The Virginity Project

A Greek Odyssey…..

Despite the fact that my head packed it’s bags and left for the airport several days ago, the shell of my body remained long enough to write this final post, before The Virginity Project departs for its annual holiday.

I am heading to Greece and the Argo-Saronic island of Spetses, literary backdrop for John Fowles’s fabulous book, ‘The Magus’.

Bizarrely, and somewhat creepily, it is also the very island on which I was conceived, many moons ago.

My mother was, of course, a virgin at the time.

What's your footprint?

Your stories

Imran confirms something that I have often considered, that the act of losing one’s virginity leaves something behind. Like an imprint warmed into soft wax, there is something about this experience that makes an indelible mark, perhaps for years after the event. Read on to see how first love, and Paris, made it’s impression on Imran.

Imran. Born 1981. Lost virginity aged 22

I read about your project a while ago and it made me think back to my own experience and reflect. My upbringing was a struggle between English and Muslim, best demonstrated by Saturdays, when I would spend the mornings at regular school and then rush off to religious school. It was a fairly strict upbringing - work hard and achieving. My schooling was boys-only private and whilst the opportunities this afforded me were astounding, my chances to meet girls were extremely limited. I did know a few Muslim girls, but I wasn't interested in them and neither them in me. I also figured that my parents would get in the way and that my chances of ever having sex with one were likely to be slim.

From a religious perspective, I was never taught that I mustn’t have sex before marriage, and the subject was never broached. I never thought about whether it was wrong to be with non-Muslim girls. Quite frankly I didn't care what religion she was. Popular culture and friends, rather than religion or parents, shaped my ideas - sex would be mind-blowing, but if only I could meet a girl!

My friends and I were all in similar situations. A couple of them went on holiday and things started happening for them, and they came back and they had that innate confidence and girlfriends followed. That made me envious of them, but it didn't really change my situation. At the time, I thought it was also because I was different. I was going to a predominantly Caucasian school and the only girls I came into contact with were the same. I just assumed that they weren't attracted to Muslim boys with large glasses and curtains.

Except for a new haircut and contact lenses, things stayed the same until university. It was everything that had been promised to me - freedom, independence, freethinking, abundant opportunities, alcohol, no brother looking over my shoulder and most importantly, GIRLS. It was unimaginably exciting but also nerve-racking, because oddly enough, I wanted a girlfriend first and not just a random night. I spent my first year in a daze of alcohol, hangovers, nights out and nights in; such was the fast paced nature of university life in London. It opened my eyes to so many things. But again my insecurities would hold me back. And it wasn't until I forgot about them, that I could attract girls.

It was odd, I don't really remember doing anything different. But I fell for a good friend of mine and the attraction was explosive. Both of us were virgins. There was a sense of the forbidden and the untried. It was thrilling, as no one else knew. But there was also the sense of adolescent fumbling, which was embarrassing given my age, and I was always reluctant to go the full way. I went away for the summer, guilty, and confused. I didn't want a relationship and I wasn't sure I wanted to take things further. I just wanted to continue in my state of blissful ignorance.

I got back from holidays, and as planned, was going to take a short break with some friends to Paris. There was a change of plan. Without me knowing it, the girl had invited herself along and as no one knew of what was going on, had no suspicions. Not only that, but we would also be sharing a room. I was not happy that this was being thrust upon me and I had no choice in the matter.

I guess I was also dreading having a boys holiday, ruined by a girl. But mostly, I was unsure about what was going to happen. After all, I had been avoiding the topic all summer and had flatly refused to take things any further. But as we left Waterloo and sped toward Paris, I realized that this girl was just fantastic - she allowed me to relax and shed my angst and fear. Crucially, I really like her and I discovered I was deeply attracted to her.

It was heavenly. We saw the Tour De France finish in Paris, the opening of the French football season and we ate and drank well. She was perfect. I felt at ease with her. Excited, nervous, tense and ecstatic. It was wonderful being in Paris and being with this gorgeous girl, and just teasing each other and waiting to get back to the hotel room. Sharing a hotel room was erotic - glimpses of her changing, in her underwear, her breasts, her bottom and her stomach. It was a heady mix and it helped to create an electric atmosphere. We were able to do things at our own pace and discover sex in Paris. So the fear turned into pleasure and excitement and perhaps heightened everything.

I don't really remember losing my virginity, but I remember her taste, her smell, her gentle moaning, her desire, her body glistening in the afternoon haze. I remember thinking that it was amazing that I could transport her to another world. I delighted in kissing, nibbling, caressing, licking and teasing every part of her anatomy and at the same time heightening my own pleasure.

I ended up seeing this wonderful woman (I think Paris changed both of us!) for another 2 years. She broke up with me over religion - she was a Christian and she couldn't see herself marrying a Muslim. It broke my heart and it took me a long time to get over her and to trust women again. I was very disappointed, especially after discovering sex so late on, but that didn't stop me caring for this woman. I was certainly thankful to her, and Paris, for introducing me to sex.

I think losing my virginity was part of growing up, becoming a man and taking a step into the unknown. It also made me more confident, especially around women. I still view sex with a woman as a tense, exciting and pleasurable affair and I think that some of those same feelings from my first time are replicated again. Whilst it will never be the same as losing one's virginity, it is a diluted affair with the same vital ingredients.

Part 2 of the prostitute post...

I did some market research last week, not for myself, but more like the kind where you get paid hard cash to talk about washing powders, socks and cat food. On this occasion, the client was a well-known brand of contraceptive and the discussion, predictably, my sex life. By some kind of divine intervention, serendipity or perhaps just sheer co-incidence, the venue was the exact same one that I have booked on several occasions to interview people about virginity loss. Same room, same table, same chair, different interviewee – me.

All I had to do was to sit and answer questions about love, relationships, intimacy and ‘female empowerment’. Now, perhaps you think I am going to tell you about how hard it was, how tormented I felt by the turning of the tables and about my fresh resolution never to interview anyone about the vagaries of their intimate lives again. Think again. Like many of my subjects, I found the experience strangely pleasing. The mental equivalent of tidying cupboards, it felt much like putting my house in order and an altogether not entirely unpleasant way to spend a couple of hours. The cash helped push things along too.

It did make me cast my mind back to someone I interviewed in this very room, almost a year ago to the day. It was 90 degrees outside in the urban jungle, (I know, I know), and the heat rose to fill this Soho attic with a wet, sweaty intensity the like of which I have not experienced before or since. Cold drinks were drunk, surplus to requirement clothing removed, but it was no good. I didn’t help matters by turning off the fan. Yes, I turned off the fan. It was loud and I knew I couldn’t incur the wrath of my transcriber by allowing it to leave its word-destroying whir on my tape. I didn’t want to, believe me, but when you’ve got one shot to get a story you want, you’re not gonna waste it.

The air was thick like treacle as I attempted to wend my way to the heart of an unusual story. It’s owner was a married man in his early fifties - who has never had sex. At least not the penetrative type, the kind we use to mark the ‘loss’ of virginity and the universal step into adulthood.

It felt like a cross between caporeira and a boxing match as we sparred and I sought to find a way to deliver the line. The one question that would unlock the padlock to the puzzle and unleash the answers we both wanted to hear. I don’t think I got there on that occasion. This was a man at the beginning of a big journey. Agreeing to tell a stranger his innermost secrets was probably the first step, but it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on my part.

As I bought the interview to a close, I thanked him for taking part. ‘Thanks for allowing me to grill you’, I said, without thinking. I laughed, because if his internal organs were not lightly poached by the intensity of the heat, I would have been very surprised. I had literally grilled him alive.

Fast-forward a year and it’s a different story. Rain is involved but we won’t dwell on that, and I am in the hot seat. As we finish up, my interviewer and I discuss my own research and I mention some of the people I still hope to interview.

‘Oh, if you’re looking for a man who lost his virginity to a prostitute, just give the office a ring’, he says.

‘How do you mean?’ I ask

‘Well, it’s a market research company isn’t it. They can find you anyone you need, of any demographic. Just ring them up and tell them what you’re looking for, pay them eighty quid and they’ll find him for you.

Uh? You mean it’s that easy? After all this, it turns out that I can order exactly what I want from an instant catalogue of human experience?

I am pleased. But strangely downcast. In that moment, I am hit with a blinding truth. I enjoy the search. I like the twists and turns, the ups and downs, the highs and the lows. I have no idea what is around the corner but the possibilities thrill me, excite me, because when you do find what you want, you know you got there all by yourself and it feels fucking great. I may yet take him up on his offer, but for the time being, the game remains very much on. I am still searching for something quite specific. I will know exactly what it is when I find it.

C'mon baby.....

It’s tempting to say I googled ‘virginity related news’ and came up with this golden nugget, but the truth is that a nice person emailed it to me on Friday. Thank you Will.

The story originates from Germany’s Bild but I prefer the British version, the beautifully titled, ‘Nude virgins flee sex blaze’. Quality.

Be prepared....

Six weeks I have been freelancing and not a sniff of a new story. Until yesterday that is.
It went something like this….

Creative guy: Are you here next week?
Me: No.
Creative guy: What are you doing?
Me: My own work.
Creative guy: What’s that then?

I explain what I do with the rest of my life.

Him: Uh, really? God, you should hear the story about how my kid brother despatched his virginity…
Me: Oh yeah, how’s that then?
Creative guy: He went on a scout trip to Holland and lost his virginity to a prostitute.

Me: Er, excuse me?

Creative guy: Yeah, he was thirteen and he lost his virginity to a prostitute on a scout camp trip.

Sweet mother of god, do you know how long I have been searching for this story? When it arrives, it belongs to a thirteen year old Boy Scout. You could not make this stuff up. People think I do, but I don’t. I don’t need to.

A man who lost his virginity to a prostitute. It’s an angle. It may not be everybody’s angle, but it is an angle nonetheless. Unsurprisingly, no one wants to talk about it. Perhaps they fear I will judge them, (not a chance); maybe they think I will be embarrassed, (ditto the above). Either way, I have asked friends, interviewees and relatives. I have asked friends, interviewees and relatives to ask their friends. I have emailed prostitutes and hung around in chat rooms. I have searched long and hard for this holy grail of stories, all to no avail. Until now.

Me: (trying to contain excitement), so do you think your brother would be prepared to spill the beans? I would be very discreet, names changed, places changed and all that?

Creative guy: Yeah, quite possibly.

Me: where does he live?

Creative guy: San Francisco.

Me: oh.

Bum.

I love my coat of many colours...

Following a friend’s recommendation for naked work, I spent the bulk of the past ten days in the buff. I can thoroughly recommend it. I have just experienced the best week’s work I have ever done. Inspiration, alongside a fair volume of sweat, sorry, perspiration, has fairly oozed from every pore. Alone, I would like to add. Not in the office. That would be wrong.

Though I suspect it is precisely because I don’t live here that I like it so much, a journey from the smoke to the sticks inspired me. I was house sitting in Twickenham and none but a squirrel and a bunch of birds were privy to my naked secret. Twickenham is a glorious place to be in the summer. There are bikes to be ridden,

drinks to be drunk

and scenery to be seen.

Late last week, I gave in to the pull of the river as the sun hit the highpoint of its day. The town centre was in slow motion as I grabbed an overpriced ice/mango combination from Café Nero, (my latest obsession), and moved towards a bench and the cool green breeze of the Thames.

Three fat pigeons entertained me. There are no skinny pigeons here in Twickenham; there is bread aplenty for everyone. The two larger birds conga’d as fast as their little feet would carry them behind the smaller one, which I took to be a girl. You could just tell that the other two were boys, tongues hanging out, dazed expressions on faces, trousers hanging half down, ok, ok, the sun had gone to my head, but you know what I mean.

A book that has kept me quiet lately sprung to mind. The Penguin Atlas of Human Sexual Behaviour. This nugget hopped off the page.

‘Males must compete to impregnate, while all fertile females are virtually assured of finding a mate. This is why males are mostly larger and, in animal species, more colourful’.

Larger? Maybe, colourful, I don’t think so. Perhaps in the pigeon world there are varying degrees of grey sumptuousness, some shades of which are impossible to resist. Whatever. My mind was already humming with the scorching realization that if nature decrees we ‘birds’ are guaranteed a mate, why on earth do we spend so much time trying to nice ourselves up? What evolutionary cock up has occurred when women are waxing, waning and botoxing their way to acceptability?

Where did we all go wrong? Why hasn’t anyone been informed?

Do the Elle’s, the Vogues, and the Glamour’s of this world not realize that the primping, the preening, the airbrushing and the re-touching, all the effort and the work that goes into making us look like superhuman, smooth, non cellulite ridden, hairless creatures, is all a waste of time?

And the ten year old I encountered in the mixed, (now there’s a rubbish idea), changing rooms at Richmond Swimming Pool a while back? I’d had the temerity to let my underarm hair grow for more than ten minutes, ‘Oi. Love. Shave your armpits won’t you?’ He yelled as he brushed past me in the showers. Now he clearly did not realize, that on the contrary, it was he, not I who needed to be paying more attention to his personal appearance. On a partner scoring scale, that attitude won’t be getting him very far when he’s the fattest pigeon on the block with no hope of finding a girlfriend.

It’s a topsy-turvy old world. At some point, something flipped over its evolutionary axis and dictated, that colour or no colour, the female of the species would fluff feathers, plump plumage and show out in the hope of attracting a mate. Furthermore, at another point, we all bought into it. The second wave of feminism tried to right this wrong when they got involved in bra burning, but it was too late.

‘You’re so good at being a girl’, my friend Katherine once said to me. I was painting my toenails fuscia pink at the time. She’s right, I am. There are few moments I enjoy having to myself more than the ones I spend painting my toenails a pointless shade of pink. It makes me feel good, but sometimes it ticks me off that I find it necessary.

We all collude in this ideal of feminine beauty, but on reflection, I don’t care. I paint my toenails to make me happy and besides, the worm has begun to turn. According to market researchers TNS, British men spent a whopping 569m on deodorants, skincare and other toiletries in the last year. And check out the concealors on this.

Menaji, a new website designed exclusively for male grooming products has adopted the following slogan: ‘Look good = feel good = confidence = success’. Men, it seems, have finally decided they are worth it.

As I sat and wondered how many bird related clichés I could fit into a single sentence, the avian world seemed blissfully unaware of this cat amongst the pigeons. Business had resumed as normal. The birds were still chasing the bees.

A shady moment on a hot day...

Its not only boys that fight the good fight to lose virginity!

'Layla'

Your stories.

When Spencer wrote to me and suggested he sent the ancient extract of his diary that detailed his virginity loss, I almost bit his hand off, or I would have done if the wonders of the Internet allowed for such digital violence.

You can’t beat a good diary, lord knows I have read a few, all my own of course. It still pains me, to recall the day I found my own diary, pale blue and hard of cover, I had filled every single lined page with the highs, (mostly highs it has to be said), and lows of my adolescent escapades through the pubs and clubs of eighties London, the shedding of virginity was just one chapter of a big book. I also had my behind pinched by Leee John from Imagination, but that’s another story. The point is, that whilst I may have the toe curlingly embarrassing photos to prove these myths, I no longer have the diary. In a rash moment of teenage self - consciousness, I threw it away. I couldn’t face the thought of anyone ever finding it. How sad.

Never mind. Here is a diary entry of the highest order. I have been saving this one for a while now. Read on and you’ll see why.

Spencer. Born 1955. Lost virginity aged 22.

Few of today’s youth will appreciate how different it was growing up as an English boy in the recent past of the Twentieth Century. I was born in 1955. For me it was the worst of times. The Victorian repression that afflicted the likes of Ruskin had evaporated, while I was tantalised by a sexual revolution that I never seemed to catch up with. Let me explain the background.

I have no sisters and from the age of eleven was a dedicated scholar in a boys school. My mother was often ill and I sought and found solace in books. I was small, not handsome and a late developer. The medical school I went to was nearly all male. There I learnt the relevant technical details but my rudimentary social skills languished. Women were remote, mysterious and scary beings whom I desired indiscriminately with a painful intensity. I discovered they are repelled by conspicuous hunger and go for the smug indolence of the well satisfied. My few attempts had been frustrating and disastrous.

My confidence had been further eroded by nearly dying from a serious infection. On top of all the usual adolescent angsts, I had a real existential crisis not least of which was the humiliating thought that I nearly died a virgin. Kind people, (who all had pretty girlfriends), unsuccessfully offered me religion, but I came closer to Camus than to God.

Actually, some women are different: the prostitute scans the street for the likes of me showing signs of vulnerability and desperation. One spring morning, an attractive young black woman stepped out in front of me, saying in a soft, confident voice, “Would you like to come and make beautiful love with me?” She was gorgeous – a fine figure, perfect black lustrous skin, tempting in a revealing summer dress. I would have taken her on the spot except that she had a toddler in tow and I was hastening to a driving test.

I alone of my peers, remained a virgin and belonged to the exclusive, “dorkal desert club”, defined, if I remember correctly by not having sex for more than three months. Folk speculated I was gay. I had often sat disconsolately at parties listening to Eric Clapton’s ever popular “Layla”, distorted from cheap stereos and beer-stained vinyl. But things were about to change as you can read from this diary entry that hasn’t seen the light of day for twenty-nine years. I wrote it age twenty-two.

February 27th 1978.

‘Evening to disco in social club. Arrived alone and stayed so until met nurse from H ward; she introduced friends, including Layla – indifferently attractive, short, dark girl, slightly overweight. She descended upon me directly and chatted me up without hesitation; even bought me drinks. Of course I lapped it up, although no doubt that she was mad. Soon dancing together and paired off for night. Colin dropped in to see me and read signs of lust: advised me to fuck her as soon as possible. So took her to my room where nothing doing; then she took me to her room where puzzled me by wanting to stay up all night talking, which I found difficult as we have nothing in common and she is so odd that I was having to be very careful what I said myself so not to upset her. Eventually she went for a bath and suggested I stay night. I got into bed, she joined me wearing nightie. Told me she had coil (IUCD) in: this is it!

We lay side by side and I removed my pants while she slipped up nightie - naked flesh touched. She felt for penis and gently pulled back foreskin and I immediately felt like coming; after a short time I had to ask her to stop and she did. Then she said, “come on”, and I panicked, almost losing erection; to find excuse I said that I suffered from premature ejaculation and she sympathised. I fumbled around with her so she guided my penis into vagina herself. There I stopped fearing to come at once but she gave huge thrusts and brought me off quickly while I kept going relentlessly, not knowing what I was doing, until flaccid. All over quickly; she was disappointed I think, so was I.

Later tried again but still in latent period - no ejaculation. But she loved it and had multiple orgasms. I was exhausted but learnt how to control thrusts and bring penis up against clitoris to give maximum enjoyment to her. Delicious feeling and all time strange slippery noises coming from us in darkness. Drenching sweat; threw off covers and rocked back and forth in open.’

Happily I got it right in the end.

Reading this again brought back so many more memories that I would like to share. First, the strangeness of physical intimacy. Her naked body felt huge and suffocating on top of me. For one brief moment I was reminded of a corpse. She was surprisingly strong, ( or I weak!), and could easily overpower me. I was lost in an unexplored three dimensional space, my elbows, knees and hands bumping painfully into unidentified curves and lumps. Beneath the sheets she was transformed into a Picasso nude. Her passion felt like wrestling. The amount of moisture was both unexpected and exciting – I loved the sweat on her breasts and the spreading warm wetness from her thighs. Her breath sounded like bellows close to my ear; her vagina made a noise like a sink plunger. There were powerfully arousing new smells. Then my bodily reactions. Unused to being touched beyond a hand or shoulder, I found my whole surface ticklish, twitchy and exquisitely sensitive, so that I was having difficulty not flinching and recoiling. At the same time it was ecstasy, that indescribable thrill from the chest downwards and the animal joy of being fulfilled at last.

Thirdly, the relationship such as it was. What did she see in me? I will never know. The next day I realised how helpless and perplexed I was in her hands. I willingly allowed her complete dominion over me, even though I didn’t love her. My gratitude for the unexpected gift of her body and my ignorance of Woman made me an easy conquest. As she fed me sitting up naked in bed, she commented that I was eating like a baby. Our relationship was transient.

Appropriately, the name Layla means, “dark princess” in Persian or “night” in Hebrew. Eric Clapton’s song was inspired by a 12th Century romance from the classical Persian poet Nizami called the “The story of Layla and Majnun” in which a man pines for an unattainable princess. Whoever you really are, Layla, you were a generous lover and I underwent a true initiation for which I am indebted to you. I wish you well in this life and in any others.

Dance? I almost cried...

‘Gather round the floor everyone, its time for the first dance’. ‘Oh Christ’, I said to Celia, ‘this is usually the part where I think I will die of embarrassment if I ever get married’.

That won’t happen now. Instead, I shall die sad and lonely, safe in the knowledge that I will never emit quite as much mirth from my friends as Pat and Eve did at the Kew Gardens Hotel last Saturday night. Laugh? I almost lost control of my pelvic floor.

Reader, I exhort you to watch this link. Pat and Eve swear they made this routine up the day before their wedding, but I don’t believe them for a second.

Pat and Eve, I wish you many more years of synchronized dancing together.

Journey to the centre of the man...

After a lifetime’s hiatus, the sun came out last Sunday morning, just as I shoved my car into gear and hit the high road towards Brighton. My mission? To interview eighty-four year old Tony, customer of my friend, Paul, and owner of a story worth telling.

To be frank, my head felt blonde. I had been to a friend’s wedding the night before, (more on that another time), and I felt muffled, deadpan, not quite the full ticket. Certainly not the ticket that collects the winning story thats for sure.

I rarely think too much beforehand about what I am about to do. Beyond a short question writing session, I wing it. I don’t often know the person I’m going to meet, I have limited prior knowledge and everyone is different anyway. You don’t know what you’re going to get until the door swings open and the voice on the end of the phone reveals itself.

I do know that I need to perform. There is no other way to the heart of a tale. I am cheerful and light, with no outward sign of nerves. No matter how I might feel inside, the surface is another story. My interviewees need to feel relaxed, comfortable and ready to talk. I must be the mirror.

I didn’t feel like the mirror on Sunday. I felt like the raggedy old fox that lives in my garden. Wide-eyed, jittery and wan, he stares me out every morning if I wake up early enough to look out the window. I felt like the fox that wants to lie down and have a nice afternoon nap – probably in the hole that he keeps trying to dig under the euphorbia bush. As someone once famously said, the only way out of this, Kate, is into it. And it’s true. You can’t skim the surface. You have to dive in. This is not a sit-and-nod-in-the right-places situation. Getting a story is a journey in itself. There’s no turning back.

Two hours later, I arrived. ‘I took an unscheduled detour, lets leave it at that’. The blue-eyed man laughed as he led me into the kitchen and began making tea. I was in a hillside bungalow overlooking the sea, just a couple of miles along from Brighton pier with its funfair, doughnuts and fried fish.

‘Don’t worry dear, she’s just excited to see you’, said Tony, as I stepped over a small yapping dog that was making repeated attempts to join forces with my knees. The face of a fat fluffy cat peered down at its canine friend. ‘I sit on sideboards and laps’, it seemed to say, ‘floors are just so last year’. I fought the urge to brush it down, but only because I don’t like pets on surfaces, its attitude seemed entirely correct.

Tea made, I offered to carry the tray for a man that didn’t look his eighty-four years. ‘Leave it out dear, don’t start all that’, he smiled.

We sat down and I had time to look around. A woman once lived here. Tony’s wife of forty-seven years. She passed away four years ago, but her presence was all over the shop. Trinkets, photographs and clocks decorated the striped wallpaper of the lounge. Dog toys, dog brushes and more pet hair than Mrs Thompsen would ever permit, adorning the furniture and floor.

Now her husband sat before me, sometimes looking at me and occasionally way past, as we stepped back together, to a land that time forgot. I can’t expect him to go by himself. I must help him get there, facilitate the journey, by asking the right questions and easing out the words, by watching for the response, and seeing how much further we can go. To a place where a man had no idea what an erection was for. Only when he first made love did he have any idea of its duel purpose. To a war, which took him around Europe and into the arms of varying nationalities and types of women. Eventually he came back to England, and to a time where a lady would still move house because she could not face the thought of the landlord’s son seeing her knickers hanging on the line. Thankfully, for Tony, she got over it.

Some people see white hair and wrinkles when they look at old people. I see stories. I always have. This man had stories and the effect was like hypnosis. Two and a half hours passed by, but it seemed like ten minutes. I might think that I am the one leading the dance, but often, it is I who is happy to be taken by the hand and taken for a trip down memory lane.

You go somewhere with people sometimes. I go to places with complete strangers. And as Tony said, ‘what are you doing coming down here and interviewing me anyway? You don’t know who I am, I might be eighty four but you’re not very big, I could be a nut-job for all you know.’ He’s got a point. He could be, but he wasn’t.

By the time we were finished, I could see quite clearly the boy inside this man. The sharp blue eyes helped, but its more than an aesthetic, it’s the cat with the attitude, it’s a spirit or a way of life. Whatever it is, this man had it. In bucketsful.

Another famous saying sprung to my mind. Parting is such sweet sorrow. We had led each other a merry dance and now it was time to go. Like the act of love itself, the more you commit to the moment, the harder it is to walk away when you are finished. I sensed it before he said it. I’ll miss you when you’re gone dear. Come back and visit again.

I will.