Thursday, June 23, 2005

On failing to lose my virginity

It's not easy growing up to be a man. At a certain age, all women get this divine, angelic quality. As if they are the guardians of the supreme secret of immortality. At that age, young men will start collecting panties they stole from the laundry room. (I never did that.) (No really, I didn't.) At that age, even looking at a pretty woman feels like you're breaking some kind of biblical taboo. Having grown up in India, living in an all boys dormitory, I was kind of late in reaching that certain age.
At eighteen I found myself living in Uilenstede. (The infamous Amsterdam student-city.) There were fifteen of us in the flat, thirteen guys who cultivated pimples as if their faces were herbgardens, Ugly Margareth, and the gorgeous chick whose name I forgot. Many a passionate night Gorgeous Chick and I would spent in utter sexual depravity. Albeit mostly, if not all, within the limits of my overactive sexual imagination.
Gorgeous Chick brought a new boyfriend to the place every week or so. We'd chat politely with him, quietly hoping he'd die of a horrible disease. After Boyfriend left, thirteen pimplefarmers and Ugly Margareth would give Gorgeous Chick a lecture about all the things that were so completely wrong about Boyfriend, until Gorgeous Chick would mutter something to the extent of: "Crazy, I never saw that, but now that you mention it, I'd better break up with him." (Implied collective sigh of relief.)
I tried everything to impress her. But all my Three Stooges imitations, all my funny armpit sounds, all my lectures on how soft, sensitive and understanding I was, didn't seem to sort the necessary effect of her inviting me to father her an endless array of children.
One night though, there was a knock on my door. Gorgeous Chick entered: "I can't sleep. Can I talk to you for a while?"
"Sure", I said and rearranged my blankets so she couldn't see that my body was welcoming her in that very masculine way. She sat down on my bed, closer to me than she had ever been before. I firmly grasped the top of my blanket and pulled it up under my chin in an unconscious defensive gesture. She talked for half an hour and I listened, once in while interjecting a squeaky sound in the conversation. (I must have cleared my troath a hundred times, but my voice failed me.)
Finally she got a strange look on her face. Half serious, half smiling. She started drawing random figures on my blanket covered chest with her finger and said: "You know, I might be able to sleep if I could crawl in here next to you."

I opened my mouth to whisper sweet words of welcome. But instead of a Hollywood oneliner coming out, to my utter shock I heard myself say: "I don't think that is such a good idea." (In a really annoying high-pitched voice.)

I hate me. This is a shame I will always have to carry with me. I wish now to formally apololgise to every man on the planet for betraying our gender in such a horrible way.

It will never ever happen again.

Promise.

6 Comments:

Blogger Le chameau insatiable said...

hahaha I shouldn't read your blog at work. I laugh silly in my corner, they already know i don't do much but i don't think i'm supposed to enjoy it...

8:45 PM  
Blogger prairie biker said...

Is this the last time you're making that promise or just saying that in a general sense?

10:37 PM  
Blogger Sassy said...

*hides my panties*

2:19 AM  
Blogger Cheryl said...

Aww Bulb you're great! Your own bloody gentlemanliness (is that a word?) kicked in and did the right thing when everything else had other ideas. Hero.

1:48 PM  
Anonymous HF said...

Great...
I love this story!

11:12 PM  
Blogger kris said...

wow she had lots of self control, slaps you silly for missing out. oh well. and get your own panties i like mine!

2:38 AM  

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