CHAPTER 7
Once more, Joe seemed to disappear for a few weeks, and I wasn’t sure I was actually disappointed about that.

My mind was tossing an imaginary coin in trying to decide whether the sex (for that was what it was, even if one way) had been good, or whether I had simply been used. If I had seen him soon after the blow job I would probably have pushed the issue, but I didn’t, so I couldn’t. When he did turn up again, my idiocy knew no bounds, and I was once again left frustrated and wishing I had something with which to rinse my mouth out.

As Spring came into bud, though, I had other things on my mind and in my diary. I approached Arris for support.

“Arris, ever been to a rally?”

“I had a boyfriend once, he drove a car he said was a rally special”

“No, a bike rally”

“What’s one of them then?”

“We ride out somewhere nice, there’s camping, and a marquee, and music, and alcohol, and silly games, then we come home with a hangover”

“This is motorbikes, is it?”

“Oh yeah!”

“So lots of big men in leather then? With big things between their legs?”

“Most definitely”

“Where do I sign up?”

“Got a sleeping bag? I’ll take you on the back”

There was one due in a couple of weeks near Llanddeusant, and after I obtained Arris’ reluctant (yeah, right) agreement I sent off a cheque for a couple of tickets. Come the Friday in question, and Arris was at my front door in a fashion jacket, skin tight jeans, and stiletto thigh boots. I started to laugh.

“What’s so funny, Sar?”

“Stilettos, Arris. Muddy field…..you end up waddling like a duck as your heels sink straight in! Got any flatter boots?”

She had, and after a few more tweaks to her wardrobe we were loaded up and off to Brynamman and the wonderful twisty road over the mountain that drops you down to the side road to the Cross Inn, where the rally was based. It is a lovely part of the country, and the site of the rally shares the same view as that picked for the cover of the Ordinance Survey map of the area, the northern slopes of the Mynydd Du. Red kites haunt the air, sheep flocks fill the lanes, and XAM were booked to play the Saturday night. I had cheated, for Arris’ sake, and fitted her out in an old denim cut-off of mine with a few rally badges on so she wouldn’t get the ‘virgin’ treatment. I knew I would see a few people I knew from other rallies, so I would be safe from the hazing, but I wanted Arris to have the best of memories. Of course, if she drank like she normally did, she might not retain any memories at all, but there you go, everything cannot be had.

We booked in, and I had a quick look at the mileage people were claiming. There was no way we would get the long distance award, but it was cheering to see how far people were coming. Max, the lad in the reception tent, let drop that they had a regular group from Dover, so we definitely stood no chance.

We ….I pitched the tent while Arris stared around at all the leather and bulk, and drooled. Sleeping bags lofted, gear stowed, the first drink of the evening went down well, as did the second. The morning light was the next thing that caught my attention, though, streaming in through the fabric of the tent. Mouth like a piece of stale toast, I pushed Arris away from her close cuddling of me and got the stove going. Tea…..that seemed to wake her, and soon we were sharing that great camping moment, lying in a warm bag with a mug of char. Arris was quiet. Then she sighed, and looked at me.

“Sar, how much of a girl are you?”

Oh shit. We spoke Welsh together, as usual, so it was actually ‘cachu’, which has an even more useful and satisfying sound, but still, oh shit.

“It’s just, well, when we got back from the beer tent, and you were trying to do the French Lieutenant’s Woman with the sleeping bag, well, you aren’t really normal in the knickers, are you?”

Before I could speak, she rushed on. “Please don’t get me wrong. I don’t care what you keep down there, as long as you don’t keep it for me. Just, if you want to talk, I’m OK. Sar? Please, don’t cry, it’s OK, really”

She wrapped me up in her arms and rocked me like a child as the mixture of emotions flooded through me. Terror, relief, despair, hope….I gathered myself together, and began. Once upon a time….

And once more I had discovered that people, most people, are better than you ever hope for. We sort of came to an arrangement about my extras, in that I wouldn’t flash them, and Arris wouldn’t look for them, but as she pointed out I was so girly a girl that it was difficult for her to focus on something so wrong. Then she asked the killer question.

“Does Joe know?”

That was when I had another little moment of revelation. What exactly was Joe? I talked through our times together, and Arris’ eyes widened.

“Someone needs to take you in hand, girl, and not like that. He’s a cu–sorry, an arsehole. He’s using you, can’t you see that?”
“He has a busy life…”

“He’s off shagging someone else, a pound to a penny, and he calls you when he wants a bit of extra fun. Tell me, Sar, you ever been with anyone else? In any way at all?”

“Well, no…”

“Take some advice, love. Call it a day on the Joe front. Listen, you look good, and as long as you are careful nobody will know. You going for the nip and tuck eventually?”

That is what everyone seems to want to know. It’s a question I could never answer, because while I hated my little oddity, and loved the breasts that were starting to push out on my chest, the thought of someone cutting into me was a profoundly disturbing one. I did want rid of the two poison factories, but….there were so many horror stories.

Arris sensed my changed mood, and hugged it away.

“Breakfast, a look around, some silly games and industrial strength ogling. You going with that leather mini I saw you packing?”

“I might do later, but probably best to stick to jeans after what you said”

“OK, load up, and then lard up”

As a hangover cure, a full Welsh breakfast takes a lot of beating, and then we wandered around the three or four stalls set up, selling sunglasses and T-shirts, leather wallets and other biker tat. Arris ended up with a rather nice little leather waistcoat, and we both studiously ignored the naked body staked out on the grass covered in flour. Rally virgins….I had explained the tradition to Arris before we came, and she was managing to pull off a credible ‘old hand’ act. Just as well.

Once human again, we sat and had a cuppa and enjoyed the view out to the hills, to Bannau Sá®r Gaer and Fan Brycheiniog, red in the late morning light. Arris sighed.

“It is truly lovely here, Sar. Thank you for bringing me”

“They are gorgeous hills, aren’t they?”

“And rather gorgeous arses as well, girl!”

I suppose that was when I realised I was finding a friend who was going some way towards filling the void left by my earlier loss. I wasn’t alone in this. Elaine, my parents, Becky and Joanna, there seemed to be an endless supply of angels around me. I kissed her gently.

“What was that for?”
“Being there just when I needed you, and not judging me”

There was a cough behind me, and an English voice spoke up.

“If you are going to have wild lesbian sex on the grass, can I sell tickets?”

I looked around to see a solid dark-haired man in his twenties, with a full beard, just as the naked body from earlier walked into the food tent for a cuppa. Arris smiled.

“Hiya Tone, where’s Steve?”

She knew him? “Arris…?”

“Sorry, Sar, but you were out of it last night. You spent a lot of it dancing with Tony here”

He chuckled, “And Steve will have rather sore lips the way you were sucking his bloody face off. He’s taking a dump, he’ll be over in a bit. I‘ll grab some chairs, if you don’t mind”

Ambush memories were slipping in, of throwing myself into the music from the disco, and…a few slower ones? I blushed, and Tony put his hand on my knee in a simple, friendly way.

“Nothing happened, we got you back to your tent while you were going on about Meryl Streep for some reason. Ah, Steve’s coming over”

A Norse god of thunder wandered over to the tent, at least six four, blonde hair to his shoulders and a heavy moustache. He probably outweighed Elaine’s car, and very little of it was lard. I caught a glimpse of Arris’ face, and she was like a dog being made to wait for its dinner. I swear she was licking her lips, and realised she was watching for a hint as to whether she should play it cool or not. Steve solved the problem, by reaching down and lifting her hand for a kiss. I had a suspicion, just then, that I might just be on my own that night.

And we stayed together for the weekend, just the four of us, and it was a very good weekend. Tony suggested a ride up onto the crest of the hills, and I ended up solo as I followed him on his Mike Hailwood replica, and Steve on his Guzzi, with Arris clinging firmly and possessively to his waist. There are quarries just off the road, and we grabbed a few provisions in a local shop and sat in a perfect concert setting, complete with stone ‘stage’ and auditorium, looking out over the green farmland to the north of the Mynydd Du. Arris was bubbling away around her Thor, while Tony and I took time to redo the introductions. He was from Harwich originally, and had ridden down to Reading to meet up with Steve, an old college friend. Oddly, when I asked what he did, he was a bit vague, muttering something about security in the docks, and changing the subject. Never mind, it was just a weekend away, and if he had something to hide I didn’t really need to know. Anyway, I had rather a big secret of my own.

It was a gorgeous day, and we simply sat and soaked it up into the middle of the afternoon, Steve and Arris talking and touching gently a little way off as Tony and I filled out our life stories for each other. He wasn’t reticent about anything other than his work, which was a puzzle, and in a moment of insight I realised he was probably a copper, and this was just a bit of self-protection. We finally bit the bullet and began the descent back to the site after a few last photos, and shared another round of tea at the food tent.

There were a variety of silly events that afternoon, such as dizzy sticks and a tug of war, and we sat in the sun just enjoying the mood and the company, and girding our livers for later. As evening drew on, the boys insisted on taking us across the road to the pub and buying us a meal. That was more than just a meal to me, of course, and I felt so girly I wanted the world to freeze right then so I could keep the moment.

It got better, though, as we started to get into the evening proper, and the drinks flowed, and Arris and I danced to the rock disco while the boys held our jackets, until finally the band came on. They were a well-known group on the biker circuit back then, mixing a few not-bad originals with blistering covers of rock standards. Real R and B featured a lot; not this pathetic disco drivel, but rhythm and blues, driven along by sharp bass and drums. They worked through some ZZ Top, and as I stood in front of Tony, his hands on my hips, they went into a real classic, SAHB’s “Faith Healer”, with the very apt chorus line of “Let me put my hands on you….”

They finished off with Metallica’s “Sandman”, the whole marquee echoing to the shouts of “Exit Light! Enter Night!” and as I bopped in front of Tony I felt his erection just brushing my backside, and realised that I was still sober enough to be careful, and better leave it that way.

We did have rather a steamy “good night”, and as expected there was no sign of Arris till the next morning, when she appeared at the food tent for breakfast.

“Bore da, Arris! Roedd noson da ‘da ti?”

“Oh, ie, Sar, da iawn wir!“

Her voice lowered a little, she grinned at me, and said with a wink “Mae e’n mawr iawn….pedwar tro, hefyd”

Throughout all this, the two boys were sitting unsuspecting of what she had just revealed. In essence, she had had a very good night, a very well-filled night, and four goes at being well-filled. No wonder she was smiling, but I wondered how comfortable she would be on the way home.

That time came, and after all was packed we said a rather soppy farewell to the boys, which did involve some snogs, and the two of us whirred back over the hill to our homes. Arris demanded we do it again, and soon, and I assumed she meant a rally rather than a four-orgasm sex session with a blond stallion.

The answering machine light was flashing when I got in, and it was from Joe.

“Hey, babe, fancy a drink tomorrow?”