You won't find another fool like me, babe (New Seekers, 1973)

Right. Well, it’s taken me a while to get round to telling you this because I was finding it hard to get my head in the right place to decide which lessons (if any) I’d learned from it.  

You remember I mentioned the biker chap (Blog - A Minor Ishoo) and my qualms about getting on his throbbing machine? Hmm. I wanted to keep the tone light, but the truth is a very warm correspondence developed. He sounded sooo nice, and he wrote long, considered emails, full of wit, charm, reassurance and eventually some disclosure. Most of the time he even seemed ahead of me in what I was thinking.

He’d had a variety of jobs over the years, but each and every one of the jobs was, in one way or another, community-minded, and while I’m not a rabid do-gooder, I really appreciate those qualities of decency, generosity and consideration in other people. The more I chatted to him the fonder I became.

There were a few misunderstandings on the way, nothing major, because it’s quite hard to convey the full spectrum of emotions in the written word without actually spelling everything out. Then finally a few phone calls, but between us neither could find the right time to meet.

Perhaps that’s not strictly true. You remember I mentioned the lasering? Well, ultimately it was a success, as I said, but not straight away. I looked fine when I left the place – more or less – then the scabs developed.

I wasn’t going to go on my very first date and with someone I was really keen on looking like that! So, I told a couple of minor white lies about why I wasn’t immediately available, giving time for more touching emails to be exchanged. But we did set up a date, and I was really looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time because by now, the lurve/lust thing had started kicking in. Bike or no bike. Every day I moisturised and ate nothing but lettuce so that I’d look drop dead gorgeous when the time came. Sad, isn’t it? A woman of my age. I shudder.

I’d let myself get carried away by the fantasy of it all. Oh, and another thing – since I’d said on my profile that I enjoyed writing a bit, he sent me a few of his poems and a short story to look at. He’d won some prize for one of the poems; it was good, very good, and I was moved by it.

The story, however… It began well: charming, lyrical (you’d expect that from a poet, eh?), a few sections of super imagery; and then it developed into something entirely different. Erotic. Actually, no, not erotic, more like porn. In fairness, he did say he’d done it for a laugh, for fun, and hadn’t intended it for publication. (Good job really…)  He just wanted to see if he could write in that way. Follower, I am here to tell you he couldn’t. Can anybody? I won’t quote it verbatim because, you never know, there might be someone out there who publishes this stuff, and I might be done for infringing copyright one day.

Quoi qu’il en soit, here’s a modified example.

“He put his hands beneath her thin, blue woollen jumper and circled her nipples (Did he have a felt tip then?); they rose to the occasion. (Please be upstanding for the Queen. I had a vision of the National Anthem being played!) She reached for his manhood, now bulging against the tight leather of his trousers. As he unclasped her bra, his mouth searched for her eager buds.” (Oh, per-leeeease! Me! Me! Come and get me! I'm first!) 

It gets worse.

“He smelt the gentle fragrance of perfume blended with the sensual aroma of woman. (That'll be Domestos and chip fat, I imagine.) His hands cupped her cheeks over the sheer black silk and he pulled her wet womanhood towards his tongue and licked her sweet tempting body, waiting until her juices flowed into his mouth.” (For goodness sake! What is this? The Angel flipping Falls?) 

Flaubert it ain’t. But even Flaubert had to start somewhere. To be honest, as I read through the, ahem, 'sexy' section of the story, I was killing myself laughing most of the time, not because it was so dreadful (even though it truly was at this point), but because it nevertheless had some je ne sais quoi. I kind of loved him all the more for it, for trying, if that makes any sense. Manhoods, womanhoods, members, juices, shafts, heaven, buds. Every euphemism and/or synonym you could think of; it was a struggle to get to the end without wetting myself – mirth you understand, nothing else. (Perhaps I do need that gadget I mentioned earlier!) When I suggested he might as well put the real words in because it was getting a bit repetitive, he told me he’d tempered it for me. Aw, bless, sweet! I’ve never heard of a vagina or a penis. I knew he was considerate; I’m such a delicate creature, on a par with Beth March in Little Women, practically.

I know what you’re thinking. You are thinking why did I go along with this, and I’ll tell you why. People who write write. That’s it. They need to write, and people who write get that about other people who write. We all pen crap much of the time, weaving fantasy with reality, what ifs, fleeting tableaux embellished into scenes, mixing experience with hope, and generally, at some point, come to our senses and chuck most of it out. He was willing to share it with me. In theory, his risk, not mine.

So that’s the background.

Part Two anon.