25 APRIL 2015 –

             What is a delicate way to describe my first intimate encounter with a man ... ?  Hmm.

I suppose I shall have to start with my first intimate encounter with a boy ...

            I like to kiss.  Let's get that out of the way.  I have to say my first indication that boys might be good for something after all involved kissing.  It came during a school dance when I was 15.  I attended an all-girls school and my first crush (age 16) attended an all-boys.

            The dance had been arranged by the two schools.  My body had been playing funny tricks on me for some time.  When I first saw this boy from across the room, surrounded by friends, I could tell that he was cute and funny.  He also made my body think he was physically attractive.

            This young man seemed to think the same about me.  Soon we were dancing, and then enjoying some (non-alcoholic) punch.  Unlike the others, he was the first boy who ever really smiled at me, and then wanted to hold my hand.  He seemed strong and confident, and when he invited me to "go outside and get some air", I readily agreed. 

            Big mistake, believe me.  And I lernt just how big.  This boy was really was a great kisser, and as soon as we were alone he showed me just how great.  Against my will, my body started playing those annoying "tricks" again.  Part of me got all gushy.  My nipples got all hard.

            I was mortified.  I didn't know what was happening, and I was sure he thought there was something terribly wrong with me.  But of course he didn't.  Instead, he embraced me and gave me what turned out to be one of the best snogs of my life. 

            According to my friends, I had developed rather early, and we all knew by then that amongst the major differences between men and women are breasts.  (And of course the bulge in a man's trousers – but that is a different story.)  I did not yet appreciate this young man's bulge.

            I should have.  I had initially thought that for whatever strange reason, this cute young man had decided to care about me.  But I was sadly mistaken.  It took me only a few moments to realise that much to my distress, he actually seemed to care only about my body.

            Things happened very quickly.  As we snogged there in the moon-light, and other couples all around us did the same, he was suddenly caressing my breasts.  I have to admit that in their present super-sensitive condition it felt wonderful.  He was also provoking my lady-bits.

            But then he made the big mistake of the evening.  Whilst his confidence was to be admired and might have led to more, um, interesting adventures, he took that moment to release one of my breasts and guide my hand down to the huge bulge in his trousers.

            He felt warm and hard.  I felt as if I had been kicked by a horse.  I withdrew and slapped

him just as hard as I possibly could.  He mumbled some awkward apology and departed, leaving me to wonder.  Why was the difference between our bodies suddenly so interesting to me?

            I have to tell you that the answer to that question eluded me for years ...   

28 March 2015

Welcome back, and thank you again for all your support.  I'm sorry it's taken so long, but after much soul-searching (and under the advice of Counsel), I have concluded that most of you are correct, and that I have in fact blundered quite badly. 

            I promise I shall never again mention a certain name, and under legal stricture I am afraid I have reluctantly been forced to erase all my previous Blogs.  Apologies.  But let's try to muddle through this, shall we?  Now, where were we ... ?  Ohhh, yes.

            Those who have followed me from the beginning might recall that I grew up in Suffolk County (England) in the 1960s, during the "British Invasion" years (you're welcome, America).  This was also the time when so many of the UK's Youth schismed  into "Mods" or "Rockers".

            As I also wrote so very long ago, I was spared such trivialities.  Being that ours was one of the great Military Equestrian Centres of the World, and that my Father was not just "Dad" but "Sir Edmund", I found myself consorting not only with the Farm Hands, but with Generals.

            Our Mum, "Lady Susan", made sure my Sister and I understood that we had not only been tasked with all the burdens of Nobility – but must always keep the "common touch".

            It never ended.  Years of Public ("Private") Schools and a serious dedication to "duty" meant that even whilst our Family participated in various worldwide Summer Equestrian activities, my Sister and I were safely ensconced at home with Nanny and the Farm Workers.    

            It wasn't bad, of course – and in truth the Summers (and the Holidays) were glorious. 

I have since been around the World several times, and I can assure you that there are few places more beautiful than rural England, at any time of year.

            In a roundabout way, this even explains how I became so adept in sexual matters.

            Those of you who grew up on large animal farms will realise that sex is a substantial part of Farm Life.  (Think: without sex, there would be no Farm Animals).  Neither is this sex quiet, nor private, nor discrete.  Two horses "going at it" can be heard from the next Farm over, and when a Bull shows an untoward interest in a Cow, you'd really best be somewhere else.

            Since we were "typically British", I learnt about "the birds and the bees" literally from

 the birds and the bees – and the horses.  I had long since noticed a Gelding mounting a Mare out  in the fields.  (I needn't tell you what he looked like when aroused.)  How curious, I thought. 

            I could not imagine why they were "wrestling".  I was 13 before I found out.   Mum took

me aside to have "the talk", citing the horses as an example.  She said they were "having sex".  

            I learnt that even though he is not subject to the same frantic desires of a Stallion, a Gelding thinks that sex feels just delicious, thank you.  And any Mare "in Heat" thinks the same.  Mum did not tell me why they enjoyed it so much.  It would take me years to understand ...    

             

18 APRIL 2015 –

                Every girl thinks of her Dad as a hero, in one way or the other.  The fact that he may provide a roof over one's head, or an automobile, or, or even such basics as food and water adds up to a wonderful man.  And his ability to sweep our Mum off her feet goes without saying.

            But our Dad's mates were there in Normandy – many more than had ever visited the Estate, and amongst them a surprising number of Victoria Cross recipients.  In this way, they were like Dad.  But many of them were missing body parts.  They had lost them in battle.

            These men were heroes, every one, and in every sense of the word.  Not all of them had been knighted, but they all had chests full of medals – and they all treated our Dad like a brother.

Then came the revelation – our Dad could have been killed.  We might never have been born.  

            Heroes were familiar to me – though of course very un-common.  Later, when I went to school, I lernt a disturbing fact.  Not every father is a hero.  Just as not every father is a Knight.  To say, "You could have knocked me over with a feather" seems simplistic – but you could have. 

            Dad really was special.  And it thrilled me to learn that genetically I was half him.  (I lernt the word "genetically" at age seven.  Remember, DNA was discovered by Watson & Crick in 1953 – and they were both British ...)  I have to say I never felt out of place as a youth.

            But back to D-Day.  We had taken a huge hovercraft ferry across the Channel from Dover to Calais (remember, this was long before the Chuunel).  We had actually arrived on 4 June, and after the morning ceremonies in France. we took the same ferry back to the UK.

            That was when I discovered just how privileged we really were.  After a quick stop at home, we were ushered up to London and past the crowds into Buckingham Palace.  There, Dad and his mates were received by Her Majesty the Queen herself, as if they were all old friends. 

            I was taken aside and told that during the War, her Majesty had served as a Military lorry driver and mechanic.  As far as she was concerned, these were the very men who had made the Allied Victory possible.  Without them, we would not be free – and she could not be Queen.

            These memories remained as I grew and matured and lernt the burdens of Nobility, as well as the privileges.  I noticed that rich "commoners" certainly seemed to enjoy life as much as I did.  We went to the same schools, attended the same parties, etc.  But there was a difference.

            This was made most clear to me during my 18^th year.  Between my sister's wedding and my attending University, there came a ceremony to be endured.  Every "noble" girl of my age would be formally presented at Court.  This was what the Americans called a "Cotillion".

            A "coming-out party" is another name for it.  Before we were presented to Prince Charles (of all people), we were just silly adolescent girls.  Afterwards, in our white gowns and long gloves, we were "suitable marriage material" for any unmarried male found in Burke's Peerage.

            Oh joy, I thought.  Leave me out of it.  Just overlook my position and my DNA ... 

11 APRIL 2015 –

Let us not become overly interested in sexual matters.  As I think about it, my childhood had almost nothing to do with sex (understandably).  What I found to be much more interesting was that my entire family were members of the English Peerage, and that we all had titles.

            Every girl pretends to be a Princess at some time or other.  When my sister and I lernt that we and our Mum were actual titled Ladies, and that our Dad was an actual Knight, it was intriguing but sobering.  Why pretend to be a Princess if we could never actually be one ... ?

            On the other hand, we all lived on a vast Equestrian Estate.  We regularly met high-ranking members of the Armed Forces, socialised with all kinds of Nobility – including, yes, Princesses – and spent a fair amount of time in Palaces and Castles.  It was a very pleasant life.  

            Nobility had been bestowed on many British families after the War.  So many brave men had distinguished themselves in service to the Crown (i.e. service to the Realm) that I am really

surprised more of them did not earn Knighthoods.  The Peerage seemed to grow exponentially.

            If you read my previous Blogs, you may recall that my Dad's 1st Wife (and my oldest brother's Mum) ended up leaving him for a "Consular Relationship" (whatever that means) in British India.  Thus my oldest Brother Paul grew up amongst the very last years of the Raj.

            Dad pressed on.  During the Korean War, he met his 2nd Wife (a Nurse) whilst on leave in Tokyo.  Theirs was a whirlwind courtship.  My Mum (Dad's 3rd Wife) knew full well how

happy they had been.  But cancer took her, whilst my second brother Peter was still in nappies.

            That loss almost killed my Dad.  But he did his duty as a sponsor of the British Equestrian Team at the 1956 Sydney Olympics, where he struck up a relationship with my Mum, who was then  a Team Reservist.  They married for love, and produced my sister in 1959.

            Of course I came two years later.  At first, I suppose I was very naïve.  I thought all children had Nannies.  I thought all children lived on Estates, with horses and Staff.  I thought all children befriended Statesmen and Generals.  When the Queen visited, I was not a bit surprised.

            It took some doing for our Dad and Mum to make us understand that we were special.  Not special in terms of being better than anyone else – hardly – but special in the sense of being privileged.  Having been born into the Peerage, unlimited doors would be open to us.

            We were also very well-to-do (whatever that meant) and had not only money, but "friends in high places".  When we were very small and were taken to visit Sir Winston Churchill at his Chartwell Estate, what we later remembered most about the experience were his black swans.

            It was not until I was eight years old that I began to understand what this was really all about.  On 6 June 1969 we were invited to Normandy to commemorate the 25^th Anniversary of D-Day.  I lernt then that Dad was a great war hero who had helped liberate Occupied Europe.

            What kind of man was he?  Merely the kind I would someday risk my life for ...            

4 April 2015

) 4 APRIL 2015 –

            As I was growing up in rural England during the "swingin' '60s", both of my older brothers were already matured and out of the house.  By the '70s, my teen-age sister Alice, two years older than me, was of an age where she considered me not yet a friend, but more of a pest. 

            Thus, for their own and various reasons , none of my siblings felt compelled to defy our Mother and tell me more about sex before I figured it out for myself.  As I explained last time, I had learned from our Mum at age 13 what sex was, but not why it was so ... um, entertaining ...

            Our Dad, Sir Edmund, had served with distinction during the War, earning both a Victoria Cross and a KG through gallantry during several years of combat.  After V-J Day, he had accepted a position with the Foreign Office, and was assigned to India at the end of the Raj.

            What has this got to do with sex ... ?  Dad was a great collector of books, and by the time I arrived, we had thousands.  The Manor House on our farm was possessed of a great and extensive library, and my siblings and I were encouraged to read from a very early age.

            I spent countless hours in that library.  Many rainy days were devoted to books.  And

when I was twelve, I discovered Dad's colourful copies of the Kama Sutra, brought from India.

            The text was strange to me, and the words.  Even as I deciphered them, they made no sense.  But there were pretty pictures, showing a woman and a man who seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, all in ways involving various parts of his body being caressed by various parts of hers.  The looks on their faces showed they were very happy.  I began to wonder why ...

            It never occurred to me to question why my parents should have such books in the first place.  When I was a child, I thought as a child.  But over time, I reached puberty (and at first, I thought I was dying.)  My body began to change.  I developed curves, and a wiggle. 

            Soon, men were smiling at me.  I had no idea why.  I believe that was why Mum chose

then to give me "the talk".  (And just in time – by the time I was 17, men were openly flirting ...)

            After Mum's talk, I understood what sex was, and what it was for – to make babies – but not why I should care.  Apparently, it involved a male placing part of himself inside a female.  Ugh, I thought.  How revoltng.  Boys are so – crude.  None for me, thank you ...

            But then I remembered the Kama Sutra, and I wondered, not yet realising that there is a vast difference between boys and men.  Boys are annoying, at best.  Soon after my 18^th birthday, Alice got married, and just before the wedding, my sister's friends gave her a "hen party".

            I had come to know her fiancé, Tom, over time.  Naturally, he was a soldier.  Their displays of physical affection when the parents were not around intrigued me.  Tom was a real man, who treated by sister with respect and adoration. 

            At the party, all the women seemed to talk about was sex.  There was "sexy" lingerie and "sex toys".  And they all laughed.  I then began to suspect that sex was pretty all right ...

Lord Cowboy

LORD COWBOY is a torrid romance novel by English writer Lady Jayne Ascot. Set in England and Europe during the epic summer of 1944, it tells the story of GWEN, a fiery English war widow, and her passionate involvement with "ROCK", a valiant Lightning pilot from Texas who by chance was himself widowed before the War.

In a world where Death was a constant companion, lives could be snuffed out suddenly and without warning. Countless men and women sought comfort in each other's arms (and in each other's beds). This gave new meaning to the concept of love and romance, and to the very idea of right and wrong. "Make you and your partner feel good" became the crucial edict.

Swept along in the passion of the times, Gwen and Rock explored almost every facet of sexuality possible for a woman and a man. The only limits to their erotica became their own imaginations. But of course in the end, as we all are, they were only human, with human limitations. The fires of war lit the flames of their desire - but would they be consumed?

ROMANCE EMBRACES US like a tropical breeze. It warms and comforts us, and makes us feel whole. The question is, will Romance come as a zephyr, scented with flowers and exotic aromas – or as a hurricane?

For lonely English war widow Gwen, it will be the latter. By summer 1944, England is a place of sacrifice and hardship. Death abounds. Whilst ground battles are limited to Europe, the V-Blitz brings deadly Nazi wonder weapons like the V-1.

Amidst days of sandbags and nights of Blackout, Gwen's builds warplanes. Since 1940, she has lost too many people. Her husband, an RAF Pilot, was killed a year ago. To keep her sanity, she has adopted a simple tenet: "Everybody dies." But she is so lonely. She knows she cannot long survive without physical affection, but the idea of a "tawdry love affair" repels her.

DURING THE BLACKOUT, a strange ritual has evolved. A lonely English woman will go out into the night to a place where Military Officers are known to gather. When she finds one she finds attractive, she will politely enquire, "Would you like to come home with me?"

If he agrees, for one special night they will share every tenderness – and an intimacy known only to the most trusting lovers. She will open her body to him completely, and he in turn will do all he can to please her in every way. Later there will be no Good-byes, but only So-longs.

Gwen's best friend persuades her to visit a darkened Service Club, where Gwen nervously asks an American Bomb-Aimer to go home with her. The evening turns into a sexual disaster.