Erotica | Memories | The Memoirist | Youth | Harry Hogg

Wisps of Desire

A young man’s journey into adulthood

Sexual romps — this is sad admittance for a man with only one arm and a head sticking from the earth. I never in all my life had a sexual romp with someone. I mean, I’ve had a quickie but only with a loved one. I’ve never, to my knowledge anyway, been in a situation where having sex with a casual acquaintance has ever presented itself. Perhaps I was too dim and too stupid to recognize an opportunity.

Casual sex, in my opinion, expresses need more than it does desire. There’s nothing wrong with casual sex. It’s not frowned upon like it was when I was a teenager. Today it’s encouraged. Rightly so, in my opinion.

I wouldn’t be against such a thing, but I sure as hell know I’d chicken out if it were with someone other than a person I knew very well.

The closest I ever came to sex with a stranger was 57 years ago. I knew of her, heard her name mentioned in the family, she was my newest aunt, Dad said. He recommended I refer to her as Aunt, the same as the men who crewed on Dad’s trawler were to be called uncles and not simply, Jim, or John. The funny thing is I was almost 18, a year before I wed.

Jane was her name. I didn’t know her age, early 30s, I think. She had a gentle smile and nice teeth, but I recall thinking her hair was dull and lifeless. She spoke weirdly. Dad said she was from Liverpool, but I didn’t know anything about the place except that every time I heard the name Liverpool it was in connection with another name, the Beatles.

Jane wore many bracelets on one wrist and painted her fingernails red. My parents were travelling down with friends. Dad never drove a car, but it was a family funeral he wanted to attend, so Uncle Albert, Aunt Doris, and their son, Simon, drove Mum and Dad in their Humber Super Snipe. There was not enough room for me, too, so Dad put me with Aunty Jane so she wouldn’t have to make the drive alone.

The Isle of Mull to Cornwall is a devilish long way, and we would be spending a night at a hotel somewhere on the journey. Dad gave Aunty Jane the directions in case, and as was likely, we got split up.

I didn’t know what other boys dreamt about, but I do recall thinking, just before we left, that Jane’s skirt was surprisingly short and once in the driver’s seat, it appeared even shorter — to the point I could see her panties between her thighs. Since 14 or 15, I was obsessed with masturbation, and about to travel for 7 or 8 hours next to an adult woman whose panties I could see while she was driving.

The mini car in the 1960s was only half the size a Mini is today.

Sitting at the wheel and being that it was a manual drive, Aunty Jane’s legs spread farther as she drove. This visual produced an ache in my crotch I can remember to this day.

Back then, The Mini car symbolized freedom and rebellion; it was a nippy little thing when considering its competitors, the Morris Minor and the Anglia. Aunty Jane didn’t strike me as rebellious.

Aunty Jane’s allure was not just her physical beauty; she was pretty, not drop-dead striking, and with small breasts, but even at 18, I sensed a magnetic energy around her. Every glance in my direction, every exchanged word felt like an invitation into the world of a woman living in Liverpool and the music scene, the nightclubs and bars. Her exciting stories about life in Liverpool were effortlessly woven into our conversations.

When I felt brave enough, I took glimpses of valleys so adventurous I could never explore.

Looking back, I know that I felt an undeniable sense of awakening in her presence — a deeper, more flirtatious understanding of myself. As the miles rolled on, the more daring I became with my glances, the more I was aroused. It was a dance of admiration, fascination, and a hint of longing.

Ultimately, it was not about Aunty Jane seducing me, but rather it became a shared journey where the interplay of youth and maturity, innocence and experience, created a tapestry of emotions that would linger within me for years to come.

After four or five hours of driving, Aunty Jane wanted to pull over at a rest stop and have a drink and a snack before carrying on. Back in the car, she said she would just have ten minutes with her eyes closed. Ten minutes later, I could have woken her, knowing she would quickly close her legs. I could have pulled my jacket from the back seat and covered her. I didn’t do either. I sat there looking at a few dark hairs protruding from the sides of her panties.

Five minutes after that, she woke. I’m not confident I know more about women than any other man, but I got a natural feeling that she knew I’d been looking at her the whole time. If she didn’t, the clue was bulging under my zipper.

Perhaps I’m a 75 naïve old man or stupid, but maybe everyone does this? You know, talk about sex. I’m not sure, but I am sure about one thing, I’m not afraid of being me.

Did I miss an opportunity to make that deep dive? That exploration of an adult woman’s secret? Perhaps.

I didn’t start this with the idea of writing something erotic; God knows, I’ve read brilliant erotica on Medium.

Aunty Jane was at my wedding.

I did get the cheekiest wink from her.

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