"You remember that girl I went out with once?" he began, straight off the bat.
"Which one?"
"Virginia."
“No.”
“Odd girl. Used to hide behind lots of black eyeliner and foundation that turned her face orange.”
“...Er...”
"Had speech impediment. All the ‘s’ sounds she made came out as a whistle. And this downy moustache thing. You could see the fucker from quite a way off.”
Tom sighed wistfully.
“Oh, those sweet, innocent afternoons spent down in the bushes out by the railway line at the end of the field behind my house, pants and knickers off, exploring each other’s most private anatomy.”
“I don’t remember you having a girlfriend called Virginia.”
“Well, she wasn’t my girlfriend as such. More of a shag pest. Just wanted to abuse me sexually. Of course I was only too willing to let her. She just wanted to fuck all the time. Nothing else to be said of the relationship at all. No common ground whatsoever. It got to be that sex became a chore. What I wouldn’t give for that now.”
“What made you think of her?”
“I dunno. Ever since Pia and I decided to get married, I’ve been thinking a lot about previous shags. Not sure why. Maybe I’m having second thoughts.”
I thought perhaps, as best man, it was my duty to talk some sense into him, let him see how the pros far outweigh the cons in terms of getting tied down to a girl like Pia.
“And I’m not sure I want a big stag thing afterall, man. Perhaps we should just disappear, the two of us on the bike having a laugh, no fucking hassle, like we did that summer? Perhaps not come back.”
One summer Tom and I pointed his Granddad’s old Norton motorbike and sidecar Spainwards and hit this tiny island just off Ibiza called Formentera; a real hippy hang out, where good food, cheap booze and superb herbs were to be found in plentiful supply.
We’d stayed in a shack set amongst pine trees about a hundred yards from the beach.
'Twas small, barely enough room to swing a bottle of piss. No beds, no running water, a plentiful supply of cockroaches and small inquisitive rodents, but it was cheap and yards from a beach shack selling ice-cold beer, excellent garlic eggs, jamon serrano and potent marijuana.
We spent days lost in a weed fug, sunbathing, drinking, swimming, holding Girl of The Day competitions and attempting to shag the winners.
Spanish babes, French girls. Italians, you name it. Germans and Swedes too.
The beaches on the island were optional nude, which was entertaining. Tom stripped off on our second day. Said I should try it too. It was truly liberating. But I wasn’t so sure about exposing the old flesh torpedo to the general public, hiding my reservations by bragging that there wouldn’t be any space left on the beach if I did.
But eventually I plucked up enough courage and took the plunge.
Of course, with my wick exposed, the consumption of suntan oil on the island went up significantly.
Yeah, it was a great holiday, an experience I would love to repeat but I told Tom not to worry about the wedding. He should cheer up, worry about the wedding another day.
I had no more cohesive advice.
