Bit of a pea-roast, but one from the archive.

I was a late starter with the lay-dees, hadn’t even snogged a girl before the age of 19, partly due to the fact that I have always looked younger than I am (well, until fairly recently). Anyway, at the tender age of 21 I was enjoying a well-earned and extended holiday on the paradise island of Naxos. I was there with some mates and we were all living on the beach. I had constructed a bamboo and palm leaf lean-to which was all the shelter I needed. It was a nude beach and I had an unrivalled, all-over tan. Each night, after a hard day’s sunning and swimming, we’d eat souvlakis before moving between the various ‘nightclubs’ just off the beach, which were really just bars playing music and selling very cheap drinks.

A couple of times, I’d spotted a gorgeous girl sitting demurely on her own, smoking cigarettes and getting up to dance whenever a Bowie track came on. This was 1984 and ‘Let’s Dance’ was a big hit. I’d been to see him live twice on that ‘Serious Moonlight’ tour and had a baggy tour t-shirt to prove it. Anyway, my mates could see I was keen on the girl, so they told me to put my tongue back in my mouth and go and chat to her. I was shy, but a couple of double ouzos helped, and off I went.

She smiled shyly as I lumbered up and asked if I could sit down opposite her. It didn’t take long to discover she was French and spoke no English. ‘Pas de probleme’ I thought, I’d got a B for ‘O’ level French just five years before and hadn’t spoken a word since, but how hard could it be? Anyway, up close she was even nicer than from afar. I judged she was probably 18, dark, wavy hair, parted on the right fell to her chin framing her charming face. She had deep blue eyes, full lips, stunning norks. All in all, she was beautifully proportioned: the Girl-of-my-Dreams.

Schoolboy French has it’s limitations and the conversation was flowing like golden syrup, but I could feel myself falling for this mademoiselle big-time. I’d asked her if she liked Bowie: “Oui” Where she lived: “Paris”. I couldn’t think what else to say and she wasn’t giving me much help. Then I asked the inevitable question “Quel age as tu?”

“Quatorze” came her reply. Remember the drink, the poor French, the anticipation, the hormones. It took me some time to realize what she had said, and what it meant.

It turned out that the woman known to us as ‘the crazy French woman’, who wore hundreds of bangles, a tight waist-coat, a leather mini-skirt and danced all night every night, was her Mum. She was also there with her little brother, who was ten. Anyway, as luck would have it, we fell spectacularly and painfully in love that night and then went back to my little lean-to on the beach, where, without removing our clothing, we achieved some measure of ecstasy. Late that night, she returned to her room, promising to meet me at a certain restaurant the following day for lunch.

So, in plenty of time the next day, I went to the rendez-vous and waited. She didn’t show. I’m sure you all know that feeling, the gut-wrenching ache of the seriously in love when you think, maybe, after all, it was one-way. Maybe I mis-read the signs, what a twat I am. Then I thought, ‘Shit, what if she told her Mum, and she’s been grounded, or the Mum has gone for the cops?’ and then, guess who turned up?

No. Her Mum.

Shit. But no…it turns out girl-of-my-dreams was ill, very ill but sent Maman to find me, to let me know. I went back with her to their apartment and spent the day mopping her fevered brow and holding a glass of water to her parched lips. I met the little brother, got to know the Maman a little, spent most of the time kissing and cuddling.

A few days later, they left Naxos and I was left bereft and alone. I managed to ease my aching balls after being seduced by an English slapper, but nothing could ease my aching heart. On the ferry back to Pireaus, I had an inconsequential one night stand with a wonderfully sexy german girl. We shared a sleeping bag on a packed open deck and parted friends in the morning. Still nothing could erase the memory of g-o-m-d.

I had virtually run out of money by this time and if it hadn’t been for the kindness of strangers, I’d have eaten nothing on the long train journey north from Brindisi to Paris. I decided to visit g-o-m-d and borrow enough money from Maman to get me back to Blighty. All went pretty well, though a meeting with her Father was a little tense. Luckily though I won him over with my charm.

The summer over, autumn blew in, blew out again and Christmas came. We’d been exchanging letters, and planning to meet up again. It was freezing cold when she came to stay in my little shared flat in North London…with her Mum. G-o-m-d shared my little single bed while Maman slept on the floor of my room. We still hadn’t disrobed and with Maman as chaperone we didn’t really feel like getting up to anything, but I couldn’t help making a right mess of my underpants as we snuggled to keep warm in that confined space.

After a few days, she went back to Paris. I was working as a barman in a City luncheon club, getting stoned most day. Gradually we wrote less, I’m not sure exactly what happened, I managed her to visit very briefly in February. I met some of her school friends, which made her seem younger than before, the magic was fading. On the ferry over, I’d bought her a bottle of Opium - I’d easily been able to pick it out as her perfume; still today, whenever I pass someone in the street wearing that scent…

I went off travelling again, spent about six months in France, mainly in Nice, learnt the language really well and kind of moved on, though g-o-m-d was always in my thoughts and I carried a passport sized photo of her everywhere. In Jan ‘85 I went back home. Got a series of temp jobs, fell in love with a girl on the tube, got on with life, had a fling with an older woman (see ‘Stalked’), got over g-o-m-d. Then in June, I met the current Mrs Grimsdale (see: ‘Will you go out with me?’) and there the story ends. ‘Thank fuck’ I hear you say.


* * *


But no, there’s a post-script. Summer of 1987, recently married, baby daughter just born, and what arrives in the post at my folks’ house? A letter from g-o-m-d. ‘What did it say?’ I hear you ask, well, it said:

‘Che, I still love you, I am sorry that I was so immature. I am 18 now and I’d really like to see you again, I know I can make you happy now.’

What’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life? I wrote back saying ‘Thanks. But sorry, no thanks.’

She’ll be 38 now.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 17:39, 4 replies)

*sobs*
Your stories always bring out my mushy side.
( girlinthehole, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 17:43, closed)

18!
pfft!

well out of it mate - knocking on a bit by then
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 20:39, closed)

then again also
this is the most tragic love story i have read on here in a long while

*swells with hope for peace love and mankind*







tits must have been fucking phenomenal though!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 20:41, closed)

Funny
how things look different with those 20:20 hindsight goggles on.

This was my first experience of true, reciprocated love and it didn't feel wrong at all, the reverse in fact.

As a 45 year old, I find it almost impossible to think that it actually happened. Ah well.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 12:47, closed)