The photos: I took one photo of a picture I cut out from a magazine article about a carousel. The other I took of a Valentine’s card I was given by a friend. He found it in an auction house in London where he was working. I used to go for long tramps over Hampstead Heath with my friend, followed by afternoon tea. I was very bad in those days at picking it up when someone admired me, rather like the heroine of my story. Only much later did I realise that my friend was one of many admirers. (RIP, dear Phil, I still often think of you.) The poems: are by George Gordon, Lord Byron, Alfred Tennyson (not ennobled at the time of this story), and Robert Herrick. Picture of carousel sign. I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it! When the feelings rise up in me, I try. I do try. Mama sees the truth. She gives me a look. I tremble so, for fear she will punish me again, and the feelings come rising up — choking me. I try to look down, modestly, to still my beating heart, to stop. We decided I would follow her to her place so she could change, and then we would go to my house for the night. I had a dog home alone that I had to let out.I followed Jackie home to a small house that she rented part of. It was a one story ranch house, she had half and the owners, an elderly couple, lived in the other half. We went inside to her little kitchen. We started talking, and she gave me a glass of iced tea. As I sat at the small table she started to feel my shoulders from behind. She walked around and went under the clear glass table and started to feel my crotch. There was not much room under the table and she came out from beneath it. I stood up and we embraced, kissing each other, letting our tongues explore a new mouth. Jackie backed up to the counter and sat up on it. I went to her and got between her legs to continue kissing her.Finally, in a voice tinged with impatience Jackie asked, “Why haven’t you made a move on me yet?”I responded “I was waiting for you.”With.
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