I hope this is not, but first, check out a W&B session song:
Now here is the short story The REAL Summer of Love:
The Real Summer of Love
We lived in a small two-story house at the end of a shady country lane. There were three houses actually, all similarly constructed of dark brick. Our family thought the houses to be small, almost tiny, but they were considered to be quite large by British standards. The lane was bordered by tiny pink and purple flowers, hugged by a carpet of white moss.
The first house was occupied by a very British family and their very British son, Trevor. I remember trying to make an effort, at my mother’s behest, to befriend the skinny, pasty-white, geeky little pain-in-the-ass. I went over to his house one day to see if he wanted to go play some soccer, or rather more accurately, football.
“Soccer? Oh you mean football.” He laughed as if he’d never heard the silly word. I wanted to strangle him.
I would have to return.
I showed up right at the appointed hour of 4 pm. and was told to wait in the parlor. Trevor’s mother tried to kill some time by struggling at simple conversation while Trevor “readied” himself for play. Can you believe that? Readied himself for play? What kind of bullshit was that?
Trevor bounded down the staircase two steps at a time and was absolutely exuberant as he bounced out the door and onto the large stone porch. As it turned out, Trevor was an expert on everything. I spent the next hour and a half acting like I was having fun, but mainly putting up with the little jerk was all I was doing. When I came home for supper, Mom wanted to know how it went.
“Great, we had a blast,” I lied.
I never saw Trevor again.
In the third house lived Bobby and Sharon. They were a young couple, probably in their mid-twenties. Bobby was tall and fair, with the coolest mutton chop sideburns, all blonde and bushy. I secretly wished I had Bobby’s mutton chop sideburns.
Sharon, his wife, was the lust of my life. I thought she was hot. Red hot. She was kind of short, about 5’5” and a little bit chunky, but she had the sexiest smile I had ever seen so far in my young life. Every once in a while, as she was flitting about the house or garden, I would sneak a glimpse of her more-than-ample bosom staring at me from behind her strained paisley top. How very lucky was her infant baby, I used to think. I secretly wished I had Bobby’s wife.
It was the summer of my thirteenth year, and I was determined to finally become a man. This would be the summer.
The Summer of Love.
Tony was Sharon’s little brother who lived on the other side of Aylesbury. He was my first British friend. I would meet up with Tony when he visited his sister, and together we would do chores for her while Bobby was at work in his stodgy, smoky office at the bank. After we were done, Sharon always tried to offer us money, and we always refused. We settled on an orange drink, but truth be known, we would have paid her if we had any real money of our own. The soda made my throat bite, right at the spot where my tongue stops and my throat begins.
Life was good.
Tony and I had a blast that summer, running for miles along the banks of the Thames River. Sometimes we would end up in another town or village and find someplace to buy sweets. It was a glorious summer playing along the locks in the canal jetties, the dark hulls of the dank boats nearly invisible as they blended into the black waters of the Thames. We took great comfort playing and running along the river as we always knew our way home.
Tony was from a very modest family that lived across town. Theirs was one of the small box houses so tightly crammed together that they looked like the middle houses were going to collapse under the pressure from the outer homes. The thing I remember most about Tony’s house was the smells. On the rare occasion I found myself in Tony’s kitchen in the morning, it was the smoky assault of fried kippers, a small, tasty fish popular for breakfast (with eggs, of course!). The smell, rich and hearty, permeated the entire house. You could even detect it in the loo upstairs. I was also quite taken with the smell of fresh milk, right out of the bottle. His mom would use one of her shiny silver butter knives to poke through the top two or three inches of rich cream and butterfat. The milk we drink now resembles none of the above.
Somehow, that wonderful summer, my attention changed direction from lusting after Sharon, to lusting after Brittany.
Brittany was Sharon’s babysitter and every thirteen-year old sex maniac’s dream. She was sixteen, a veritable expert on sex, and she wore the hottest fashion of the times: mini-skirts. Actually hers were more like mini-mini-skirts.
I was in heaven.
Brittany dated older boys; blokes with cars and jobs and the lot, so I knew it would take some work on my part to make it happen. I figured I had all summer.
The hard part was getting past the watchful eye of my mother. I had overheard my parents’ hushed conversations about how “that girl is too sexy” and other remarks about Brittany, and they were all true. She even had the added excitement to me of smoking pot. Like I said every thirteen-year old sex maniac’s dream. Every Friday night, she would show up at Bobby and Sharon’s, and for the first month my mom had managed to find a way for me to NOT get together with Brittany. As oversexed as I was, I drew upon a fierce resolve and remained undaunted.
On the very next Friday night, it finally happened.
My mom and dad were entertaining, and our house was full of good cheer and about a dozen of my parents’ friends. I got lucky. Probably the only thing that could draw my mom’s attention away from her oversexed teenage boy’s intentions was entertaining a group of people. Any amount, any occasion. The consummate hostess.
Brittany would be arriving exactly at seven in her mini-mini skirt and I was about to make my way to the entrance of the lane to walk her to Bobby and Sharon’s. I was like a loyal puppy dog, now that I look back at it.
After our usual chit-chat, I left Brittany on the porch and said, as I did every Friday night, that I would try to see her later. She reached out and touched my arm. She was close enough I could smell the liquor on her breath. An electric shock was coursing through my body. I can still remember how it felt that day. She looked at me with her cat-like green eyes, caked heavily with mascara.
“I really hope you can come over tonight,” she slurred.
Now, I am not one to make guarantees, other than that I will be sleeping next to my wife at evenings end. However, I guarantee you I was not going to miss out on that opportunity. I knew that neither hell nor high water would be keeping me away from Brittany that evening.
I returned to my house and did my best to be in the way of everyone at the party. After about a half an hour I waited for my chance. Mom was surrounded by five or six people. As she glanced my way, she stopped talking about the room decorations and asked “Need something Markitos?
“May I please go over and see my friend to watch TV?”
An innocent-enough question, but now with ten pair of eyes focused on her reaction, she was none too appreciative of the timing. She relayed that information silently, with that look only a mother can give her son when she knows she just got had. I still remember her dark eyes looking directly into mine.
“Have a good time,” she relented in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Okay, thanks mom.” I kissed her on the cheek, and I was gone.
I cleared the hedge that bordered our houses within about three seconds. I was ringing the doorbell and trying to look as cool as a thirteen year-old sex maniac could.
Brittany answered the door and it was on.
You would think that such a watershed moment in my personal story would be indelibly ingrained in my memory, that I would recall every last little detail, but the truth is I remember very little of that night. I suppose I was in such a big hurry to become a “man,” that the boy remaining in me forgot to remember anything. I suppose I did alright; at least the “expert” Brittany said so. The British are very polite, remember, so…I didn’t set any world records or anything, but the deed was indeed done.
I never saw Brittany again after leaving England several years later.
Because of the incessant rainy seasons, there is a joke among the locals who dwell in the Midlands, that area in central England south of London and north of Cornwall, that “summer falls on a Friday.”
I still believe that.