Autumn 1980 free porn video

PROLOGUE Autumn 1980. Me and Paul had been mates. Not best mates, but mates nonetheless, and good mates. I was 18 and worked in a bank. Paul was 20 and in the army, stationed mostly in Germany but also doing his stints in Northern Ireland. As such, we only met up when Paul was on leave, and trust me, a good time was always had on those rare occasions! The hangovers were not so good, but hey, we were young - we recovered quickly. But this story is not about Paul, I only mention him as it was he who introduced me to Mitch, his mum. Paul's mum's name was actually Sheila, but she hated the name, and liked to be called Mitch. So Mitch she was (even Paul called her Mitch) and despite her 40 or so years she always looked younger, acted younger, was a great laugh, and a really (really really really) nice person! PART 1 Like I said, when Paul was on leave we used to go out to the pub together. We didn't drink to excess, but enough to prevent me from riding my motorbike home, and the thought of a 6 mile walk with a few beers inside me never appealed so I often kipped on the couch at Mitch's place. This became commonplace over the three or four years that I knew Paul. He left the army and moved away to the north where his dad lived. We stopped getting in touch so often, and eventually drifted apart. I did, however, keep in touch with Mitch throughout this time. When Paul was away I used to call in and see Mitch at least once a week, sometimes two or three times. Occasionally we would pop out to the pub, but most times we sat around at Mitch's place drinking coffee and smoking fags. We grew close. She usually referred to me as her 'number-two son', and in many respects she did Mother me, to the extent that I probably got closer to Mitch during that time that I was with my own parents. I don't know why or what is was, why Mitch and me got on so well together, why we enjoyed each other's company so much... My home life was OK, but that was about it - just OK. My parents were strict, but not overly protective. They were quite happy for me to stay over at a mate's place rather than risk drinking and driving, although in truth I think the real reason was that my dad had to be up early, and I could never sneak in even without a drink without him waking up. And when I woke him up, he got mad, so it got to the stage when I would stay over at Mitch's not because I'd been drinking, but because we had talked late into the night and it wasn't worth the hassle of waking the old man up. The other problem with home life was the constant negativity. I was never praised, or encouraged, or congratulated, or hugged. The odd bit of praise might have been forthcoming as long as I had done something my parents approved of, but most of the time they disapproved with just about everything I did. Everything was questioned, then firmly put down. It was always "What do you want to do that for" or "why" or "men don't do that" or "stop being so stupid". And my crimes? Silly things like getting my ear pierced, letting my hair grow past my collar, having the audacity to wear a pink shirt in front of the old man. Once (when I was much younger) I used one of my mum's aprons whilst helping with the cooking. Dad turned up and 'caught' me - he was not happy. I never worked out why though, as he was a chef, and wore an apron, silly checked trousers, and a scarf around his neck all day, so what was his problem? Maybe it was because his apron, scarf, etc. were white - not pink and purple and flowery. Thing was, I was very good at DIY bits. I could plumb, do electrics, tiling, joinery - most things to keep the house maintained, and Dad was always getting me to help with something, although I usually took over as he couldn't do it. Funny, my earring never seemed to bother him when I was plumbing in a new sink, or hanging a new door? Oh well, c'est la vie. Or should that be c'est la guerre? I began to spend more and more of my free time with Mitch. She knew I was good at DIY, and with Paul away for months at a time her 'number-two son' was useful to have around, and I enjoyed doing work for Mitch - she seemed to appreciate my efforts. I did allsorts - decorated her living room, put in some new kitchen taps, put an electric power-shower in for her, stuff like that. Her flat was nice, especially on the inside, but the outside was a bit tatty. OK, but tatty. It was because of one of these tatty outside bits that it all started. PART 2 It was a cold, very wet, blustery Saturday in November. I was pottering around at home, trying to avoid my dad as I had bought another earring, more prominent than the original sleeper, and I didn't want to wind him up - far too much hassle. So I sorted out my bedroom, had a shower and came downstairs for a bit of breakfast and a smoke. Mum was in the kitchen. "Oh," was all she said. "Oh what?" I asked. "The earring. What on earth made you buy that? I thought you had no money. I really don't know what your father will make of it... And your hair is too long. You work in a bank remember? I thought you had to look presentable, and that means short, tidy hair." "Yes, Mum, I mean no Mum, wait, I mean yes Mum... Oh, whatever!" Mum just tut-tutted, put on her apron, and started washing the dishes. I poured out some Cornflakes, added milk and sugar, made a cup of coffee and went to sit down and eat. I had been sat down less than a minute when the phone rang. Mum answered it. "Erik..." she called. "It's for you..." I didn't ask who it was, Mum probably didn't know anyway, and she seldom asked who was calling if it was for me or my brother. I went to the phone, picking up and lighting a ciggie on the way. "Hello, Erik here..." "Hello number-two son. How are you? Are you terribly busy?" It was Mitch, and she sounded like she was having a pretty bad morning. "Oh, hi Mummy-Mitch," I said. (She hated that, but if you can't wind up your parents, even your surrogate ones, then who can you wind up?) "Don't call me that!" Mitch laughed down the phone. "Are you really busy cos I could use your help." "Why?" I asked, "What's up?" "It's the guttering outside the bathroom window. It's come loose and with all this rain the water is cascading down the wall to the ground floor flat." "So let it cascade!" I said, laughing. "No-one is going to notice while it's raining, I'll sort it out when the sun comes out. See you in a few months!" "It's not funny!" I could tell Mitch was now getting more upset. "The rainwater is landing on Shelley's window and splashing back into her flat! It's going to ruin something!" "Hey," I said. "Calm down. I was only kidding you. Can't you get Shelley to close her window for now and I'll sort it out as soon as I can?" "That's the other problem, Erik" Mitch responded. "Shelley is away until much later, maybe even til tomorrow. She's obviously forgotten to close the window properly, so I'm worried about that as well. Someone might break in..." "Yeah, I get the message. Put the kettle on and I'll be over as soon as I can. Oh, has whassisname next door still got the double-extension ladder?" "I think so," Mitch said, obviously a bit more relaxed now, "His car is outside, so give him a knock when you get here. And don't be long!" "Yes Mummy-Mitch, I'm on my way." Mitch just laughed and hung the phone up. We often finished conversations with one of us laughing, not like with my parents. Sure, they laughed at me, but seldom if ever with me. I skulled the half-cold coffee, stuffed the last Cornflakes into my mouth, grabbed a jacket and crash-helmet, and said a quick "Good-bye" to my real mum. "Drive carefully," she said, "it's tipping it down out there." "I will Mum. See you later. Say 'hi' to Dad when he gets up. And tell him what an absolutely fantastic earring I've bought, and how good it looks, and how he is really going to like it..." Mum just smiled and flicked my receding backside with the now damp tea- towel. PART 3 As I started up the bike (Kwacker 650 for anyone who cares) the rain slowed to nothing more than a slight drizzle. As such, I didn't bother with waterproofs, just kicked her over, waited a couple of minutes, shut off the choke, and set off. I was at Mitch's flat in under 20 minutes. Within another 10 minutes I had been to see whassisname next door, and was struggling to get the ladder propped up. Once propped, I surveyed the damage from terra-firma. Not too bad, looked like a gutter bracket had come out. That or a join had come loose. Either way, it wouldn't take long, which was just as well as it was starting to rain quite heavily again. I went up the outside stairs to Mitch's flat, stopping to push closed the offending open window in Shelley's ground floor flat on the way. I rang the bell, waited a few seconds, then rang it again. "Alright, alright I heard you. No need to wear the bell out, I'm coming." Mitch opened the door, smiled her huge, lovely smile, gave me a quick hug, and said, "Oh thanks for coming over so quickly. I just didn't know what to do and with the rain coming down so hard and Shelley's window being open and...." "Whoa," I said, "slow down. Breathe! I'm here now, and it looks like it's about to chuck it down again so if it's OK with you we'll have coffee when I've finished?" Mitch just smiled again, and nodded her head. I could tell she wasn't having a good day. She wasn't dressed, but had obviously showered. She stood at the door in her pink towelling bathrobe that stopped around mid-calf. Her wet hair was wrapped turban-style in a slightly darker pink towel. On her feet were a pair of those white towelling slippers that the better hotels seem to think that everybody wants to wear, and to set it all off she was wearing a red half-apron with long, wide ties that were tied in a near perfectly symmetrical bow just above her bottom. To me, she looked very 'Mumsy', and I must admit she also looked fantastic. So fantastic in fact, that I swear I felt some mild stirrings somewhere between my knees and my stomach. That's the problem with riding motorbikes on cold, wet days - you eventually loose all sense of feeling! I abruptly changed my pattern of thought. "Christ, Erik!" I thought. "This is your number-two Mum here, and you're her number-two son. So switch off the testosterone generator for a while and get fixing!" I looked at Mitch standing there, and couldn't resist mentioning her attire. "Mitch," I said, almost sounding concerned. "When are you going to learn that two opposing shades of pink, set off with white accessories and a red apron do not add up to a colour-co-ordinated look? At least treat yourself to some new towels and a dressing gown that matches, and as for the apron, if you must wear white shoes then can I suggest that maybe a white apron would be more appropriate to the overall fashion statement?" Mitch looked back at me, smiled, and said, "If you don't stop being cheeky to your number-two Mum, and get out there right now and fix the gutter, you won't be drinking coffee - you'll be wearing it! Oh, and by the way, I love the new earring, it really suits you. Did you get the other ear pierced as well like you said you might?" I went a bit red. I had forgotten that I had told Mitch a few weeks back that I was thinking of getting the other ear pierced. She had thought it a great idea, and told me so in no uncertain terms. If anything, she was a tad too much in love with the idea. Anyway, I did get my other ear pierced, but took the earring out when I was at home. Too much potential hassle with the old man. Mitch sort of tilted her head a bit, and looked at me again, although this time she wasn't smiling. She had a concerned, almost sad look on her face because she knew that I had to be so careful what I wore at home, how I acted, etc. And she could tell that there was possibly more to 'me' than I was letting on. She could probably also tell that I wasn't really that happy. "Hey," she suddenly said, ending the silence and throwing me the key to the shed. "You'd better get your finger out as it's starting to rain harder now. The tools are in the usual place, try not to get too wet..." I went back downstairs, opened up the shed and started to sort out some tools. Mitch had a reasonable set of tools, some having been left by her ex-husband, others bought over the months on my recommendation. I grabbed a selection, shoving them in pockets, belt loops, or down my boots as space would allow, and a few black-Japanned screws which I shoved into the front pocket of my jeans. As I put my hand in, it occurred to me that the rumblings I had felt from first seeing Mitch that day had not totally dissipated - despite the weather. To be honest, I didn't really understand why the one-eyed-trouser-snake should have found Mitch so appealing. I saw her and treated her as a surrogate mother. A fun-loving young at heart mother with a wicked sense of humour (and a bit of a filthy mind) but a mother nonetheless. A mother who really seemed to care about me. Wanted me to be happy. Wanted what I wanted... PART 4 I was shaken from my thoughts by the sudden sound of the rain falling harder now. "Shit" I thought, "do I carry on or wait until the rain stops? What the heck, I'm already pretty wet and the damn gutter won't fix itself. I know, have a ciggie and see if the rain slows down at all." I lit up, and stood there in the dry shelter of the shed smoking, and thinking. I swore to myself again, my thoughts were drifting back to Mitch - not a good idea (although still intriguing...) I put out the cigarette, strode purposefully out into the rain and within a few steps I was perched way up on whassisname's ladder surveying the rainwater gutter from high level. I had been right, a bracket had come out. Probably due to the fact that the fascia-board was rotten. This meant that I couldn't just re-fix the bracket, I would have to make new fixings into sound timber, adjust the joins a bit so it still all lined up properly, and whilst I was at it, clear out the mass of leaves and accumulated muck that were obviously not helping the situation. It wasn't a particularly difficult job, just a bit awkward being up a ladder in the pouring rain. Add to this the fact that until the gutter was re-fixed, the rainwater was still cascading out, not into Shelley's ground floor window, but all over me! The job was completed within an hour, and the ladder had been returned to whassisname next door. I put the tools away, locked the shed door, and walked (squelched?) back up the stairs to Mitch's front door. This time though I didn't need to ring the bell. The door opened as I approached and Mitch was standing there, laughing. Not a nasty ridiculing laugh, just an 'honest' laugh as she looked at the poor bedraggled soul dripping rainwater onto her doormat. I feigned exhaustion, with maybe a bit of hypothermia thrown in, frost-bite to at least two fingers, and to cap it all off, my cigarette packet was soaked - the cigarettes left inside just wet and limp shadows of their former selves. I stood there looking at Mitch. She was dressed now and looking a lot better. She was wearing a plain denim skirt, white jumper, and blue slipper-come-mules on her tan-stockinged feet. (Probably wearing tights, but 'tighted feet' just doesn't sound right!) She wore a little bit of make-up - some eye-liner and mascara, a lovely light cherry-coloured lipstick and maybe a hint of blusher. Mitch also had a light-blue silk head-scarf covering a mass of rollers in her hair. Her hair always looked good, and I knew she set it herself at least three times a week. I had never seen her actually setting it, just saw her either in rollers, or in rollers and scarf, or under the dryer, or the finished result. Whatever, she must have been good at it as the rollers were always tight, evenly aligned, always the perfect diameter for the particular section of hair, and the finished result was always stunning. I just stood and dripped and tried to look sorry for myself, tried to look hard done-by. I remember thinking, "If I stand here looking any soppier she'll throw be a doggie-biscuit or a bone!" But my demeanour, however contrived, had the desired effect. Mitch stopped laughing and put her concerned face back on again. I started. "Hi Mitch, all done. And I've shut Shelley's window as well. Don't suppose I could borrow a towel?" "Oh Erik," said Mitch, "you poor boy, you're absolutely soaked through. And you look half frozen. A towel won't be any good, get your wet things off while I run you a hot bath." "What!", I said, "take them off here? Are you mad? Can't I come in first?" "No, you can't. You're making enough mess already. No-one can see you, but tell you what, you stand there and have a smoke while the bath is running. When it's ready I'll call you, and you can strip off quickly and leg it straight into the bathroom. Simple, huh?" Her strange logic seemed to make sense, so I reluctantly agreed. "OK" I said. "But first, promise not to laugh, and second, do you have a spare ciggie?" "Of course I won't laugh," Mitch replied. "You've done me a really great favour today and I am so, so grateful. Right now I'm far more concerned about you catching pneumonia than anything else. And I was only joking about standing out there, so get straight into the bathroom and get those wet things off. I'll fill the bath." "Thanks Mummy-Mitch" I said, "and I was only joking about your clash of colours earlier. I think you actually looked great." We both blushed a bit this time. As the bath filled, I stripped off my wet things, well, most of them. I wrapped a towel round my waist then struggled to remove my boxers without exposing myself. Mitch knew what was going on, even though she had her back to me. Without saying anything, she left the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Through the closed door she called out, "You're safe now, get in the bath and I'll bring you a coffee." I was grateful for the privacy, but even so whipped my boxers off at manic speed, and quickly immersed myself in the still-running bathwater, making sure there were plenty of bubbles to prevent any potentially embarrassing exposure. A couple of minutes passed, I was warming up nicely, enjoying the soft fragrance of the bubbles and the feeling of the hot water warming me through. There was a gentle tap on the door followed by a quiet, almost whispered, "Are you decent? Can I come in?" "Yeah, sure," I answered, "come on in." Mitch came in carrying a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. She put them down beside the bath then disappeared again without saying anything. She returned almost immediately with a packet of cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray, which she set down beside the coffees. Mitch then deftly flicked two cigarettes from the pack, lit them one at a time and passed one to me. I went to take it, but then realised my hands were wet. Mitch must have noticed at the same time because she reached over to the towel rail, grabbed the pink towel that had been on her head when I first arrived and handed the towel to me. I quickly dried off my hands, sitting up a bit more as I did so, thanked Mitch and handed her back the towel. She didn't put it back on the rail, but instead folded it neatly, the way only women do, and set it on her lap. I sat in the bath, Mitch was kneeling on the bathroom floor. We smoked our cigarettes and drank our coffee while I explained what I had done to the guttering, how long the repair should last, what to say in the 'complaint' letter to her landlord, reminded her to speak to Shelley about leaving her window open, just inane banter really while I gradually started to do a reasonable impression of a shrivelled prune. Mitch didn't say much, just nodded her head, or shook her head, or said "Uh-huh" or "Uh-uh" as appropriate. We fell silent for a minute. Without speaking, Mitch got up, passed me the towel she had been holding in her lap, scooped up all my clothes and left the room. When she was outside she shut the door and called through it, "Come on, time for lunch, get out of the bath. I'll fetch you a clean robe." With that, I got out of the bath, towelled myself off, wrapped the towel around my waist, and waited for Mitch to return. There was a soft tap on the door. Without waiting for a response Mitch opened the door just enough to pass a robe in. "It's the only other one I've got" she said, "but it's clean and dry." The robe was a pale lilac, with a shawl collar, tie belt, and more ribbon-like ties inside. It was only as I went to do it up that I realised it did up the other way to a man's robe, and that it had the extra ties inside. I adjusted the robe, tied the ribbons, then tied the belt. The robe was quite long, and I am quite short, so it almost reached my ankles. For some reason I decided that my towel should not go back on the towel rail, so I took it out with me, folding it as I went. Mitch was in the kitchen preparing a sandwich, and I walked in with the folded towel held close to me. "Where do you want this?" I asked, motioning with my head at the towel. "Oh, just dump it in the washing machine for now. I'll wash it in a minute with the rest of your clothes." "You're washing my clothes?" I asked, somewhat surprised, "can't they just dry out?" "Well they can," Mitch said, "but they'll feel much fresher in they are clean. It won't take long, you can keep your robe on for now." Mitch smiled, then added with mock authority, "As long as you keep it clean. That's my favourite robe and I don't want it covered in stains!" "But.." I said, "it's OK washing my jeans and t-shirt, but can't I at least keep, um, my, um..." "What?" said Mitch, "keep what?" "It's, um, just that.... Well, I feel a bit naked without me boxers." I know I went red as I said it, and was expecting Mitch to laugh. Instead, she came over to me, hugged me, and said, "Oh, Erik, you're so sweet." She hugged me a bit longer. I could feel her pushing the soft towelling of the robe against my groin. She hugged me harder. Now the material was caressing by groin from the front, and also my bottom. I felt my penis start to stiffen, just a bit, but enough that I just knew I was about to embarrass myself. I was desperately trying to 'think' the dreaded one- eyed trouser snake back into limp submission when my thoughts disobeyed me again and before I knew it they had gone back to earlier that day when I had first seen Mitch standing at the door in her pink robe, and a towel wrapped round her head. Mitch released me from the hug, and quickly walked off towards her bedroom. I managed to keep my back to her so she wouldn't see the by now quite stiff protrusion creating a very unflattering shape in the front of the gown. I couldn't help it - for some reason I grabbed my penis through the robe, holding it in the soft lilac towelling. Not rubbing, just enjoying the feel of the very feminine material on me, thinking about Mitch in her robe, thinking of her now in her rollers, thinking of... "Come on you," came a voice from behind me. "Put these on." The sudden sound of Mitch's voice scared me half to death. Luckily, it seemed to scare the trouser-snake as well and he started to wilt just as suddenly as he had started to stiffen. Before I knew what was happening, I could feel Mitch down by my ankles, asking me to lift one foot, then the other. As I did so, I felt her pull a pair of... "a pair of what", I thought, "spare boxers, pants, knickers..." Mitch pulled them further up my legs. "Lift your robe up a bit Honey", she said, "just need to pull them up the last bit." I was mesmerised. Part of me wanted to complain, tell her to stop. Tell her I would either go without or just put my damp boxers back on. "Christ," I thought, "my boxers must be dry by now..." But another part of me wanted this so much. Loved the feel of the soft cotton panties, loved being 'mothered' as Mitch pulled them up for me, loved the feel of the robe as I pulled it up just enough for Mitch to wiggle the underwear up my thighs and into position. Once more I found myself battling hard to stop my penis from coming out to play again. I almost succeeded. "There, is that better? Does number-two son not feel naked anymore? They seem to fit fine, or will do once you've calmed down a bit..." Now, I was no longer mesmerised - I was mortified instead. I needed to collect myself, but I couldn't think straight. I just felt myself getting hotter and hotter and redder and redder. Mitch was still behind me, but had stood back up and was now smoothing the front of my robe back over my groin. She turned me to face her, but I couldn't look her in the eye. Mitch reached out and hugged me again. "Don't worry," she said softly, "I had a husband and a son remember. I watched my son grow up, I know what goes on. It's only a pair of cotton knickers. They are really no different from guy's pants. Just think of it like that. And I'll bet lots of men wear purple towelling bath robes.." "It's not purple." I stated without taking my eyes off the floor. "It's lilac. And men's pants don't have lace trimming. And men's pants are not pink." Mitch laughed. "They are when I put Paul's white pants in the wash with my red top!" I couldn't help it - I laughed too, and then we were just two people enjoying each other's company again. OK, I was wearing pink panties and a lady's lilac robe, but Mitch certainly wasn't bothered by it. It seemed to be my problem, not hers. My mind wandered to what my Mum and especially my Dad would make of it all. Was that guilt creeping up on me? "Stuff 'em", I said out loud. "They are only clothes". Mitch just smiled. "C'mon," she said, "let's eat". PART 5 We ate our sandwiches in silence. Mitch made some more coffee. We had another cigarette. "OK" I said, stubbing out my ciggie in the nearly full ashtray, "what now?" "Washing up?" said Mitch, also looking at the nearly full ashtray. I took the plates, mugs and ashtray over to the sink and started to run some water. Mitch got up and went to the kitchen drawer where she rummaged a while before pulling out an apron. It was purple gingham, with a ruffled pink gingham edging, and long, wide purple gingham ties. She stood behind me, reached around my waist and tied the apron into a neat bow. "Remember what I said, keep that robe clean." She handed me the rubber gloves. This time I didn't say a word, or go red. It just all seemed so natural. Mitch was wearing an apron to keep her clothes clean, so why shouldn't I? We both have small hands - small 'Marigolds' are pink. (Medium 'Marigolds' are yellow - I've never met anyone who wore the large size so couldn't tell you what colour they are.) "Cos you're a man! Real men don't do that!" said a voice inside my head, a voice that sounded remarkably like my parents. "Oh, piss off!" I thought to myself. I washed the dishes while Mitch dried them and put them away. Then I wiped clean the worktops, emptied the washing up bowl, wiped the sink, re-wiped the worktops with a tea-towel to dry them off, dried the taps (prevents hard-water marks from appearing), then folded up the tea-towel the way I had seen Mitch folding the towel earlier, almost caressing it into a neat, folded bundle. Mitch smiled. "Well done, it makes a change to see a man who actually knows what 'washing up' means. My son, and his father, thought that it just meant rinsing the mugs and leaving them on the drainer. Typical men!" "Am I not a typical man then?" I asked. "No" she replied, "you are my number-two son. You are different, but all the better for it." I wasn't sure what Mitch meant, and didn't want to ask. I felt comfortable, I felt happy, I also felt a bit vulnerable, but I was enjoying that sensation too. Sort of made me feel closer to Mitch. Sort of made me feel guilty as well. "OK" I said again, "what now?" "Um, you can help me take these rollers out if you like..." Mitch smiled at me as she spoke. A kind and loving smile. The sort of smile a caring mother gives her child - I couldn't resist that smile. It reminded me of things, long forgotten things, from way, way back. Nice things. "Sure" I replied, "but I've never done it before. I might mess it up." "Course you won't, silly" laughed Mitch. "All you've got to do is take out the pins, unroll each curler, put them NEATLY in the box, and I'll sort the rest." "OK, sounds easy, let's go do it." I went to untie my apron. "No" said Mitch, quickly, "leave it on. It looks good on you. No, you look good in it. No... Oh whatever, just leave it on. Please?" I followed Mitch into her bedroom where she sat at a small vanity unit. On the unit was a large plastic box containing more rollers, pins, clips, a couple of hair nets, and every conceivable size and shape of brush and comb. "I didn't realise they made so many brushes and combs," I said to Mitch as she untied and removed her scarf, which she folded and hung over the edge of the mirror on her vanity unit. "Right," said Mitch, "start at the front, take all the pins and any clips out first. Go across the top, down the back, and do the sides last." It actually wasn't as easy as I thought. Due to the fact that I was standing behind Mitch, I had to look in the mirror to see the pins in the rollers at the top and front of her head, then try to coordinate my fingers into working in reverse to pull out the pins. I suppose I could have moved in front of her, but for some reason it felt 'proper' to stand behind her, conversing with her reflection rather than face to face. I took the first couple of pins out slowly, I didn't want to either stab Mitch in the head, or dislodge any of the unpinned rollers. As I removed the pins, Mitch looked at me in the mirror. She appeared to be thinking. I started carefully unrolling each curler, putting them in the box as I went, and methodically 'helping' each curl to spring back into place. When I got to the nape of her neck, we could no longer see each other's reflections properly. It was then that Mitch started to speak. "Erik.." She paused, waiting for me to respond. "Uh-huh" was the extent of my response as I lost myself in my current duties. Duties which I was enthralled by, I was loving them, I was loving working on Mitch's hair, even if it was only removing a few pins and rollers. But I was in another world, an enchanting world, a world that was so removed from the 'cos-you're-a-man-and-men-don't-do-that' one that was my home life. In my life, whether it was by nature or nurture, to know about anything or be interested in anything remotely feminine was akin to screaming from the rooftops 'I'm a sissy. I'm not a real man. I can't be, cos I know what curlers are and I know what they are for!' In my world, if a man knew what women's things were, then he was obviously a closet transvestite, and a pervert to boot, and should be ridiculed at every conceivable opportunity. (Ring any bells with anyone?) "You OK?" It was as if Mitch was listening to my thoughts. Seeing things the way I was seeing them. She too was suffering my dichotomy of 'I'm doing girlie hair things but I shouldn't be. I'm wearing a lilac towelling robe but shouldn't be. I'm wearing pink lace-trimmed knickers but shouldn't be. My robe is protected by a purple and pink gingham apron but it shouldn't be. I'm enjoying myself but I shouldn't be. I'm happy but I shouldn't be.' "Yeah, fine. Just thinking." I said. "You were about to say something?" "Oh, yes, what was it?" Mitch started, moving her head slightly to get a better view of my face. "Your hair is starting to get quite long Erik. Are you growing it?" I was in two minds whether to respond in truth or do the blokey thing and blag my way out of it. If I had been at home, I would have blagged my way out. Sort of, "Yeah, it's too long, I hate it. Been meaning to get it cut, you know, really short for ages but there's either been no time or no money. *Laugh-laugh* Can't wait to get it cut. Saw a neat haircut in the barbers the other day, real military cut. Loved it, gonna get mine done like that. A proper man's cut." But I didn't say that, or anything like it. To my surprise (or was it?) I took a deep breath, looked in Mitch's reflection's eyes in the mirror, and spoke. "Yes. I was growing it, am growing it. I can't really decide what to do with it, so thought at least if it's longer I would have more styling choices. I was thinking about getting it permed...." Mitch just sat and listened intently. "...but no, I'm not now." "Why not now?" asked Mitch. She was genuinely interested, which persuaded me to go on. "I made the mistake of mentioning it to my Mum a couple of weeks back. Just in passing I said I was thinking about a perm. Big mistake, she went bananas. She said to me 'men don't have perms. I don't care what footballers do, you're not a footballer and they are not proper men' and 'perms on men look stupid' and 'how much is that going to cost? I thought you had no money...' and 'what on earth is your father going to say?' and 'why don't you just go the barbers up the road and get a nice neat man's haircut. He doesn't charge much...' Anyway, she went on and on and on at me, so whilst I didn't get my hair cut, I did give up the perm idea." Mitch looked confused. "Why?" she asked, "what's wrong with a perm?" I laughed. "Well, my mum is right. It probably will look stupid. Dad will definitely do his pieces. Uncles and aunts will all piss themselves laughing. I will end up spending too much money and look like a total twat just to be either moaned at, ridiculed, or both." I was angry now, and Mitch could sense it. I put the last roller in the box and left Mitch alone in her bedroom. I didn't quite storm out, but it wasn't far off it. Luckily, my cigarettes had dried out, so I flicked one from the pack, lit it and took a huge drag. Thinking about my parents reaction had not only made me angry, it had made me sad, and like most men, I covered up the layers of sadness with more layers of anger. Anger is a masculine response. Sadness is a feminine response. Must be, cos that's what my parents taught me. I willed my senses back to the here and now. "Come on Eric" I thought, "you were happy a few minutes ago. Don't let them (my parents) take that away." I calmed down a bit, the layers of anger gradually peeling away as I smoked. Mitch came into the room just as the final anger layer had been lifted to reveal a layer of sadness. A small tear formed in the corner of my eye. I brushed it away quickly - real men don't cry. PART 6 Mitch came over to me, and for the third time that day she hugged me. Three hugs in one day, more than I can remember getting at home in the last ten years. I hugged her tight, fighting back the tears that I could still feel welling up, almost uncontrollably. As she held me she rubbed my back, all the way from my shoulders to the bow on my apron ties. Beyond the bow to my backside. The backside still clad in pink, lace- trimmed panties. As she rubbed me, the feel of the material of my robe and underwear once again worked its magic and I felt the beginnings of an erection. I started to pull away, but Mitch just held me tighter, knowing that I was starting to stiffen uncontrollably, but letting it happen all the same. As I became fully erect, she held me just that little bit tighter, that little bit longer, before finally letting go so I could quickly turn away and 'adjust my set' so to speak. Keeping my back to her, I walked away and sat on the sofa. At least by sitting down it was easier to hide certain parts on my anatomy. Mitch came over and sat beside me. She had combed out her set now - she looked wonderful. The finished hairdo gave her some sort of fresh appeal, I don't know what it was - she just looked.... gorgeous. Mitch looked across at me, firstly looking into my eyes, then a quick glance down at my lap, she smiled a wry smile then looked back into my eyes, deeper this time. "You OK" she said for the second time that afternoon. "Yeah," I sighed, "fine. You?" "Well, I would be if my number-two son was a bit happier. C'mon, cheer up. For what it's worth I think a perm is a great idea and will suit you to a 't'. You shouldn't listen to other people all the time. Go with your own needs now and again. Do what you want to do. Be who you want to be. Be what you want to be." This last statement went seemingly unnoticed by me, at least at a conscious level, as I felt the anger welling up again. Anger, and resentment, and guilt. I looked at Mitch, and shook my head. "Thanks Mitch," I said, "but my parents are right this time. It was a stupid idea, it will look stupid. Sorry, I should never have said anything. Are my clothes dry, I really should be going home and leaving you in peace." "What for?" Mitch retorted, with a level of anger in her voice that I had not experienced before. "Go home so you can wallow in your misery? Go home to wallow in more guilt and resentment and anger? Go home to prove your parents right? What are you going to say when you get home? Something like 'hi Mum, had an awful time, got very wet, fixed the gutter, almost froze to death' just so you can hear your mum tell you how wonderfully manly you are? Leave me in peace for what? Paul isn't here and I am divorced, remember? Believe me I have my fair share of peace in this flat, that's why I love it when you come here. You're usually good company and a laugh to be with because you're you, not what your parents want you to be! Well, you may be my number-two son, and I want nothing more than for you to be happy, but if you're determined to turn your life into some self-fulfilling prophecy dominated by doom and gloom and your father's ideas of being a man, then go do it. Take off MY robe, change your pants if you must, but don't do it just because you are either unable to feel good or won't let yourself feel good." "But..." I managed to interject before Mitch started again. "And another thing. Don't try and kid yourself you're not happy here. I hugged you, I felt you, I felt what was stirring in you. For fuck's sake Erik, I know what a fucking erection feels like and looks like and I...." Mitch stopped mid-sentence and looked away. I said nothing. Didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry Erik, I didn't mean to have a go. I'm sorry. It's just that, it's just well, you start to get happy, you start to look and feel a bit more at ease with yourself, then you get all uptight on me and tell me you've got to go home like it's my fault. All I was trying to say was, that in my opinion, and you can take it or leave it, I think that permed hair will look really good on you. That's all." I sighed deeply. "Look, Mitch, Mummy-Mitch, it's not your fault, it's mine. I just get all worked up when I think too much. It's that old thing of guilt feeding upon resentment feeding upon anger feeding upon guilt. I know I do it, or let it happen, or however it is the thing works, but I can't help it. It's like a vicious circle that I can't get out of. Don't know how to get out of it" "Or won't let yourself?" said Mitch, finally looking at me again, "and don't call me Mummy-Mitch!" Mitch went back into the kitchen and found a half-full bottle of red wine on the shelf. She picked two glasses from the cupboard, then looked at me with one eye-brow raised as if asking "you want wine?" I nodded gently. The afternoon had gone decidedly pear-shaped, and it was my fault. I felt angry again, but angry at myself this time. My super-self-indulgent-self-hatred was indeed becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy - I was making Mitch mad just because I was mad at myself. I needed to ease the situation, I didn't want to go home, I wished my own clothes would take another week or two to dry, I wanted to stay longer, I wanted to 'be me'. But I had screwed things up, the atmosphere was just too tense, I needed to think of a way of lifting that fog of misery that I had caused, needed to allow the air back in to blow it away, but how? As often happens in these situations, the opportunity presented itself, completely out of the blue. Mitch was trying to pull the cork from the bottle, but it didn't want to come out. Maybe she had put it back too hard when she last put it back, maybe it was damp and she couldn't grip it properly, maybe whatever. All I could see was Mitch getting more and more frustrated with the cork, and looking funnier and funnier as she tried to pull it free. I suppose she could have used a corkscrew, but as it had already been corkscrewed once, albeit from the other end, there was always the chance that it would break. Mitch glanced across at me and could see I was trying to stifle a smile at her antics. She was obviously trying to still look pissed off at me, but it wasn't working. Another minute of Mitch struggling and I started to laugh. Then Mitch started to laugh, which made her efforts with the misbehaving cork even more futile. "Hey," I said, "do you need a man to help you?" The sarcasm in my voice was not disguised. Mitch, however, was not one to be outdone. "Can you see one anywhere then?" she asked, almost innocently. "Cos I can't... Or do you mean the 'man' in the lilac robe? The 'man' wearing my knickers? Surely not the 'man' in the delightfully girlie apron? The 'man' who takes ten minutes to take out one curler?" Maybe I should have been upset or angry by this comment, but hey, I had deserved it, and at least Mitch was laughing again. We were both laughing. I jumped up from the sofa and went to the kitchen. Without saying another word, Mitch handed me the bottle. I then used my apron to wipe off and dry the cork, put the half-inch or so of cork firmly between my teeth and pulled. For a second I thought that my teeth would come out, but the cork suddenly popped and with it my head snapped back, the bottle flipped forward, and the best part of half a glass of M?doc flew out of the bottle. We both watched as almost in slow motion, most of the spilled wine landed on the kitchen floor, but with a good drop sharing itself between my apron and Mitch's apron on the way down. "Now" said Mitch, "you know why we women, being the sensible gender, wear aprons to protect our clothes. Clean the floor please." "Why me?" "Because, number-two son, he of the manlier-than-manly blokey brigade, you spilt it." I took a cloth from beside the sink, ran it under hot water, and duly wiped up the wine. Mitch poured what was left into the two glasses, grabbed her cigarettes, and we both went back to the sofa. It seemed as if our earlier argument, heated discussion, call it what you want, had been forgotten. PART 7 We had no sooner sat down and lit up (again) when Mitch looked at me. I wasn't sure, but I think there was a mischievous look on her face. Without taking some conscious decision, I adjusted how I was sitting to get my legs just a bit tighter together, trapping the thing with a mind of its own just in case. "I've had an idea" Mitch said. "Go on" I replied, somewhat apprehensive for some reason as to what was coming next. "Well," she continued, "you are thinking about a perm, but you are also thinking that it will look silly, and you are also thinking that if it looks silly you will have wasted a lot of money..." "Any my parents.." I started to say before Mitch quickly interjected raising her voice slightly but enough for me to take notice. "This is not about your parents!" Mitch stated in a rather staccato fashion. "This is about you." She spoke more gently this time. "I think it will look great, but you don't believe me, and you don't want to waste your money. Correct?" "Well, yeah, guess so. And?" I was right to have felt apprehensive when the conversation started. "And," she went on, "I've had a great idea." "Yeah," I said, "I know, you told me that already." Mitch moved a bit closer to me on the sofa, put one hand on my knee ("oh-oh, it's the feel of that delicious towelling again!") and began to explain her idea. I was all ears, and desperately trying for the umpteenth that day to control my testosterone-driven urges. "Well, it's really quite simple. Why don't we try out a perm? You know, give you some curls so you can see what it's going to look like. If you like it, keep it for now and go for a perm once you've saved your pennies. If you don't like it, it washes out straightaway, so no damage done, and no cause for concern. Simple or simple?" "But how?" I asked, shrugging. "Oh, Erik. You can be so sweet but so stupid sometimes. How on earth do you think my hair gets its curls? What did I have in my hair all morning? What did you spend ages meticulously taking out for me after lunch? Hmmm?" "But Mitch, they were, you know, rollers, curlers, whatever their proper name is. I thought they used rods or something for perms? Especially on fellas. Rollers are for doing women's hair..." "Oh Erik," Mitch repeated, smiling broadly. "Promise me whether you get a perm or not you at least ask the hairdresser to colour your hair blonde, because right now you are acting like a man's interpretation of an archetypal blonde. Yes, you are partly correct - rods are used for perming. But, we are not 'perming' your hair, we are just making it curly. Hence 'curlers'. Rollers, curlers, the name doesn't make a difference, are for curling hair. That's all. They do not recognize gender. And looking at you right now that's probably just as well because you'd only confuse the poor things." I wasn't sure what to say, and even less sure how to react. So I said the blokey thing. "Erm, push that past me again, will you?" Mitch rolled her eyes to the heavens and back, grabbed my shoulders, shook them, looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Listen, thicko, we are going to wash your, set it in quite small rollers, dry it, take out the rollers, comb out the curls, and see how it turns out. If you like, you keep. If you no like, we wash out. Now, thicko, just what part of that don't you understand?" I looked at the floor. After a while I spoke. "Mitch, I do understand what you mean, and it's very sweet of you to offer. But I couldn't do it." "Why not? And trust me, if you even think about saying 'but my dad...' I'll... Oh, just tell me why" My eyes remained glued to the floor, and my cheeks started to feel a little warmer. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. It was as if having my eyes closed was like 'thinking' things, not 'saying' things. If I kept my eyes closed I could not see the reaction on Mitch's face. Could not see her laughing at me. As I slowly exhaled I began again. "It feels wrong to me. It's a girlie thing. The way I was dragged up, if you do girlie things then you must want to be a girl. You're just a sissy, a perv. Not just that, you saw or felt, or whatever how I physically reacted earlier, you know, when you hugged me. The feel of the soft towelling against my skin, the feel of lace around my thighs and waist, the apron strings being pulled tightly, corseting me.... Men's pants and bathrobes are made of grade 2 sandpaper. They feel hard. They feel hard to make men feel hard, feel like men. If they felt soft.." "Like my clothes?" Mitch interrupted. "Yeah, if they feel soft like your clothes, then I feel soft, I feel like a girl! It's too embarrassing, it's not right... It's perverted!" "Says who? Oh, wait... Let me guess. Your dad perhaps? Or maybe both your mum and dad?" "ME!" I replied, unnecessarily loudly, but then I could feel myself welling up again and anger always seemed the best way to negate that reaction. Mitch put her arm around my shoulder. She said nothing for a minute, just held me. Finally she said, "But Erik, you only think it's wrong because that is how you've been programmed as you've grown up. Your parents were probably brought up the same way, and their parents. Sometimes, if we don't understand things, it is easier to label them as 'wrong'. Think about it for a minute. You've been bottling up everything about the real you for years. When you were a child, if you did something, anything, and either got told off for it or laughed at, you know, in a cruel way, then you assumed that whatever you did must have been wrong and therefore you didn't do it again. Just because you didn't do it again, doesn't mean that you didn't want to do it. How many times have you thought about it? How many times have you beaten yourself up just for thinking about it, let alone actually doing it?" I sniffed a bit. "What do you mean Mitch? What do you mean by 'it'?" "Being you. Being the real you. Being the you that you want to be, no, need to be. Not being the you that everybody else expects you to be." she explained softly. "But who wants to be a pervert? I certainly don't. Why can't I just be a normal bloke?" I asked. "Erik, Sweetheart, you are not a pervert." "Course I am Mitch," I snapped back. "Let's face it, doing girlie things appeals to me. The feel of girlie clothes is, well, nice. No more than that, it feels 'right'. That's not normal behaviour, and that's only the half of it. Wearing the stuff and doing the things is bad enough, but getting a hard-on as well is just too much. That really is perverted!" "OK, Einstein," Mitch responded, "do something for me; define 'normal'." I looked back at Mitch. "What?" is all I could say. "I said, define 'normal' Mr Clever-Clogs." "Well, I suppose normal is generally accepted behaviour within society. It's what everybody classes as OK behaviour. It's what everybody does, how everybody acts, well, most people anyway." "Yes," said Mitch, "that's one way of defining it, but it doesn't mean that 'normal' can't change, can't develop. OK, here's an example. Thousands of years ago we, I mean the human race, lived in trees or caves, and went to work by swinging from tree to tree. At the time that was considered normal, but it doesn't mean that it would still be classed as normal now, does it?" "Yeah," I agreed, "but that is thousands of years of evolution. It didn't all change overnight." "Hmmm," said Mitch thoughtfully. "OK, here's another example. When you were a baby, it was considered normal behaviour to wear your food in your hair whilst sitting in your own poo; is that still normal behaviour now?" I laughed, Mitch had such a way with words sometimes. My laughing seemed to lift both our spirits up a few notches. "Yeah, you're right I suppose," I said, "but why do I still get this idea in my head that I'm not normal? Worse than that, I'm some sort of pervert?" "Because," said Mitch sternly, "you want that idea in your head. Like I said, you've been pre-programmed as it were to react that way. Even if other people, me for example, see you as perfectly normal, you still can't accept it. No, you won't accept it. There's a difference. You are normal. You are not perverted. Tell me something, there you are dressed in a lilac bath-robe, my lilac bath-robe, a woman's lilac bath-robe. You're wearing pink lace-trimmed undies, and a girlie apron.." "Yeah, OK," I said, "I get the message. I'm weird, perverted, not normal!" I interrupted. "Oh, Erik, there you go again, using words like weird and pervert. You are not weird, you are not a pervert, you are just, well, different. But that makes you a better person, believe me. Men seem to spend their whole lives believing that acting the Mr Alpha Male part, being hard and all that is what all women really want. That's rubbish! OK, so for some women that ideal may press their buttons, but for most women men like that are actually unattractive. It's not what we want. But will you stupid men ever listen? I doubt it somehow. It is such a breath of fresh air when someone like you comes along." "I'm still not sure I understand," I replied, "I can't see what could possibly be appealing about a 'man' who acts, thinks, reacts, whatever, like I do..." Mitch released her arm from around her shoulder and put it in my lap. "Look at it this way," she said, "you have such a lot going for you." " I have?" I was genuinely surprised by this remark, and Mitch could tell. "Yes," she continued, "of course you have. For example, you are fantastic at doing bits around the house. Mending things, making things, that sort of thing. There are a loads of men who wouldn't know one end of a screwdriver from the other. There are also loads of men who might know what a screwdriver is for, but will think of every possible excuse for not using it, or leaving a job until later. Not many men would have fixed the gutter in the rain like you did." "Yeah," I said, but surely that's me doing my 'man' thing. Being Mr Arfa Mole, did you call him?" "Alpha Male, dimwit. But you are also great inside the house, well at least you are in this place. When you dried yourself after your bath did you hang up the towel on the floor? No, you folded it neatly and asked me where I wanted it put. When we washed up after lunch did you just give the cups a cursory rinse and leave them on the drainer? No, you washed up properly, then wiped the work surfaces, the taps and things, and again you folded away the cloths. When you were taking out my rollers did you just dump them on the bed or the dressing table? No, you put them away carefully and neatly. When I asked you not to get my robe dirty, did you respond with 'oh-it's-only-a-robe-you-can-always-wash- it'? No, you respected my wishes, did the proper thing and put on an apron." "Girlie stuff, all of it." I said, bluntly. "Not the way a real man behaves." "Bollocks!" Mitch hardly ever swore, but that was now, what; the third time today? "That is not 'girlie' behaviour," she continued, "and it definitely isn't blokey behaviour, but it is 'proper' behaviour. It's what any normal civilised person should do, and what they should be brought up to do. But unfortunately, in today's narrow-minded society it doesn't happen. If every generation is going to bring up their children, train their children... no - programme their children into these same pigeon-holed roles then nothing will ever change. The human race will stop developing. Too many men won't clean up because it's 'women's work' and too many women don't expect their men to clean up for the same reasons. They want their men to be 'manly' and everything, good AND bad that goes with it. It's all so Draconian, so wrong. We might as well go back to living in caves." "That's all very well, and believe me, I agree entirely," I said, "but that doesn't address the issue of clothes, and, well, you know, the other thing..." I could feel myself going red again but this time Mitch took no notice. "Clothes are another typical pigeon-hole thing, and so is appearance," said Mitch. "Why is it that I, being the female of the species can wear pretty much what I want, when I want? I can wear whatever colour that suits me. I can wear jeans one day, and a skirt the next. I can have straight hair today, and curly hair tomorrow. Chrissakes, I can even wear men's clothes and it's regarded as 'sexy'. Why the f- f- f- flip do I have to wear men's clothes to look or feel 'sexy'. Why is it that if I have a mole or a spot I can cover it up, you know, a bit of make-up, but if a bloke has an ugly spot or dark rings round his eyes or pale, skinny lips I am expected to have to put up with it because it 'wouldn't be manly' to use make-up to cover it up, wouldn't be manly to make himself look more acceptable! Why do men have to think they are so flippin' right and self-important and the oracles of all knowledge all the time. More like a flippin' orifice in my opinion!" Mitch was getting annoyed, and I wasn't sure why. I decided not to prompt her on this any further, but was still keen for her to explain to me what was going on in my little world. I decided to agree with her on the whole clothes and appearance issue. Besides, I liked what I was hearing, it all seemed to gel with my own thoughts that raise their ugly heads now and again but are soon beaten into absolute and unconditional submission. Even at twenty-two years old, I was learning that constant mental berating soon becomes as painful as a physical beating. It gets on your tits after a while, and I was tired of it. For now, at least, I was happy to think it without the immediate beating, although this would still probably come later. It usually did. "Hey, Mitch, c'mon, calm down. Believe it or not, I actually agree with you. You are spot on, it's like you've taken all my thoughts, my fears, my constant niggles and done what I could never do - SAY THEM! Please don't get wound up, cos I need to ask you something else, something that bothers me even more. Something that really winds me up and embarrasses me but if I don't spurt it out now I may never get the guts again.... Please Mitch?" Mitch calmed down instantly. She looked at me again. "Go on" she said. "I'm not sure now," I answered, meekly. "It's just a bit, you know, embarrassing... I'm not sure how you took it; I mean will take it. I really don't want to upset you." "C'mon Erik, Sweetheart," Mitch said in her kindest voice, "I am Mummy- Mitch remember? Your number-two mum. You can say anything to me, you know I don't mind, and I won't get upset, or mad at you, and before you rudely interrupt me again, no, I won't laugh at you. I promise." I started. "Well, you know, earlier, when you were putting my knickers, sorry, I mean your knickers on, on me, I meant on me, and later when you hugged me, and there was bit of a reaction?" Mitch said nothing, just continued to look at me with a look of intense concentration, and something more, a look of... caring. That was it, caring. Don't remember getting too many looks like that lately, but I've got to admit, it was so nice. "Oh please Mitch," I pleaded, "don't make this any harder than... I mean don't make this any more difficult for me than it already is. Say something? Please?" "OK, said Mitch, "so you had an erection. And?" "And," I said, " I think it was the clothes, the nature of how I was dressed, or the feel of the material, or something, I'm not sure, that caused it..." "And?" she said. "And, it feels wrong. No, it felt great if you know what I mean, but it also felt wrong. I'm starting to think I'm a pervert again. I don't understand what's going on, it kinda worries me." Mitch thought for a while. Probably not long, but to me it seemed like ages. I just sat there waiting for a torrent of abuse, or cruel laughter, or Mitch shouting at me 'YOU PERVERT - GET OUT AND STAY OUT' or something equally as horrible. Mitch took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I thought she was about to speak, but instead she lit up a cigarette for herself, and another for me. I thanked her, and looked at her, using my eyes to implore her to say something, anything, but hopefully nothing too bad. Mitch took a long drag, exhaled through her nose, and watched the smoke disappear up to the ceiling before replying. "Erik, we all get turned on by things, different things. You are young, you are still developing. I am guessing, but judging by the lack of body hair on your legs and chest, you are a pretty late developer. Some boys start early in their teens, some even before that. Some boys start quite late. Now please don't worry, there's nothing wrong with that, it just means that your testosterone levels are sky-high at the moment. I bet you get an erection every other minute don't you?" I knew I was by now very red in the face, but I answered anyway. "Sure, I get loads of erections, but they don't feel like the ones earlier, they just feel like a stiffie, the sort you get, sorry, blokes get, when looking at a porno mag, but these ones felt different. Felt sexual, no, wrong word, they felt sensual. They felt like they were supposed to be there. It's like, I don't know... seeing a woman naked might cause a bit of an erection, but that is about it. But see the same woman wearing just a towel around her chest, or a dressing gown, and the erection is suddenly something different. Most erections are just a nuisance, but me dressed like this, or a girl who has just got out of the bath and is wrapped in towels, well, that causes an erection that I want. Badly want. Does that make sense?" "Yes," said Mitch, "it does. Makes perfect sense." She took her eyes away from mine momentarily to put out her cigarette, then she continued in the same hushed and reassuring tones. "Like I said, we are all turned on by different things. All you have done is found out what really turns you on, what you want to be turned on by. It's quite a relief that you are turned on by such simple, harmless things. Could be a lot worse you know, what you like and like to do hurts nobody, harms nobody. It's better in probably many if not all respects to be turned on by a partly clothed or covered woman than a naked one. At least is saves the woman the embarrassment of having to be naked if she's not comfortable with it. Let's be honest here Erik, and you must start to be honest with yourself. From what you've said, and the way you act sometimes, the little things you do, subconsciously some of the time, I would say you've got a feminine streak a foot wide running down your back. A feminine streak that offers you some sexual gratification, but more importantly, whether you realise it or not or want it to or not it offers you some psychological and emotional gratification. It lets you be you. It wants you to be you. Don't fight it, go with it, enjoy it!" "Do you think I'm gay?" I asked, almost dreading what she might come back with. "What?" said Mitch, "Well I don't think you are. But you tell me Sweetheart. Are you gay? Do you fancy men or do you fancy women? Only you know that." I sighed, maybe with relief, maybe just to gain a bit of thinking space, albeit a short space. "I fancy women, girls, ladies, birds, not the feathered variety though, I'm not that weird. I have never fancied men, and cannot think of any reason why a man, or a woman for that matter would want to fancy a man. Men are ugly and hairy and brutal. They are a funny shape with things hanging out in awkward places. They are ungainly and hard, rough, they're just... well, men I suppose. Women, on the other hand, are attractive and soft and kind and graceful and caring. They always look good, always want to look good, look pretty in jeans, look pretty in a skirt or dress, look pretty when they are wearing just a towel, look cute with their hair in rollers, ..." I realised what I was saying, and where this was going, so stopped abruptly. I very much doubt it would be possible for my cheeks to burn any redder than they did just then. I fumbled a cigarette out of the packet, and tried to light the wrong end. Mitch smiled, took the cigarette off me and put it back in the packet. She took my hands in hers. "Erik," she said, "I couldn't agree with you more, you've got that spot on. Your summing up of the attractions of men versus women is so right, must be that girlie streak in you. Couldn't have put it better myself. The average woman is, or can be, very attractive, the average man can't. Like you say, they are rough and brutal and angry - I hate them! Present company excepted of course." "But Mitch," I said, "you are, were married. You must have liked at least one man? And there's Paul, he's your son, you must like him?" Mitch stiffened. "Yes," she said, recovering the cigarette she had taken from me and lighting it herself. I took another from the pack while I waited for her to continue. "I was married, and yes, I must have liked him. But not anymore. He was OK at first, but turned out that he liked to express his 'manly' side a bit too much." A small tear formed in the corner of Mitch's eye and rolled slowly down her cheek. She ignored it and spoke again. "So many times he would come home from the pub, very late, very drunk, and very aggressive. He would hit me, slap me, kick me. For no reason I could think of. He would say things like 'I'm the man around here and you're the wom