The Beginning

THE BEGINNING

                        An 'experience' short story



         We'd been keeping company for several weeks. It started with a blind date arranged, with muddled motivation, by another girl I'd been seeing. Almost from the moment this new one opened her door, I knew I wanted nothing to do with her. (I say "nothing to do with her" because it was instantly obvious that I'd want everything to do with this 20-year-old Nordic blonde---if I let myself go.) I muttered to myself, "Holy cow. Did I ever luck out this time."  But, you see, I'd been satisfied, up to this point, to be dating a variety---with no strings attached---and I didn't want to get 'hooked'.

     

        The overwhelming good looks were really the least of her attributes. I quickly found that she had the sort of sparkling personality and intelligence one'd expect in order to go along with all the other 'goodies'---she was built like a brick pizzeria. Although I found her to be highly attractive I determined not to see her again. I knew if I did, I'd likely find myself in deep water---and sinking fast. Yet the next day the girl who'd arranged the date in the first place had said to me, "No you aren't supposed to see her again. That was just for once! If you were to go out with her again it would be very embarrassing for me." (They worked together and everyone knew what everybody else was doing.) "You're not to have anything more to do with her." But we didn't have a relationship such that I'd accept that sort of thing from her. So, against my better judgement, I did call the blonde, and...



         Now we'd just come back from being out somewhere. We were sitting in my car in front of her house canoodling---I'd been sorta desultorily nibbling on her here-'n'-there. Ears-'n'- eyes, the sides of her neck, etc. And snacking on her fingers. She leaned back a little so she could look at me and said, 'I like it when you do that. But can I ask you a personal question? I replied---something on the order of, 'Go ahead and ask. Depending on what it is, I might even answer!' She practically floored me because she asked, and I quote, "Why haven't you tried to touch my boobs?"



         With only an instant for reflection, I replied---with a fumbly mouthful of partial truths having as their central thread the ideas of 'respect' and 'not presuming' and a few other things---talking mechanically as I tried to get my head properly in gear.



         Then I said, 'Wait a minute. All that I've just said is true but there's more to it than that. First of all, it must be very obvious that I really like you. And, by now, you've had a chance to know how analytical I am. After all I do have a degree in Chemistry. But as far as all this is concerned, I've just never found it to be to my advantage to get in too much of a rush. I'm not just thinking of right this minute.



      "So look what's happened. You've clearly had that question rolling around in your mind, Luv. If your thought had taken the form of, 'I'm sure glad he hasn't tried to...', and so on, you'd never have raised your point in quite this way. So my taking things a bit slow has prompted you to ask your question right out loud!" (What I didn't say, although it was in my mind, was that my moderate lack of aggressiveness---I'd made free of patting her 'keister' but not tried to 'tune her radio'---had induced a bit of uncertainty. 'Why hasn't he... I wonder if he doesn't find me attractive...') "Plus the form of your question makes it clear that the idea isn't, altogether, a complete negative. So you see what I've learned by not being in a hurry?"

         

      After about a ten count she said, "I haven't let guys do that." And after another little pause she continued, "but in your case I guess it'll be alright!"



        We spent a little while adjusting to the new reality, and when, somewhat later, we came up for air she said, a little breathlessly, because of what my mouth and fingers had been doing, "I'm a virgin, you know!"

     

      I replied, "Yes, I do know."

     

      She asked,"But how do you know?"

     

      I returned, "Because you act like it. You not only have clear limits, but it's obvious that your experience coincides with those limits. And since we're being so candid, I suppose I ought to tell you that I'm not a virgin. Not to suggest that I have all the experience in the world---but I have 'been there'."

     

      She responded with a little giggle, and it'll always be a high spot in my memory, "Well, that's all right. At least one of us knows what to do."











        I didn't altogether admit it to myself for several weeks, but I was already 'head-over-heels' about her. One of the reasons I'd been holding back with her was because I didn't want to take any chance of screwing things up.



      I simply never went out with any of the others again. It was probably a couple of months before I was sure enough to say, "I love you!" and hard after that statement came the all-encompassing question, "Will you marry me?"



      We were married a little better than ten months further on, and late that evening when we got in the hotel room I finally, completely, showed her that I did, truly, at least sorta know what to do.



      But that's another story.







NOTE TO WRITING.COM READERS AND REVIEWERS:



A number of the reviews of this piece have raised questions regarding some of the phrases I've used.



The etymology of the phrase, "Built like a brick pizzeria" is in this wise---



It was common, in years past, to speak of a well-endowed woman as being 'stacked' or 'well-built'.

An elaboration often heard in all-male company became, "Stacked like a brick shithouse".

A cousin, very able at word-play bowdlerized it to, "Built like a brick pizzeria". I used the phrase in tribute to Bob Evers, now gone from us.



And to those of you who have chosen to offer snarky comment regarding the lack of believability of the circumstances surrounding this little episode and suggesting 'improvements' so as to match your ideas of how things ought to have gone---This small story is a straightforward narrative of what actually happened. Sandy, who did the arranging, was often a little scattered in her thinking. Things just came out of her mouth. But we had already established that we weren't 'going off into the sunset' together. That, too, is another story. And, in fact, she ultimately married the guy she had a date with on the evening in question. So far as I know, they're still married these fifty years later. Which is more than can be said about The Blonde and I. In the last forty years I've talked to her once. And that for about ten minutes.



(And now you know!)