Ramblings of an Old Man – Part 8 Service Brats

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 8, continues my reminiscences, of my sexual journey during my first overseas deployment with the UK armed forces. It turned out much longer than intended, but I needed to write what I remembered, for me. I think it still works for others, but I’m sure you’ll let me know, one way or the other.

If you are expecting beginning to end, dirty, perverted sex, it is not for you, you do not 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 8 – Service Brats

It was late Autumn 1975, and in a couple of weeks, I would be one year into my tour of duty on the Mediterranean Island of Cyprus, serving with the UK armed forces; with another eighteen months to two years remaining until ‘Tourex’. I’d arrived just four months after the Turkish occupation of the North, which had led to political unrest and the evacuation of many British service families back to the UK, to be replaced by hundreds of single, mostly male, personnel.

However, a year on, things had stabilised to the point that it was considered safe to start married accompanied postings again. This meant that families started to return to reoccupy the married pads, bringing wives and ‘service brats’ back to the SBA.

At first glance the term Service Brat, or sometimes ‘Pad Brat’ would appear offensive to attach to the offspring of serving members, but it is actually quite the opposite. The term has its roots in the 1920s when families first started accompanying UK servicemen overseas. They were formally referred to as ‘British Regiment Attached Travellers’ (or BRATs). The acronym has stuck. Far from being considered an insult, it is mostly worn as a badge of honour, as it usually indicates the wearer is well disciplined, well educated and worldly wise, having often experienced life of several different countries among different cultures. Not bratty at all.

The MoD provides school facilities at major overseas bases, but only up to O’Level/GCSE age, so most Pad Brats are no more than 16-years of age. But daughters of serving personnel are considered dependent to age 19-years, so occasionally older girls, still living with their parents, accompany their families. Such was the case with Sally.

Sally was the daughter of one of my Seniors, and I first met her when she came with her parents to our unit social club one night. She was 18-years old, and had just completed A-Levels at school in the UK. She had secured a university place, but like many her age, had decided to defer, and take a gap year to ‘unwind’ before starting to study again. She had chosen to accompany her olds to Cyprus when they offered, but had plans to do a bit of travel in the region while she was there.

Needless to say, the single blokes were on her like flies on shit almost as soon as she walked through the door. After spending an hour or so stood at the bar with her folks, warding off advances from the lechers, while they were chatting with friends, Sally noticed that the comfy chairs at the table opposite where my silver tongued mate, Chris and I were sat, had been vacated. She pointed this out to parents, who nodded, and the three of them came over and asked to join us. I knew dad well, but had never met mum or Sally before. Introductions were made, and we started chatting, getting to know each other a little.

Now I should explain. Sally was no beauty Queen; not unpleasant by any means, just pretty plain. She was dressed in what might be described as quite ‘frumpy’ clothes, a roll neck sweater and pleated skirt, which mostly hid her figure, though it was evident there were quite large breasts under there somewhere. Her dark brown hair hung to just below her shoulders and quite heavy framed spectacles covered her eyes. Think Velma from Scooby Doo, and you’re not far off the mark. (Perhaps that’s a bit unkind, but you can see where I’m heading, Velma could be pretty hot when the clothes came off. I’ve seen the videos!)

It was obvious from the word go, that Chris had decided he was going to make a play for her anyway. He had the knack of chatting up females, without them realising they were being dragged into his web. This time he had to be a bit careful, as obviously her olds were right there too. But even so, he dominated the conversation with her, and had elicited most of her life story, and hopes and dreams for the future, etc., before too long. But before he could move in for the kill, he was thwarted, by mum and dad announcing it was time to go, as he had an early start in the morning (plotting something shitty for us grunts to do, no doubt.) Draining the last of their drinks, they bid us goodnight and headed for home.

It was to be a couple of weeks before we would see Sally again. Chris and I were once more hanging out at the unit bar, when she walked in. This time, not with parents, but in the company of another girl about her own age. The pair bought their drinks at the bar then, glancing about spotted us at our table. After a quick whispered exchange, they headed over and asked to join us. Sally introduced the new girl as Julie.

Julie, who Sal had only met a few days earlier herself, was a pretty girl, with Asian features. Her waist long black hair, was held from her face by an Alice band. She wore a white T-shirt, over tight, flared, denim jeans, both of which highlighted a lithe body. She was a first year university student, who had finished her classes early, to enable her to fly out to join her own parents for the upcoming Christmas and New Year break. She would be returning to her studies when the holidays were over.

I could sense immediately that Chris was conflicted. Did he drop his attempts to get into Sally’s knickers, or abandon a potentially longer term gig, in favour of a shorter fling, with the ‘hotter’ girl.

He hedged his bets for most of the evening, as we all sat and chatted. We bought the girls a couple of drinks, nothing excessive for a change, and spent a very pleasant evening in female company, drawing many a jealous glance from the wolf pack at the bar. Free from the hindrance of parental presence, Sally was much more open and flirty than she was the last time we met, and was quite drawn to Chris’s patter. She silently signalled her availability to him.

As closing time approached, Chris had made his choice and asked Sally if she would like to go out with him. It was a bit insensitive to openly do so in front of Julie like that, but it did give me the opening to ask the latter if she would like to partner me on a double date with them. Both accepted the offer and arrangements were made. Chris and I would be on the nights of our shift cycle for the next few days, but would be off duty for three days from that Friday onwards. We agreed to meet there, at the unit bar, for a quick drink, before heading into town for a meal, and would then play it by ear. The unspoken agreement between Chris and I was, as always, if one of us was to get lucky, we’d split and do our own things.

Come date night, as the appointed time neared, I sought out Chris, but he was not in his room. His room mates told me he’d gone out around lunchtime and they hadn’t seen him since. I assumed he’d meet me at the bar, so headed in that direction. I got myself a Keo beer and propped up the counter waiting for the others to arrive. Shortly, fashionably 10-15 minutes late, Sally arrived, on her own.

We looked quizzically at each other. Yes, like Chris, Julie was AWOL. Her parents had told Sal she had gone out shortly before she called, so we believed she was en route to join us. Sally accepted a drink, choosing a non-alcoholic beverage, and we sat to await the wayward pair.

By the time we had finished our drinks, some 30-40 minutes later, it was evident that we’d both been stood up. I know what you’re thinking, I was way ahead of you there; Chris and Julie had made alternate arrangements together. That turned out not to be the case. They’d both just decided that their chosen dates were not for them after all, and blown us off. Their loss. At least, it was Chris’s loss as it turned out. I never saw Julie again. Chris got a severe ear bending from Sal the next time they met, where she left him in no doubt what he’d missed out on.

So, what did we do now? Well, the choice was made for me by Sally. “Well,” she said “I was looking forward to a night on the town, and I still intent to have one. Looks like your stuck with me Titus.” Was that a bad thing on my part? No? When Sally arrived earlier, I’d noted that she was looking a lot more desirable than previously. Her hair was brushed and burnished to a sheen and clipped back behind her ears, exposing her face. Gone were the glasses (contacts it transpired), completely changing her features. She wore a soft knit thigh length dress, which accentuated her shape and the quite low neckline showed the deep cleavage between her, as suspected, quite large tits. All in all, worth a squirt, in my opinion.

The plan had been for us to eat at the Chinese restaurant, the only one in Limassol at that time, as far as I m aware. So we decided to stick with that. We grabbed a taxi into town, arriving at the eatery late for our booking, and obviously two covers light. It wasn’t an issue though, as they were immediately able to seat us at a double, while another group, who had been waiting, took our larger table.

We ordered our food and a bottle of wine, and tried to engage in conversation. As I’ve said previously, I’m not good at the chat up routine, so it was a bit strained at first, but as the wine started to loosen us up a bit, it got easier to talk to her. She had ambitions to become a doctor, but her exam results had not been quite good enough for med school straight off. But with a suitable bachelors degree to her name, she would be okay. So after her gap year, she was starting a BSc in biology; human biology she stressed, the study of men and women!

This led her in to observing the huge disparity between the numbers of single males and females. That the girls were lucky, that they could have their pick, but that it must be hard for you guys to “get lucky”. Then totally out of the blue she asked “Do you get lucky, Titus?”. I nearly choked on my chow mien. I didn’t know how to respond to that and said nothing. She too remained silent for a moment or two, then pressed me, “Well?”

I mumbled a reply to the effect that, she was right, it was very difficult to establish any sort of relationship, when the odds were so stacked against us. Especially when you were not particularly comfortable in coming forward, like me. I certainly was not going to tell her about my fairly recent encounters with sex workers. Sally just smirked at me, nodded and went back to her food, saying nothing more for a while.

What had just happened? Did she just ask me if I was getting laid? Was she hinting that she might be the one to lay me? I was confused. I was aroused. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. I could feel my cock starting to thicken at the thought of having sex, any kind of sex, with Sally. I bumbled my way through the rest of the meal, desert and coffee. I could see the waiter hovering, willing us to free up the table so they could seat another couple. I obliged, paid the bill and we left the restaurant.

The night was still young, the weather was still warm and dry, so at my suggestion, we started to stroll up the bypass, towards the area where the majority of the night clubs and discotheques were located. It was about a twenty minute walk. Instinctively I offered my arm to Sally, which she took in her hands, leaning close against my right hand side as we walked. First contact had been made.

Over the next two or three hours, we took in several of the clubs. I purposely avoided the strip joints that we would sometimes frequent, and where I’d not that long ago ‘bought’ a handjob from one of the girls who performed there. We ended up at one of the most popular venues, Traffic I think it was called, where there would always be a mixed clientele of Cypriots and all branches of the UK armed forces. Despite the mix, I’d never seen any trouble there, save from the odd drunk squaddie, who was usually removed swiftly by their buddies.

As usual at that time on a Friday night, the place was heaving, but we managed to find a couple of empty seats in the back of the hall and ordered a couple of drinks from a passing waiter. I would have been happy just to sit and watch the crowd. If you’ve read the earlier parts of my story, you will be aware I have a strong dislike for dancing, especially to that 1970s disco shit. Sally, of course had other ideas.

No sooner had we settled, than she had me up on the dance floor, to join the melee of electric wrestling that was going on. I hated it. I have no rhythm whatsoever, and knew I looked a total gimp trying to dance in time to the music. But in reality, no one gave a toss for what I was doing. They were all either enjoying dancing, or enjoying ogling their partner’s gyrations and bouncing boobs, as was I.

Reminding me very much of my first date with Sandie, back at my training camp, the tempo of the music changed, as the DJ switched to the smooch songs.