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Last week a friend and I went back to the village we'd lived in forty years ago to see the final demolition of the local working men's club. Later, as we had a drink in a pub a few hundred yards away, Sylvia and I began reminiscing about the crazy times we had there; and eventually Sylv said "We should write a book about our escapades!" I laughed of course and replied; "It would never get published ... it would be too dirty."

While not quite a book; here's the start of my story ....

I'd moved to the estate as a twenty-year-old pregnant bride and the ‘Working Men's Club' was at the centre of the village and just about everything in my life over the next twenty years or so; and totally changed my life, making me the woman I am today.

First and foremost, my marriage was a mistake from start to the finish just over a year later; mostly because it had been a ‘rebound' relationship after my first boyfriend, Timmy dumped me in favour of a girl much freer with her body and affections than I'd ever been.

Bobby, my husband to be, had worked for my Dad and as he was quite good looking and a couple of years older than me, seemed ‘a good catch.'

It was a whirlwind relationship with me dropping my knickers on our second date, followed by some fumbled sex on my parents' sofa. After less than a minute of his cock being inside me, horrified he realised he wasn't wearing a johnny and pulled out, immediately splashing his spunk all over my pubes.

Being the naïve little thing that I was, I was strangely excited at seeing his ejaculation; but he was absolutely appalled, mumbling ‘sorry, sorry, sorry' repeatedly.

Perhaps because I'd been the one to push for sex that night, or perhaps because he'd cum too soon, a problem that would haunt him all through our relationship, Bobby wasn't too keen on another date, but I sort of forced the issue and he wanted to please my Dad, we went out again several times over the next few months, with me instigating every night, which was how I thought a girl would keep her man, and he came to enjoy it in his own shy way.

Curiously he always seemed happier with a long and sensual handjob than full sex; but that might have been because the latter merited more effort on his behalf.

We were married about six months after our first date because I was pregnant; but I still felt like a princess for the day as my ‘bump' was neatly concealed and everyone had a great time, even Bobby who got very very drunk, so much so he wasn't able to perform his conjugal duties that night ... or for the next three weeks, as we were living with my parents until our rented house became available. Then, as my bump became more pronounced ... intercourse stopped altogether, as he was ‘afraid he'd hurt the baby.'

Heartbreakingly, I miscarried at 5 months and complications meant I could no longer get pregnant.

I'm Carol and was barely 19 in 1980 when my story started.

I'm still naturally slim and supple plus I was deemed ‘quite pretty' with long brown hair, a cute elfin nose with perky 30b boobs in those days - 32b now and still with a pronounced and tight bum.

Obviously after the miscarriage I was a wreck for weeks, months even and Bobby was no help at all; but thankfully my neighbour Trish took me under her wing like a second mother.

Many of Trish's conversations started with "I've been around the block a bit" which it appeared she had been as she was twice divorced at 35 with three kids to three different Dad's; the eldest boy Kirk, she'd had at 19 and subsequently age was never a barrier to her and over the next few years she had a string of ‘boyfriends' some who lived in situ for weeks or months and others, one night stands and that didn't count the married men that she wasn't averse to having dalliances with too.

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