It was Christmas 1975 and we had just returned to work after having had our Christmas lunch at the pub, although in truth calling it Christmas Lunch was perhaps a bit of a stretch and makes it sound much grander that it actually was.
In the 1970s pub grub wasn’t very unsophisticated fare and invariably consisted of Chicken in a Basket or a Ploughman’s.
The more up market establishments might well offer Scampi in a Basket and a selection of Ploughman’s including a variety of cheeses as alternatives to the normal cheddar.
The Pig and Whistle however was not an up-market establishment in any way shape or form and offered Chicken in a Basket or cheddar cheese Ploughman’s, however in addition to that, as it was Christmas you got a Mince Pie as well.
So, after our “Christmas Lunch” we all arrived back at work with some of our number much the worse for drink.
I myself had perhaps overindulged to a small degree with an unspecified number of Light and Bitters, so as a consequence I was wearing beer goggles and even scabby Carole was looking passable.
So was Wonky Wendy, so called because she had a wonky eye, she had one eye that looked at you while the other one was looking for you.
Ok I admit “Wonky” wasn't a very imaginative nickname but there you have it, it was the 70s and we were simple folk, well anyway through beer goggles even she looked quite appetising.
Another of the girls I wouldn’t normally have looked at twice was Pat Warner.
Although she had nice eyes and a pretty smile, other than that she was a plain looking girl about a year younger than me, and over the previous year Pat had made no secret of the fact that she fancied me.
I on the other hand did not fancy her and not because she was plain or because she was stick thin and featureless or even because she was ginger the truth was, she just didn’t do it for me.
However, that was without the benefit of alcohol fuelled lust.
On returning to the factory, we continued the party in the canteen, my tipple of choice from what was available was Light Ale while for Pat it was Port and Lemon and that day, we both necked a few, and with every bottle of beer I drank Pat was getting prettier and prettier.
It reached a point that when she went off to the loo, I followed a few minutes later and intercepted her as she returned and took her in the rubber room, no not that kind of rubber, it was the room where the rubber bands were sorted and counted.
It was a small room about 20’ square with glass on two sides but with the lights off it was dark enough in the shadows for what I had in mind.
As soon as the door closed behind us though she was all over me like a rash and her tongue was in my mouth like an Excocet, and her hand went straight to my fly.
“Blimey you're keen” I thought to myself
I thought I had better join in quick and yanked her blouse from the waist band of her skirt and partly unbuttoned it before going in search of her tits.
It was when I found them, such as they were, I made a startling discovery.
When I got my hand on her breast, I found something I wasn’t expecting, and no, it wasn’t anything to do with Scaramanga.
What I found was something altogether different.
Now I was just a callow youth and I wasn’t hugely experienced in the ways of the world, but I had had sufficient experience of breasts to know that nipples shouldn’t be hairy.
“This needs further investigation” I thought and proceeded to complete the unbuttoning of the blouse.
, and then I steered her gently around, so the meagre light fell across her equally meagre and exposed breast.
I broke away from her mouth and let her tongue my ear instead while I looked down at her tiny breast surmounted with a perfectly formed swollen nipple surrounded by two-inch-long curly ginger hairs.
“That can’t be right” I thought
But a moment later Pat wrestled my old chap from my jeans and began tugging on it, this distracted me from the hairy nipple as with my penis in her hand she got my full attention, so my hand abandoned her hairy tit and headed south.
I got my hand up her skirt easy enough and was attempting to get it into her knickers when she said
“No” and pushed my hand away
I kissed her again and after a few moments I tried once more to invade her pants, I even managed to get my fingertips beneath the elastic of her knicker leg that time before she stopped me again.
“I said no” she reaffirmed
“Why not?” I asked
“Because you have a girlfriend” she replied
Well, I don’t mind telling you I thought it was a bit indelicate of her to mention that I had a girlfriend as she was in a semi darkened room with me and she had my old chap in her hand.
I was about to point out the hypocrisy of her position when the door flew open.
“Aye, aye” Shaft said
Shaft was the foreman, his real name was Ted, but his nickname was Shaft not because he was black but because he was shafting Beryl from picking.
I did the gentlemanly thing and positioned myself between Ted and Pat so she could redress herself.
It also enabled me to force my stubborn erection back into my jeans which it seemed reluctant to do, he had come out to party and didn’t want to go home early before he had popped his cork.
“I’ve just come for my coat” Ted said with a chuckle as he took his coat off the peg
“Carry on” he said and closed the door.
I would have liked to carry on, but Pat wasn’t going to let me carry on as far as I wanted to, so we went back to the party and that was that.
I never had another close encounter with Pat and in the light of the hairy nipples I had no desire to as in the sober light of day I didn’t fancy her.
I should also state that I never ever encountered any other hairy breasted women over the following years.
It was many years after the Christmas grope in the Rubber Room that doubts entered my mind that it was anything other than what it appeared, and these doubts first surfaced after I watched a documentary about Ladyboy’s, which I found quite shocking.
You have to remember we were very naïve back in 1970s Stevenage, and we had never heard of Ladyboy’s, we weren’t complete yokels though, we had heard of homosexuals, though no one I knew admitted to ever meeting one.
I always assumed that Pat was short for Patricia but after the documentary I wasn’t so sure, maybe she was really a Patrick.
We tended to take things at face value back then but if I had managed to gain entry into Pat’s knickers I would have known for sure if she was either fish or fowl.
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