She
thought that Barbara Cartland was the biggest culprit of all,
together with the innumerable romantics who had penned romance novels
for Mills & Boon Publishers. They all had the same thing in
common, the mysterious gap between: “ … she trembled as he picked
her up and gently laid her down between the fragrant autumn leaves”
and “later, blissfully sated she curled her fingers through the
crispy curls growing on his chest.”
What
happened between “leaves” and “later” was a question she
never could get answered by adults which was not surprising. Nobody
likes explaining the facts of life to an inquisitive adolescent. In
any event, good convent girls were not supposed to ask “those”
kinds of questions.
She
nevertheless devoured those books like a hungry locust; always
seeking the one that would tell her what happened during those
mysterious moments. Many years later, she would wonder why someone
had not left Lady
Chatterley’s Lover
lying around in a conspicuous place for her to find. Absolutely no
mystery there, she would have found all her answers (and then some!)
in addition to being more prepared for the night she lots her
virginity.
Being
a 19 year-old virgin in the mid-seventies was as out of place as Mary
Quant trademark makeup on the face of the young Princess Margaret.
Having been in school during the tumultuous age of “free love”
and “ban the bomb” she almost felt as if she had missed out on
one of the most important revolutions of the century. A feeling that
has not quite gone away, forty years later.
Escaping
the constricting environs of her parental home to the big city was
like releasing a child in a toy store. The beat of the city caught at
her diaphragm and tugged her heart along with its mysterious rhythm.
And it was in the midst of all the hustle and bustle that she met the
tall, dark and handsome stranger that would deflower her.
He
was the owner of the nightclub where she worked in the evenings to
earn extra money. He was Greek and arrogant and passionate as only
she had imaged the men from those islands would be. And yes, he had
those smouldering dark eyes and full lips so often described in
breathless detail by all those romantic novel writers. It is
therefore no wonder she literally swooned.
The
relationship had all the trademarks of the romantic novel. First
there was the blatant antagonism, he arrogant and domineering –
she fiercely independent and not willing to bend to his will. She
stormed out of the club one night after a particularly heated
argument and of course he went after her, the shouting continuing in
the parking lot. He accusing her of being unreasonable, she telling
him he was insensitive. And then of course, he just had to kiss her
just to shut her up and she never quite remembered what the fight was
about in the first place.
After
having dated the Greek for almost six months, she came to the
conclusion that heavy petting left her feeling a little “unfinished”
in some way and that it was time to get rid of the darn virginity and
find out what all the fuss was about. She set the stage for her
deflowering with minute attention to detail, after all, the event had
to be perfect.
What she knew of the sexual act had been gleaned
from adult cartoons and portions of conversations heard over the
years. In her mind’s eye, the penis was this long appendage that
was tucked between the man’s legs when not in use. Having observed
bulges in various shapes and sizes at the local swimming pool, she
often wondered how it all fit together, as the bulges were all
concentrated in the front. She had heard that the appendage would become
hard if the man became excited, but did not consider the possibility
that the it could actually be quite small, especially if
immersed in cold water - this would of course, have explained the
little knob in the front of swimming trunks. In her virginal mind it
had all been rather perplexing and confusing but she would soon find
all the answers she would need.
The
bed was made with fresh linen, pillows fluffed up invitingly and the
covers turned down. Curtains drawn, lights extinguished and candles
lit, fresh flowers adorned the room, and a few rose petals found
their way onto the bed. Her normal sleeping attire of cotton
nightgown was tossed out and replaced with a pale pink silky
negligee. He was instructed to get undressed and make himself
comfortable while she scurried into the bathroom to prepare: shower,
brush teeth, floss and spray mouth freshener, brush hair vigorously
while bending over - flicking it back to ensure plenty of volume,
strategically dab perfume between boobs and nether regions and she
was ready.
She
paused in the bathroom doorway, aware of the light behind her and
hoped she made an interesting picture. She lifted her one arm to lean
against the door and missed, toppling sideways to hit her shoulder
against the doorjamb. Flustered and shaking badly, she prayed that he
had not noticed and switched off the bathroom light. She walked
towards the bed and misjudged the distance and kicked the corner of
the bed. She painfully limped to the edge of the bed and sat down,
only to promptly slide off, landing on the floor with a thump.
Whatever
dignity she thought she might have had evaporated and she stayed
where she was on the floor, tears of mortification rolling down her
face.
Unfortunately the story does not fade into a into a night of blissful passion, unbridled ecstasy and memories that would make her blush for all the right reasons. Yes, he was sweet and picked her up off the floor and cuddled her until she felt better. He murmured all the right words and almost convinced her that it was not the end of the world.
He was however, no help in warning or guiding her through the practicalities. Having guided her hand to his nether regions she wondered what on earth she was supposed to do with the baggy thing filled with solid little nuggets! There was absolutely no warning that what was a flaccid little thing would grow really long and hard to such an extent that she was horrified at the thought of its eventual destination.
