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-
What a great holiday that was.
Now, before this turns into a seemingly self-congratulatory aren’t-I-the-greatest-stud-
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.