IIRC it goes something like this:
You are stopping over at your sister’s on the way home from university for the Christmas hols, 1979. You, she, her husband and a friend of hers go out for a few beers. You glug down a few more brews than you’re used to and go and crash in the spare room.
Some time round about midnight you’re woken out of your beer-fuelled stupor to learn that you’re sharing the bed for the night with your sister’s friend. You shove over and make room while the friend, who’s twelve years older than you and quite fat, wearing a nightie borrowed from your sister, climbs in next to you.
Later, between three and four in the morning, you’re both awake at the same time and you get talking, exchanging a few rude jokes, that kind of thing. Your SF giggles over your PJ jacket and the vest you’re wearing under it (hey, even in southern England it starts to get chilly in mid-December) so you take them both off, with a slight air of defiance.
While you continue talking about this and that, your SF begins examining your bare chest and stomach with her fingernails. Pushing her away would seem rude and besides, you’ve not been blessed with any female attention since a spot of tonsil-licking with a girl you met once at a bonfire party a few years ago but who things never worked out with subsequently, so you’re not disposed to be too critical.
After a while her hand “accidentally” strays near your crotch, and her mocking “Oh, what a surprise!” informs you that she has discovered that, beer or no, your testosterone-fuelled 19-year-old anatomy is in perfect working order.
After a while longer she “accidentally” lets her forearm rest against your erection, and when you still don’t yell for your sister she grabs hold of it.
At this point you figure it’s time to either fish or cut bait…
When you slide your hand under the hem of her nightdress she playfully pushes your hand away with hers while still carrying on with what she’s doing with her other hand. Getting past this not-too-serious blocking technique you discover that she’s still dry, and despite having absolutely no prior experience of female bits you’re clued-up enough on the theory to know that something ought to be done about this. So you go to work on her breasts and then check her snatch again after a while and this time it’s dripping wet.
So you shift to your knees, and there is a rustle of bedclothes as she draws her own knees up and lets them fall apart. (You should note that up to this point there’s been no discussion whatever of what’s going to happen, let alone the issue of contraception or any consequences.) You shuffle between her spread-apart thighs, make one or two fumbling attempts to get on target (slightly hindered because you don’t know exactly where the vagina is - other than the obvious, to within a few inches either way - or quite what it feels like), and apologetically ask her to guide you in. She does so.
The expected tidal wave of mind-blowing sensual pleasure completely fails to materialise. Four in the morning is maybe not maximum sensitivity time for you, even without taking the beer into account. Still, you are determined that after all the years of waiting you are not going to waste what you are now thinking of as “this opportunity”, and you set about pleasing her as best you know how from theory. She tells you to relax, and you finally kick off your PJ trousers.
Sooner than you expected, she is announcing “I’m gonna come!” and you encourage her to go ahead and do so. She does, noisily. Then you try to concentrate on your own orgasm. Having had nothing but your hand in the past, and not getting anything like the sensation that you had ignorantly imagined from her vagina, this isn’t easy. But there seems to be something like a ring of muscle gripping a bit like a finger and thumb wrapped around you, and you concentrate on this as best you can until you achieve a finish, of a sort. When you stop, she does actually ask “Did you come?” and you urbanely murmur “Is the Pope a Catholic?”… though the earth didn’t move an inch for you.
Shortly afterwards, when you need a massive dump (again, probably something to do with the beer) you find yourself saying to yourself: "I’m not going to start thinking ‘Is that all?’ " … However, warned by whatever wise instinct, you do not let this sentiment communicate itself to your sister’s friend.
This approach, drawn from life with no exaggeration whatever, is not necessarily recommended as the optimum. (It should be noted that this was in the days when any variety of Cupid’s measles could be cured with a short course of antibiotics, not that any were needed on this occasion.)
But that doesn’t stop me from trying (with a committed partner, condom and/or birthcontrol of course).
