Someone used to say that. Someone on telly - a proper old school Irish comedian, in fact, it sounds so much better in your head if you say it in an Irish accent. I have absolutely no idea who he is, but that’s the phrase I hear when I think about this story, because it is a cracker.
I have been around and around with this story. How should I present it to you? What should I say about it? There is almost so much to say, that I am inclined to say nothing at all. I toyed with a wise crack. ‘Now that’s what I call a coming of age story’…a cheap shot perhaps, considering it’s sixty year old owner only lost his virginity five years ago, but it made me laugh.
I played with the idea of telling you how much I have been backwards and forwards with its owner. The emails, oh my, the emails. We have written, we have bickered, we have made each other laugh – I hope. He with his assertion that there is definitely and absolutely no hope that he will ever have a ‘proper’ relationship. Me with my monotonous insistence that actually, he can do anything he bloody well likes, if he only ‘believed’ it himself.
I thought perhaps of taking a historical standpoint, and looking to Ted’s Greek roots. Ancient Greek to be exact. The idea that ‘chastity’ was more than just an avoidance of sexual contact, but a ‘way of life’, an attitude even. ‘As a skilful painter gives a face beauty, just so chastity gives charm to a life of high aims’. So wrote fifth century Greek poet, Bacchylides . But Ted doesn’t live in the fifth century, he lives in the twenty first century, and one in which sex is just about everywhere you damm well look. It sighs from billboards, it drips from advertising and people, who don’t, for whatever reason, have sex, are not the norm.
I return to the wise crack. I don’t care what anyone says, this is a coming of age story. A little late in the day, perhaps, but I stick to my guns, Ted. This could be the start of something beautiful. It’s a long time coming - literally. But it is never too late to start.
Ted. Born 1947. Lost virginity aged 54
‘I really should have lost my virginity, one magical weekend, at the age of nineteen. I was at university and I had met and fallen in love with a girl who was so beautiful and gentle, I almost burst into tears whenever I looked at her. We had met at a Christian Youth event and I had plucked up the courage to invite her up from London. It would have been a mutual ‘popping’, but all that did pop were my ears. Why didn’t we? Well, shyness, inhibitions – you name it. There was certainly no shortage of ‘heat’ in either part, but it was still the most wonderful weekend of my life.
My next close encounter was two years later, on a hearthrug at home, with my mother tapping down in panic from the bedroom above. She was very intelligent, very ‘head screwed on’ and SO keen that I almost burnt my face on hers. Again, no virginity was lost, but through her, I did make the astonishingly erotic discovery that female breasts have lives of their own and can ‘talk back’ to the attentive and sensitive fingertip. The ‘overhead tap’ rang in my ears for about five years after that fireside rug had cooled down ... and dried out.
The next time my virginity almost went, was in a near ‘three in the bed’ event with two lovely French assistants during my teacher training. Somehow, I was at the College after most of the students had left on vacation. The two girls and myself went out for a meal then ended up in an accommodation block - empty now, save for them. I don't drink, but the girls had a bottle of Ricard, which they saw off together. One of the girls soon began to look unwell, so I helped her down to her room. Once in, she launched herself heavily at me, but I valiantly, and reluctantly, disengaged her, suggesting that she would be best advised to lie down quietly on her bed for the night. I returned upstairs, to find her friend and trembling with nerves I embraced her, and we were off ... kinda.
‘I am afraid there will be nussing for you, tonight,’ she said, when I came up for air after the first clinch. Being the sensitive sort, I twigged that there was a calendar problem, but was somewhat hurt that she assumed that I regarded her as a mere ‘provider of oats!’ On reflection, I don't think she did think that of me - it was just a choice of words she picked at the time. Still, she extended the repertoire of activities beyond the advertised running, swimming and playing of tennis and I was just astounded by the beauty - and power - in her body. She had marvellous form in her shoulders and arms, (immediately becoming some of my favourite parts of a woman). I also discovered that another female feature of great interest had a life of its own! She was certainly one of the most feminine women it has ever been my privilege to have met - that is, able to make me go simultaneously weak at the knees, and stiff in the trousers.
You may have guessed by this point that my attitude to virginity owes a lot to the thinking of the Ancient Greeks. I am no great scholar of this period, but the basic drift of this is that the loss of virginity ‘steams the windscreen’, or allows the mind to be detracted from the ‘Higher Calling’. It basically contaminates the state of purity.
Not only that, but I also had three simultaneous ‘mothers’. My genuine mother, and two mothering aunts, both childless. If homosexuality were solely due to mother-dominance, then I should have had no option but to have been triply homosexual! In fact, I am probably as non-homosexual as it is possible to be. But my mother, in particular, had very strong Methodist leanings, and I was, effectively, made to lean in the same direction. Somehow, I was always intensely aware of the ‘wrongness’ of my natural sexual desires. I realised I had to ‘fight the Good Fight’. This was a spiritual battle I had to win!
It was a real conflict between hormones and ideals. If I had sex with a girl, she would become instantly pregnant. If I had sex with a non-virgin, I would develop instant syphilis. If I had sex with any woman, I would be a disgrace to my folks. I once actually touched a girl’s breasts through her clothes and I was sure the thundering in my ears was the sound of the hooves of the Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse coming to get me. The excitement, the ejaculation in my Y-Fronts, the feeling of utter wretchedness and shame. And the wish to try it again - only this time, to get under her bra.
So, zipping along ...
I had discovered that I could talk very easily to women, but at the age of twenty-eight, I became the only surviving male member of the family and had to take the responsibility for running the surviving households, the family ‘thinking’ being mainly patriarchal. The next twenty-seven years of my life were taken out by family concerns. All the folks became variously ill, degenerated and died and I, almost literally, and never sexually, touched a woman in all that time.
Skipping ahead quite a bit more ...
In my mid fifties and after years of teaching, I decided to go back to university myself – a personal challenge you might say. Somehow, I took up with a medical student in her mid-thirties. Sarah was single, extremely intelligent, but with a long-standing depressive disorder. Within a few days of meeting, we wound up back at my, (very untidy) house and were soon in a very tight clinch. The first woman I had clunched in decades.
‘Let’s go to bed’, she said.
‘But I haven’t any ‘thingies’ I replied, sensing that this was soon to be ‘the moment’.
She said there would be no problem, as she would go to a clinic and get some ‘morning after’ pills and after a suitable few minutes, I found myself being eagerly pulled down into my own bed by this very beautiful, but troubled woman, both of us completely starkers. Feeling her welcoming arms about my neck was probably the most supremely pleasurable moment of my life.
I will take a while to describe the situation between my ears. Very rapid signal processing was taking place, and an independent supervisory ‘being’ became manifest inside my skull. There was an immense feeling of, ‘This is what you always wanted, but way beyond your wildest dreams ... this cannot be happening!’ I became instantly aware of the literally, unimaginably strong primal force of attraction of her body on me as we touched down our length and my arms closed around her. I noted that, had this sort of thing ever happened to me when away at university, then all my scruples would have been instantly annihilated, along with my virginity and that I could well, by now, have been a grandfather.
I was very distressed by something else primal: I could sense her body pleading with me to get her pregnant. Having talked with her at some length in the days before we went to my house, it became clear to me that one of the things her life lacked probably the most, was a child – something dear she could love and exchange affection with. A baby would have done her a power of good - but a baby is not a ‘thing’. A baby is a living individual. A precious, helpless, life-changing commitment. A baby would also be mine, as much as hers. I could sense a strong, maternal instinct in Sarah, but I am also aware that I am too far down life’s track to have enough time left to properly look after a growing child.
So there it was, a very cruel tension within me. ‘Go on, man! You’ll never get a chance like this again in your life! She’s croaking for it, and so are you’. Versus, ‘Do not be a fool. You are on the brink of a catastrophic mistake, here. Just imagine what your folks would think of you if they could see this. You are just taking advantage of this very lonely and damaged woman who is young enough to be your daughter’…..
Back to the scene in my bed. The soft warmth and tenderness of her body simply stung mine with its primal powers. Had this event happened my twenties, I would have experienced a rocket erection, and ejaculated immediately. But here, my humble instrument went into reverse. The frosty morning wither! Extreme fright mode! Something, (moral self-condemnation) had gone into emergency override control of my machinery. (There again, imagine a sensitive child who has been given a very special gift for a birthday. Overcome with emotional intensity, instead of immediately accepting and enjoying the gift, the child bursts into tears, and runs away to hide behind a sofa!)
That was the situation between my legs. The rest of me, particularly my hands and brain were giddy with pleasure and sensory overload. An unexpected, though much longed for jackpot had arrived. There was so much to explore, discover, and bring to responsive life in her. And respond, her body certainly did! Of course, I couldn’t really resist and eventually ‘tried it’. I was amazed, (and thrilled) that she parted her legs willingly, and I discovered how readily my contracted and bashful portion found its way into the allocated Place - cheered on by some internal, incessant pep talk. Right from down in my toenails, I felt myself beginning to come. I INTENDED to get out in time ...!
It was done. It was not a moment of triumph or exquisite pleasure, however. It hurt! It felt like a scald! I was utterly ashamed of myself at the act, and, more than this, felt I had humiliated and ‘used’ her. Although when I told her this at the time, she got quite upset and angry with me, telling me that I had, ‘In no way’ taken any advantage of her.
We tried several other times - after I bought some condoms, which she despised. As I said previously, I could sense the yearning in her to become pregnant, and this was a strong mental dis-incentive on me to perform. I am not in a position to blame anyone, and certainly would not dare condemn her for wanting to use me to get her pregnant. In fact, it really was a compliment to have her choose me as a suitable father.
That is all I had better say. Sarah did also pay me one enormous compliment: she enjoyed my touch, and said I should have been a doctor, and that if I had been, my surgery would have been packed out with women every morning!
What the lovely Sarah referred to as my, ‘very sensual hands’, are now devoted to coaxing tonal nuances from my guitar, rather than purrs of pleasure from a relaxed female form. No substitute, alas!’
