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Aunt Shirley Taught Me
by The Big Bopper
Funerals suck! For a start, it means someone you know, and quite likely loved, has gone … a life snuffed out. You will never see that person again. Only photos and, if you’re lucky, videos too, remain. And even the memories you may have now of your departed friend or loved one will only last as long as your brain can continue to draw up the images, the anecdotes, achievements.
Yes, I’m being melancholy, but everyone has some special people who have been an integral part of their life, and others who may have only crossed your path at one stage of your life. I’ve just returned from the Crematorium where family and friends farewelled Shirley Robinson. There was a wake too … in one of the function rooms recently added to the Crematorium to give the operators an additional income stream.
Shirley was 89, about the current life expectancy of a woman around these parts, so I guess one could say it was her time to go. I’m 75 now so there wasn’t a huge age difference between us. She was my Aunt Shirley, my mother’s youngest sister, 10 years between them. Shirley was a great lady, a warm, genuine, lovely woman. She never married, and because she refrained from ever bringing a man to any of our family functions, there were some in the family who gossiped, subjecting her to innuendo about her sexual preferences. An assertion that she must be gay,
I am going to have to admit to you sooner or later — so it might as well be now -that for a period in my life, I found myself in a position that allowed me to debunk the gay woman theory. How about bi? Could have been, but I know for a fact that she liked cock … the hotter and harder the better.
But I am jumping ahead in my story. I really should tell the tale of my Aunt Shirley in sequence. To do that, I need to take you back to the year 1963 … the year that inspirational US President John F Kennedy was assassinated. And only a year after he deftly out-bluffed the Russians over the alarming Cuban Missile Crisis
I was 18, and it’s fair to say, a late developer when it came to sex, but then unless you are my age and was a teenager in the early sixties, you won’t understand that sex was not as freely obtained as it may be these days. Parents exercised stricter control over a teenager’s life than they do today. The females that guys dated as a teenager were constantly fearful of becoming pregnant. The contraceptive pill had only just been approved in USA and by 1963, only 6.5 million women there were using it.
I can’t recall when the pill was approved in my homeland, Australia, but as with most health initiatives back then, we were at least two or three years behind the USA. Even when the pill was approved for use to grant young unmarried women more freedom to engage in pre-marital sex, many encountered a new fear … the embarrassment of asking a doctor to prescribe the pill. Should she see her own family GP and risk him telling her parents that their daughter is sexually active or go to another suburb or town to find a doctor who didn’t know her? Nearly as traumatic for the girls as going into a pharmacy to buy condoms was for the young guys.
So, I am trying to establish that, back then, there were many obstacles to boldly embarking on wild uninhibited, fear-free sex in the early sixties. Even a young woman’s underwear made life difficult for guys with wandering hands and fingers. No flimsy panties or thongs. Unless their body was super slim, most women wore heavy constricting undergarments known either as corsets (invented in the 15th century although somewhat modified through the ages and usually for the older women) or the newer creation, girdles (worn by the younger women from mid-teens).
If you actually managed to work your fingers inside the tight and intimate confines of a young woman’s girdle, that was made firm by tight nylon and latex rubber, you could find the blood supply to your fingers cut off, rendering any movement of them extremely difficult.
So it was in 1963, at the tender age of 18, I began dating a young woman of the same age and she became my first girlfriend. A college education was not so easily attained back in those days so I found myself out in the workforce. Patricia was a lovely girl, a work colleague, and we got on extremely well and spent a lot of time together.
Being a horny young teenager, I was anxious and eager to put into practice all the sexual things I had learned from hanging around at high school with guys who had already been lucky enough to score with the young women who were ready to put out. Why did I never meet one of those girls back then so I could have been one of the guys who could speak from experience?
But Patricia was such a nice girl, who like me, had scarcely dated. I would guess accurately that she was still a virgin at that time. I had deduced that from how strongly her hands, assisted by the protection afforded by those elasticised latex rubber girdles, repelled my every advance escort bursa below the waist, even when her parted lips and sliding tongue on mine were implying, “Yes, go for it.”
So, as warm and cosy as it was to have a loving girlfriend at that age, I went home most nights with what was then quaintly referred to as ‘blue balls,’ literally aching to expel their life-creating fluids through my erect cock to where they might fulfil their original purpose, procreation, seeding a woman’s eggs inside her uterus.
I mentioned how parents exercised a lot more control over their children back then, but that also meant they cared too. My mother was a perceptive woman and quite liberal in her thinking for that era. While she had welcomed Patricia to our house when I dared to invite my new girlfriend around for a meal or two, she could see that something wasn’t quite right. Maybe it was her coming across the dried cum stains on my sheets when she made my bed, a giveaway surely that I was having the need to jerk off when I got home after my frustrating dates with Patricia … of sexual arousal without fulfilment.
Mom tried to talk to me, but in my embarrassment, I rebuffed every attempt she made. Recognising that I had no intention of opening up to my own mother about my need to get laid, she began plotting to help me out, but I didn’t work that out until years later.
“Paul, can you spare a little time to help out your Aunt Shirley this weekend?”
“Sure mom, what’s her problem?”
“Not a lot, she just needs a strong strapping young man like yourself to help with a couple of difficult tasks around the house. For one, she needs the leaves cleared from out of her guttering. She can’t go climbing ladders to do that.”
“Will it take long mom, Patricia and I had a few plans for this weekend?”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be this weekend, but when you go over to Shirley’s, I’d like you to have time available. I mean, not be rushing like you feel it’s a nuisance to have to be there. She is our flesh and blood you know, my youngest sister.”
“Okay mom, well if it’s okay to leave it to the following weekend, I won’t make any plans with Patricia for that Saturday until the evening … okay?”
“Yes, that would be great Paul.”
Patricia and I went to a movie on the following Friday night before my Saturday commitment to go around to my Aunt Shirley’s house. Mom had loaned me her car and after the movie I drove us to a popular parking spot for teens, aka ‘tail-light alley.’
Having been regularly dating for three months at that point, an immediate burst of passionate tongue kissing had become accepted practice for us from the moment I turned the car engine off and folded one arm around behind Patricia to hold her head steady while my lips devoured hers.
As had by then become my custom on each date, my free hand began wandering once the intense kissing began. At first, I was content to just run my hand up and down her arm, but slowly so as not to alarm Patricia, I slipped my hand onto her clothed breast, intimately massaging. She seemed to like that and I continued for a while before my fingers cautiously slipped up to begin unbuttoning her blouse.
This was not new, I had managed to completely part the two sides of her blouse to expose her bra on the past two weekends. I couldn’t see her bra with my face and lips so closely engaged with hers, but my fingers transferred onto the bra cup. This Friday evening, something felt different as my palm detected she was wearing a bra I hadn’t encountered before. Could she have bought this bra especially for me? Her bras that I had become familiar with had a lot of lace, the material so thick that I couldn’t even detect her nipples when my hand rolled over the material … nipples that I was still yet to see.
But this bra felt silky smooth like nylon and I could clearly feel the size and texture of Patricia’s nipple becoming prominent in the palm of my hand, the soft nylon a barely there barrier to my massaging hand. My girlfriend whimpered like she was relishing my soft touch and my lips and slippery sliding tongue worked harder at hers.
Her nipple stiffened nicely, this nipple that I had never seen, either dormant or hardened, and grew to become quite a firm bud. I had to get my lips on that. I pulled my lips and face back, taking a moment to look into her eyes in the dim light on tail-light alley before slipping my lips to that bared bra, my eyes open, seeing her nipple for the very first time, noting that the soft smooth nylon that my hand had felt was so sheer it was see-through.
My lips closed over that finely covered nipple and, drawing on every titbit of information I had gleaned from those so knowledgeable smart high-school boys who had already been down this road with their girls, I puckered my lips to begin sucking on her teat enthusiastically. Patricia’s lovely body squirmed beneath my oral onslaught and her whimpering sounds intensified, growing louder now that my bursa merkez eskort lips were not covering hers.
My lips having claimed that one breast, my hand was superfluous up here. It rolled back down that nearest arm, kept sliding until landing on one thigh, still covered by her skirt. Down, down my hand slithered, almost to her knee where it encountered skin covered by nylon stocking.
Back in 1963, very few women would dare go out without covering their bare legs in a pair of stockings. No elasticised hold-ups and dreaded pantihose were yet to become accepted. I did wonder what prompted the late Allen Gant Snr to invent pantihose all those years ago when all women wearing stockings — including his wife — had to wear either a garter belt or a control girdle, with suspenders, to be able to keep her stockings taut and tight and sheer on her legs.
But to me, such an unaware teenager in the summer of 1963, what a young woman wore beneath her dress to keep her stockings from falling down was still much a mystery. All I knew was that the stockings disappeared up under a woman’s skirt or dress and somehow attached to an undergarment. I had seen as much in those underwear adverts that began appearing in women’s magazines in the late fifties. In my pursuit of knowledge about the opposite sex, I would thumb through them at the local newsstand.
Careful now! My lips were newly exploring Patricia’s breast, attempting to devour this one nipple through the nylon of her bra. Even in Australia where baseball was not the national pastime that it was in the USA, we still knew this as ‘getting to second base.’ She seemed to be enjoying having my lips suckling on one nipple. Could she have she bought this bra specifically to grant me this treat? Surely not! Only males would think that way.
I reasoned with myself that I could blow this totally if my hand, that had found its way to her knee, tried to explore her more vulnerable regions beneath her skirt. I tried to tell myself, ‘Just be content with what has thus far been achieved,’ as I felt my 18-year-old cock becoming rock hard in my pants. Oh my God, wouldn’t it be great if she felt a compulsion to explore too, to touch me there, either accidentally or intentionally. It didn’t matter which to me.
My lips switched nipples and Patricia seemed to like that I was now arousing her other breast as intensely as I had sucked on the first. She brought her hand up to loosely rest on the back of my head. Emboldened by having gone further this night than at any time in the previous 12 weeks of dating, I cast caution aside and began to slip my hand up under her skirt, sliding my fingers up along the smooth nylon encasing her inner thighs.
Did I expect that from my mere caressing touch, her thighs would magically spread apart? My fingers continued to slowly roam higher between my first girlfriend’s tender thighs, while the sweet sounds of her heavy breathing filled the car with windows tightly shut and windscreen fogging up. My lips devouring each nipple alternately through the sheer nylon of her new bra and fingers now so far up under her dress that they reached the top of her stockings, touching smooth bare skin above. I must be almost at the very top of her thighs. My fingers tentatively caressing the lovely smooth soft skin and I could feel what I would much later discover was a suspender attachment holding her stockings in place.
How close was I to reaching her concealed pussy when my fingers slid onto the bare skin of her upper inner thigh? I would contemplate this later tonight when I lay in my bed, wanking my cock while reflecting on how far my sexual development may have progressed this night.
But it seemed that the soft touch of my caressing fingers on bare naked skin above the stockings, and barely inches from her crotch, was a step too far for Patricia at that time. She clamped her thighs tightly together, and the hand that affectionately had held the back of my head, flew down to grasp my wrist, halting the progress of my exploring hand. She didn’t even have time to reach under her own dress to hold my wrist. She held it through the material of her skirt.
Too far! I had pressed too far too quickly. I was so jolted by the quick defence of her hand in grasping my wrist that my lips released her nipple. When I reviewed the progress made that evening later in bed, assessing where I had gone wrong, I thought how I should have maintained my alternating lip lock on her nipples and maybe I could have swung momentum back my way. But in releasing the intense arousal at her breasts, I surrendered all influence in my naïve yet tender seduction of Patricia.
“Too soon,” she whispered to me by way of explanation for stopping me. Is that a hint of future promise though? But at that moment, in my extremely horny state, I only heard her words as rejection … frustration with rejection.
“Sorry,” I felt obliged to offer, although I really had no regrets. I had desperately bursa sınırsız escort wanted sexual connection, but in my innocent pursuit of her most intimate parts I had pushed too far too quickly. That would be obvious to me when I reflected later, but for now all I could think was that I would be going home again with blue balls and I would need to blow off steam tonight, either in bed or in the bathroom. It would all depend on whether my mother was still awake when I returned home. More comfortable in my bed but more private in the bathroom where I could lock the door.
Patricia sat up straight in the passenger seat, straightening her clothing, buttoning her blouse once more, returning to demure and innocent young virgin. I attempted surreptitiously to rearrange the stretch of my erection within the confinement of my underwear … trying not to appear too obvious. Yet hopeful that she understands enough about biology to be sympathetic to my predicament and perhaps make a gesture to relieve my frustration … like by some hand relief.
It didn’t happen, at least not that night.
Later in bed, I applied that hand relief myself, attempting to not verbalise too loud when I blew my cum. I would be embarrassed for my mom to know what I was doing in bed other than sleeping. Since meeting and dating Patricia, masturbation had become a regular ritual for me.
I awoke Saturday with a decent stretch of morning wood. I was just starting again to work up a rhythm on my cock when mom burst into my bedroom to announce she had prepared a hot breakfast, ordering me to rise immediately. Little did she know that the rising had not been a problem as my hand gripped my hard-on under the sheet.
Thwarted for now in pursuit of further relief, I gave in and joined my mother for breakfast, making a concerted effort to try to hide the tenting of my boxers by my unrelieved erection.
After breakfast, I informed my mom I intended to have a shower and she reminded me of my promise to go visit Aunt Shirley to help with some of the chores over at her house. I wondered how long I would be expected to stay at Aunt Shirley’s. After all, I was eager to go see Patricia as soon as possible. I felt uneasy about the way I had left my girlfriend after my clumsy attempt to heat up our relationship.
In the shower, I began another attempt to relieve my heightened sexual tension. But mom was being unusually intrusive this Saturday morning, even daring to knock on the bathroom door while I was in the shower, on the pretext of placing fresh towels just inside the door. At least she didn’t come all the way in. If she had, she’d would not have missed spotting my lathered-up firm erection.
It was going to be a warm summery day so I slipped on just a pair of shorts and a tee and reluctantly drove mom’s car over to Aunt Shirley’s house. Now my aunt — mom’s youngest sister — was a mere 32 back then in 1963 and, when I took the time to look closely at her, I realised what a very attractive woman she was. But when you’re only 18 and just out of high school, any adult on the wrong side of 30, is just that. An adult and not a part of your domain.
My aunt greeted me at her front door in a light summery dress that ended just above the knees. It was cut quite low in front, with buttons from bust to waist and showing an ample display of her twin globes, the skin flawless and smooth. It might have been the first time I had really noticed her boobs. She offered me a cooling drink straight up. I accepted despite being eager to get in and get out, as it were. Ironically, at the time, I could not realise how apt that that turn of phrase would be.
I watched her as we talked about mundane things. She had always been just one of the aunts, one of the adults in my family, not an equal to me … just a woman I needed to respect because she was my mother’s sister. But, watching my Aunt Shirley as she talked, I began to wonder why she had not yet married, why I had never seen her with a guy. This was 1963 and somewhat unenlightened times, so we were less likely to make any judgements like assuming she could be a lesbian. In fact, as I recall that era as a mere 18-year-old, we never associated women as being gay … only some guys were homosexual. Gay still meant bright and happy.
After ten minutes of idle chat about what she’d been doing and swapping bits of gossip on other family members, she asked me to follow her outside where she had a ladder propped against the side of the house. My aunt explained that she wanted me to climb up and clean the leaves out of the gutters. But, before I could climb up to embark on her first designated chore, she kicked off her shoes and blithely climbed high up until she was almost at the gutter height herself. I thought my mom had said climbing ladders was something my aunt could not do.
“Come on Aunt Shirley, mom sent me over to do this for you. Come on down, I don’t want you taking any risks, you could slip and fall from up there.”
As I looked upward, imploring her to come down off the ladder, I unexpectedly found I could see almost all the way under her skirt, clearly glimpsing not just her legs, but an expanse of upper thighs that until this moment had been obscured by her almost knee-length dress. Did she realise what she was doing, how much I could see?
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