My Last Virgin Summer (standard:other, 1969 words)
Author: pheonix	Added: Dec 01 2008	Views/Reads: 2788/1981	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A World War II young conscript 'breaks his duck' before enlistment.

My Last Virgin Summer 

It was late summer of 1942, I was eighteen, and spending a last holiday
before answering the call of my 'Conscription Papers'. I would be 
fighting for King and Country whilst still a virgin - The thought 
embarrassed me. 

To others I was full of self-confidence, the world my oyster. This
façade hid the real me: shy, insecure, longing for a girlfriend, 
lacking courage to pursue one. 

It was a Saturday: My friend Jim wanted a favor. He'd arranged a date
with a girl in a nearby village and needed to let her know he couldn't 
make it. (There were no mobile phones in those days, and phone-booths 
in the country were few.) He knew I was going to the village that 
night, and wanted me to take her a present, and explain his absence. I 
agreed. He gave details of time and place of the meeting, and a 
description of the girl. 

I promised to seek her out and pass on his gift of a third bottle of
gin, some lime squash, a bar of chocolate, and ten cigarettes. 
Following tea, I set out to complete my mission. If the bus were on 
time, I'd have fifteen minutes to travel on the mile foot uphill to my 
rendezvous. The bus arrived five minutes early. I bought some fizzy 
drink and cigarettes, before hurrying to meet the girl. 

The meeting-place was on a footpath, which wound with consummate ease
along the valley, following the river, fed from streams off the 
mountain slopes. It provided a delightful view of assorted waterfalls. 

Normally, gentle crystal cascades, these waterfalls changed
dramatically, following sudden showers; Erupting into boiling, spewing 
torrents, reaching far out from rock ledges before falling into 
fully-fledged maelstroms in turgid pools below... 

She sat straddling a railing that guarded the adjacent waterfall. It had
to be her: dark shoulder-length hair, over-sized almond-shaped brown 
eyes, white high heels, and gold wristwatch: A broad white belt, held 
in her trim waist, emphasizing her prominent bust. 

I slowed as the distance between us shortened, wanting to steady my
breathing after the arduous uphill approach. 

She looked older than her given age. It was probably the make-up she
wore so skillfully. She was the image of my favorite film star - Gail 
Russell. I had a crush on Miss Russell; had even written for a signed 
photograph. Mass-produced no doubt, but it meant a lot to me, 
frequently providing bedtime stimulation. I became aware the girl had 
spoken. 

"You all right?" 

I must have been looking a bit odd. Inside, I was in an emotional
turmoil; her looks had completely thrown me. Blustering, I assured her 
I was fine, then blurted out how much she resembled the film star, 
adding stupidly, 

"But you have a much better figure." 

She spoke again in a rich musical voice. 

"Thank you kind sir. Sure you're alright?"　 Her educated voice
was a surprise, but in keeping with the rest of her. Not sure how to 
break the news, I asked if she were waiting for somebody. 

"Maybe? Why?" she smiled. 

"Well he isn't coming." 

Cocking her head she laughed, 

"I know. So he sent you instead?" I nodded foolishly. I knew I was
blushing. Sliding elegantly to the ground, and standing legs apart, 
arms akimbo, head held to the side, she stared into my eyes. Her 
thrusting breasts nigh hypnotizing me as she continued, 


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