I have always been a passionate guy. Oh yes, don't laugh, I have! Read on for a bit of adolescent passion from my teenage days: Grrrrrrrr!
Now passionate guys like me have to come to a very important decision early in our lives. Do we spend the rest of our days stupidly chasing after women, ruining our constitutions, abandoning our pride and covering ourselves in embarrassment? Or do we have a quick neat surgical operation and then take up coin collecting instead?
In my case this was not a difficult decision. You see, I don't like coins. And so, my career as a full-time passionate lover began without hindrance. I was nine at the time and fell madly and passionately in love with Maya (who was eight and a half). I sat next to Maya in class. Boys did not normally sit next to girls. But my teacher had put me with the girls as a punishment which tells you more about my teacher than it does about me.
There was something totally devastating about Maya. Perhaps it was because she was the only girl in class who didn't wear a brace on her teeth. Perhaps it was the casual way she tucked her shirt, perhaps... So, with tender innocence, I passed her a note declaring my love. Sweetly, charmingly, she told me she hated the sight of me.
Well, I did my best to win her love. I scrubbed my knees in the bath. I stopped scratching. I stopped sniffing. My mother couldn't believe it. But it didn't work. Maya would not admit that she loved me. I begged and I pleaded. I exploded with brutal masculine anger. I grizzled. I even tried bribery - half my chocolate bar at break! But nothing worked.
Eventually I resorted to the one weapon remaining to a pre-teen lover. I twisted her arm. Then, in the throes of both emotional and physical agony, Maya admitted that she loved me. What a fantastic moment for a passionate guy. The girl of my dreams had agreed that she was mine. Fantastic! Of course, I immediately went right off her.
That incident belongs to the days when I was school boyish young, sexually inexperienced and sublimely happy.
Let us move forward five or six years, to days when I was still young, still sexually green, and going steadily out of my mind with frustration. It was then that I met Julie.
Julie taught me that it is not a sense of moral values that keeps a girl, on the straight and narrow. It is not religious scruples either or fear of pregnancy, or ambition to ' be the ‘ Virgin of the Month’ awardee, or anything like that. It is her parents. Yes, wherever Julie and I went and whatever we did, we always had, this sort of sneaking feeling that someone was looking over our shoulder. And we were right, it was usually her Dad or in lesser cases, her Mum. Now this sort of thing couldn't go on for long without one of us breaking down, as the art mistress said to the gardener.
Julie was a good girl, too good a daughter. She would not even consider deceiving her parents. So I did the considering for her and very grateful she was too. Our chance came when, by a magnificent stroke of luck, one of her relatives – a great, great grand uncle died!
Sorry, but you have to be honest about these things. Julie's parents (who were apparently close to the great departed uncle) were immediately stricken with grief. Then right after that they were stricken with the idea of snaffling some of the family heirlooms as he was a bachelor. So they packed a case, took along an extra one for the goodies and left for the funeral. Some 400 long kms away.
Julie was left alone in the house. Alone! For about 10 minutes. Then I got there. Whoopee! A night of love and passion stretched before us. Only. . . the trouble is, you see, I was brought up to be a nice honorable sort of chap. And Julie had been put on her honor to behave and so somehow, after a brief cuddle on the sofa, we both felt so guilty that anything carnally else was ruled out of the question.
So Julie made up a bed for me in the spare room, and then we went and sat in the kitchen together - she in her satiny nighty, me in her father's night suit. She drank her cocoa while I had Coffee. And we talked and then the door opened and her parents, Yes, her parents walked in. Their car had broken down 40 kms out.
All hell broke loose. Her father threw me out into the street. Neither parent believed me when I told them of our innocent intentions. They didn't believe me when I said I wasn't going to touch their daughter. They didn't believe me when I said I was going to spend the night in their spare room, and not creep along into Julie's room in the small hours. They just didn't believe me. I don't blame them. I didn't believe me, either.
It was at this juncture in my life that I decided to surrender my morals in favor of my basic passionate nature. No longer would I listen to the still small voice of my conscience, or even to the loud nagging voice of my mother. Instead, I would do what I wanted to do. I would obey the dictates of my mannish urge. I would sup deeply from the Cup Of Life! Bottoms up!
The first girl with whom I attempted to take a swig was with the flamboyant Sara. One rather chilly winter night, I had a phone call. I was sitting at home at the time, idly leafing through my copy of "Big Chests Monthly." (No, no, no, it's about antiques.). The phone call was from Sara and she wanted to know if I'd like to go swimming with her. There and then. That night. At midnight. I was about to say no, because the water was cold enough to give a brass monkey distinct cause for testicular concern. But then Sara went on . . .
"I know this guy who has his own heated pool, no one's using it tonight. We could be alone there and swim together. What do you say?" Well, I said. . . well, what do you think I said?
Let me cut quickly to the scene. There's me, in a little darkened room beside this impressive but deserted pool, ripping off my clothes with urgent haste, struggling with awkward buttons, in what can only be described as a lather of anticipation. Outside on the pool edge, I could hear Sara calling: "Hurry up! Aren't you ready yet? I'm ready!" And finally, so was I. I had cast off almost every vestige of clothing. Almost bare and unabashed, I leapt through the doorway with a Tarzan yell.
Suddenly, all the lights come on. The place was full of everyone I knew: Some were in the pool while the others were all mostly dressed (including Sara), holding drinks, and shouting: "Surprise! Gotcha!". I never spoke to Sara again. Well, would you? However, although these stories rightly portray me as a very second-rate Casanova, I would not like you to get the impression that I have never succeeded in winning a girl.
I’m not like my friend. He's hopeless. The closest he has got to a bird in bed was when the dude next door married. Yes, I've had my successes and one of them involved Dimple. Yet I cannot tell you about Dimple unless I also tell you about her best friend, Robin.
Dimple was the girl I fell for. Robin came with Dimple, like a job lot. Robin. .. I ask you! Is that a name, or a new sort of detergent?
I met Dimple on a beach resort. I was just sitting there, looking out to sea, and thinking about Life, and wondering if I could manage another drink, when all of a sudden there she was. She was standing with a crowd of others, but there was something about her that caught my eye. The thing about her was in fact her bikini top. She was putting it on and... well, have you ever tried to get a quart into a pint pot? Exactly.
I was on holiday, so had no time for the gradual decent dude approach. Indeed, there was hardly time for a straight chat-up job. So I didn't hesitate. I went straight up to Dimple, trod on her sunglasses and asked her for a date. Dimple smiled: "All right," she said. "But I'll have to bring my friend Robin."
Dimple proved to be as lovely as her first impression. In fact, both her first impressions. But Robin, well, she had all the sophistication and exotic charm of a cement mixer. She was dull, she was dim, she was dire. She was dreadful. She was the ultimate dead-head.
I should have blown both her and Dimple out. But I only had a week, and anyway Dimple had something extra that made her irresistible. It was easy to see. It stuck out a mile.
I hung on in there, taking them both out all week. On our last night I took the pair of them to a drive-in. I bided my time. And then, when I judged that, Robin was sufficiently engrossed in popcorn and how Harrison Ford saved the world, I held a secret conversation with Dimple. I'm ashamed to tell you what I arranged for us to do.Well. . . no I'm not.
I suggested to Dimple that she come to my room at 11 o'clock that night. And, after the statutory protests, Dimple agreed. Eleven o'clock came. I sat in the dark, trembling with anticipation. Would she come? The door opened quietly, and I saw her feminine shape slip into the room. I came to meet her and she folded into my arms.
She wore the flimsiest of dresses and her perfume filled the air. . . I don't think I'd better go on any more. Oh, I don't know – why not?
She felt smooth, exciting, wonderful. Her lips were soft and passionate, and when she kissed me it aroused a white-hot fire within my veins, and I pulled her to me and….. Sorry, my fingers are slipping on the typewriter keys. Believe me, it was a very, very passionate scene indeed. We were just about to pass the point of no return when there was a noise and the light went on.
The bright lights were blinding. Dimple stood in the doorway.
I was kissing Robin!