I can really relate to this. Discovering my Dad’s copy of Mayfair was a revelation. Can’t believe the risks I took in those days, just for a soft porn fuelled wank. That continued right through senior school.
Then came the freedom of being at in university and being to acquire my own stash of magazines. In those days I used to like taking a train journey to different towns in Britain and exploring them on a Saturday.
I visited Birmingham one weekend, and it was another revelation. I came across several sex mag shops that had under-the-counter hard core porn from Europe. Fuck, what an eye-opener. Magazines with titles like Colour Climax, Rodox and Anal Sex. The photographs were of amazing quality, and pure filth. I’d buy several, use them as delicious wank fodder for several weeks and take them back to the shop. If they were in good condition I’d get 50% of the cost back to put towards my next purchases.
I was a regular visitor to Birmingham’s tawdry establishments. I progressed from hard core porn shops, to adult cinemas, and finally to several massage parlours. Back in the 1980s these were barely disguised brothels and I learned a lot in them.
I soon became familiar with parlour etiquette and loved it. Entering one of them off a suburban street, being invited to choose the masseuse from several on duty, then following her upstairs to the room, where she’d invite me to shower on my own.. Showering swiftly, then lying face down on the bed or table waiting for her to return, my heart racing with increasing sexual tension. Sometimes the masseuse would return still dressed in her little massage tunic, other times she’d have stripped down to bra and panties.
A back massage would follow, while she chattted and enquired about my previous visits to parlours. Once she’d sussed out I had parlour experience she‘d be more forthcoming when it came to offering extras. Invited to roll over onto my back, my erection would make my intentions abundantly clear and the subsequent conversation much easier. Something like:
“Oooh you naughty boy, that looks nice”,
“Do you do any extras?”
“Well, we’re not allowed to offer, but if you want to ask me then that’s OK”.
By now I’d be breathing faster, her eyes would be locked onto mine, her pupils dilated and her hands starting to play with my cock.
“Yes please, I’m definitely asking”,
“Good boy, well I can do hand relief for £5, oral without for 10, reverse massage for 15, reverse oral for 20 and, um, full personal for 30”. Remember this was the early 80s, with prices to match.
At this last bit she’d possibly run her tongue over her bottom lip for emphasis. Full personal was code for fucking. I’d gently run my fingers up the inside of a soft thigh and into her cleft. On every occasion I’d discover a hot wet pussy.
“Full personal would be wonderful please”.
She’d smile, hopefully say something encouraging to signal she was pleased with my choice, then strip. Sometimes the room had a bed that we could fuck on, sometimes we’d use the massage table, and several times I’d help her move the table to the side of the room so we could fuck on the floor.
It was all wonderfully tawdry, but I learned a lot and soon found a couple of favourite women that I kept returning to and who were very happy for me to practice my craft. They were both older, slutty women in their 40s who loved sex. I loved hearing them talk dirty in their broad Brummie accents and as my experience grew with them I’d encourage them to get even more filthy. They were each wonderfully willing, enthusiastic sex partners and never watched the clock.
One of them suggested I visited on a weekday morning when things were quiet, so I got in the bait of bunking off lectures for a day and travelling to Brum for a morning of unbridled sex.
I used to alternate my visits with each of them and loved their eagerness enthusiastic for young cock and cum. They were both housewives earning some money and loving the sex, especially educating the inexperienced youth. I wish I’d had the foresight to have them both together but they’d probably have left me powerless to catch the train home. As it was I would emerge from the parlour utterly drained after an hour of extras with one of them, make my way back to Birmingham New Street station with jelly legs and spend the 2hr journey home in a sex-fuelled daze.
I spilt so much seed in some of those places during my undergraduate years. It was brilliant at the time but typically British under-the-counter seediness compared to the “out in the open” internet age today. Happy memories though, and I’m glad I’ve experienced both pre and post internet eras. |
