BBW, FA, Summer flirt, memories
(The story is based on my experience in August 1966. Many of the described things really happened, but not all f them.
If you don’t know or remember the songs, you can find all of them in internet, mainly on youtube. Two of the songs should not be there because they came out in 1967, but I wanted to put them in anyway. Can you find them?)
It was late July 1966. The Rolling Stones sang of Lady Jane, Donovan of Colours, the Beatles had a Ticket to Ride and I was as happy as I could be. I was eighteen and half, I just went through the final high school exams – and in these days they were more of a hard and difficult initiation test that admitted you into adulthood than a rite of passage – in the fall I would have gone to college, one of the best for archaeology and anthropology, and I was a virgin.
This was just normal because those were the dark ages before the Sexual Revolution: nice girls preserved their virginity for the marriage – or in any case for Mr. 150% Right – and bad girls were in desperately scarce supply in the quiet suburban town I lived in, so all my friends were virgin too. Yes, there were one or two darers who made lurid descriptions of their transactions with the hookers of the big city nearby, but we did not know whether to believe them or not.
We were all virgins, but there was a difference: my friends at least had girlfriends, had kissed them and had some practical experience of petting, I did not. I was fun, pleasant and likeable, looking at the pictures from those years I can objectively say that I wasn’t bad-looking at all, but I didn’t have any success with girls. The problems were that I was very shy with them, when I was trying to make an impression I said and did all the wrong things in the wrong moment and, most important, I later realized that all my attempts were half-hearted. I was an FA even if I didn’t have any practical experience – and do not ask me how it could happen, I just don’t know – but I knew that I liked above all Big Beautiful Girls, so I was not really much interested in the slim girls I was trying to court.
“So – you will say – why didn’t you try with a larger girl?”
Simple, there was practically none. In Italy BBWs were never plentiful and the Sixties were particularly bad for FAs, so among my acquaintances, school or otherwise, there were only two Big Beautiful Girls. One of them was not particularly interesting and had the same boyfriend since she was twelve, so she was out of question; the other one turned me on a lot, but she was a snooty girl who looked down on us kids, proclaiming to everybody that she was interested only in college boys and young professionals. Those young men were not exactly queuing after her so she apparently never had a boyfriend, but she too was out of question and I was too shy to try and chat up any of the other few Big Beautiful Girls of my town, or to organize to be introduced to any of them.
So, no girls for me, Big and Beautiful or otherwise, and I had to resort to fantasies. Oh, my fantasies were rich! I had a large mental harem crowded with all the Big Beautiful Women who made an impression and turned me on, from a lady I saw in a concert hall to the younger sister of our butcher, from a girl I spotted during a vacation with my parents to a woman I noticed in the bus. My favourites among them were the deliciously pear-shaped wife of the grocer at the corner and an hourglass-shaped young woman living near me, spectacularly big for Italy of the Sixties – but I don’t think she was more than 130 kilos/285 lbs. These were glorious fantasies, but sadly only fantasies. However things were going to change soon, very soon, I knew it.
Most important, according to the reports of the friend, in the place there were hundreds of girls! Even better, most of these girls were German or British and everybody knew that they were much freer, so to say, than the Italian girls. We were sure we could bed some of them, what the others got that we did not have? And even if we didn’t succeed in this, certainly at least we would have some petting, surely heavy petting. And, above all, I would have gotten my Big Beautiful Girl, with luck more than one! So we left on the 31st of July with great hopes.
We were audacious, so instead of waiting three hours for a bus that took us exactly to the place we decided to take the first one, which left us some distance away. And so we did. We got out of the bus and we marched 30 minutes to the campsite, luckily most of them descent. The Beatles were in a Yellow Submarine, for the Mamas and Papas it was Monday Monday, the Rolling Stones were Painting It Black and we felt like heroes while we walked into the campsite.
And it was just exactly like we dreamed. No logistical problems, adequate equipment, beautiful beaches, wonderful nature, pleasant campsite; we immediately got friends with lots of young people of our age and we had lots of fun, in every possible way. We were tan, fit, popular, cool and… still virgin. Worse, we were still without a girl of any description, skinny or fat or whatever.
The oodles of girls that we expected simply don’t were around, neither British, nor German nor Italian. Some old-timers kept telling us that this never happened in living memory, that all the years before there were more girls than boys, that doubtless next Saturday or Sunday, Monday at latest, lots of girls would have arrived. But we knew that it was not true, that they were deluding themselves. The place was cursed, we were cursed and we would never have found a girl.
To make things worse, we had a couple of days of rainy weather, and so one sad afternoon we were in the large veranda of the café/soda and ice cream parlour/bar that was the local meeting place, sitting in front of a family-size bottle of Coke while outside was raining. The Beatles sang of Eleanor Rigby and of the lonely people, the Rolling Stones couldn’t get no satisfaction and were on the 19th nervous breakdown, the Procol Harum turned a Whiter Shade of Pale, Mamas and Papas were California Dreamin’ in a winter day, Cher was shot down by her baby, Bob Dylan was in full Desolation Row and Simon and Garfunkel were immersed in The Sound of Silence.
We were sad and depressed and my cousin kept menacing of tearing his tool away, it was totally useless, it was clear he would never use it.
Just at that moment I turned and I had a vision. I saw a goddess followed by her two maids enter the sorry place we were in. I hiccupped, turned to check better and I found that it was not a vision. She was not a goddess, but close to it: she had short dark hair, large sweet dark eyes, a beautiful face with a sensuous mouth and a well-proportioned, tanned body to die for, shapely and big all over, big breasts, big round belly, big hips and butt, big thighs. I do not remember at all what she wore, I just have in front of my mind’s eyes her beautiful face and the abundant delights of her body. She was more or less my age, about 1.70, now I reckon she should have been around 100 kilos (5’7” and around 220 pounds). More important, she was clearly alone, if she had a boyfriend he would have come along, therefore she was probably unattached, at least for the vacations. The maids turned to be two giggling, plump girls around 15 or so, pretty enough but not comparable to the Goddess in any way, as it befits to goddesses’ maids.
My cousin and the friend just looked at the girls without interest because they were not FA at all. This would have prevented in-group rivalry, but it wouldn’t have helped much, because as usual I was too shy to chat up the girl – enough calling her goddess – and anyhow I didn’t know the technique to do it, so as usual the only thing I could do was to admire from afar.
No, I couldn’t do even that. The girls chose to sit at a table exactly behind me, so I couldn’t see them at all and I just couldn’t turn every two minutes to have a look. Great, my usual luck. In any case I immediately included the older girl in my mental harem.
Then, all of a sudden, things changed. The girls got up and went to play foosball at a table that was very much in full view, close to us. Now, this was even more interesting, because if there was a thing I could do it was playing foosball, in these days I was really good at it. Besides the girls were making all the possible mistakes a beginner would do, clearly they were in bad need of a competent coach, so, without thinking, I got up, walked there and began training them.
In a minute I was a friend of the big girl, while the two younger ones giggled even more, and in ten minutes I knew everything about her. She was called Laura, she was almost nineteen, a few months older than me (I knew better than asking, I reckoned this from her zodiac sign and from her school career); she was having vacation with her mother in a holiday cabin nearby and her father joined them on Saturday afternoon and Sunday, and they had been doing it for years; we had not met before because she usually went to places closer to her cabin; she was from a small town 45 minutes away by car, where her father owned a hardware store.
“A big one – she said proudly – our customers come also from towns all around”.
The girls were her younger cousins but they’d leave the following day and she would have been alone (I’ll take care this doesn’t happen, I made a mental note); she just finished business and accountancy high school and she was a certified accountant, in the last two years she took care of the finances of her dad’s store all alone and dad paid her what he would have paid to a real accountant – and again she was proud of it – in September she would start looking for a job because she wanted to be independent and for a year she would have mulled whether go on working or going to college and study economics and business.
“A thing is sure – she said – I do not want to stay home like my mum. I want a family but also a job, I need to be independent and to get satisfactions also through my work”.
The information came in her local rural singsong accent that I immediately found endearing, and I reciprocated with information about me. Everything was smooth and simple, I realized finally that I didn’t need to make an impression, I just had to be myself.
My cousin and my friend joined the group and we began chatting volubly, I kept discovering sides of Laura I liked very much (she read a lot, she liked movies and theatre, she liked music), I got more and more focused on her and clearly she was focused on me.
In the meantime the owner of the place, to cheer up the environment and to attract some people, switched on the loudspeakers and we had music. Need I to say? We began dancing. The three girls were good at it, better than us – better than me for sure – and for a good deal of the afternoon we went through the whole set: twist, hully gully, madison, surf, you name a dance of early-mid sixties and we did it. We danced, then we took some moments of rest playing foosball, and then danced again; we sat down for a few minutes with ice creams and then danced again. All the gloom of the rainy afternoon was dispelled, all of us had great fun and mine was much enhanced by the refreshing view of Laura’s remarkable breasts bouncing happily up and down. The weather too participated in the general happiness: it stopped raining and the sun came back.
Other young people had come to the café, even some girls, and they too danced. The owner thought that business didn’t need free music anymore and switched off the loudspeaker. I anticipated that this would have happened and I was ready: it was my moment.
I ran to the juke-box before anyone could get there, I threw in the big 100 lire coin (about 16 U.S. cents of the time) and I chose immediately the three songs I was entitled to, I already decided: one song of Frank Sinatra, Strangers in the Night, and two of the Beatles, Girl and Michelle. Yes, all of them songs perfect for slow cheek to cheek dancing, which was exactly what I hoped to do.
I looked at our table. My cousin and the friend were a bit taken aback, slow dancing with underage girls – small fry, as they defined them – was not their cup of tea, and so as good wingmen do they sat in their chairs. Instead the two small girls were disappointed; they would have liked very much to go on dancing with the Eighteen-Years Boys, especially the slow dance, it would have been great stuff to tell to their friends back home.
I came back to Laura, and I do not remember if she was surprised by the turn of the things or not, but she opted for slow dance without problems. And there I was, hugging for the first time in my life a Big Beautiful Woman. I was in a dilemma, on one hand I wanted to hug Laura’s sensuous body, pull it close to me and relish her sexy, soft femininity, on the other hand I wanted to behave like the nice boy I was, at least in the beginning, and I didn’t mean to show immediately my lewd intentions. At first I did not hug Laura too much and I tried to stay inside the narrow limits of decency, but I still could feel the tantalizing warm softness of Laura’s body. Every now and then her elastic, big, sexy breast brushed me, her wonderfully large hips butted against me, her scent and her softness drove me crazy. My hands, holding her waist, could feel the sweet rolls of fat around the top of her panties, and if I tried to raise them up against that divine temptation I fell into the even sexier rolls of fat around her bra.
“Oh, bust – I thought – we’re dancing, let’s dance to the hilt” and I pulled Laura close to me until her firm, large breasts filled my embrace. The girl did not pull herself back, very good sign.
Frank Sinatra ended his song, there was a moment of silence and Laura backed a little, but the Beatles came to the rescue. I hugged Laura even closer to me, she did not back away, and I was in heaven.
But, wait. The most embarrassing thing of my life happened. I just had the strongest erection in my 18 years and it was painfully evident to Laura. I must have blushed, I am sure, but I could not move my hips away, that would have been ridiculous. Just think of a couple glued from the waist up, and arching away at the hips! So, I stayed there in my embarrassment, but Laura luckily did not seem to mind. I was even more in heaven and hugged her even closer.
I did not hear the songs, in my mind I felt the wild intoxicating rhythm of Ravel’s Bolero or Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, I was lost in softness, sensuality, femininity and in a storm of hormones that went straight to my head and other parts too.
The three songs I chose ended, we walked back to our seats and I don’t know how or who did it but Laura and I walked hand in hand, to a tempest of giggles of her cousins.
It was getting late and Laura said she and the girls should go home. “But I’ll come back here after dinner and my cousins shall stay home, they have to pack up and to go to bed early, they’ll leave early tomorrow morning”. The girls pouted a bit but walked away in good order and we went back to our tent.
The Beach Boys were ruling, as Barbara Ann went to dance looking for romance and there were Good Vibrations all around me, I was walking three feet above the ground and I did not even hear the bawdy remarks my cousin and my friend heaped on me. Anyhow they did not say anything about Laura’s size, they knew well my love of BBWs; they made lewd comments about the size of Laura’s tits and what I could do with such a bountiful endowment, but they were somehow in admiration. They decided that, as I was the one who scored, I had to cook and wash dishes, and I did not object. Their loss, I do not know what I made for dinner, my mind was totally into Laura and I did everything in a state of trance.
Summer of ‘66
By Orso di Monte Ribelli
By Orso di Monte Ribelli
(The story is based on my experience in August 1966. Many of the described things really happened, but not all f them.
If you don’t know or remember the songs, you can find all of them in internet, mainly on youtube. Two of the songs should not be there because they came out in 1967, but I wanted to put them in anyway. Can you find them?)
It was late July 1966. The Rolling Stones sang of Lady Jane, Donovan of Colours, the Beatles had a Ticket to Ride and I was as happy as I could be. I was eighteen and half, I just went through the final high school exams – and in these days they were more of a hard and difficult initiation test that admitted you into adulthood than a rite of passage – in the fall I would have gone to college, one of the best for archaeology and anthropology, and I was a virgin.
This was just normal because those were the dark ages before the Sexual Revolution: nice girls preserved their virginity for the marriage – or in any case for Mr. 150% Right – and bad girls were in desperately scarce supply in the quiet suburban town I lived in, so all my friends were virgin too. Yes, there were one or two darers who made lurid descriptions of their transactions with the hookers of the big city nearby, but we did not know whether to believe them or not.
We were all virgins, but there was a difference: my friends at least had girlfriends, had kissed them and had some practical experience of petting, I did not. I was fun, pleasant and likeable, looking at the pictures from those years I can objectively say that I wasn’t bad-looking at all, but I didn’t have any success with girls. The problems were that I was very shy with them, when I was trying to make an impression I said and did all the wrong things in the wrong moment and, most important, I later realized that all my attempts were half-hearted. I was an FA even if I didn’t have any practical experience – and do not ask me how it could happen, I just don’t know – but I knew that I liked above all Big Beautiful Girls, so I was not really much interested in the slim girls I was trying to court.
“So – you will say – why didn’t you try with a larger girl?”
Simple, there was practically none. In Italy BBWs were never plentiful and the Sixties were particularly bad for FAs, so among my acquaintances, school or otherwise, there were only two Big Beautiful Girls. One of them was not particularly interesting and had the same boyfriend since she was twelve, so she was out of question; the other one turned me on a lot, but she was a snooty girl who looked down on us kids, proclaiming to everybody that she was interested only in college boys and young professionals. Those young men were not exactly queuing after her so she apparently never had a boyfriend, but she too was out of question and I was too shy to try and chat up any of the other few Big Beautiful Girls of my town, or to organize to be introduced to any of them.
So, no girls for me, Big and Beautiful or otherwise, and I had to resort to fantasies. Oh, my fantasies were rich! I had a large mental harem crowded with all the Big Beautiful Women who made an impression and turned me on, from a lady I saw in a concert hall to the younger sister of our butcher, from a girl I spotted during a vacation with my parents to a woman I noticed in the bus. My favourites among them were the deliciously pear-shaped wife of the grocer at the corner and an hourglass-shaped young woman living near me, spectacularly big for Italy of the Sixties – but I don’t think she was more than 130 kilos/285 lbs. These were glorious fantasies, but sadly only fantasies. However things were going to change soon, very soon, I knew it.
***
My cousin Franco, my best friend Mario and I in a few days would have gone to a campsite on the sea. That would have been our first vacation without supervising adults, so we were planning to make the most of the chance we had and we chose the place quite carefully. A friend had told us of a beautiful cove on the eastern coast of Italy, with just a few houses, a campsite and the basic amenities, where he was a few timed with his family. The water was crystal clear, with fish and rocks, plenty of mussels at a very reasonable depth under water just waiting to be taken; green hills descended into the sea forming small coves; the clean beaches were quaint and small; in short the place was idyllic. Most important, according to the reports of the friend, in the place there were hundreds of girls! Even better, most of these girls were German or British and everybody knew that they were much freer, so to say, than the Italian girls. We were sure we could bed some of them, what the others got that we did not have? And even if we didn’t succeed in this, certainly at least we would have some petting, surely heavy petting. And, above all, I would have gotten my Big Beautiful Girl, with luck more than one! So we left on the 31st of July with great hopes.
***
The Beach Boys sailed in the Sloop John B., Nancy Sinatra had boots for walking, Joan Baez bid farewell to Angelina, Scott McKenzie suggested anybody going to S. Francisco to wear a flower in the hair and our travel was an adventure in itself. The three of us, loaded with tents, pots, blankets and you name it, took the evening train to the big city nearby, where we took the night train to the big city on the Italian eastern coast, fearing to the last minute that we were on the wrong one. We had a compartment all for us, so we chatted, joked and had fun, then we arrived in the very early hours of the morning so we had to find a caffè open at 6 am and we had a luxurious breakfast of coffee, cappuccino and croissant. Mind you, coffee and cappuccino, we were grown-up people, we could easily stand a double dose of caffeine. The next step was to find the bus going to the paradise we were heading to. We were audacious, so instead of waiting three hours for a bus that took us exactly to the place we decided to take the first one, which left us some distance away. And so we did. We got out of the bus and we marched 30 minutes to the campsite, luckily most of them descent. The Beatles were in a Yellow Submarine, for the Mamas and Papas it was Monday Monday, the Rolling Stones were Painting It Black and we felt like heroes while we walked into the campsite.
And it was just exactly like we dreamed. No logistical problems, adequate equipment, beautiful beaches, wonderful nature, pleasant campsite; we immediately got friends with lots of young people of our age and we had lots of fun, in every possible way. We were tan, fit, popular, cool and… still virgin. Worse, we were still without a girl of any description, skinny or fat or whatever.
The oodles of girls that we expected simply don’t were around, neither British, nor German nor Italian. Some old-timers kept telling us that this never happened in living memory, that all the years before there were more girls than boys, that doubtless next Saturday or Sunday, Monday at latest, lots of girls would have arrived. But we knew that it was not true, that they were deluding themselves. The place was cursed, we were cursed and we would never have found a girl.
To make things worse, we had a couple of days of rainy weather, and so one sad afternoon we were in the large veranda of the café/soda and ice cream parlour/bar that was the local meeting place, sitting in front of a family-size bottle of Coke while outside was raining. The Beatles sang of Eleanor Rigby and of the lonely people, the Rolling Stones couldn’t get no satisfaction and were on the 19th nervous breakdown, the Procol Harum turned a Whiter Shade of Pale, Mamas and Papas were California Dreamin’ in a winter day, Cher was shot down by her baby, Bob Dylan was in full Desolation Row and Simon and Garfunkel were immersed in The Sound of Silence.
We were sad and depressed and my cousin kept menacing of tearing his tool away, it was totally useless, it was clear he would never use it.
Just at that moment I turned and I had a vision. I saw a goddess followed by her two maids enter the sorry place we were in. I hiccupped, turned to check better and I found that it was not a vision. She was not a goddess, but close to it: she had short dark hair, large sweet dark eyes, a beautiful face with a sensuous mouth and a well-proportioned, tanned body to die for, shapely and big all over, big breasts, big round belly, big hips and butt, big thighs. I do not remember at all what she wore, I just have in front of my mind’s eyes her beautiful face and the abundant delights of her body. She was more or less my age, about 1.70, now I reckon she should have been around 100 kilos (5’7” and around 220 pounds). More important, she was clearly alone, if she had a boyfriend he would have come along, therefore she was probably unattached, at least for the vacations. The maids turned to be two giggling, plump girls around 15 or so, pretty enough but not comparable to the Goddess in any way, as it befits to goddesses’ maids.
My cousin and the friend just looked at the girls without interest because they were not FA at all. This would have prevented in-group rivalry, but it wouldn’t have helped much, because as usual I was too shy to chat up the girl – enough calling her goddess – and anyhow I didn’t know the technique to do it, so as usual the only thing I could do was to admire from afar.
No, I couldn’t do even that. The girls chose to sit at a table exactly behind me, so I couldn’t see them at all and I just couldn’t turn every two minutes to have a look. Great, my usual luck. In any case I immediately included the older girl in my mental harem.
Then, all of a sudden, things changed. The girls got up and went to play foosball at a table that was very much in full view, close to us. Now, this was even more interesting, because if there was a thing I could do it was playing foosball, in these days I was really good at it. Besides the girls were making all the possible mistakes a beginner would do, clearly they were in bad need of a competent coach, so, without thinking, I got up, walked there and began training them.
In a minute I was a friend of the big girl, while the two younger ones giggled even more, and in ten minutes I knew everything about her. She was called Laura, she was almost nineteen, a few months older than me (I knew better than asking, I reckoned this from her zodiac sign and from her school career); she was having vacation with her mother in a holiday cabin nearby and her father joined them on Saturday afternoon and Sunday, and they had been doing it for years; we had not met before because she usually went to places closer to her cabin; she was from a small town 45 minutes away by car, where her father owned a hardware store.
“A big one – she said proudly – our customers come also from towns all around”.
The girls were her younger cousins but they’d leave the following day and she would have been alone (I’ll take care this doesn’t happen, I made a mental note); she just finished business and accountancy high school and she was a certified accountant, in the last two years she took care of the finances of her dad’s store all alone and dad paid her what he would have paid to a real accountant – and again she was proud of it – in September she would start looking for a job because she wanted to be independent and for a year she would have mulled whether go on working or going to college and study economics and business.
“A thing is sure – she said – I do not want to stay home like my mum. I want a family but also a job, I need to be independent and to get satisfactions also through my work”.
The information came in her local rural singsong accent that I immediately found endearing, and I reciprocated with information about me. Everything was smooth and simple, I realized finally that I didn’t need to make an impression, I just had to be myself.
My cousin and my friend joined the group and we began chatting volubly, I kept discovering sides of Laura I liked very much (she read a lot, she liked movies and theatre, she liked music), I got more and more focused on her and clearly she was focused on me.
In the meantime the owner of the place, to cheer up the environment and to attract some people, switched on the loudspeakers and we had music. Need I to say? We began dancing. The three girls were good at it, better than us – better than me for sure – and for a good deal of the afternoon we went through the whole set: twist, hully gully, madison, surf, you name a dance of early-mid sixties and we did it. We danced, then we took some moments of rest playing foosball, and then danced again; we sat down for a few minutes with ice creams and then danced again. All the gloom of the rainy afternoon was dispelled, all of us had great fun and mine was much enhanced by the refreshing view of Laura’s remarkable breasts bouncing happily up and down. The weather too participated in the general happiness: it stopped raining and the sun came back.
Other young people had come to the café, even some girls, and they too danced. The owner thought that business didn’t need free music anymore and switched off the loudspeaker. I anticipated that this would have happened and I was ready: it was my moment.
I ran to the juke-box before anyone could get there, I threw in the big 100 lire coin (about 16 U.S. cents of the time) and I chose immediately the three songs I was entitled to, I already decided: one song of Frank Sinatra, Strangers in the Night, and two of the Beatles, Girl and Michelle. Yes, all of them songs perfect for slow cheek to cheek dancing, which was exactly what I hoped to do.
I looked at our table. My cousin and the friend were a bit taken aback, slow dancing with underage girls – small fry, as they defined them – was not their cup of tea, and so as good wingmen do they sat in their chairs. Instead the two small girls were disappointed; they would have liked very much to go on dancing with the Eighteen-Years Boys, especially the slow dance, it would have been great stuff to tell to their friends back home.
I came back to Laura, and I do not remember if she was surprised by the turn of the things or not, but she opted for slow dance without problems. And there I was, hugging for the first time in my life a Big Beautiful Woman. I was in a dilemma, on one hand I wanted to hug Laura’s sensuous body, pull it close to me and relish her sexy, soft femininity, on the other hand I wanted to behave like the nice boy I was, at least in the beginning, and I didn’t mean to show immediately my lewd intentions. At first I did not hug Laura too much and I tried to stay inside the narrow limits of decency, but I still could feel the tantalizing warm softness of Laura’s body. Every now and then her elastic, big, sexy breast brushed me, her wonderfully large hips butted against me, her scent and her softness drove me crazy. My hands, holding her waist, could feel the sweet rolls of fat around the top of her panties, and if I tried to raise them up against that divine temptation I fell into the even sexier rolls of fat around her bra.
“Oh, bust – I thought – we’re dancing, let’s dance to the hilt” and I pulled Laura close to me until her firm, large breasts filled my embrace. The girl did not pull herself back, very good sign.
Frank Sinatra ended his song, there was a moment of silence and Laura backed a little, but the Beatles came to the rescue. I hugged Laura even closer to me, she did not back away, and I was in heaven.
But, wait. The most embarrassing thing of my life happened. I just had the strongest erection in my 18 years and it was painfully evident to Laura. I must have blushed, I am sure, but I could not move my hips away, that would have been ridiculous. Just think of a couple glued from the waist up, and arching away at the hips! So, I stayed there in my embarrassment, but Laura luckily did not seem to mind. I was even more in heaven and hugged her even closer.
I did not hear the songs, in my mind I felt the wild intoxicating rhythm of Ravel’s Bolero or Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, I was lost in softness, sensuality, femininity and in a storm of hormones that went straight to my head and other parts too.
The three songs I chose ended, we walked back to our seats and I don’t know how or who did it but Laura and I walked hand in hand, to a tempest of giggles of her cousins.
It was getting late and Laura said she and the girls should go home. “But I’ll come back here after dinner and my cousins shall stay home, they have to pack up and to go to bed early, they’ll leave early tomorrow morning”. The girls pouted a bit but walked away in good order and we went back to our tent.
The Beach Boys were ruling, as Barbara Ann went to dance looking for romance and there were Good Vibrations all around me, I was walking three feet above the ground and I did not even hear the bawdy remarks my cousin and my friend heaped on me. Anyhow they did not say anything about Laura’s size, they knew well my love of BBWs; they made lewd comments about the size of Laura’s tits and what I could do with such a bountiful endowment, but they were somehow in admiration. They decided that, as I was the one who scored, I had to cook and wash dishes, and I did not object. Their loss, I do not know what I made for dinner, my mind was totally into Laura and I did everything in a state of trance.
