Do you know those moments when your entire being is pushing you to test the boundaries, chase the excitement, explore these uncharted waters of unprecedented thrill? Let me just tell you that I have an innate talent of, sometimes deliberately, self-sabotaging them. If it is for good reason, you may wonder—maybe a deeper sense of loyalty or overly strict ideas of exemplary principles or any other howsoever-natured virtuous notion of interpersonal relationships?
Alas, the reason is simple: it lies within my unfathomable asininity whose seemingly endless extend keeps astonishing me every time the turns of fate in my life (read: my absolute incapability of acquiring the slightest signs of any sorts of wits) grant me a brief glimpse of how far the rabbit hole of my stupidity goes. Crafty beasts, those little critters, I tell you, as, for all I know, they created the black hole that stubbornly squats the cavity of my skull.
If only I possessed the impertinence to seize these fleeting moments in life. Well, I might if I had the awareness to recognize them when they come instead of letting them pass Jack Sparrow style and waving at them while they smirk back at me, knowing I might (or might not) realize—sometimes years later—what perfectly good opportunities I keep missing.
One of those missed opportunities slipped right through my fingers so quickly you might think I had forgotten to wash off the lube I use for masturbating. I was still living with my two fantastic roommates in our three-bedroom apartment in the middle of the picturesque ‘Gundeli’ district in Basel, which I used to call my humble home base.
I remember that shameful Saturday afternoon like the still-painfully haunting memory it is, cursing myself for it every time my laughable excuse for a brain decides that it’s time for my daily dose of self-indulgent reminiscence in the sheer innumerable chances I keep passing on.
She—for the sake of simplicity, let’s just refer to the lady in question by the female pronouns—was a casual friend. We had met at one of these bloated, generic open-air rock music festivals that desperately followed the intention of featuring an eclectic selection of whatever was considered hip among the youngsters of the scene but still ended up playing what, by any connoisseur, hardly passed as more than a slightly more aggressive juvenile re-interpretation of Schlager music that plays on every overpriced venue.
One of my buddies had brought her along and she and I were sleeping in adjacent tents. At seventeen, this was her first open-air festival while I was already in that age where such escapades make you second-guess your life choices but you’re still naïve enough to believe that a ‘proper’ college education is worth a crap. Needless to say that after a beer or five—in my country, drinking age is sixteen—the not-so-innocent flirt had turned into an intense tickling session that resulted in a few bruises on both sides. Well, in my defense, she simply would not believe that there are certain pressure points between your ribs that make you wet yourself from laughing although you’re not the slightest bit ticklish.
Being an archetypical fella—yeah, ‘tis the moment to roll your eyes—I, of course, felt challenged beyond my mental capabilities of not compulsively proving my virility. It was late spring, warm enough for skimpy clothes, pheromones, fumes of cheap weed and the smell of volatile solvents for even cheaper deodorant sprays saturating the air, natural instincts kicking in and screw me if she wasn’t the curviest girl I had ever laid my greedy eyes upon. Breasts comically stretching the strategically placed flamboyant band logo on her ‘one size fits all’ t-shirt, hips that would have made the ladies in a Rubens painting swoon from jealousy, naturally curly Bordeaux-dyed hair that framed a face to make angels cry and a playful fire in her eyes that just begged to be fed. Can you blame this fool for falling victim to his hormones?
Naturally, when I invited her over for dinner one night when my roomies were away a few months later and not long after her eighteenth birthday, I wouldn’t hear the end of my overly touchy fingers and how her boyfriend had thrown a jealous tantrum and dumped her in the week that followed our first encounter.
“We weren’t a healthy couple, you know. I would have left him soon anyway,” she confessed, soberly. “From that point of view, I owe you one, I guess, for sparing me the hassle.”
“Not at all,” I joked in a half-assed attempt to cover my bad conscience. Unhealthy or not, the fact that I had acted as a catalyst for a break-up felt like an unwanted, yet honest personality check. You know, this type of life lessons that are supposed to teach you some sort of deeper morale but, in fact, seldom leave a trace on little dumb-dumbs like me.
Since it was late August, her paper-thin garments had long ago started clinging to the beads of sweat on her body, leaving absolutely no imagination to her simply breathtaking femininity and enticing self-confident appearance. Oh, what would I have given to sneak a peek of her enormous tits, squeeze her round buttocks that put the fabric of her shorts to the test or yet steal a soft kiss from those full luscious lips while letting my fingers disappear in this most welcoming V that sprang from where middle school education taught me her honeypot would welcome my intrusion with copious effluence.
