COMMITTING THE BIG CRIME.

A BOY AND GIRL IN 1961 ONE AND THE FACT OF HAVING SEX FOR THE FIRST TIME OR NOT.

He has arrived
on the Saturday bus
into town,
Lizbeth meets him
at the bus stop
and takes him home.

Her mother
is in town shopping,
her father off at work,
he'll be home later
in the day.

Benedict looks around
the cottage,
spick and span,
neat and tidy.

Nice place,
he says.
Mother’s a house
proud maniac,
Lizbeth says,
taking him upstairs
to her bedroom,
he following,
watching her tight behind
sway on the stairs,
the blue skirt, white blouse.

She opens the door
of her room and enters,
and he follows warily,
taking in the bed,
the tall boy,
record player
on the floor,
scattered LPs,
clothes basket.

My room,
she says,
shutting the door
after him.
Nice,
he says.

I have to share.
She walks around him
to the window
and looks out.

We haven't long,
she says,
your bus goes
in a couple of hours
and my Mother'll be back
from shopping
in less that time.

He nods, watches
her anxiety, her face,
her long red hair,
hanging loose.

He goes to the record player
and picks up
an Elvis LP.
You like him?
He asks.
Yes,
she says,
taking the LP
from his hands
and putting it down
on the floor.

The bed is good
and springy,
she says,
moving him
towards it,
taking his arm,
easing him there.

He looks at the room,
the wallpaper,
the curtains,
the tall boy
with the huge mirror.

He can see himself
and her in it,
see the bed.
Isn't it a bit risky,
now, with your mother
likely to be home any time?

She looks at him,
frustration mounting,
sensing as if
she might burst,
her groin seeming
on fire.

No, she won't
be home just yet,
she'll chat
with other
bored housewives
and have a coffee
or tea or whatever
bored housewives drink,
Lizbeth says.

She unbuttons
her blouse,
her fingers trying
to be nimble,
she watching him,
standing there,
those hazel eyes,
that quiff of hair.

Come on,
she says,
time is
of the essence.

He fiddles with his shirt buttons,
slowly, trying to think
of reasons not to,
his ears pricked for sounds,
imagining her mother
coming home early.

She takes off her blouse
and throws it
on a chair by the bed,
stands there,
begins to unclip
her small bra,
hands behind her back.

Wouldn't it better
another time?
He says.
No,
she says,
not another time,
there won't be another time
at this rate.

He bites his lip,
take in
her small bra,
the plump small breasts
showing as she lets
the bra fall to the floor,
her red hairs,
thin hands.

He takes off his shirt
and folds it
and places it on top
of her blouse on the chair.
He stands fiddling
with his fingers,
playing for time.

She unzips her skirt
at the side
and lets it fall.
He looks beyond her,
sunlight touches
her curtains,
bright, warming the room.
She sighs,
fingers her underwear,
waiting,
watching him
lingering there.

Not how I imagined
my first time,
she says,
eyeing him,
standing there,
in her white underwear.

Have you thought
this through​?
he says,
fingers on the top button
of his jeans,
nervous, shy,
trying not to blush,
not succeeding.

Yes,
she says,
right down
to the last detail.
But she hasn't,
she never thought at all,
just imagined, dreamed.
Best not to,
he says,
what if your mother comes
and we're,
you know, at it?  

No chance at this rate,
she says,
grabbing hold
of his jeans
with her thin hands
and beginning to
undo the top button.

He holds her hands
with his, prevents
her from her task.
No,
he says, not here like this,
not rushed,
secret, underhand.

Yes,
she says,
now, here,
under bloody hand,
and rushed
if we have to.

She fights to undo
the button and succeeds
and he lets go,
he's stands there helpless
as she unzips his jeans.

No,
he says,
annoyed, nervous.
She stands there,
perplexed, frustrated,
anxious, her eyes bright,
her freckled features
reddening.

Not like this,
he says softly,
zipping up his
jeans and putting
his shirt back on.

She closes her eyes.
Tries to imagine it
otherwise, that
he was there
on her bed naked,
and she was about
to lay there
and be made love to.

Better this way,
he says,
touching her arm.
She opens her eyes,
stares, takes in
him there, dressed,
buttoning up his shirt.

He hands her her skirt,
she snatches it
from him
and puts it on
and zips it up.

He watches her,
the face red,
the eyes bright
as if fires were there.
She puts on
her bra and blouse  
and buttons up slowly.  

Downstairs a door closes,
noises of feet,
bags being put
on surfaces,
a radio turned on.

She's back,
Lizbeth says,
the silly b***h
is back already.
She pulls him closer,
cocking her ears
for each sound.

He senses her hands
clutching him,
her fingers on
his shirt.
What if we were?
She says
in soft voice,
she smiles,
looks at him.

Best go down,
she says,
introduce you.
She take his hand
and they walked down
the stairs and into
the sitting room,
her mother is in
the kitchen, putting
shopping away.

This is Benedict,
Lizbeth says,
pulling him
behind her.
Her mother looks at them.
Where were you?
She asks, tiredly,
her voice strained.

Just showing him
my LP collection,
Lizbeth says,
we were sitting here
before that, talking,
she lies,
looking at her mother's
disbelieving eyes,
her thin mouth.

Oh,
her mother says,
shouldn't invite boys home
without saying.
No, just saw him
in town and invited
him home,
Lizbeth says.

Her mother looks at Benedict,
says nothing, carries on
putting away shopping.
They stand there,
looking at her,
he wondering what
she thought,
how to move on,
what to say.

Lizbeth moves him away,
just seeing him
on to his bus,
she says.
Her mother nods,
but says nothing.

They walk along
the street, hand in hand,
he thinking of how close
it had been,
how embarrassing
it would have been
if she had seen them
at it.

She wondering
what it would have been like,
the added excitement
of her mother downstairs
at the time,
she upstairs,
with him,
committing the big crime.