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She wasconfused, horrified by kissing her best friend, yet also enjoying it.They continued to dance and Marcia was losing herself to him. The boyhalf of her felt repulsed and yet the girl half of her was loving everyminute. Paul's manly embrace made her feel protected, wanted. * * *Thus when the time to leave came, Marcia allowed him to kiss her oncemore."I'll walk you home," he said"No, its okay. I'll manage," she replied, not wanting him to see whereshe lived. He knew where Mark lived.But Paul was insistant and she agreed to let him walk her to the top ofher street. Another kiss marked their parting and she made her way home.She looked down at herself and wondered what her parents would think,seeing her like this. She went in the house and went straight upstairs."That you dear?" she heard Mark's mother call."Yes," said Marcia in a hurry. She went into her room and shut the door.Not bothering about the light, she took off the dress and all then wentstraight to bed. * *. I was laid on my stomach, sun lotion applied as best I could, before I dare take a dip in the pool. Come bedtime we were all too d***k even to wrestle. I’d got it completely wrong, s*s was certainly not going to fuck me. sl**p, food, sunbathe, booze, repeat was the way that holidays were meant to go. We got used to the bar touts promising everything but delivering nothing. I got used to going to the beach every day between eating and boozing. Food and, in particular, alcohol were dirt cheap. The first few days were a novelty, seeing my s****r’s suntanned tits was great but there were many more to see on the beach, then on Thursday the clouds formed and gradually darkened and the winds picked up. Intent on making her most of their holiday, the girls hit the sea front shops while we HAPS (husbands and partners) hit the bars, and quite rightly so. Come evening it was still sticky hot, the rain had started but we just partied on. One of the touts was handing out leaflets – ‘ROCKY.
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One wall in entirely taken up with a Plexiglas window which overlooks the club. The view is god-like. All those people, all their secret dances, the ways in which they flow through and over one another are visible to us in this eyrie. The rest of the room is just as impressive as its window. In its center, two black leather sofas stand on either side of a glass-topped wrought iron coffee table. A stereo system the size of a man stands against one wall and a well-stocked bar is sunk into another. The light is dim and golden, filtering down from the room’s only real extravagant affectation, an ornate wrought-iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The door clicks shut softly behind me and I turn, realizing that now we are completely isolated from the crowd. He could do anything he wants to me up here and nobody would know. He’s watching me take in his room. ‘What do you think?’ he asks. Now that we’re insulated from the throb of the music, I can detect the barest trace of an accent.

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