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’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.