Not Losing Your VirginityThink back, way back, to when you were a spotty virgin.* It was all a bit overwhelming, wasn't it? I remember going to see a band as a teenager and standing behind a girl who I kinda liked, but who had been showing a lot of interest in a friend for the past week. She reached back and squeezed my leg.
I panicked. Brain decided that she'd clearly made a mistake and thought I was my friend: "Er, you've got the wrong bloke"
It was hours before I worked out what was going on.
So, tell us the stories of when you failed to lose your virginity - whether through your own ineptitude or simply because they scared the bejesus out of you.
* Apologies to spotty virgins out there. Wash.
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chthonic, Fri 27 Oct 2006, 12:13)
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A fear of clownsFor as long as I can remember. Six years old, at the Circus, being dragged away crying by an exasperated Daddy who wanted to stare at the crotch of the female trapeze-artiste.
After he left, the Mummy really began to keep me close, never letting me from her beady-sight and of course, as the years fell past, I became more and more embarrassed by her overly-cloying attentions.
This culminated in my thirteenth birthday party. I had asked her to purchase White Lightning, Concorde and Mad Dog 20/20, but she somehow conveniently forgot. She also conveniently forgot to send out the invites. So there we were, the Mummy and I, alone.
Alone but for the amusing clown she had booked.
Alone but for the coffee-breathed, smeary-greasepainted, dirty-nailed and shabby-clothed clown she had booked.
Of course, the Mummy tried to put on the facade of the perfect party-hostess, oftentimes heading into the kitchenette to procure further cocktail sausages-on-a-stick for our 'guest', whilst she left me, in cravat, pressed jeans and a side parting to keep the be-comb-overed one occupied.
I was petrified, utterly so. He kept making balloons appear from his grimy sleeves and fumbling them into the shape of genitalia.
And when my mother ever reappeared, looking ever so enamoured of the bottle of Gordon's I had once found in the freezer, the balloons would disappear, as if by magic.
And off she would sidle again, emboldened by the clown's assertion that he had really enjoyed the Morrisons' pork pie, and desirous of another shot of booze. And so, the clown would once again come close, his rickety fingers snapping in my tight-shut eyes.
And this carried on. And on. The Mummy popping out for curled up sandwiches and gin, the clown running his stinking paws down my chest, until... He grabbed me, then gave an almighty gasp. Tumbling backwards, his face a rictus of pain, me on top of him...
He expired, wheezing and crying, me straddling his convulsing form when the Mummy came back in.
Now that's really verging on the ridiculous.
(, Mon 30 Oct 2006, 23:01, Reply)
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