The Kissing Chronicles, Part 3

I woke this morning from a dream in which I was with The One I Loved. The boy from so many years ago who I'm not sure I ever stopped loving. We all have one I think. I tried my hardest to close my eyes and go back to sleep, back into that place but to no avail. It got me thinking, though, that I have neglected my Kissing Chronicles. I thought quite hard about it too, and realised that I've been struggling with writing fodder because, honestly, I am still reticent about writing honestly about my now, so writing from before and leading to now is the perfect way to do it. To write about things that, while they mattered hugely at the time, don't matter too much now, being in the past and all.

So, we'd been through The First Kiss in Part 1 and The First Boyfriend-of-Sorts in Part 2 and, oh look, the young Shiny has now ended her illustrious school career at The All Girl's School, being spat out the other end supposedly "A Lady" with a good knowledge of Maths, Science and English and a poor knowledge of the social skills involved in dealing with creatures of the opposite sex. This chronickling I fear may be long and boring but I'm practicing writing, that's the point of this whole bloggy thing.

Oh, wait, I forgot one fumbling which was quite a funny one really (shit... are they all? I'm beginning to wonder...) He was a beautiful boy called Simon, who I met in a nightclub in Plett while there for my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary. My Botswana cousins were down and it was a joyous family reunion filled with lovely things. Anyway, one night the cousins all went out and there we came across this (again younger by a year) boy, who was very obviously filled with the usual 16-year-old hormone rush. Let's just say I can't remember too much wooing went on - some arbitrary conversation about where we went to school I think it was -while he ever-so-surreptitiously put his sweaty little paw on my leg.

We landed up in a dark room somewhere next to the club (what was I thinking? Oh, the folly of youth) where we feverishly set about kissing, until... he pushed my head toward his crotch. Good grief! My still-innocent brain was horrified. After his third attempt at this, my neck was actually getting quite strained from trying to push against his ever-so-persistant hand on top of it, so I cut my losses, got up and left the poor thing to sort himself out. Oh, how glad I am not to have to deal with 16-year old boys anymore. He came sidling up to me a bit later and asked if I'd come again tomorrow. But I was busy.

So, yes, I finished school and joined my sister in the city beneath the mountain for my holidays. She was at university there (at the time I was destined for there too, but things changed, as they do) and, at the time, had a lovely German boyfriend who's father made clocks. He had a German friend, M, who was 23, played in a heavy metal band (I can't remember if he was the singer or the bass player, but I think it was base) and was doing his Masters in Chemistry. To my 17-year old mind, he was a very clever Rock God. With a car. And he was interested.

We all traipsed off to The Playground, a fabulous, dingy club in the centre of town which no longer exists, and he, to my sister's horror and full-on fury when we returned, lured me out for ' a walk in The Company Gardens'. Now, we're talking 1am, in the city - I have done some very stupid things and been extremely lucky! It was beautiful though, being mid-Summer. We ambled through the rose gardens and then he turned, pulled me close and kissed me. Oh my god. It was like I was kissing one of those vacuum-pack machines they offer on TV, except that those hadn't been invented then. Seriously, I thought the guy was going to swallow me whole, or detach my tongue from it's roots. Luckily, very soon after, a security guard came ambling along and advised us that it was pretty stupid place to be at that time of night. Actually, he said to M: "I'd take my lady elsewhere if I were you, if you don't want her mugged or worse."

Being 17 though, and of minimal experience with these things, I thought perhaps it was normal, so I saw him for a bit and tried the kissing a couple more times. It was worth pushing through, you see, because his band was in the paper... And we even went to watch them practice in some third-storey club in Long Street. My mind wandered to a life on the road, travelling in a huge bus-made-into-a-luxurious-home. But it was not meant to be. I decided that I was way too fond of my tongue to allow the poor thing to be ripped out. Oh, and I left to join my parents on holiday. And didn't go back to varsity there. I think we wrote to each other for a bit, but I (and my tongue especially) were relieved about the distance.

Okay, that was Part 3. I need to do Real Work.

I wonder if I should've been cleverer, and invented the vaccum-packing machine after the whole experience?