Piccadilly Passion

(My Picadilly bioscope story is re-posted by request. This story may be offensive to certain audiences. Please stop reading if you blush easily.)

My heart was beating faster than that time when we were little okes and we tried to blow up a bee hive in a cave on Linksfield Ridge and the bees chased us down the hill.

It was beating faster than that time I was busted trying to look up my teacher’s dress in standard eight.

It all took place at the Piccadilly movie house.

It was my first ‘alone’ date ever.

No mates. No brothers or sisters. Just me and her. Her and me. And the love between us. (Although I think there was way more love between me and her than her and me but she did like me. She told me so.)

I had to catch two buses from Orange Grove to meet her at the bioscope for the flick. (Her mom dropped her off and picked her up.)

I was in such a dream state getting off the bus that I almost got run over by an oke on a bicycle yelling, “Mielies. Mielieeeeeees.”

The movie was called Harold and Maude. I’ll never forget.

We met outside and I bought the tickets.

I was kaking myself because I didn’t have much money and you were supposed to buy your chick a box of Black Magic chocolates in those days. (Thank God she had just come from the Dairy Den where she probably had a Choc 99 so she didn’t want anything.)

So we found ourselves a spot in the middle of the movie house and sat down.

Then the lights went down.

I was ready and primed for love. Looking for romance. And, would you believe, a bloody Three Stooges short comes onto the screen. Ag no man! I am trying to be romantic and hold her hand but she has her hands up to her mouth and she is giggling.

Then Interval.

Damn, I just wanted the lights to go down. That was the longest interval in history.

Then the lights went down. And my piel went up.

So after ten minutes of sweating bullets I just grabbed her hand. And guess what?

You’re wrong.

She didn’t pull away. She actually took my hand and held it. Held my %$# hand. She WANTED me hey. WANTED!

I let a few more minutes go by and I took a deep breath. I almost choked because everyone around was smoking.

Now I was ready.

I was going to pull the ultimate move. Like the older okes in the neighborhood told us to do. They told us if she holds your hand it means she ready china.

Ready to be GRIPPED.

And you know what?

I was ready to GRIP her ek se. I was born ready. So the okes told us to put our arm around a chick very slowly…while looking the other way. Yes, looking the other way, so as to be unobtrusive.

Sounds good, right?

Wrong!

Do you know how STUPID that looks? Pretending you are yawning and looking the other way and slowly putting you arm around a girl and thinking that she doesn’t know EXACTLY what’s happening.

Who taught those idiots the nuances of romance I ask you with tears in my smoke-filled eyes? I mean they told us youngsters, “Once you get your arm around her you must just, like, accidentally let your hand pop into her shirt and rest your hand on her boob. Don’t make a big deal of it, just, like, rest it.”

Ja right. Accidentally pop your hand into her shirt and rest on her boob.

Accidentally?

Seriously?.

“Just rest it bru. Just, like, rest it on her boob.”

C’mon.

I knew bugger-all about making out and I assumed those ous knew ‘everything’ because they had stove-pipe jeans and white t-shirts and Lucky Strike packs rolled into their sleeves. They MUST know what they’re talking about.

So I started the slow-hand creep along the seat behind her neck while looking the other way. Let your fingers do the walking. But hey! Guess what? She didn’t klap me or punch me or anything. She actually nestled into me. Yes I said nestled. I was in like Flint. (Who ever he was.)

Then everything happened very quickly. I put my arm around her and she shifted towards me…and boom…there it was. The accidental slip. And I felt skin.

Her boob!

Oh my God. My dream came true. My hand was in her shirt. Just like that.
I was a born stud ek se. My heart was pounding so much that the blood rushed to all my heads and confused me. I almost forget what the ous told me to do next.

“Gentle touch, bru. Just move your hand in a swirling motion. That’s all. Otherwise she’ll moer you.”

Okay. Okay. Swirling motion.

I tell you what. I was in seventh heaven. So I started a swirling motion. I swirled a bit, but for some reason I couldn’t find her, you know…err…her nipple. I swirled in a wider arc. But I couldn’t find it.

Then it hit me!

Oh my God she is deformed. Perfect. Just my luck. I pick a chick with a deformed boob to start my puberty with. It was weird. I was swirling and searching and she was almost purring.

Yes! I said purring.

Ag sies man. I was kind of put-off by her deformity…but she nestled even closer to me.

Then I opened my eyes and looked around at her to see what the hell was happening and that’s when it hit me.

Oh no. I was NOT caressing her boob.

I was caressing her shoulder. Yes, her friggin’ shoulder. I swear it felt just like a boob. (According to my vast experience of the female anatomy. )

Oh my goodness. There I was…like a bloody mampara…moving my fingers in a circular motion on her bare shoulder…looking for a nipple.

No wonder I didn’t find it.

Idiot!