Ramblings of an Old Man – Part 7 Whoring Around

As an old man, in my seventies, who has been given the nod by my doctors that my days are numbered, I spend a lot of time looking back at my life. Recalling what I have done and achieved. Regretting the things I should have done and did not do. I do not suppose for a moment this is unusual, but when it happens to you, it takes it out of you, initially at least.

I never planned on these thoughts going public. It was just a few scrappy notes for my own consumption. The ramblings of an old man, as it were. But one of the individuals concerned saw those notes. They thought that others may identify with some of the situations and suggested I tidy them up into a story and post them on your forum.

This part, part 7, continues my reminiscences, of my sexual journey at the point of my first overseas deployment with the UK armed forces. Some, but not a tremendous amount of sexual content in this part, hence I’ve tagged it as ‘non-erotic’, to temper expectations. So if that’s not for you I understand, but it sets the scene for what’s to come in subsequent parts, if I’m spared that long.

If you are expecting beginning to end, dirty, perverted sex, it is not for you, you don’t have to read it. Bug out now…no hard feelings. And I do not profess to be a literary genius; so, if my writing style and grammar offend you, you know where the ‘close’ button is!

Part 7 – 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 technical 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 mountaineering task to get in, 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 in 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, those with their own offices, slept there. In short, any thoughts of bringing female company ‘home’ was a total non-starter.

Speaking of female company; it was virtually non-existent. Oh, there were a few servicewomen (apparently their block was much more civilised, but it was along 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 base 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.

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 now, 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 nonde*********** 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.

Then the ‘main act’ of the night was introduced. ‘For their first season here in Cyprus, all the way from England, the ***** Girls!’ (I’ve got no idea what they were actually called!). But English, eh? Interest piqued. To the strains of Donna Summer’s sultry song, Love to Love you Baby, six hot blonde dancers took to the stage and started their routine. It was by no means Pan’s People or Hot Gossip (IYKYK!), but that didn’t mater. Almost immediately they had shed their light, sheer robes and were naked, apart from tiny thongs.

Quickly, the girls paired up, and as Donna moaned and groaned to the beat, they embraced, rubbed their tits together, fondled arses and inner thighs, and basically dry humped each other, also in time to the music.