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I began to unbutton her dress and she stared at me. A mixture for shock and desire. Her dress fell on the floor. Under that rather boring dress I was surprised to see she was shapely. I reached around and unclipped her bra. Not large breasts but firm with now very erect nipples. I squatted down and pull down her knickers. Oh yes, a nice shaved pussy. My favour snack.Standing there naked she was shaking. “Undress me darling” I whispered but loud enough for her husband to hear. She was fumbling with the buttons on my shirt. “Here, let me do it” I said and she watched as I stripped off. When I took off my underpants she moaned. That always appeals to my ego. I glanced over at her husband for a second and he was standing there, eyes wide and mouth open. I thought “you stupid man fucking around”. I told her to lie on the bed and I joined her. We kissed. She was still shaking. I moved down and kissed her nipples and she moaned. I prayed she would want me to stop because I was so wanting to. The frayed, somewhat grubby street that usually was Oxford Street, came alive in a cacophony of colour and noise, as the floats and marchers then rippled past. It is a sense of a flowing force, one community rather than a collection of individuals, that remains with me to this day.Of course, there are snapshots or fragments of the parade still lodged in my mind, but it felt like the parade was a living organism, a kaleidoscope of different shapes and colours unified by a shared world view, snaking its way down Oxford Street.I was gobsmacked by the red dresses, spinning like whirling dervishes, which seemed so full of life. Were they women or were they men? No-one cared in the end, they were gorgeous as they twirled with beauty and elegance.I identified with a gorgeous orange float peopled by medical types, knowing that orange is the colour of healing. For the first time that evening I found my voice calling out my support and getting a cheery wave back from a beautiful blond woman.
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