Accents, Sexy or Not?

Accents, Sexy or Not?

Overflowing was my cup of thankfulness that I had a room of my own a sufficient distance away from the family, so that any enthusiastic grunting and bedspring squeaking sounds would not lead to sudden visits from suspicious parents – though in fairness, I spent that much time playing computer games in my mid-teens that if my old man had known what I was doing he probably would have slapped me on the back the next morning and bought me 20 Marlboro for the post-coital nicotine infusion, such would be his delight that I had actually realized my dick had other uses besides micturition.

Pleasingly, this experience continued throughout the holiday, and whilst I did not then know the trials and tribulations of sampling the exotic delights of more than one table at a time due to my age, I was spared any potential embarrassment of tonight’s-hoe-running-into-last-night’s-hoe due to the length of our stay in the hotel; most of the American girls and their families tending to be there for one or two nights only whilst visiting the theme parks. The added advantage was that each day or so brought fresh delights to sample and as my confidence grew (along with my boredom at being asked to “just say something” but hey, there was pussy on tap so I regarded it as a trifling inconvenience) I’m afraid I became rather choosy as to who I spent my time with, capriciously deserting one attentive broad in favour of one who tickled my fancy just that little bit more.

What a great holiday that was.

Now, before this turns into a seemingly self-congratulatory aren’t-I-the-greatest-stud-known-to-man styled story of arrogance, rest assured that when back on English soil there was no such continuation of my good fortune. Back to my room I returned to be the typical teenage gamer-kid once more.  In all seriousness, I probably had more pussy in that three week period than the entirety of the next two years.

Even though I told my friends all about it and recounted events in more detail than my imagination ever could have created at that time, they didn’t believe me.

Bastards. But then, they probably spent those three weeks riding around on their bikes and having the odd covert wank to pictures of women in mail order catalogues.

Fortunately, I had been brought up educated on the dangers of being frivolous when it comes to contraception, but who knows, perhaps there is a kid of mine running around – well, he’d be in his mid-20’s by now – a by-product of my good fortune to have visited America back in the 90’s, using the phrase “God-damned motherfucker” as an expression of mild annoyance rather than “Fucking bastard twat.”

Finally, though not to labour the point, I returned to America three years later, a slightly more mature eighteen year old, spending the entire flight hoping against hope that American girls still swooned at the sound of an English accent.

And bless them, they did not disappoint.


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