High and bruised
In the words of Jarvis Cocker "Can you remember the first time? Do you remember a worse time?". Well, he had a point.

For some bizarre reason I decided that I'd rather not take my first bite of the cherry with any old passing floozy, but I'd wait until someone caught my eye sufficiently before doing the do.

Anyway, amazingly enough I did end up dating a very lovely lady indeed and after a good few weeks (three to be exact) of tomfoolery things suddenly began to look up in the spare bedroom department. Plans were hastily laid (unlike myself at this point) for her to stay over my folks place after a night out on the town.

Naturally, any opportunity for the Great Gods of Farce to collectively bend over and fart in my face is usually seized with omnipotent determination. This time was no exception.

The necessary outing to purchase the required protective clothing was fraught with difficulty, which culminated in me stood at the front of the queue in a packed Chemist with two items on the checkout (one of which was a packet of Tunes) with a braindead till jockey waving a packet of three at her manageress shouting "Sandra! I can't get a price on these!". Thanks a fucking bunch, Jenny No Stars.

I still boycott Superdrug to this day.

Once tooled up for the job, my date arrived. I can still see her now, blonde hair, deep blue eyes a smile to die for and legs which rivalled Piper Alpha for sheer going-on-foreverness. A couple of beers and finally us returning home to discover that my folks had turned in for the night later (my one and only fortunate break all bloody day) and without further delay we're both passionately rolling about the lounge, with clothes being scattered all over the place charged with all the youthful enthusiasm that two frisky but inexperienced sixteen year olds can muster. The earlier purchase was slipped on by her shaking fingers, which slipped at a very inopportune moment.

"Ow! Fuuuuuuck!" (with subtle change in pitch during last syllable).

I was left sporting a rather angry bruise. Still, passion was in the air and I wasn't about to stop. I turned the radio on quietly to calm the mood... "I am the one and onlyyyyyyyy!"

Of all the inappropriate songs to be at number one this week, I had to end up with Chesney fucking Hawkes.

Okay, I switched to Humping FM (Sade on loop, "Smooth Operator" I wasn't!), my pulse was racing and my life flashed before my eyes as I realised that this was it, I'd look back and remember this moment for the rest of my life... Wha??? Okay, reverse up and have another go... (repeat ad infinitum)

The poor lassie was understandably very nervous - hell so was I, my heart was absolutely in my mouth - but her nerves seemed to have slammed the garage door shut so to speak. We ended up going to our respective bedrooms with our respective V plates taunting us. Actually, hers seemed to be welded in place.

However, worse was to come (no pun intended). When the deed was finally done, I discovered that I'd suffered a blowout (which scared the bejesus out of both of us) which necessitated a Sunday morning visit to the doctor for emergency contraception. Of all the fucking duty GPs in town, she had to get the one who fancied her mum and stood next to her in the Sunday (Catholic) congregation. We split up shortly after.

It is a wonder I went near womankind again.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Wed 20 Jun 2007, 13:40, Reply)