Me and My Viv

I feel like I have joined a new sisterhood. This is the sisterhood of vintage style. For anyone who has been following me on Twitter and Facebook and seen the pictures I use to give a glimpse of the real me this will not come as a surprise. I love the style of the 1950s love the cars, love the music and so on. Until recently I hadn’t got around to actually wearing vintage clothing or even reproduction vintage clothing. It was just before Christmas that on a trip to London (a girly pre-Christmas shopping day out) that I first walked through the door of Vivien of Holloway, the reproduction vintage clothing shop on the Holloway Road (just a few doors down from where record producer Joe Meek had his flat and studio). I left with a 50s halter neck dress, petticoat and accessories and a somewhat diminished bank balance, although the dress is gorgeous, both to look at and to wear, and worth every penny. I was in a pub soon afterwards in my new dress when a lady came up to me smiled and said

“That’s a Viv isn’t it?”

We chatted about our shared love of vintage and she showed me pics on her phone of the several lovely dresses she owns. This was not the first such encounter and having been to vintage fairs and joined online groups I have found a new shared interest community. It feels good to get into something new.

Not everyone I know is delighted about this. I have heard arguments that my interest is crass nostalgia for a dark and dismal decade. Those who argue this point out that the 1950s were a time when Derek Bentley and Ruth Ellis were sent to the gallows, a time when gay men were viciously persecuted, a time when racial discrimination was acceptable, a time of conservatism and stifling conformity.

This is all true but it is not, I think, the full picture. The 1950s were also a time of mass membership trade unions, a time of full employment, of opportunity and increasing social mobility. They were also the decade that saw the birth of the teenager, the coming of rock and roll, a time of increasing American influence that was not all bad, a time too, when society cautiously opened itself to foreign cultural and gastronomic  influences, for example Italian coffee bars and Indian restaurants. More importantly the 1950s were a time of serious political protest. The mass demonstration against the Suez invasion in 1956 and the Aldermaston marches may serve as examples.

Every era is Janus faced and every era defies easy categorisation. The 1950s were certainly no golden age but were very different from the mythical decade that many UKIP members are said to aspire to return to. Katharine Whitehorn, no reactionary, described the 50s as the best years of her life.

And what of the fashions? Here I have heard the argument that the fashions of the era were emblematic of the return of women to the home, to cooking, cleaning, child rearing and looking good for hubby, in short that to be into vintage is to be nostalgic for an era of subservience and oppression. I have two responses to this. Firstly, I find it is deeply patronising to the women who lived at the time to imply they were passive consumers of fashions created by men, rather than agents with the ability to shape looks and styles. And if even of the first point was true it ignores the fact that contemporary women who adopt vintage styles imbue with their own meanings, adopting them as something empowering. Some men , of course, are interested in vintage but the scene is essentially a feminine one, and most vintage businesses are run by women for women. For many of them vintage is more than a hobby, it is a lifestyle. I am always amazed at the number of young women, some barely into their 20s. I see at vintage events dressed and made up with the most amazing attention to detail. They are saying I am different and not ashamed of it. It did occur to me that there are certain parallels to the kink scene, difference as a lifestyle, and there is also an element of cross over. Last month I had a lovely conversation with a stallholder at the BBB who is getting married this year in a Vivien of Holloway dress. For her vintage and kink are both integral parts of her identity. And just as I find the sex positive women I engage with online clever and strong, so it is with my new vintage sisters.  I accept that being into feminine clothes and make-up is not for all women but for many, it is a fundamental part of the enjoyment of being a woman. And no woman should criticise them for it.

So what to buy on my next visit to the Holloway Road?  That’s a difficult one but in the meantime a friend and I have a plan, to put on our Vivs, hire a Mk 2 Ford Zephyr for the day and have a drive out for lunch at a 50s diner we know. Bring on the sunny weather!

Girl on a Motorbike

I keep my copy of DIVA underneath the novel I am supposed to be reading for Uni. I took the job of night cashier at this out of town petrol station because I liked the idea of the time I would have for the serious reading I was always behind with. But magazines always got in the way and some magazines you just can’t put down especially when you’re nineteen and still unsure about your sexuality.

It was at about three o’clock that a powerful motorbike roared onto the forecourt. The rider dismounted, filled up and headed for the shop where I sat. It was only when the figure walked through the door that I could make out the feminine contours under the black leather. She stopped just inside the door and carefully removed her helmet before shaking loose a waterfall of auburn hair that gleamed in the harsh display lights.

She walked confidently towards me and I moved quickly to hide DIVA underneath the novel. She was up to me quickly, however, and a gauntleted hand took gentle hold of my wrist and we stayed for a long moment with the magazine hanging in mid-air.

“You read DIVA?”

I nodded, unsure what the correct answer was.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of is it, being into girls?”

“No.” I blurted out.

“I write erotic fiction for DIVA sometimes. You’ve probably read one of my stories.”

She paused before continuing

“Maybe you’d like to be in one of them?”

She smiled as she surveyed me like a predator toying with its prey.

“Cobra and mongoose” I thought, with a sort of feeling that I was snared and that, inexperienced as I was, I would actually have it no other way.

She unzipped the leather and pulled it back to reveal two magnificent breasts. She beckoned to me to come out from behind the counter. I complied without hesitation.

‘Worship me’ she said simply and I knelt tentatively before her, looking into her face before kissing the biking boots. The stranger squatted down, took my head in her hands and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead.

I kissed her right nipple before sucking on it and making it harden before taking it between her lips and squeezing. The woman let out an involuntary sigh as the pain began to turn to pleasure. I gave a little twist and felt the woman begin to writhe and struggle before adjusting her body to the pain. She let out another sigh. I twisted and pulled again before letting go and doing the same to the other breast. As I did so she felt the woman twist and wriggle and work her arms free from the sleeves of the leather suit. I took it in her hands and pulled it down to reveal a tattoo on the woman’s stomach which I instinctively kissed and muzzled my face against before sliding down to feel the lovely harshness of her pubic hair brushing against my face. I could now smell the woman’s arousal as I buried my face in the luxuriant auburn bush and moved my tongue to the woman’s exuberantly proud clit which I licked and caressed with quick movements of the tongue, like a snake sticking out its fork to feel its way. I licked and caressed, licked and caressed before sucking to make her hard. The woman was by now in a state of high arousal and I felt her stiffen and arch her back.

‘Worship my cunt, worship my cunt.’

I moved down to probe the rapidly dilating wet opening as the woman moved her hand down and began to massage the clit with the forefinger of her left hand. With the right she grabbed my hair and pulled it, harder and harder as she neared orgasm.

‘Harder harder’ she screamed pulling my hair so hard that I let out an involuntary howl of pain.

I pushed again and felt the tip entering between the labia into a warm place that was wet and smelt delightful. I worked my tongue up and down, tasted the sour juices of arousal, felt the stubble, rough against my cheek. I pushed until the rubbing became uncomfortable, then pushed some more. I needed pain to feel that I had earned the pleasure as arousal made my own clit stiffen and rub against my soft panties in a sweet agony of anticipation.

I slipped my jeans down and began to finger my clit as I felt her strain to keep from climaxing.

“I am waiting for you” she said. “Come on, quickly I can’t hold out any longer.“

I worked harder, harder, until I shouted

“I’m coming”

As the orgasm pulsed through me she came with a scream and dropped to her knees, kissed me, grabbing the back of my head to pull me close where I could smell the sweet breath before she pushed her tongue in deep for a slow lingering kiss.

The woman gently disengaged herself and handed me two twenty pound notes.

“For the petrol”

Then, without warning, she pulled on the helmet and headed for the door.

“Wait” I called, “I don’t even know your name”.

“Do you need to?” she said through a raised visor. “Read DIVA and you’ll found out. My pen name anyway. “

And with that she walked out of my life as nonchalantly as she had walked into it. I watched as she kicked off the stand, sat astride the huge machine and coaxed into a roar with a kick of her leather boot. I had no idea how long we had been together but the sun was coming up as she roared away down the dual carriageway towards London.

I returned to my seat behind the counter. In an hour I could go home. I picked up DIVA again and felt myself tingling at the thought that in just over an hour I would be in bed, masturbating to the beautiful stranger. I turned the pages of the magazine and started as I read,

“Short Erotic Fiction, Girl on a Motorbike.”

THE END