Her name was, well her name isn’t important, though I do remember it.

A cold June night, made smoky by the snags on the Barbie, the sizzle could still be heard this far from the rectory. That’s right, the rectory! I was 14 years old and this was church youth group…Friday night and a gathering of 14-17 year olds under the not-so watchful eye of a half-tanked priest. So we were free to flirt and she was seriously beautiful (my post on the effect beautiful women on me) I had zits, I was dorky and she was 16, long blonde hair, blue eyes and breasts.

Honestly, what hope did I have?

I mean 14 year old boys and breasts, it’s enough to reduce even the most intelligent and articulate of us to quivering lumps of testosterone. And zit covered ones at that.

I really can’t remember what I said, what I did, save vague recollections of trying to cut the grass out from under a mate who was just as eagerly doing it to me and all the while she would giggle and laugh at us in our attempts to impress her. There is nothing in this world as pathetic as a 14 year old zit covered boy within reach of his first set of real breasts. I mean I cringe at the memory of my actions, not the breasts.

Of course, I got nowhere, I never even came within an arm length of the said mammaries but they haunted my dreams for at least a week, or about as long as it took the new girl from Victoria to enter our homeroom.

Because if there is nothing as pathetic as a 14 year old boy and his desire to touch breasts it must be a 14 year old boy and the length of his loyalty to those particular breasts.

At least I’ve learnt something in the intervening years.

Lectiones Sacrae Ex Libris Indiana 13:45