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…..following from ‘It’s who you know’…..

lipsI moved my things into the house three weeks before that start of term.
My parents were delighted with the accommodation; mother because she mistakenly thought of Anna as a level-headed girl who wouldn’t be out binge drinking and chasing men every night, and father because he saw the rent free potential as less of a drain on his bank balance.

I had to admit that the place was plush, bordering on the lavishly decadent, and not far from opulent.

“It’s so big,” I said, “and so tastefully decorated.”
“That’s me-ma for you,” Anna said, with mock sarcasm, “she can’t bear to do anything half-hearted. She had the wallpaper in her room stripped off and re-hung by the decorator, because she said the stripes weren’t absolutely vertical.”

There were four bedrooms, one of which was ear-marked for Anna’s mother when she came down to visit her daughter; which never actually happened. A year later she left Anna’s father, after she discovered that he’d been having an affair with the marketing director of his company, who he’d accidentally impregnated with twins. Six months after that she went on holiday to Crete and took up with the son of a wealthy hotelier, ten years her junior.  Anna was neither surprised nor particularly broken hearted about the break-up of her family home.

“It’s been coming for years,” she said the day her mother rang to give her the sad news. “What surprises me is that neither of them saw the writing on the wall before now. Mother has never been a particularly loving woman. And they haven’t shared a bed for at least eight years. So it’s not surprising that Dad drifted into the arms of another woman.”

As infants we’d been bathed together and ran around her parent’s two acre garden and adjoining fields naked as two nymphs. From about ten years of age we’d had numerous sleepovers, sharing a big double bed, sitting up late into the night gossiping about everyone and everything. So it seemed quite natural for us to fall back on old habits.

Anna did and does have a passion for walking around naked. A trait she definitely didn’t inherit from her parents, who were as conservative as misers.
For three months we slept together, me in one of my knee length cotton nightdresses, and Anna in a nightdress that barely covered her slender bottom. Neither of us wore underclothes to bed, except for those weeks when mother-nature sent the red flag.

It was a cold night in late January, I’d cooked a chilli and we’d popped the cork on a bottle of rose’, which, by late evening had become two bottles, plus a bottle of white Sauvignon Blanc and the remains of a bottle of vodka mixed with some nearly flat lemonade. We spent the evening discussing the failings of family life, followed by true confessions and laughter over tales of the men we’d slept with.

By eleven we were way past caring that the dishes were still on the table and that Anna’s overdue essay on ‘Renaissance Architecture’ was unfinished.

We finally toppled into the cold bed, clinging to each other for warmth, where the alcohol, coupled with the talk of shagging in a tent in Vietnam, in a hotel in Egypt, in the toilets at a concert in Melbourne made us both horny as hell, and it was perhaps inevitable that our lips found each others in the dark.

The next morning I awoke to find Anna hard at work in one of the spare rooms, madly clattering at the keys of her lap-top.

Nothing was said about the events of the night before, when kissing had developed into stroking and fondling.
All that day I could hardly concentrate. Fortunately, I only had one two-hour lecture to attend. Anna however didn’t get back until after six.

“What happened last night isn’t going to make any difference to out friendships… is it?” she said, almost as soon as she walked through the door.
I’d been expecting just such a question. “No.” I replied. “In fact I enjoyed it.”
I could see the relief on her face. “I was so worried you might want to move out because of what we did.”
“It wasn’t your first time, was it?” I said, recalling the easy, almost expert way she’d stroked my body and the way her tongue had, had be squirming.

She smiled, shook her head and then confessed about the beautiful Māori woman who had seduced her during her year out, while she was in New Zealand, and with whom she’d shared a three month affair.
“I’m not a lesbian,” she insisted, when she’d finished talking. “I’ve never fancied any other woman before or since. And I didn’t mean for last night to happen. Let’s just chalk it up to too much alcohol. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said.

But that night, climbing into bed together we fell into a mutual embrace, followed by kisses, and I practiced some of the things on her body that she’d taught me the night before.
It wasn’t until two weeks before the end of the second term that we took to sleeping in separate rooms, due to the lusty attentions of a second year chemistry student (hereafter known as Oscar), who we met in a local bar. He swept Anna off her feet and straight into bed in three short hours.

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