Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 21

Whoring Around!

If you’ve reached this point via Part 6, you’ll be aware that at the close of that story, I had just completed my UK armed forces initial engineering training. As an 18-year old junior electronics engineer, I was about to be deployed to my first operational unit, on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus.

It was November 1974 when I arrived, on a military transport aircraft, via the airbase at Akrotiri. At that time of year Cyprus is still relatively dry and warm, with temperatures at or just below 70-degrees; a vast change from the cold, damp UK I’d left behind.

I was met at the air terminal by my new Senior, to discover I had been allocated to work at one of the numerous signals intelligence sites on the Island. Mine was located within the Western Sovereign Base Area, close to the city of Limassol, where I should expect to serve for the next three years. With my kit dumped in the back of a Land-rover, I was transported to my Accommodation. When I was shown my pit space, my jaw hit the floor. It was indeed an absolute pit! (Though in retrospect, it was luxury when compared to some of those I would have to contend with, when deployed in active conflict zones in later years.)

Many will recall, that earlier in 1974, Turkey had invaded and occupied most of Northern Cyprus; an occupation which persists to this day. By the time I arrived, hostilities had ceased, but the fallout was still very much being felt. Mainly of course by the Cypriot population, many of whom were internally displaced, and had lost their homes, businesses, vehicles and most of their possessions!

Normally, there were many UK service families stationed on the Island. Post-invasion however, the unstable political position, and the potential for further armed conflict between the two ethnic Cypriot populations (Greek and Turkish), saw many family groups repatriated to the UK, to be replaced with single, mainly men. What this meant was that there were about four times more ‘singles’, than there was accommodation for.

As a result, my bed was located in a room, designed for six people, but with around 24-25 bodies crammed in there. Bunks were stacked three high in places, a mountaineeringt task to get in and out of, being very careful to avoid the spinning ceiling fans that were bravely trying to cool the sultry air, that had a distinct odour of sweaty bodies. Worse, I was told that for the moment, we were ‘hot bunking’; meaning when I was on shift, someone else slept on the bed, and vice versa.

There was no wardrobe space for anyone, so clothes were hung wherever there was somewhere to hang them, and most possessions had to stay in kitbags, many of which had to be stacked in corridors, to give occupants room to move around. I was told I was ‘lucky’. Some were still living in tents, pitched on sports fields. The very luckiest were those with their own offices, who could have a bed there. In short, any thoughts of bringing female company ‘home’ was a total non-starter.

Speaking of female company; it was virtually non-existent anyway. Oh, there were a few servicewomen (apparently their block was much more civilised, but it was a long time until I found that out for myself!), but the ratio of men to women was huge, and those girls who did date were long since spoken for. Apart from when required to leave the main base area for work reasons, we were confined to barracks. Even if we could mix socially with the ‘locals’, the majority of Cypriot girls were not known for being sexually available. So basically, calling anyone a ‘wanker’ at that time was not an insult, it was a statement of fact. We were all big, big wankers, for now!

A positive though, was the fact that being overseas, we got extra pay. Booze and cigarettes were duty free, albeit rationed, and the local beer, wine and brandy was cheap and plentiful. So we could mostly anaesthetise ourselves into ignoring our shit living conditions, when off duty.

Autumn became Winter, and Winter became Spring. I turned nineteen, and slowly, very slowly, things started to normalise. Some of the restrictions on our movements began to be lifted. We were allowed off base, during the day only at first, then in the evening, though strict curfews were in place, requiring us to be back on base by, first 22:00, then 23:00 and eventually, by midnight, enforced by the military police. This meant we could venture into the ‘bright lights and fleshpots’ of Limassol town. It’s a sprawling metropolis these days, but was relatively small and compact back then.

The bar and club owners, who had struggled for months, were overjoyed to have us back in circulation. They tried all sorts to attract us into their establishments. Happy hours, two-for-one drinks nights, live bands (some good and went on to be quite well known actually). But not surprisingly, the most attractive incentive, came from those bars that provided strippers.

Most of the ‘girls’ were foreign. Many from the Middle East or Eastern Europe, just out to make a bit of cash. I think it’s fair to say they were quite exploited. Generally once they had completed their activities on stage, they were expected to mix with the punters, who in turn were expected to buy them, probably fake, drinks at extortionate prices. The proceeds of course, mainly went to the bar owners not the girls themselves. But we were well paid, and it was nice to have female company, even if just to ogle and chat to. There were accounts of furtive handjobs, blowjobs and even actual fucking, in return for an appropriate ‘tip’. I couldn’t confirm these rumours were true, at first!

One night in mid summer, with the weather now dry and sultry, temperatures in the high 80 to 90 degrees, a colleague, Chris, and I had gone into town early evening, after spending our day off at the beach. We ate our fill at one of the many popular kebab houses, which then included all the Kokenelli (a really rough red wine) you could drink. After the meal, we hit several of the bars and clubs, eventually ending up at our favourite strip bar, grabbing a table at the back of the room, ready to enjoy the show.

We sat through a couple of unexciting acts, featuring lone girls gyrating to popular tunes, and stripping down to G-string underwear, before dancing among the crowd, fondling their own breasts and teasing the blokes by moving provocatively near them, but with strictly no contact. It was arousing, especially after months of, virtually enforced celibacy, enough to raise an erection in most of us. At least it did for me. The spectacle was something to have a wank over later perhaps.