Mild-mannered Clark Kent
(FM rom)
© Bronwen 1999

"He'll go mental if he sees it," she says. "D'you think that toothpaste thing works?"

"I dunno," I say. "I suppose it's worth a try."

My teenage stepdaughter is peering into the wall mirror in the caravan, craning her neck to see the huge ugly love bite the boy she snogged last night has given her.

"I told him not to mark me," she observes crossly. "Bloody idiot. Dad will kill me."

"No, he won't, sweetheart," I respond wearily. "But it might be easier if he doesn't see it."

Katie sits at the table, applying toothpaste to the bruise. Once it's dry she smudges foundation carefully over the white patch, then powders. The result is almost perfect. James won't notice as long as she keeps her hair down. I am eating toast. James is still asleep.

There's a teenage legend that toothpaste speeds up the disappearance of love bites, but I don't believe that. I can't think of any biological reason why it should. But it does make a nice opaque concealer. That is one hell of a chew she's got, and James will definitely not want to see it.

He knows his little girl is a sexual being but apart from a gruff check that she's "..being careful, aren't you, Katie?" he *really* doesn't want to know the details. In fact he'd rather ostrich it — like most doting Dads, I guess. Good thing too. A high level of interest would be a bit unsavoury, really. Which leaves me as Katie's agony aunt and supplier of sex education. Not that I mind. She's a love and I know a lot about it. Sex, I mean.

We're on holiday in Cornwall together, the not-so-famous six: James, myself, our two preschool sons, Katie, and Katie's inseparable friend, Stacy. We've rented an upmarket standing van which looks out over a ravishing view of sea and farmland. To the girls, the caravan's main attractions are the private shower (the touring van and tent campers use a communal block), our large wall mirror and the dining table. Every evening James, the boys and I watch with amusement as, after long highly-scented showers, the girls emerge to tart themselves up.

First we have the fashion parade. "This... or this?" they demand. "This looks better, but do you think people will remember I wore it on Saturday?" They advise each other, they ask my opinion. They glow if James tells them something they're wearing is too revealing. That, naturally, is the ultimate accolade.

Outfits selected and supper cleared, the girls sit down at the table and lay out their equipment. Two huge cosmetic bags, each containing several pounds weight of tiny tubes and compacts. Further bags containing hair driers, eyelash curlers, manicure stuff, body art equipment.

The way they paint their faces is a marvel to behold. My little sons watch in awe. I think it's educational. Men need to know this sort of thing young. Three is pretty young.

Pre-base, concealer, base; then blusher, powder — and all the girls have done so far is colour their complexions. They haven't even started on their eyes or mouths. By the time they've finished they look like porcelain dolls with perfect skin. Very much as they did when they started.

Watching them I can recall doing exactly the same in my teens. Painting for over an hour in a painstaking attempt to look, as my father said, "Exactly the same, only shinier."

Mind you, times change, and their finished look is less natural than in my day. The perfection of their eyeliner would arouse envy in a professional signwriter. Their shiny mouths, carefully outlined and glossed, suggest oral expertise I know they don't yet have. They look wonderful.

Then they apply fake tattoos to ankles and shoulders. Their excitement about the evening to come lies heavy in the air. They select the jewellery they will wear, spray themselves lavishly with Jean Paul Gaultier, and do a last perfectionist check of every tiny detail. Then, bestowing air kisses on us all (so as not to smudge) they carefully pull down their tiny skirts and clump out of the van on weighty Spice Girl shoes. Giggles drift back to us as they meander down the camping field, reminiscencing about last night's exploits and confiding in each other their hopes for the night ahead.

James and I settle the babies in bed just before some friends turn up to play board games. We drink coffee, wine, eat Brie and grapes. We have fun. Bedtime comes with a good thriller for him, a crossword puzzle for me. And no sex. And so, night after chaste night, until this evening.

The girls are baby-sitting for us. For one night of the whole holiday. And it's more generous than it sounds. Night life is the point of the holiday for them. Their only use for daylight is improving their tans.

After carefully checking the events available they offered us the second Tuesday. Tonight is the children's disco and no one who's anyone will lower themselves to go to *that*. So the girls will stay in. And us? Well, we will go out.

We're going down the coast to a lovely restaurant from which you can watch a wonderful sunset. The girls are pleased and indulgent. You can see they feel we deserve our treat. They know we went there before when the youngest was new. The little boys are a bit miffed not to be included.

I shower and change, then grab my make-up bag and perform my middle-aged version of the girls' ritual. It makes me smile the way women spend time on their faces in reverse proportion to how much work they probably need — from a cosmetic point of view, anyway. Have you ever noticed that? The more perfect the skin the more effort is taken. Supermodels take the longest. I take a minute, max. Check face and hairline for sand and eyes for crusty bits, mascara, lipstick, scent. I'm gone.

We get in the car and drive off down the coast road. We put the shade things down, the car is full of sunset. He puts on a Beach Boys tape and we sing. All sorts of sexy seaside memories from our own teens before we met. I kick off my shoes and glance at him little and often out of the corner of my eye, that pointed edge of the eye with the wicked flick to it. We're smiling. Silly, stoned smiles like we smiled years ago. Just being all alone for once is a kick. Happy days are here again.

We go to a pub. A pretty place, with a view of the sunset. Hard not to get a view of the sunset on a West-facing coast. But we don't eat a big meal. We don't drink much either. We get into conversation with a couple of locals at the bar, we play dominoes. And all the time we're flirting. Quietly, but flirting.

James is a man to me first, husband and father second. I never stop feeling his power over me. And he finds me irresistible, and lets me know. He smiles into my eyes, and we glint a little. A quiet, respectable couple who play dominoes.

An hour or so later, it's getting dark at last. The long summer evening is ending. So we say goodnight, leave the pub, wander entwined to the car and, as we climb in, James whispers, "I've got something to show you."

"Oh yeah?" I murmur softly, coolly. "What would that be?"

"Just a place I've found."

I giggle. Because this is the whole point of our night out. We're on an opportunity hunt. The van has flimsy walls. What privacy we have is purely visual. The boys — and the girls when they're in — can hear us as clearly as if we were all in one room. Our younger child sleeps through anything, but our older son wakes if disturbed. And neither of us much enjoy muffled love. Tonight we're looking for some piece'n'quiet. And that *isn't* a spelling mistake.

But then James drives me home, or at least it looks as if that's where we're going until just before the entrance to the campsite. We take the road to the beach car park. James is taking me to the sand dunes.

Memories. Oh my Christ! Talk about memories. I get the giggles. "We can't" I splutter. "Not the *sand dunes*! They're gonna be full of kids."

"Balls," says James. "It's only 10 o'clock. They'll all be in the pub until after eleven. Get up those hills, woman." I love him when he's masterful. So hand-in-hand we clamber up the cool, talcumy sand of the dunes. It is night now, but the moon is bright. I can remember when I could run up and down the sand dunes all day without getting breathless. Tonight I walk slowly hoping I don't look too out-of-shape. Mind you, he isn't running either.

"Hello, James, Mrs M," comes a clear, polite voice from a tuft of marran grass. I peer into the darkness. It's Simon, it's bloody Simon. One of Katie's lot, and with some new girl I haven't seen before.

"Hello, you two. Out enjoying the view?" James' voice sounds ridiculous. It's gone all squeaky. Much posher than normal, and sort of formal. He sounds like a Squadron Leader in some old English war film. Stiff upper lip and all that. "We thought we'd just admire the last touch of sun over the lighthouse. Magnificent, isn't it?"

The stupid man's trying to convince the kids that we're only there for aesthetic reasons. Besides which, the sun went down half an hour ago. What sort of idiot's gonna fall for that one?

Well, these sort of idiots, as far as I can tell. Simon and his companion are far too concerned about what we might think *they're* doing to wonder what *we* might be doing. They seem perfectly prepared to believe we would struggle up into the dunes to look at the weather in the dark.

We are all only too keen to part, Simon and his girlfriend want us out of there and so do I, but James carries on talking for a bit in his unnatural voice to convince them that we aren't in any hurry for any possible reason. In the end I have to tug him by the wrist. We descend the sand dune in silence, but start snorting near the bottom and are in full flight by the time we reach the car. We reel with laughter.

"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! Did you feel me jump when that bloody little scrote spoke up?"

"Couldn't miss it, sugar puff. All I can say is I'm so glad he spoke up then rather than later... "

"Oh, shit... Don't. Please don't."

".. and just as you were about to rip off my... "

"No, please. Doesn't bear thinking about!"

There are tears of laughter in my eyes. James has got the giggles. We sit in the car and have a fag while we regroup.

"So what now?"

"That was *The Plan*?"

"That was The *Whole* Plan. Have you got one?"

"No, I was looking forward to doing your plan."

We gaze at each other, baffled, grinning. "Well, we'll just drive around for a bit and look for inspiration.

Twenty minutes later, in yet another tiny Cornish lane, we're getting desperate. Every quiet field is padlocked and wired, every obvious place is full of someone else. It's just like being a teenager again.

"Let's try the main road."

"OK. But I can't remember seeing any hopeful turnings."

"We've got to find somewhere. We've got less than an hour before we've got to be back. If we're out after half past they'll know we must have been up to something."

The main road does that black/white ribbon thing it does on a hot night on a smooth new road. You feel as if you could drive through time. But we have no time. Flying through the dark James spots a turn and just takes it. It goes nowhere. A little bit of lay-by, then a gate. But a gate without wire.

Once over the gate we can see very little until we get used to the moonlight. We're in the shadow of one of those tall Cornish hedges. Dark shadow and bright splashes of moonlight. It takes me a few tentative steps to work out that we're in a field after harvest. It takes a couple more steps to walk into a bale.

These aren't the small bales of my childhood, the ones you could build houses with. These are whacking great things, well over a cubic yard. Tall as your waist and incredibly scratchy. Not very promising. Underfoot is hateful stubble, out to stab us. Sitting or lying on it would be strictly a minority pleasure. I have a masochistic streak, but not wide enough for that. This field is a dead end. It promises nothing. Sharp stalks below, huge scratchy hard-edged bales. It is as inhospitable as the moon that shines above us. I sigh. Mission *not* accomplished.

"Come here, sweetheart," James' voice suggests he has a plan again. I can tell sex comes into it somewhere.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep. Come here."

I step a pace or two and am enfolded against his hot, naked chest. "Arms in the air!" he sings, and peels my pullover over my head.

He has already stripped off his jumper and T-shirt and put them over the top of a bale. Immediately I understand his thinking. "Clever bugger," I congratulate him.

"And I've turned it all inside out. Stops the straw sticking to the outside and incriminating us."

"God, you're clever."

I have no bra, but he uses all the rest of our top clothing to cover the top of the bale. Then he crouches to peel off my jeans. "Oh, Bronwen," he breathes.

"Never say I don't think about you, my love," I am wearing a garter belt, stockings and no knickers under my jeans. "I brought them all the way from Surrey in my suitcase just for you."

James kisses my pubic fluff. "You're the girl of my dreams, and you know it. Up on that bale!" he orders and boosts me up to perch on the bale. He snuggles into my arms and I wrap my legs around his waist. And we start kissing. My nipples squirm into his chest.

And up to now I've been telling you a story, but now in the story and in my memory my breathing is getting faster, and his breathing, and I can smell his own smell beneath the scent of shaving foam and his warm thick chest hair is so sexy, cosy, familiar, horny. And I put my hands down to rip open his jeans as fast as I can and I am as hot and eager as I was twenty years ago. Hotter, now, because I know who he is, who I am, what it all does. And it does marvels.

There is something so good about knowledge. This man has brought me to gasping, eye-scrunching climax so many times now that I start to get wet as soon as we start to even think seriously about sex together. And that can be no more than eyes joined across the heads of our children, or over an innocent game of dominoes. If you're married you'll know what I mean: sex that has been so amazing so often that just knowing it's coming soon is enough. My mouth waters and my sex does too.

So as I pull the warm heft of his shaft out of his trousers, I am ready for him. But he wants to delay the moment, and crouches to kiss and lick my sex. He gets off on this more than I do, he loves the scent and taste, but it just makes me relax. I think I must be wired wrong. Massage my shoulders and I get horny. Lick my pussy and I go to sleep.

But not tonight. It's too cold. Lying like a Stonehenge sacrifice on the hay bale, my thighs resting on his shoulders, I gaze up at a thousand million stars. My nipples stick straight up, unintimidated by the white face of the moon. Headlights shine the sky from cars on the main road. Too far away to see us, though. I like the contrast — the cold breast, the hot sex. The scratchy bale, the silky skin of his forearm on my belly. The distance of the stars, the closeness of his breath.

"Come here, now, you fucking sex god. I want your cock,"

"Put it like that," and James is upright, gathering me up, we are wriggling for union. A shift of my buttocks forward off the bale and we are joined. Yes. Yes. YES.

I scrunch myself down on him, he thrusts, and we cling together, chest fused to chest, my head on his shoulder. But it doesn't give us the traction, we can't get the thrust, and then we have it. We have it. He lets me down and we're there.

I am flat on my back on the bale, with my thighs round the top of his back. He is gripping my arse in each hand and ramming his cock into me with total dedication. It is pure animal delight.

"Yes, Oh YES, you fucker. It's so good"

I have come, gone away and am coming back again. His cock feels so hot and thick. It feels totally perfect. It is what we were born for.

On and on. And I start to lose a sense of where I am. The coldness of my skin outside disappears. All that matters is the hotness where we join; the sight, in the moonlight, of his face, triumphant, distorted, joyful.

I am coming again, and I'm off on one of those things where I'll just go on coming until he does. It finishes me off, his orgasm. I get into a place where every new move we try has me spasming, until I start to feel my legs disappear and my face hurts from screwing itself up and I shout out "Give to me, I want you!"

And he grips me even tighter and as I come down, pulsing around his shaft, I become aware of his hot fresh smell as he goes into those irresistible, glorious final strokes and I hear him roar and groan and then it all happens, and we are washed up by the tide like so much driftwood.

Afterwards we don't hang around. As the endorphins subside we realise how unbelievably uncomfortable we are. James accuses me of doing something unspeakable to his thigh muscles. We drag on our clothes, me pulling up my jeans over twisted, ruined stockings and cold, sticky legs. Our T-shirts are a nightmare of straw. Our sweaters we bundle up to sort out later. Once we get to the car we spend a few minutes picking bits off each other as best we can. I check my face in the mirror. With so little make-up to start with the damage is hardly noticeable. There's a trick the girls will find out in time...

And with one last smile, and a gentle kiss of ending, we shut the car doors and drive back to the baby sitters.

All is tranquil in the van. Katie and Stacy are watching TV. It's no surprise to find two boys there too, keeping the girls company. They look up as we enter, a self-conscious picture of wholesome teenage comradeship. A bit too wholesome to be true. It tickles me how they try to keep us in the dark. I notice the smell of grass on the air, and the swollen look to four teenage mouths, but I don't say anything. Why would I? They're good kids. They need to do all this. We did all this. It's part of being young.

Anyway, I am far too busy making sure I stay away from the light and don't turn my back towards them. God only knows how much unnoticed hay is stuck to the backs of our clothes. I keep taking surreptitious glances at the mirror to check for obvious give-aways.

James and I say what a lovely evening we had, and claim to be very tired. "All that fresh air," we mutter.

Anything really... We'd just like to get out of their way before any of them notice the straw, the flush or the faint, but unmistakable aroma. A parent needs *some* dignity, and the kids need to think they invented sex.

Good nights are said, the boys set off down the field, the girls slope off to their pup tent under our bedroom window and I'm already tucked up before James has finished cleaning his teeth. He steps from the bathroom into the bedroom and another step has him in the bed. We snuggle, and I burrow my head against his chest.

"I feel like Superman," I say.

"Don't you mean *I* feel like Superman?" he asks. "Sex God Me?"

"No, I mean *I* feel like Superman. Well, it applies to you too. So we're both Superman. You see, I have secret super powers. I'm quiet, mild-mannered Clark Bronwen, going about my humble round for the Daily Family. Then, when need arises, I emerge as a superhero, performing amazing feats in my underpants."

"But you weren't wearing any underpants," he objects.

"Aw, fuck off," I murmur, batting his shoulder with the back of my hand, and leaning over to pick up my crossword puzzle book.

Glossary:

love bite = hicky

snogging = necking

blusher = blush

Cornwall = the pointy toe bit at the bottom left of England. It's rocky and picturesque — little, winding lanes, wild flowers, golden beaches and good surfing. But the weather is unpredictable, like the rest of these islands, which accounts for us wearing sweaters on a summer night. "Cornish" is the adjective.

The "not-so-famous six" is a reference to the Famous Five, a series of children's books in which a group of extremely wholesome children have adventures camping/hiking or suchlike. They were written by Enid Blyton in the 50s/60s, I think.

The van or caravan I describe is like a new US trailer, on its own in lovely surroundings.

fag = cigarette

scrote = affectionate term of abuse. Short for scrotum.

If I have left anything out, I apologise. Let me know.