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| Dirk Bogarde, actor |
Slightly Flaccid |
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At nineteen, I still behaved like a slightly retarded fifteen year old. It was, however, true that I was no longer a virgin. That had been seen to a year before by a slightly flaccid girl I met at art school who was a couple of years older than I. Heavy breasted, big bottomed, with fair hair in earphones curled around her face, beads clattering between the mammoth gourds slung under her hand-printed cheesecloth blouse, her square toes thrusting through holes in her sandals, she assaulted me, for I was too far gone on a quart and a half of light ale to do more than feebly wave my hands as she pulled down my trousers on a very prickly rush mat in front of a plopping gas fire one evening in her so-called studio at the top of a house in Fulham.
The whole event, due to the quart and a half of ale, was all a bit hazy. I was shocked at first, but helpless, waving useless hands in the air like an overturned beetle, and then witless with terror as first the beads, the cheesecloth blouse, the tweed skirt and a pair of yellow knickers flew about the room and she deliberately lowered herself on to my limp body spread, like a sacrifice, on the rush matting. I fought for breath. The heat from the gas stove roasted my purpling face. She raised two hefty arms and tugged at the earphones, releasing a cataract of heavy blond hair about my head like a soap-smelling tent. Confronted as I was with a vast black triangle only inches from my chest, I knew that I was helplessly in the hands of a cheat, hands which none the less were apparently expert, coaxing and determined. Lost in that vast hemisphere of fleshy thighs, I orbited Mars, the Moon, Saturn and Venus, before finally coming back to earth, exhausted, sweating, blue in the face and smothered by her licking tongue, a maze of dyed fair hair and, for some unexplained reason, most of my cardigan.
Later, after she had hauled herself off me and padded off to her bathroom singing happily at the top of her voice as if she had just done the washing up, which in effect she had, I finished off the last of the ale, pulled up my trousers and staggered blindly about the room wondering how to get out. So that was what sex was like? (London, 1940)
from Snakes and Ladders by Dirk Bogarde (Chatto & Windus, © 1978)
© 2000 Nerve.com, Inc.
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