more, not since Gary Higgins, she thought glumly, frowning as she remembered that horrible night the previous year when he’d started snogging her under the cordyline trees in the middle of The Triangle.
It was the first time she’d been properly kissed, a French kiss, like the ones she’d read about in the romances she liked to devour. She had found it revolting. Gary Higgins, the village hunk, had walked her home from the hotel one night and told her he’d make a ‘real woman’ of her. She’d been scared but curious. He was a couple of years older than she. Until then she’d only been tentatively kissed by pimply, gangly youths with moon craters of acne on their faces, and damp, sweaty octopus hands that roamed all over her until she called a halt. She’d begun to think there was something wrong with her. All the Mills & Boons she’d devoured, all the Cosmo articles she’d read when she’d worked weekends in the local hairdresser’s, had led her to believe that she would feel hot and quivery and have mind-blowing orgasms, but all she felt as those boys slobbered over her and pressed their crotches against her, was dismay and disgust. Fortunately, she wasn’t alone. Lizzie confided that she felt the same. They couldn’t understand how Frances O’Connor and Anna McKenna and their gang were always boasting about shifting guys and having passionate sessions down on the boat strand behind the sheds.
‘I think they’re spoofing or else we’re frigid,’ Lizzie had fretted and Valerie had felt apprehension grip her as her best friend articulated a fear that caused her much anxiety. She wondered if frigidity could be inherited because she felt sure her mother suffered from the condition. Carmel had told her that men only wanted women for one thing and that she would be better off never getting married. ‘Be independent, Valerie. Never let a man have power over you. It’s different for you – you can have a career, you can earn your own money. Don’t give all that up to be some man’s skivvy.’
At night sometimes, when she was younger, she would hear the bed creaking in the room next door, Carmel’s murmured protests and her father’s hoarse guttural grunts. Valerie would jam her fingers into her ears and the growing revulsion she felt for her father deepened into an antipathy that would last until his death. Carmel had collapsed haemorrhaging one day, hanging out clothes in the back garden, and had to have a hysterectomy. She had moved into the small boxroom while she was recovering and had never returned to the marital bedroom.
When Gary Higgins had chatted Valerie up one Saturday night when she had sneaked out of the house to go to a disco at the hotel, she had decided once and for all to prove to herself that she wasn’t frigid. Gary was experienced; he’d know how to treat her; he’d know what he was doing, she reasoned. And so when he’d walked her through The Triangle and sat her down on a bench, her heart had thumped with excitement. It was finally going to happen. He would cup her breasts in his hands, just like in a Mills & Boon romance. He’d gently caress her nipples until they were hard peaks of desire and his kisses would be deep and tender at first, but then probing and insistent as she inflamed him with passionate desire. And then she would feel the quivery, aching need herself and know that she was normal, just like Frances and Anna, and those women she read about.
When he had stuck his beer-soaked tongue so far down her throat that she almost gagged, and twisted her nipples until she had gasped with pain and dismay, he had mistaken it for a gasp of pleasure. Before she realized what he was doing, Gary had thrust his hand inside the waistbands of her maxi skirt and knickers and roughly jammed two fingers into her, making her cry out in shock and pain.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ he muttered drunkenly, jabbing his fingers in and out. ‘Now you touch me.’ He was unzipping his jeans
It was the first time she’d been properly kissed, a French kiss, like the ones she’d read about in the romances she liked to devour. She had found it revolting. Gary Higgins, the village hunk, had walked her home from the hotel one night and told her he’d make a ‘real woman’ of her. She’d been scared but curious. He was a couple of years older than she. Until then she’d only been tentatively kissed by pimply, gangly youths with moon craters of acne on their faces, and damp, sweaty octopus hands that roamed all over her until she called a halt. She’d begun to think there was something wrong with her. All the Mills & Boons she’d devoured, all the Cosmo articles she’d read when she’d worked weekends in the local hairdresser’s, had led her to believe that she would feel hot and quivery and have mind-blowing orgasms, but all she felt as those boys slobbered over her and pressed their crotches against her, was dismay and disgust. Fortunately, she wasn’t alone. Lizzie confided that she felt the same. They couldn’t understand how Frances O’Connor and Anna McKenna and their gang were always boasting about shifting guys and having passionate sessions down on the boat strand behind the sheds.
‘I think they’re spoofing or else we’re frigid,’ Lizzie had fretted and Valerie had felt apprehension grip her as her best friend articulated a fear that caused her much anxiety. She wondered if frigidity could be inherited because she felt sure her mother suffered from the condition. Carmel had told her that men only wanted women for one thing and that she would be better off never getting married. ‘Be independent, Valerie. Never let a man have power over you. It’s different for you – you can have a career, you can earn your own money. Don’t give all that up to be some man’s skivvy.’
At night sometimes, when she was younger, she would hear the bed creaking in the room next door, Carmel’s murmured protests and her father’s hoarse guttural grunts. Valerie would jam her fingers into her ears and the growing revulsion she felt for her father deepened into an antipathy that would last until his death. Carmel had collapsed haemorrhaging one day, hanging out clothes in the back garden, and had to have a hysterectomy. She had moved into the small boxroom while she was recovering and had never returned to the marital bedroom.
When Gary Higgins had chatted Valerie up one Saturday night when she had sneaked out of the house to go to a disco at the hotel, she had decided once and for all to prove to herself that she wasn’t frigid. Gary was experienced; he’d know how to treat her; he’d know what he was doing, she reasoned. And so when he’d walked her through The Triangle and sat her down on a bench, her heart had thumped with excitement. It was finally going to happen. He would cup her breasts in his hands, just like in a Mills & Boon romance. He’d gently caress her nipples until they were hard peaks of desire and his kisses would be deep and tender at first, but then probing and insistent as she inflamed him with passionate desire. And then she would feel the quivery, aching need herself and know that she was normal, just like Frances and Anna, and those women she read about.
When he had stuck his beer-soaked tongue so far down her throat that she almost gagged, and twisted her nipples until she had gasped with pain and dismay, he had mistaken it for a gasp of pleasure. Before she realized what he was doing, Gary had thrust his hand inside the waistbands of her maxi skirt and knickers and roughly jammed two fingers into her, making her cry out in shock and pain.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ he muttered drunkenly, jabbing his fingers in and out. ‘Now you touch me.’ He was unzipping his jeans
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