces.

Left to picture what lay beneath their clothes, I'd wonder at the secrets kept hidden in bras, and imagined what it would be like to place my hand up a skirt, and reach higher to feel those soft folds of silken flesh and moist promises.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. I certainly never thought of pussy in that way back then; that mysterious place somewhere south of navel and slightly north of thighs.

Growing older, I longed for more freedom. I wanted to join my peers as they left school for the outside world, and earn wages to spend in pursuit of my first time goal. But I had to stay on and do bloody exams.

I wasn’t the only one. Except for a small group of weird swotty types who seemed to enjoy the intricacies of calculus and such, there was a hard core of guys just like me who preferred to experiment with unclasping brassieres one handed, when given the chance.

We lived for the weekend, freedom and parties, wishing our lives away for Saturdays to come around. Five days of blind obedience and long multiplication would be cast off to lie crumpled alongside school blazers and dull grey flannels, as we donned our garb of blue denim and tight hipster pants. Two days of liberty. Us boys and them girls; no longer separated behind the railings of our single-sex schools.

V O L U M E O N E

First Time

I was chatting with Thomas Balding. He was a close friend of mine, but that was probably because his parents had a holiday cottage. Whenever they went away, their house became the venue for parties. I was already half drunk on a mixture of Guinness and cider. We shared a joint as Bob Dylan whined on about something meaningful. But it was only background sound as I looked casually around. The usual crowd were there. I’d just returned my attention to whatever Tom was saying when I noticed a girl I’d seen earlier. Who’s that? I asked.

Who? Tom replied.

That girl there, I indicated with a nod, the one with the Cathy McGowan haircut and Mary Quant minidress.

That’s Sue, John’s new bird.

Where’s John?

Dunno, haven’t seen him.

I watched her for a while as she swayed out of time to ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’. A bit short, maybe even a