Sunday, 24 June 2012

Ego v Libido

I was never sure whether it was my ego or libido that got me into so much trouble with girls. When I was younger they were as bad as each other in egging me on to do things that I knew I would regret.
“Hi!” A girl was suddenly stood next to me late in a nightclub once, many years ago. She was a big girl and not pretty. I smiled in drunken politeness. “You not managed to pull anyone?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“I’m not very good at chat ups. I never know what to say.”
“Me neither,” she said. “So let’s just go together?”
       I was not expecting that. I have never understood why women are prepared to face the social stigma and physical risks associated with one night stands simply not be on their own the next morning.
I went home with her. Obviously I did want to get laid, even with this unlovely stranger, and my libido was calling the moves. I excused myself for being drunk: the fruit with which Eve tempted Adam must surely have been well fermented.            
There was no romance, seduction, or even much foreplay. In fact, there was very little mutual interest but the act of copulation was necessary to justify our being together.
 Never before, or since, have I had such a loveless coupling, bereft of compassion or even sympathy, but it got worse. I squeezed one of her breasts too firmly and she grunted manfully.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay,” she replied, “I quite like it.”
“I like it rough.”
       I felt the Devil’s hand on my shoulder. I slapped her. She moaned and tried to hit me back but I caught her arm, slapping her again with my other hand. Then ensued a most terrible episode, my slaps and her groans increasing with corresponding vehemence.
      As I stole away in the morning I was fearful that the daylight would burn me up. At least I knew that libido was the governing force; my ego certainly got nothing out of it.

Wednesday, 20 June 2012

Just somebody that I used to know.

I saw Violet recently at a meeting in Town. She obviously wasn't dressed as Violet, in stockings and figure sculpting maid's outfit, but the sobre business suit could not mask the distant memory of a dominant submissive who once captivated me for sevaral hours of intense excitment. But she blanked me completely. I said hello and she could not avoid that contact but then she pointedly sat with her back to me in the meeting.
It was a bit like being at school; being ignoed by a girl for some trivial matter. But should I have expected greater acknowledgement after 14 years of no contact? And why did it matter? I have no interest in her now other than as someone I used to know and perhaps that was it, as the song implies, she was not prepared to be that person. Perhaps she blanked me because I am just someone she used to know and now has no interest in.

Actually, I think it was it just my ego, which is like an annoying bloke that seems to follow me around. Along with my libido, it has got me into a lot of trouble with girls. On rare occasions the two forces have led me to places that I did not want to be at, and from where I escaped the following morning by sloping off before she woke, wearing my shame like an old overcoat.

Saturday, 16 June 2012

Always in Trouble?

Sometimes it seems as if I’ve had trouble with girls all my life, from early teenage trauma right up to failed marriage in my thirties. I was recently reminded that I even had trouble with girls in primary school because last weekend I spent three hours trying to make a pair of “bloomers” from a pillowcase for my 5YO son’s school project following a story they read about the “Queen’s Knickers”. I see little point in setting homework projects that the children can not do themselves.
         Moreover, my son refuses to wear his bloomers and I support his view. So spending precious time doing something that is not supporting my son’s involvement at school seems pointless. Also, I can not see what they are trying to teach children by exploration (no pun intended) of this rather irreverent topic. There are many far better things that children can be learning about a monarchical diamond jubilee: its democratic nature, its global reach, its enduring support, etc.
         I am minded to complain but am concerned that this will cause undue friction. Am I being reactionary? Should I be sat up at eleven o'clock at night making bloomers rather than doing my tax return? Perhaps it’s worth doing because it's a social activity and it shows support for the kids' efforts and makes them feel that their play or assembly is a little more important. I think it is important to make them feel good and supported at school, even if he doesn’t wear the bloomers.
         Perhaps I am still influenced by an awkward event I had at my primary school which still haunts me. Our class ran a puppet production of Winnie the Pooh. I had the part of Tigger and my Mom made a glove puppet out of an old sock and acrylic fur. It was orange with brown stripes and button-eyes and a red tongue. It was easily the best puppet in the class. At least it looked like a puppet, rather than a sock.
         “Wow, Billy, look at your Tigger, it’s brilliant!” said Charlie Crest who was in the football team and praise from him was better than sweets.
         “I wish my Mom made me a puppet,” whined Graham Adams who was Top-of-the-Class and I smiled, reflecting in unfamiliar adoration.
It was short lived. The middle-aged dragon-teacher cruelly smashed my expectation of praise.
         “What have you learned by getting your mother to make it for you?” She was unnecessarily vehement, presumably because I had stolen the spotlight from her, and I replied with the unabashed malevolence that only a seven year old can muster.
        “I learned that I don’t come to school to sew.”
         Anyway, I decided to press on and make the bloomers without complaint and Son No2 took them to school and all was well until I asked him what he'd learned about the Jubilee.
"It's all about the Queen's knickers, daddy," he said.

Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Early Trouble

A contributor to an online fathers' community  that I engage with told of his early trouble with girls (TWG) as a 9YO boy dressing up as Toad of Toad Hall, complete with green tights and make up, in a school play. The girl he fancied didn’t talk to him after that and he avoided her all through secondary school. Things like that are hard to bear and they haunt you into adulthood. My own TWG at primary school pursued me into an all boys’ grammar where I managed to avoid TWG until sixth form.
Then I got into trouble with Emma Briggs. She was a statuesque blonde and there were times in life when I would have crawled across a field of broken glass just to sit next to her, but at school she was a different entity. She climbed, naked and uninvited, into bed with me at a drunken teenage sleepover party. She said nothing but slid her soft tongue into my mouth.  It was a wonderful sensation, enhanced by the feel of her womanly breasts pressed against me. 
I was terrified.
“What are you doing?”
 “I just wanted to get into bed with you.”
“Well, it’s only a single, there’s not enough room for two.”
I woke later to find Emma on her hands and knees, being taken from behind by a lad from the upper sixth. He bulled her with masterful strokes and her elegant rear rose gratefully to receive his attentions as her slender thighs flexed like a thoroughbred with each manly thrust, her fulsome bosom swinging daringly in the half-light. I shall be forever haunted by the memory of her pretty young face tormented with ecstasy as she was rhythmically shoved into the pillow. 
            TWG also found me at university where I was initially uncomfortable with the sophisticated women. They seemed so grown up and cosmopolitan, most of them having spent a gap year somewhere exotic. I went straight from school to university. 
 Melanie approached me early in the first term but I felt unthreatened because we were friends. I grew up believing that there were girlfriends you could shag and friends who were girls who you could not shag. 
“How are you settling in?” I asked, mainly because I was not.
“Fine,” Melanie looked at me over the rim of her wine glass. “It’s really cool being independent, having friends around whenever you like.” 
“I’m moving room, actually. I’m getting a single.”
“That’s nice.” 
“In fact,” said Melanie lowering her voice, “I could make good use of your strong body this evening.” She placed her elegant fingers on my thigh and smiled.
            I relaxed then because, being a young Northern chap, I assumed that the good lady needed a hand to move her boxes and furniture.
“Should I get a couple of the rugby lads to help?” Melanie hurried off. 
My next disaster occurred whilst playing squash. Annie was also from the Home Counties and she was much better at squash but my inability did little to dampen her ardour and she manipulated me around the court, causing me to bump into her. 
After a particularly clever shot I flattened her against the sidewall and was too knackered to move. I leant against her cool, smooth skin for a second, panting and dripping sweat on her.
“I’m sorry.”
“No problem, Billy. You can press me up against the wall anytime.” 
I looked at her uncertainly.
“It’s your serve.”
Eventually, I got the hang of it and joined in enthusiastically but some of those early encounters still haunt me.