So last week we were reliving our childhood Christmas moments with my workmates on a teams call, as part of our celebration for the season, after which each of us would gift their secretly chosen Santa a gift. I found myself regaling the team with a story of how one young lass, name withheld, chose Christ's birthday to deflower me.
Well not an exact deflowerment, if you consider the many unsolicited sexual escapades with many a house manager that were prevalent and part of boys' induction into the blissful world of carnal experiences. But for me this was my first almost-adult and consensual sexual experience, where two pubescent beings went through the courtship motions, before getting encapsulated in that lustful embrace that sometimes results in new life.
I was around 14 years old and had spotted this lass in my village church, shyly holding her younger brother, painfully self-conscious of her curves and blooming breasts that were attracting suggestive looks as she passed - noticeable even in that loose conservative dress she was in. I immediately made my interest known to my wingman, a female cousin, who was utterly dependable in such matters. Had she been born in the first world, she'd probably be a founding owner of a dating site. Many a tongue-tied young men in the village used her to relay their interest and enduring love to the girls who had smitten them. Her contribution to love and lust is hereby inscribed and immortalized. But I digress.
She picked the task with gusto, hunted down the girl the way Hillary used to hunt Bill's sidechics, and brought her to me, making quick introductions, before any one of the nosy churchwomen could cast a disapproving scowl in our direction. One of the enduring memories I picked was the scent of her lotion. Up to this day I get a pang of reminiscence, followed by a boner whenever that scent wafts into my nose! I have no idea what the lotion was, but Pavlov was right!
Back to the girl. We had a few secret roadside meetings, much like those of opposition politicians and president Moi before announcing defections in the 90s. Only difference is we had limited time, lest we court the ire of our parents for breaking curfews. We exchanged several love letters, thanks to the selfless services of my cousin, who was an able courier. I have no recollection of the contents of these letters but they must have been romantic.
We were boiling with desire for each other, but opportunities were hard to come by. So we hatched a plan. Christmas day is when many celebrating adults let their guard down when it comes to their hawk-eyed supervision of their teens. Date chosen!
The venue was to be a dilapidated classroom, in a school that is next to the church. The plan was to make appearances in the church, partake in a few of the numerous Catholic recitals, give offerings then make a surreptitious escape when everyone was kneeling, deeply engrossed in confessing the sins of the previous week and begging Mary for intercession. She was to take a cue from my escape and join me at our agreed rendezvous. So I escaped.
To avoid prying eyes that would brew a scandal far worse than The Bull of Auckland, we had to avoid walking together. I made my reconnaissance tour to class 3M, which was the furthest classroom from the chapel. Thankfully it was deserted. I was armed with a single juala -again given to me by this industrious lass. Pinched from her uncle's box, she claimed. I remember waiting for what seemed to be eternity. The duration that would make a modern day lad to assume that fare has been 'eaten' spinning him to a day's depression and later a date with a bar of soap.
In my naivety I had already adorned the rubber in eager anticipation and carefully put back my pair of trousers! In those younger randy days, boners could come by liberally and spontaneously, even without a trigger in sight, just the imagination. And so I waited, nurturing my turgid member as I sat on one of the desks that I had selected because of its firmness, eagerly waiting.
She eventually came in, 30 minutes later. She'd been held up while trying lose some kids playing nearby, who posed the risk of walking in on us, in childish curiosity, as performed the infernal, sinful deed. She'd therefore taken a detour. A smart lass she was. And in a age with no mobile phones I had been quite patient. And the boner too.
Well she was here now, which only meant one thing. The Deed could officially commence, the way nature intended it. I enthusiastically lowered my pants, for the first time noticing that I had worn the rubber with the lubricated side inside out. This didn't by no means dampen our desire to proceed with The Deed.
As if on cue, she lifted her new Christmas dress, lowered her pink panties revealing a lush bush, wherein the gorge - the receiver of life lay, throbbing in anticipation.
I led her to the sturdy desk, ordinarily used for study, but this time serving a shadier cause. With her legs invitingly apart, I aimed my budding, undeveloped member, much akin the way a pilot aims for a runway while landing. It was a pinpoint precision. As I made my gentle entry I heard her gasp, just like it had been described in those raunchy novels I used to read from time to time.
I savoured hungrily devoid of tact and no wonder I quickly found myself hanging precariously on that dreaded cliff of no return.
And so brethren and sistren, after exactly 33 seconds, I noisy fired and emptied my cannon quickly running out of ammo. With nothing else to do, We remained awkwardly transfixed for almost another 30 seconds, me recovering my breathe, her probably wondering if this was it, or there was more greatness left in this lightweight object of her infatuation.It would take me several years to realize that this was a subpar performance by any human standards. But ignorance is bliss. Neither did she know (I hope) -or if she did it didn't show.
The final minutes of The Deed were spent with her trying to cleanse her dress of some stains, while I looked for a suitable place to dump my entrapped seed.
I left first, as per the agreed protocol, and made my way into the church. At this point the priest was winding up, with the congregation on its feet. The Holy Man clasped his hand together, looked up with mystique adorning his kind face, made a sign of the cross and instructed the flock,
"The mass is ended, go yea in peace"
"Thanks be to God!", they shot back.
I turned and made my way to the exit - ebullient and contented. The day's festivities were only beginning!
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