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It started in Bernkastel-Kues market square. The tallest of the boys, you larked in the back of photos making bunny ears above heads. You jumped off the stone step monument and landed in my teenage heart. All right, time to go, the teacher said.
Back at the Hostel, once the Tee? Kaffee? lady buggered off, I asked the girls about you. He likes hand-jobs, they said, ask his cousin Claire. So I did, whilst trekking the hill to Traben-Trarbach. It’s true, she said, he always wants them. Keep moving Girls, the teacher said. Come over later and we’ll talk, she whispered. So I did.
Claire sensed my innocence and offered her advice, and we talked of boys and making moves over bars of Ritter Sport. Does your hand rub over the skin, or move with the skin, I asked. Claire placed a sandwich bag over her bristle brush to try and demonstrate the skill. Oh, I said, and danke schön, and returned to my room, confident in love and lust.
The next day on the river boat along the Mosel bends, I asked you for a favour; to reserve the seat second to the back, and sit with me on the coach to England. And you did. As we neared the Belgium border, passing Winterspelt I think, I told you to close your eyes, covered your lap with my coat and began. You must have told the boys at the back to avert their eyes as they didn’t interrupt. You finished and peered under saying, Oh I wondered about that. I asked you what you meant. The sandwich bag, you said? Mortified, my cheeks flushed red.
Neat trick though, no mess, you said, and squashed it in amongst the empty Fanta bottles in our makeshift coach bin. You joked and called it Germany Style. You must have liked it, as you asked me over Saturday night to do it again.