Sunbathing in the park

Sunbathing in the Park



It was a typical English Summer – you had to make the most of the sunshine as you never knew when it would bother to come back. I’d already taken my young daughters to play in the small local park on both Saturday and Sunday but because it was nice and hot I decided to visit again, on the Monday afternoon for a little bit of sunbathing.

As I settled down on the grass with my book, cigarettes and a bottle of water the metal gate creaked open and a group of coloured youths noisily entered with a football. I’d seen them on both previous visits so wasn’t particularly bothered by their presence as they had kept themselves to themselves playing football in the bottom corner. It was difficult to tell how old they were as every male between 10 and forty seemed to dress and act the same in this part of London and very few of them actually worked.

As I read my book I sensed them looking at me and after a few minutes the ball came bouncing in my direction. I stretched to stop it going past me and threw it back to the gangly youth who was running towards me.

“Thanks missus.” He shouted as he caught the ball.

When I heard their laughter I looked over the top of my sunglasses to see the boy making a crude replica of my large chest with his hands. The cheeky ‘so and so’ had peaked down my loose cotton top!
I suppose I was quite flattered that at 42 I could still turn a young man’s head and smiled to myself as I found the line on the page that I’d been reading.

After another couple of minutes I tucked my bra straps and the spaghetti straps from my top under my arms so I wouldn’t get any tan lines.
As I lit a cigarette the ball came rolling towards me again followed by a different teenager. I leaned to my left and stopped it; making sure that my boobs bounced when I threw it back with both hands.

A large stocky black youth easily caught it and thanked me with a cheeky wink and a broad grin. His return to the group was greeted with more laughter; so I guessed that I’d had the desired effect on him.
Over the next half hour or so it became obvious that they were deliberately kicking the ball towards me as each took it in turn to retrieve it and get a good eyeful of my generous chest. Pleased with the attention I was getting, I too became a little mischievous and tucked my white gypsy skirt high up my thighs and opened the top two buttons on the cotton basque-type top, exposing a little too much flesh to the sun and their young eyes.

As I was lighting another cigarette the ball landed at my feet and was quickly followed by the boldest of the group; an athletic looking youth wearing a pair of England football shorts and corn rows in his hair.

“Have you got a spare smoke?” He grinned. Shocked that he had actually spoken I held out the packet and offered him a cigarette. He took it between his long spindly fingers and kicked the ball back to his friends and lay down beside me and waited for me to light it for him.

“Where ya from?” He asked in a London/Jamaican hybrid accent as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

“Over there,” I nervously replied, “behind the shops.” I stopped myself being too specific.

“No; where ya from?” He persevered, “ya don’t sound local.”

“Oh,” I blushed, “Cork in Ireland.
As he asked me a few more inane questions he slowly and deliberately ran his big brown eyes from my feet to my neck only stopping when he reached my heaving chest and nipples that were sticking through the thin material of my lace bra and cotton top.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Niney.” He grinned.

“How old are you?”
“20. Why?” He grinned.

I smiled and nonchalantly shrugged my shoulders as I checked him out. He was a little taller than me, but not as tall as some of his friends. He was good looking and knew it; but he had 5 or 6 small scars on his forehead and the bridge of his nose. One of his front teeth was chipped – probably the result of a street fight I guessed and his stomach was as flat as a pancake. His well-developed arms looked like he must work out in a gym.

“And you is?” Niney asked in his broken dialect.

“Nanci.” I admitted but almost immediately felt I should have lied.