Personal Professionals Vol 2 The VIP Treatment
- 1 year ago
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ClaireChapter 1 free porn video
It’s a funny thing, time. It dulls the senses and affects your memories. Be honest, can you truthfully say that the things you remember from twenty years ago really happened the way you remember them?
Some of the memories from my youth feel as if they are in black and white, like some Saturday afternoon matinee from the 50s on an obscure satellite channel. While others are in vibrant colour and full 3D.
And yet, it’s those full-colour blockbuster memories that I’m sure are the ones most affected by time. Those are the ones that time has rewritten making them seem more wonderful (or much worse) than they actually were.
Take my relationship with Claire. The time leading up to it and the relationship itself are some of my most vivid of teenage memories, but ask my schoolmates and they’ll probably give you a different version of events. Some might tell you that I wasn’t nearly as awkward and geeky as I thought I was. Others might well tell you I was even geekier. They’ll probably all have different opinions of Claire too. But one thing they’ll all agree on—it’s a love story worth telling.
We’d been at the same school for five and a half years and I’d never noticed Claire. She’d been in a different class and I doubt that we’d ever exchanged more than two words.
I’d heard the rumours about the number of guys that asked Claire out, and about how she said no to all of them. She knocked back even the popular guys. There were other rumours too, that explained why she wasn’t interested in guys.
When we were sixteen, after our GCSE exams, around half the year group stayed at school to tackle ‘A levels’. The rest went off into the real world to find jobs. It was a huge change. Old alliances were lost and everyone became more open to making new friends. It was like starting all over again, except that old prejudices die hard. Despite revamping my image, I was still the geeky little egghead I’d always been. Problems with homework, ask Mark, he’ll know.
Claire had a similar problem. After all, sweet sixteen-year-olds didn’t turn down the chance to go out with Andrew Aspbury unless they batted for the other side, did they?
Two weeks into the new term, my girlfriend dumped me. I went through that ‘girls are all the same, what’s the point’ period for a while, and it wasn’t until the Christmas party season that I started to enjoy life again. I stopped being the drunken loser that vomited down the kitchen sink then got carried home and went back to being a relatively normal teenager (that vomited down the kitchen sink then got carried home).
In early January, the school management organised a photo session for the whole of the sixth form. We posed for a group shot on a stage in the school hall, the tall ones at the back, the mid-size ones in the middle, and the vertically disadvantaged sitting on chairs at the front.
We’d been there for ages when the photographer announced that he had a problem with the camera. He apologised but said that his other camera, the one for the individual photos, was working just fine. He had the first-row line up on the far side of the hall so that his assistant could snap them.
The front row stood up in unison and trooped along in single file. The tallest guy in the class, who also happened to be the loudest and most brash, called out cheerfully, “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s off to work we go...”
Laughter rippled through the rest of us. Despite laughing along with everyone, I sympathized with the poor souls being ridiculed. I knew most of them, but Claire stood out.
I recognised her from my maths class and tried to place where she sat. Claire and her little group of friends sat two rows behind me and my friends. The row between us was always empty. She rarely volunteered answers and never asked questions. She always spoke in whispers with her friends. I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t noticed her before. She wasn’t a teenage glamour-girl, but there was something about her.
I decided to try to get to know Claire. Being in the same class helped. Phrases like, “Have you done your homework?” or “Could you answer question two, ‘cause I thought it was hard?” are not chat up lines. But that was how most of my conversations with Claire started.
It would get us talking about work, and this would lead to other topics. We spent many free periods in the library talking nonsense and working. I did most of the work. Claire said things like, “Oh yeah, I get it. What answer did you get again? That’s what I got too.” She was copying my work, that was obvious, but I didn’t mind.
There was no question that it was her looks that first drew me to her. Her hair was forever changing style but she never changed its colour—night sky black. She had dark blue eyes that she tried to hide with makeup and she always avoided looking directly at people.
She wasn’t tall, not that that mattered to me, nor did she have the huge chest that was the fantasy of many a teenage boy. But to me she was perfectly proportioned. Many people thought of her as cute but to my mind that wasn’t the right word, I would have used ‘pretty’ instead. She was very, very pretty.
The way she carried herself added to her appeal, I couldn’t say why, and her shyness added to the whole image. There was a mysterious air about her—something I found sexy.
She dressed well too. The uniform was uncompromising for the younger kids in the school but our dress code had a little latitude so long as we stuck to the colour scheme. Guys didn’t have much choice—grey suit, white shirt and silly tie. The girls, on the other hand, could get away with almost anything. Skirts of varying lengths, trousers, blouses, low cut tops. You name it, someone wore it.
Claire always wore dark grey, mid-length skirts, white blouses and dark grey cardigans or sweaters. It doesn’t sound special, but everything about Claire, taken alone, seemed ordinary; but she put them all together in such a unique way...
I can’t do justice to her aura of quiet sexuality. Hers was an understated beauty.
Weeks passed and Claire and I became good friends. We even flirted, but I flirted with most of the girls I knew, so thought nothing of it. We found more things in common than just maths homework. We played pool in the social area and talked about politics in the library. She showed me little glimpses of the true Claire, the one she kept hidden, and I liked what I saw.
In free periods, we knew exactly where to find each other, at a table in the children’s corner of the library. We were never alone; someone else was always working at the table or relaxing in the comfy chairs with a newspaper. I liked to be first to the library, and first to get hold of the paper. Then I could share it with Claire.
I hated people reading over my shoulder, but I always shared the paper with Claire. It meant that we had to get close to each other, into each other’s ‘personal space.’ If I was at the table, she would come up behind me, one hand on the back of my chair, the other on the table, leaning over me. If I was on one of the low comfy chairs, she would kneel beside me. Whichever it was, it drove me wild. I could smell her; the heady mix of her own scent and her perfume. But I kept a cool exterior, kept my desire hidden.
About halfway through that first year of ‘A’ levels, the friendship groups shifted. I was pulled into a group that included Claire. We went out as a group - to the cinema, bowling and nightclubs. Claire and I flirted even more, and it became obvious that I fancied her. But with my confidence low, I was convinced that there was no possible way she could fancy me back. I never considered asking her out on a date alone; I contented myself with the relationship we had.
Homework sessions in free periods became so regular that others in the class joined us. We played badminton together and formed a deadly partnership, and we played pool. With each activity, we found ways to flirt. We would arrive at school early to play pool and I’d offer her advice on the best shot, stepping up close behind to help her line it up. When on the badminton court, we would slap each other on the behind after winning a good point, and homework sessions were riddled with innuendo.
But I knew I couldn’t ask her out. All the most popular guys had asked her out, and she had turned them all down. Was there any reason she wouldn’t turn me down? They were better catches than me, and she wasn’t interested in them. Besides, she was one of my best mates, and I couldn’t jeopardise that.
I took a long holiday with my family that summer and spent most of the time sunning myself, and reading. It was relaxing and just what I needed. I went back to school a changed man.
One of the reasons that Claire and I had become such good friends was that we both carried the stigma of our recent history. No matter how hard we tried, or how unwarranted it was, we both retained the image and reputation that we had always endured.
In reality, I was no longer the wimpish, teacher’s pet that always got everything right. Yet my classmates still saw me that way. Claire had ditched the hideous glasses for a combination of designer specs and contact lenses as long as four years ago, but people still referred to them. And she was very flirtatious, but there were still guys that made the odd dyke remark, particularly if she had knocked them back.
On returning to school, we were both determined to shed this baggage. A new headmaster had taken over the school from the previous ‘Thatcher-esque’ incumbent, and there was a more relaxed atmosphere. I had my confidence boosted by the news that there was a crop of girls lower down the school that had the hots for me. So what if they were four years my junior, at least someone found me attractive.
It was about that time that we applied for university. The teaching staff did everything they could to try and convince us it was worthwhile, including organising a trip to the local university open day. The trip left early and we spent the whole day on campus. I spent the day with some lads who were interested in doing the same degree as me. I didn’t see Claire except for lunch in the Student’s Union.
Mei
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