THREE! 1960s al fresco sex with a lovely photo from the gorgeous eye.
Mary Spencer (nee Robinson) got married in the summer of 1939. By 1940 she had a baby in her belly and by 1941 she was a widow, her husband Harry bought it in Tobruk, and she packed up the house and baby Elizabeth and moved back to her family home in Brighton.
They remained there almost happily – mostly happily – for more than twenty years. Elizabeth grew up as Betty, then Lizzy, until finally settling on Beth whereupon she found herself under the eye of Mr Jones Junior from the butchers and from then she soon found herself, courting, engaged, married, and pregnant with one, two and finally in 1965 a third and final child (the boy).
In 1966 the Jones’ moved to London where Mr Jones Junior was set to open his own independent butchers.
In 1967, Mary Spencer (nee Robinson) was invited by Beth-was-Lizzy-formerly-Betty Jones-nee-Spencer to spend the summer with her only daughter and their family.
Mary knew she was being used as cheap labour to mind the babies whilst her daughter ran errands, but didn’t much mind. The children were sweet-natured, not especially rowdy. The baby slept most afternoons and drank his milk with gusto.
At night she slept in the spare bedroom of the shoebox flat – Mr Jones Junior always saying that ‘as soon as the business is flying then it’s a 3 bed semi in Clapham for us, young lady.’
After a few weeks cooped up in the flat with short jaunts to the park, Beth-was-Lizzy-formerly-Betty told her mother to take some time out for herself.
“Go to the park, mum. Go and stretch your legs and get some sun and have an ice cream and enjoy yourself.” She handed her mother a ten shilling note and shooed her out of the door.
Mary hadn’t had sex since September 1939. Not quite the exact day that Hitler invaded Poland but close enough for her to cringe at the thought. She wasn’t that type. She wasn’t that generation. She didn’t use the word vagina. She didn’t consider her own breasts apart from when she was assessing whether her dresses needed taking up or in or out.
Sex wasn’t on her radar, it wasn’t something she thought about. But something compelled her that day to walk into the bookshop at the end of the road, and purchase a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. She was wearing a big hat and a summer dress that Beth-was-Lizzy-formerly-Betty had encouraged her, made her buy.
“Fifty-odd isn’t that young, mum. Live a little.”
Mary set off in her wide-brimmed summer hat and her paisley summer frock towards Hyde Park.
As usual there were hoards of people there. Mostly nannies and mothers with small children, but couples and loves, too. And a group of people with banners as she approached Speaker’s Corner.
“Legalise it!” They chanted.
The air was thick with a peculiar, herbal scent she didn’t recognise.
“Legalise it!” They chanted.
She watched the crowd of young men and women and tried to catch the swell of the voices but eventually her attention was caught by a boy in the crowd.
Younger than her own daughter, though his hair was as long and thick and glossy as Beth-was-Lizzy-formerly-Betty’s had been when she was a girl. He had dark eyes and a thick moustache. He smiled at her from across the thinning crowd and she suddenly felt aware of herself, of her age, and the scandalous book in her bag. She turned on her heel and walked deeper into the park, not looking back.
“Hi, I’m Ben.” He proffered his hand to her as she sat on the bench, hidden from view, reading her book.
Mary looked up into his innocent, thoughtful face.
“What’s your name?”
“You found me.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“If you like that sort of thing.” Mary said almost without thinking. Ben’s eyes were kind. Laughing eyes. They reminded her of Harry’s when they first met.
“I like all sorts.”
She bit her tongue and resisted saying “Liquorice?”
“I did find you. Hard woman to find in a crowd on a hot day. But a beautiful woman. A beacon. I knew your light would guide me.”
“High as a kite.” thought Mary indulgently.
“Flatterer. I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“What brought you to the park today? The rally?”
“The sun and some peace. To read my book.”
“A little bit of that too, maybe.”
“I came here to read, too.”
“Oh really?” Mary raised her eyebrow.
“I did. Scout’s honour.”
He reached into his satchel and retrieved a scuffed paperback. ‘The Graduate’.
“I hear they’re making it into a film.”
“So do I.”
“Have you read it?”
“So, what did you think, Mrs Robinson?”
“You never told me your name. So Mrs Robinson it is.”
“Mrs Robinson it is.”
“I rather liked it. Hard to believe a virile, handsome young man would want a woman of such advanced years, though. No matter how much of a beauty she was.”
“May I?” Ben indicated the seat beside her and she nodded. He sat and turned his body towards her, his knee knocking against her own.
“I think you’re wrong, Mrs Robinson. A woman only gains in beauty as she advances in age. As in wisdom and experience.”
“Is that so?”
“I knew it as soon as I saw you in the park. May I kiss you?”
Someone else’s voice came out of her mouth. Someone else leaned towards this gorgeous boy, this stranger, and pressed their hot, wanting mouth against his. His touch was gentle; she only felt his hand upon her thigh some seconds after he had placed it there. She did not ask him to remove it.
“May I fuck you, Mrs Robinson?”
Mary stood up and held up her skirt so she could shuffle down her St Michael brand cotton knickers and flung them into the hedge behind her.
Someone else opened Mary’s mouth wide and instructed Ben to unbutton his flies. His cock seemed to echo Harry’s too. It could not be that all were made alike, to one mould.
“Twenty seven years.” she thought to herself. “It must be like riding a bike. Falling off a log. Easily remembered.”
She straddled his narrow, boyish hips, narrower than her own which had helped her bear a child, and moaned softly as he rubbed the head of his cock from her cunt to her clitoris and back again. She closed her eyes, succumbing to his fingers tentatively moving inside her. She heard him spit on the head of his cock and rub it against her again, grinning each time she moaned and sighed.
When she finally lowered herself down onto his erection, she felt peculiar. Like a lamp that had suddenly been plugged into the electricity after being neglected. She glowed. Perhaps this was what Ben had meant by a beacon.
Beneath her he was thrusting upwards, his mouth seeking her nipples through the flimsy material of her dress. She lowered her head to kiss him. He smelt of life. The future. He smelt of warmth and security. She moaned more loudly, forgetting they were in a public park, that she was a mother of one, a grandmother of three and a widow of nearly thirty years.
At that moment she was a woman. Triumphantly a woman. Revelling in her femininity.
“This is what it feels like.” She breathed, rising and falling above him.
Ben moaned and bit her neck. “What what feels like?”
“Being alive. Being human. Being fucked.”
Ben moaned louder, pushing himself into her deeper at this last; this brazen, beautiful, defiant woman saying this filthy, wicked word.
“I’m going to come.” He stuttered. Unsure of what would actually happen.
Mary considered this, then leant down to him and whispered in his ear.
“Then come in me, Benjamin.”
He held her tightly, vice-like, his teeth against her neck and she let herself go to the rush of come inside her, his body inside her, and her body shook with pleasure.
“Next time.” she breathed as he kissed her décolletage over and over.
“Next time, Benjamin. You’ll make me come before we fuck.”
“Yes Mrs R.” He said at length, spent.
Mary slowly climbed off him and straightened her hat.
“Same time next week, beautiful?” came the voice from her mouth that wasn’t her voice.
Ben grinned from ear to ear and nodded furiously.
The book was lying on the bench next to him. His book. She picked it up and tucked it into her bag.
On the bus home she glanced at the blurb on the back of the cover. Never having read it, the premise intrigued her. More than Lawrence did, at any rate.