From the word go I was interested in older women. No, obsessed would be the better word for it. In those days, of course, that meant just about all women, if you disregarded the giggling, barely pubescent girls who seemed from another planet.

No, it wasn't them I was interested in - it was their older sisters and mothers, and the mothers and aunts of my friends that fascinated me.

Take Dougie's mum - and my fantasy was to do just that. Dougie was my best friend in Que Que (pronounced Kwe Kwe), a town on the main train line between Bulawayo and Salisbury (now Harare) in the old Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). At 18 I had no brothers or sisters so I loved the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the railway family's home where Dougie and his three siblings (one younger brother, and an older brother and sister) lived in happy chaos.

And then there was Marge. Lustrous dark-brown hair, jutting bosom, shapely calves and infectious laugh, pushing 40 and probably 15 pounds overweight - my idea of the perfect woman.

Marge was of the opinion that one more mouth to be fed made little difference so I spent a lot of time there - and as she was pretty careless about dressing and undressing, she provided my first lessons in the female anatomy.

She seldom closed the door to the bedroom she shared with husband Bill, who said little and seemed to spend most of his time off in a train somewhere, so she was often to be glimpsed pulling a dress over her head, with tantalising displays of lace-edged, well-filled (sometimes bulging) white bras, sensible nylon panties, wispy halfslips. What would make my heart pound most was when she sat on the bed in bra and halfslip, a leg and panties exposed as she attached a stocking to her suspender belt....

Continued in Member's Area