A Year to Remember, Chapter Three - Sex Stories

A Year to Remember, Chapter Three

... to your mum about. Just lads stuff, that's all! I sit in the car thinking about Dad, about missing him…about mum…about Simon. “Here we are then,” she chimes, merrily. I turn and glare at her as she parks in front of a tall town house on the edge of a town, about 10 miles from home. “Adam, I'm warning you, if you don't make some kind of effort to get on with Simon, I will be very disappointed! Emma has told me that Simon is very quiet and shy and she wants him to get to know some people his own age. Patrick says he's 16 going on 60 and he spends too much time on his own and not enough with kids his own age.” Kids! I am silently raging against being labelled a 'kid'. However I let it go and muster one of my sweetest, kindest, borderline-psychopathic smiles for her. She reaches across the handbrake and kisses my cheek. I let her, without my usual retching noise…I do love her, really. Then she runs her hand through my hair to ensure I have that boy-next-door, 1950's side parting that she loves so much. The hair I have just spent half an hour on, making sure I look a bit less like a comic book character. “God, Mum. Leave it! I'm sixteen, not six!” I bellow. She laughs and pulls a face, mocking my disapproval. I had spent ages this morning, pointedly not parting my thick, muddy-brown hair, sweeping it this way and that. At least she didn't spit on her hanky and wipe my face. We are eventually deemed appropriately clean and tidy enough to be presented to others. My sister had ...

... almost had a full head to toe with the damp hanky. I try to re-arrange my hair again, while we wait on the doorstep. I don't want to look like the kid my mum reckons I am. Simon answers the door. I could hear him bounding down the stairs behind the front door. Seems like endless stairs – well I suppose there are three storeys, so two sets of stairs. *** I'm sitting in Patrick and Emma’s kitchen, we all are. Drinking orange squash, orange bloody squash! Squash!! “Adam, want to have the guided tour?” Simon suddenly says, jerking me out of my 'sitting and smiling inanely, sipping orange squash like it's a pint of lager' daydream. “Sure. Great.” My mum looks over and pulls the kind of face that says: Simon, do not let me down. “It's just three quid a ticket,” he replies, stony-faced. “Simon!” his dad, Patrick, says, in a mildly menacing tone. ”Don't be an idiot.” “Okay, just a pound then.” Smirking, he jumps off his chair and comes around the table and pulls me up. What the hell? “Come on, follow me.” Off he goes, bounding up the endless stairs, apparently as eager as I am to be out of the kitchen. Out of the glare! I'm almost running to catch him up. I am sure I can hear mum, Patrick and Emma sighing with relief, that at last, their two peculiar teenage sons have gone off to 'make friends'. Looking down at my sock-clad, size ten feet, I notice these stairs are way steeper and the treads narrower than ours at home but what I don't realise is that Simon has stopped halfway up. I go ...