Hilary, now there’s a girl.  We were 16 years old when we started going out.  My sister more or less forced us together.  She kept on at me: “She really likes you, Mick.  Go on, ask her out.”  I had seen her once or twice.  Hilary laughed a lot.  It was more of a nervous laugh.  She was tall and shapely.  I wouldn’t say she was beautiful.  I’d use the word pretty.  Yes, that’s it, she was pretty.  Hilary had a nice figure and a pretty face.  She had hair like Cilla Black.  Of course I’m going back now, back to the years when Cilla Black was on Top of the Pops and singing Anyone Who Had a Heart.  So we started going out.  We were both nervous.  She laughed at the slightest thing.  I guess it made me feel comfortable.  Hilary’s laughing made me feel comfortable before it became irritating.

I was a virgin and so was she.  I had never even felt a girl down there, if you know what I mean.  Hilary let me fondle her tits but when I tried to put my hand between her legs she would reach down and stop me.

One day we were lying on the settee and kissing.  My aunt was out and we had the house to ourselves.  I climbed on top of her, rolled my mouth around on hers.  The kissing went on and on.  She was sighing, making little whimpering noises.  Our mouths were open, our front teeth grinding as our lips crushed together.  She parted her legs and I slipped between them.  We were still clothed.  I began moving in rhythm of copulation, pushing my erect penis against her pubis.  She moved in rhythm beneath me.  I gazed down at her face.  Her eyes were closed, her damp hair stuck to her perspiring forehead.  I felt my orgasm coming.  Tried to control myself.  Impossible.  I ejaculated into my underwear.  It was messy.  I had to stop, make some excuse and then and wash and change.  I never told Hilary what had happened.  We didn’t have that level of communication.  It was the first and last time that I had come simulating intercourse.

Our relationship didn’t last long.  Hilary was nice.  Fun to be with.  She was pretty.  But she didn’t hit the spot.  Her nervous laugh no longer amused me.  I agonised for days on how to tell her that I wanted to end the relationship.  I’d never been in a situation like this before.  How do you tell a girl who’s fallen in love with you that you don’t want to go out with her anymore?

It got to the point where I couldn’t bear kissing her.  The passion had gone.  We were standing outside my house, the streetlight shining on her cheeks and nose, her glossy hair and full lips.  It was now or never.  I had to tell her.  And so with a quivering voice I said it was over.  She burst into tears and ran up the road.  I chased after her.  She threatened to throw herself under a car.  I held her.  She pressed her head against my chest, clung on to me and sobbed.  I whispered in her ear, told her I really liked her but we could only ever be good friends.  Tears streaming down her face, she begged me not to let her go.  I felt terrible.  How could I do this?  I felt callous, despicable.  But I didn’t love her.  I just didn’t love her and I don’t think I ever did.  The passion was never really there.  There was no magic in our relationship.  It was over.

I walked her home.  By the time we reached her house she had stopped crying.  I kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye.  I only ever saw Hilary once more, and that was by chance.  She was sitting in the doctor’s surgery and waiting for a consultation.  I sat by her side.  We chatted like old friends, joked and laughed.  Her laugh still had a nervous edge to it.  Hilary told me she was on tranquillisers and suffering from depression.  Life had not been kind to her.  I wanted to hold her hand and tell her that everything would be okay.  I wanted her to be happy.  That’s all I ever wanted.

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