Memoirs volume 1 - Julie's arrival on the scene

Chapter 1 Coming to life

It’s a lovely sunny afternoon, crisp, bright and autumnal, and I’m trying to remember when I, Julie, was born. I’m pretty sure it was in 1981, at some time during the summer.

I share a body with a man named John, who was 30 that year. As a teenager John had a number of experiences of gay sex. Well, the first was not of sex, just of desire. A playfight out in the fields behind his house with his very pretty friend Mick ended with Mick sitting astride him and the two of them breathless. Their faces were close and he so wanted to kiss Mick; he even felt fairly sure that Mick wouldn’t have objected - but he didn’t dare.

Then there was experimental mutual wanking with his old friend Johnny, and Johnny suggesting they try shagging each other. He volunteered to receive first and really wanted to – but they had no experience, so they tried it standing up, on a bed, which of course wasn’t going to be easy for first-timers anyway - but then he was overcome by a sense that he’d feel guilty afterwards, so he shied away from the chance, which set up a frustration that was only relieved some thirty-odd years later. (Oh! the total bliss of meeting up with Johnny, sharing reminiscences, then sharing a bed and FINALLY, down on all fours, feeling Johnny’s lovely long cock inside him, up to the hilt!)

And there was also the time when he was kissed passionately in a pub toilet in Stoke, which was a nice surprise, and being offered a fiver by the kisser, a big strong Pakistani man, was a further temptation, but unfortunately he never showed up the next week as arranged when John returned to the pub alone.

In 1981 John was living in London, near Clapham Common, and not long before moving there, in the January, he had discovered that some gay men go cottaging.

He’d become very aware of being watched from beneath a cubicle door in a gents’ in Canterbury, and it had aroused his curiosity, so he’d revisited the scene several times, on one occasion receiving a nice friendly smile from an oriental-looking guy who was lovingly brushing a fabulous head of long black hair – which he later realised was of course a wig - and on another arranging to meet a man in a nearby car-park, but then losing his nerve at the last minute and standing him up.

All these little adventures had excited John and offered to fill a space in his life, left by the failure of his marriage. Likewise, having his bare knees stroked by a toothless old farmer in Italy in ’79 had set his pulse racing. He was sitting in a railway carriage, wearing very short shorts and the old guy had been the only other occupant of the carriage. He saw it was empty but sat down right next to John, immediately pressing his leg against John’s, then, when he met no resistance, caressing it and telling him “Lei e bello” – “You are beautiful”! John had mastered the first two chapters of “Teach Yourself Italian”, so he said “Me?” “You!” said the old man. “Thank you!” said John, his cock straining inside the tight shorts, but other passengers arrived on the scene and the old man moved to another seat. When they reached their destination, the old man used sign language to offer John a lift in his pony and cart. If only he hadn’t stunk so badly and looked so grubby, John often thought later, he would have loved to have taken up his offer. Who knows? Perhaps he would have put him up for the night …

The following year there was an incident which was exciting in a different way. John didn’t just feel grateful for touch and for kind words – he discovered a delight in exhibitionism. He was on holiday in France, camping in the country, and he’d just been dabbling his hands and face in a little pool he’d found in a wood, wanting to cool off on an intensely hot day, when he’d noticed a stocky man in his fifties or sixties on a little motorbike nearby. The guy had pulled up about thirty yards away from John, on the other side of the pool, switched off his engine, dismounted and stood watching. John had realised, even without his spectacles, that there was attraction there, and at once had found himself removing garments slowly and teasingly until only his pants were left, swilling his limbs with water, then lovingly washing his breasts. His admirer watched the whole performance closely but then another man appeared and took the pillion position on the bike. They both watched for a couple of minutes as John continued his performance, but then rode off together, so again John didn’t follow through from fantasy to reality.

However, when he arrived in Clapham he quickly realised that this was a wonderful area for cruising and after a few timidly aborted attempts, became used to patrolling the Common, especially after dark, and developed his skills, especially in oral sex. His teenage dabbling with gay sex had been very limited, but had given him ideas, and now he was ideally situated to explore this side of himself further. His first black partner, for example, was very happy to receive his oral attentions, and did nothing to counteract the stereotype of being surprisingly well-hung. His erect cock was a good ten inches long and was thick as well. Kneeling before him and getting to work on it had fulfilled some details of his fantasies completely – the licking, kissing and nibbling, the joy of sliding the knob inside his mouth, and the massive spurts of cum.

And the gents’ near the tube station did on one occasion rival a scene from Joe Orton’s memoirs. John counted eight turned heads and eight erect cocks when he first went in, which turned him on at once, and when his own tool sprang to attention he was amazed and delighted to see all eight turn back to their partners and continue with their very lusty activities.

He also began to experiment with cross-dressing. He was lodging with a young landlady who spent nearly all her time at her boyfriend’s home, and it wasn’t long before he’d tried on her panties (and then panicked in case he’d stretched them!) and rescued a discarded pair of her heeled sandals from the bin and mended them well enough to make them wearable. He’d never tried women’s clothes on before, but he found it simultaneously exciting and relaxing to practise moving elegantly in the sandals and to swish around in a sarong-type skirt - also his landlady’s.

This didn’t satisfy John, though. It was just the beginning. First he craved a really feminine pair of shoes all of his own. He gave a very unconvincing yarn about being a pantomime dame to an assistant in a charity shop and came home with a pair. They were black, with open toes, a strap and of course high heels, and were uncomfortably tight, but he broke them in over a period and started to carry them in a little shoulder-bag when cruising the Common. When he was far enough from the road he’d change into them and risk a few yards of click-clicking along the footpath, at last making that intoxicating sound he’d always loved.

The crucial moment, which I count as the moment of my conception as Julie, was when John discovered Axford’s, the corsetiere on the Vauxhall Bridge Road, and after two or three agonised visits to window-shop, plucked up the courage to go in. The bus journey home with a green and black silk suspender-belt and a pair of fishnet stockings was amazing. John felt filled with electricity – tingling with aliveness, and the happiness when he first tried them on was breath-taking. Unfortunately the belt didn’t quite fit, so he had to repeat the trip and ask to exchange it. The assistant amazed him by saying in a totally blasé tone that it’d be best to try things on in the shop in future. He still couldn’t quite admit that the goods were for him, though, so he simply opted for a smaller size, and also picked up a pair of panties and a pretty camisole top, both black, spending what was for him at that point a recklessly extravagant amount of money.

When at last John returned to Clapham, he made sure that his landlady was out for the evening and tried on the full ensemble, fumbling for ages with the clips on the suspenders, marvelling at the saucy feel of the stockings and delighted that the lacy camisole fitted neatly and trimly, hanging fetchingly from his quite pert breasts, and that even the panties, though clearly the wrong shape for his male anatomy, were big enough to contain his erection - and hardly able to believe that the exciting creature he had become was really there.

There was still a frisson of anxiety in case something unexpected caused John’s landlady to return, to burst in and discover him – but it was very slight and really only added a further piquancy to the sheer ecstasy of the moment.

I, Julie, was born, and although I’ve sometimes disappeared for long periods, I’m always there in the background of John’s life, and as he’s now 61, I reckon I’m now about 30, so it makes perfect sense for me to dress as I do whenever I get the chance – like a very provocative and highly sexed young woman.

xxxx

Julie

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