When I was a teenager in the 1950s, sex wasn’t talked about freely, except when we girls were warned sternly of the dangers of pre-marital sex, the horrors of unwanted pregnancy and the stigma of appearing “easy”. Nonetheless, we frequently fell madly in love with boys from an associate grammar school. Romance was always in the air – holding hands, chaste kisses, little love notes.
The love of my life was Kevin, a hockey champion with gentle brown eyes and the wholesome smell of coal tar soap. He said he loved me, then suddenly stunned me by saying we should go “all the way”. This was more of a demand than a request and I refused. So I was dumped in favour of Brenda, who reputedly risked going “all the way” with anyone.
Disillusion and heartache took a while to shake off. Time passed and marriage encompassed shared values, dreams, love and respect, resulting in a fun and fulfilling sex life. Sadly, my husband died and loneliness led me to seek male companionship online.
With little exception, what emerged was a balding, arthritic, corpulent army of ageing “Kevins”. The need and demand for “intimacy” was prioritised over basic pleasantries. There was indignation at my failure to acquiesce immediately, overt scorn at the suggestion of first building a little rapport. Swift, unapologetic exits. Admittedly, no heartache my end, but sadness that “Kevin” hadn’t matured and has remained an entitled teen. Never mind, I’m sure Brenda is still around.
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