I was a perv, but unintentionally
I was a late starter, had not even snogged a girl before the age of 19, partly due to the fact that I have always looked younger than I am (I can still pass for 30 though well into my 40s). 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 mainly nude beach and I had an unrivalled all-over tan. Each night we ate souvlakis and then we’d move between the various ‘nightclubs’ which were just bars which played music and sold 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 if a Bowie track came on. This was 1984 and ‘Let’s Dance’ was a big hit. I’d been to see the live show and had a baggy t-shirt from the tour. Anyway, my mates could see I was smitten and urged me to go and chat to her. I was shy, but a couple of double ouzos helped, and I went to talk to her. She smiled shyly at me and I discovered she was French and spoke no English. ‘Pas de probleme’ I’d got a B for ‘O’ level French. Anyway, up close she was even nicer than from afar. I judged she was probably 18, dark shoulder length wavy hair, blue eyes, stunning norks, 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. Then I asked the inevitable question ‘Quel age as tu?’ ‘Quatorze’ came her answer. 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 know to us as ‘the crazy French woman’ who wore hundreds of bangles and danced all night was her Mum, she was also there with her little brother who was ten. Anyway, as luck would have it, we fell in love spectacularly went back to my little lean-to on the beach and, without removing our clothing we achieved some measure of ecstasy. She returned to her room promising to meet me again the following day.

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 it was one-way. Then I thought ‘what if she told her Mum, and she has grounded her, or has gone for the cops?’ and then, guess who turned up? Yes, her Mum.

Shit. But no…it turns out girl-of-my-dreams is ill, very ill but sent Maman to find me to let me know. I went back with her, and spent the day mopping her fevered brow….

…anyway, a few days later, they left Naxos and I was left bereft and alone. I foolishly got caught by an English slapper which eased my balls but not my heart. Similarly, on the ferry back to Pireaus I had a wonderful one night stand in a sleeping bag on a crowded deck with a german girl, but nothing could erase the memory of g-o-m-d.

I had virtually ran out of money by this time and just had enough dosh to buy a train ticket from Brindisi to Paris. I decided to visit g-o-m-d and borrow enough money from Maman to get back to Blighty. All went pretty well, though a meeting with her Father was a little worrying, though I won him over with my charm….

[Stay with it folks, there’s a bit more yet]

…Christmas came, we’d been exchanging letters, and she came to stay in my shared flat in North London…with her Mum. Gomd shared my little single bed, Maman slept on the floor of my room. We still hadn’t disrobed and she was a good girl but I made a right mess of my underpants. She went back to Paris, I was working at Lloyds Luncheon club, gradually we wrote less, I’m not sure what happened. I went off travelling again, spent about 6 months in France, mainly in Nice, learnt the language really well and kind of moved on. Though gomd was always in my thoughts and I carried a passport sized photo of her.

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, friend of a friend, got over gomd. Then in June, I met the current Mrs Grimsdale and 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? Yes, you guessed it, a letter from gomd. ‘What did it say?’ I hear you ask, well, it said: ‘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.’

Let that be a warning to you. Be a perv and you WILL be punished.

She’ll be 35 now.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Mon 21 Aug 2006, 15:35, Reply)