Ramblings Of An Old Man - S01 E06

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Ramblings Of An Old Man - S01 E06

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 6

Part 6 – Hands Off Cocks, on Socks!



“Hands off cocks, on socks.” I believe this phrase was popularised by Leslie Thomas in his 1960s book, later film, Virgin Soldiers. Since then though it has become the de facto reveille call, to wake up the occupants of barrack rooms the world over. After screwing up most of my O-Level examinations at school, mainly due to my quest to further my sexual experience, I found myself at ‘boot-camp’ at the beginning of my UK armed forces career. At age 17, despite for many purposes still considered a ‘minor’, I was classified by the military as an adult entrant. This meant I was thrown into the mix with other recruits, varying in age from teenagers, like me, to those in their mid thirties. Me though, I was literally a virgin soldier, not yet having engaged in sexual intercourse at that point.

Before anyone suggests otherwise, NO! Despite stories to the contrary, which I can neither confirm nor deny, I was never once abused, exploited, or coerced to do anything against my will, sexually or otherwise. And the age of sexual consent in the UK is 16- years, so any and all sexual contact described was entirely legal and consensual.

Military basic training, wherever it takes place is, to put it bluntly fucking hard! It’s intensive, and physically and mentally brutal, designed to weed out those without the ‘right stuff’ for soldiering. I have never considered myself to be a ‘hard nut’ or an action man in the slightest, but I quite enjoyed the discipline; and was gobsmacked when some of the ‘jocks’ threw in the towel within days or were canned from the course.

For the first few weeks, leisure time was non-existent. All our waking hours were consumed by drawing kit from stores, classroom lectures, drill, weapons drill, drill and just to make sure we had it right, more drill. Even when we staggered back to our barrack rooms at the end of the day, it was only to start again, cleaning, polishing, studying for tests, polishing, practicing drill moves, polishing!

Privacy was non-existent. 18–20-man rooms. Communal showers. Communal toilets. As we were confined to barracks still, sex was out of the question but was a prime topic of conversation. ‘Men’s Magazines’ were freely available for all to share. Masturbation did happen, at night, after lights out. We all knew it. Hell, we all did it. It was mostly kept on the QT, as we were new to this type of living. The British military is renowned for its black humour and outspokenness, so later it would not raise an eyebrow to announce, “Be back soon, I’m going for a wank!” This openness would shock many a civilian colleague over the years.

I was not aware of any homosexual activity in those early years. Unbelievably, gay relationships were a serious offence under ‘Queens Regulations’ right up until the year 2000. ‘Offenders’ could be imprisoned, dishonourably discharged or both. Many were. I suppose there was homophobia in the forces back then, but that, sadly, was the way of the world then too. In my experience though, the sense of teamwork and dependence on each other instilled in us a greater tolerance. Open gayness was not possible, but we all knew gay relationships and sex occurred. Those involved were colleagues and human beings, with free choice, so we shielded them from the authorities as much as possible. Inevitably a few dinosaurs and Neanderthals would cause trouble and ruin lives. Thank goodness the rules have now changed and those disadvantaged slowly compensated. Rant over!

Gradually, we were given more freedoms. Access to the NAAFI bar. Passes to visit the local towns, though wearing of uniform was mandatory, which often led to friction with the local lads. And a weekend pass to visit wives and girlfriends, which bought back fresh tales of sexual conquests, to fuel our masturbatory fantasies. Once we reached the mid point of basic, we were really let loose. We got access to the ‘Bang Buses.’

Back in the early 1970s, UK basic training camps were strictly single sex. But once we became ‘senior recruits’ we were allowed to mix with the female recruits from a women’s bootcamp. Many of whom would go on to train for one of the military nursing services.

Each Tuesday a bus full of ladies would come to a ‘dance’ in our NAAFI. Thursday we could go to the NAAFI at their base. Looking back, it amazes me that this was officially sanctioned. It was supposed to encourage ‘social interaction’ between male and female service personnel. The ‘girls’ though had been as sex deprived as the ‘boys,’ so the interaction would often be very, very social! The MPs were supposed to act as ‘chaperones’ to ensure decorum was upheld. But bless them, they were quite lax in carrying out this duty. Contrary to popular opinion, MPs did have married parents and were human beings themselves!

There was an unwritten contest among the men, with the winner being the chap who hooked up with the ugliest female; the ‘grot contest’ (sorry ladies) another dark humour facet of UK military tradition. No prize, just the kudos of ‘taking one for the team.’ For the women, it seemed the contest was to score the youngest, most inexperienced bloke. That label fit me perfectly!

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The first couple of outings were dry runs for most of us, reconnoitering the ground as the true soldiers we were becoming. There were a couple of tales of quick handjobs and even one claim of a full-blown coupling. Who am I to doubt their word. I did, however, note a few nods and fingers pointing in my direction from a group of ‘elder’ ladies. Was I being sized up for the toy-boy contest.

At this point I should add that although us guys were still compelled to wear uniforms, the ladies were permitted their civilian glad-rags or even fancy dress. ‘Slutty nurses’ costumes were thus not uncommon, given the future careers of many of the girls.

The following week, at girl-camp, I was handed a drink on arrival by one such slutty nurse (it was the tradition that the hosts bought the first round). I recognised her as being part of the group sizing me up previously. Game on it seemed. After a bit of idle chatter, we drifted back to her table, where we joined her friends and a couple of my fellow recruits, who I assume were also tonight’s pray! I do not remember Nurse Slut’s name, assuming I ever knew it, so I am afraid the poor lady is stuck with that monicker for the rest of this story.

Nurse Slut was at least five or six years older than me, so around 22-23. She was pretty, but not a stunner. She stood five feet, to five six tall, medium build, her full breasts accentuated by the mock nurse's uniform smock she was wearing. Her obviously long dark hair was tightly gathered under a ward cap, but with tendrils hanging down on either side of her face, in pseudo rebellion to the strict hospital dress code. The look was completed with the mid-thigh length skirt of the smock, black tights, and black heels.

We had a few drinks (I was actually still underage to consume alcohol, but we will let that slip), danced a bit, which I’m still rubbish at, and chatted, about nothing in particular. We all knew where things were heading, so when I excused myself to relieve my bladder, it was no surprise when I found Nursey waiting in the hallway for me, to ‘go outside and get some fresh air and cool off.’ We wandered away from the NAAFI building, past her accommodation block, which she told me was strictly out of bounds to men, until we eventually found a secluded spot, behind a building next to the base medical centre. It was cold outside, but at least the structure shielded us from the wind.

To say I was nervous would be a massive understatement. This was the first woman, not teenage girl, I’d been anywhere near. She knew the score. Was I a virgin? No point in lying, yes, I was! She took the initiative. She took my face in her hands and kissed me full on the lips; gently at first, then increasingly aggressively, forcing her tongue into my mouth.

Still kissing me hard, she took my hands and placed the palms on her breasts above her clothing. Her bra must have been quite padded because, although the soft, pliable mounds were in my grasp, I could not feel her nipples, no matter how much I searched for them. Grasping my buttocks, she pulled my lower body into hers, trapping my rigid penis against her stomach. She ground her body against me, increasing my hardness even further. After a few minutes, as I was still being too hesitant, she took control, pulled back and slowly undid the buttons at the front of her smock, down to the belt at her waist, then lifted her bra up and clear of her breasts. And what breasts! Even in the darkness, illuminated only by the security lights at each corner of the building, I could make out how magnificent they were, a real woman’s tits!