When the Apocalypse came some turned to God.
The summer of 1987 was the summer I spent bumming around Europe. The plan had been to spend the hot months working in bars around Marbella and then the autumn would be spent picking grapes and getting my end away with as many locals as I could. But at the beginning of September I met Paz. She was a walking Spanish cliché: long dark brown hair, bottomless chocolate brown eyes, long slender lithe limbs, spoke very little English, a good devout catholic girl, and utterly enchanting. I spent all of September trying to talk her into my bed with no success – she was hung up on ideas of love, fidelity, God, marriage, and the church. I was eighteen and wanted as much Spanish pussy as I could get. The closest I could get was when she let me apply Piz Buin to her back on the beach. Unlike the British girls who stayed for a couple of weeks of sun, sangria, and sex, Paz didn’t sunbathe topless. None of the Spanish girls did, and only a few of them would go skinny dipping. The Brits spent most of their two weeks naked and working their way through all the waiters and bar staff. I’ve got dark hair and fairly olive skin so I would get chatted up initially because the girls thought I was a local, then they’d be thrilled to discover I was actually from London and understood them. A good tan and a moped loosens a lot of knicker elastic.

Paz was entirely different – she was Spain for me. Hot, sultry yet pure, and just out of my reach. So what’s this got to do with the Apocalypse?

Paz invited me to a bull fight up in the hills near Grenada, I think. It wasn’t the usual touristy version; this was the proper Picasso hard on affair. I wasn’t sure – I’d given a few coppers to anti-vivisection charities and all my female friends from Sixth form had only purchased Beauty Without Cruelty cosmetics – it was a thing in the 80s. But this was with Paz. “Come. Come with me, Richie. I show you Spanish passion.” Paz looked and sounded a little like Penelope Cruz…but then most Spanish girls in their late teens do. We went. We saw the bull fight and I’d like to say it appalled me, that I cried for the murdered and tortured animals, but the reality was that sitting there in the blazing September sun with Paz gripping my thigh every time the matador waved his cape, I got a hard on, just like Picasso promised. Unfortunately Paz’s grandmother was sitting the other side of me in her black widow’s weeds and she noticed. She told Paz’s father and the upshot was that it became quickly obvious that leaving Spain was a good idea unless I wanted to get married. My money was getting low too so I came home for the bank of Ma and Pa.

So that’s how I found myself back in England by October 1987. I’d put off going to uni for a year and I found some work housesitting for a friend of my parents. They lived in a large chalet style bungalow on the south coast. I slept in the loft room which had an amazing view out over the channel and all I had to do was to watch tv, read books, and wank as I was under orders not to take home any local talent.

On the 15th October there was a knock at the door. Paz had followed me to England – she’d been to my parents’ house and they told her where she could find me. She’d had a massive row with her father and walked out. She said she’d had enough of being the perfect catholic girl, following all their rules, being the dutiful daughter….okay, her English still wasn’t that good. What she actually said to me was, “Richie, I am hot for you”….Okay, in my dream she said that. I think she told me she loved me and dumped her suitcase on the doorstep.

Oh boy.

Still, I was eighteen and all my brain function was filtered through my cock. Still is, to be honest.

This didn’t count as local talent.

Being a gentleman I made pizza and oven chips and we watched a video – Nine and Half Weeks had just appeared at the local video rental shop, £2.50 for the night. I wasn’t bothered about watching the news on BBC 1; I didn’t see the fateful weather forecast by Michael Fish….

I took Paz upstairs to my room. We sat on my unmade bed. I kissed her gently and held her hand. Then she put her hand on my thigh, and I began to kiss her neck. “Si. Si.” Paz whispered into my hair. I slipped a hand under her U2 t-shirt and discovered that she wasn’t wearing a bra. I loved Walnut Whips.

I wanted this to be a proper Erica Jong zipless fuck, but when you’re eighteen they never are. Instead we spent hours heavy petting – no one does that anymore! Just like white dog turds, it’s all gone now.

Finally around 1am we were naked under the duvet and my trusty packet of three had come off the subs bench. I’d kept up with my reading during the summer and had wanked my way through Anais Nin, so I knew what Paz would like. I licked and sucked every inch of her until the room began to shake. I paused, there was total stillness like we were inside a church. Gently I pushed into her – no sliding just yet, this was her first time. We kept kissing and kissing and slowly we began to fuck. Never before and never since have I had an experience like it. The room began to shake again, then the bed seemed to come up off the floor in time to our banging. My entire body was fucking this exquisite Spanish girl who wanted me like a badger wants honey. As I shot my bolt the roaring started….I couldn’t feel, hear or see anything else except the white blindness of coming into a tight pussy and it seemed to go on for ages.

It was then that we both realised that the earth wasn’t moving because of this incredible hot teenage sex we were having. There was a fucking hurricane going on outside. We didn’t sleep at all that night – not because we were humping like a pair of dogs on heat but because I was chasing the barbecue around the garden.

In the morning the scene of devastation was apocalyptic. No power, no water, no telephones. Most of the roads around us were blocked but by the evening things improved a little and I drove her back to my parents’ house where she stayed until she could get a flight home. The hurricane was our fault, apparently; God’s sign that Paz should have been married before she lost her virginity. She stayed in touch for a short time but while I was in university she decided to take up Holy Orders. And that’s how shagging me made a Mother Superior.
(Stiff Richard, Sat 16 Jun 2012, 15:07, 3 replies)

I laughed at
chasing the barbecue around the garden.
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Sat 16 Jun 2012, 23:14, closed)

I laughed at "the summer I spent bumming around Europe".
I thought it was going to be an entirely different story.
(Sloppy Giuseppe, Sun 17 Jun 2012, 19:57, closed)

That would have been an entirely different story...
not about the apocalypse; more about the YMCA in Naples.
And Berlin.
And Marseilles.

When we have an appropriate QoTW I'll elaborate.
(Stiff Richard, Tue 19 Jun 2012, 0:04, closed)