In our final year at college, I was the only male student who hadn't lost his virginity. Most of the other guys had girlfriends who were happy to oblige; one nerd had to pay a hooker; two bribed the college bike ('everyone rode her') with packets of cigarettes. But I still couldn't get to first base.
In the jerk-off league table I was up there with the leaders, but I had yet to experience the unbridled joy of full penetrative intercourse. Until, that is, middle-agred Marjorie to came my aid.
My Dad had fixed me up with some part-time garden maintenance work with one of our neighbours. The childless couple were Max and Marjorie Crawford. He was a rich lazy sod who'd made a fortune in the dot.com boom and got out early. Now he worshipped his English-made Jaguar saloon and spent most afternoons at the local golf club.
By contrast, Marjorie was an absolutre honey. Approaching her half-century, and considerably overweight due to her love of good food, she nevertheless always looked good, wearing smart chiffon outfits, with stylish hair-do's and loads of make-up and perfume. She always called me "Timmy darling." Once or twice, the thought even crossed my mind that it might possibly be big blousy Marjorie who could solve my virginity problem.
One Friday afternoon in late summer I'd put in a back-breaking four hours digging the Crawford's vegetable garden, and was just about to call it a day when Marjorie appeared, wearing a loose-fiiting satin kymono, carrying a tray with two coasters of iced drinks. "Here we are, Timmy darling. I thought you looked as if you could do with a refresher." She handed me a glass in which crushed ice clinked invitingly.
I took a long swig. "Wow! What was that?"
She had already drained a third oof her tumbler before she answered. "Mojito, daling. The national drink of Cuba. Ernest Hemmingway drank it all the time. You like?"
"Very much so."
"Good. Then let's go indoors and freshen our glasses, shall we? Boring old Max won't be home for hours. It's the golf club's AGM."
I followed my employer into the sitting room, where she set about preparing us two more of her lethal cocktails.
"White rum, cane spirit, lime, crushed ice, soda and fresh mint." So saying, she ripped up some mint leaves she'd picked in the garden only minutes before and flung them on the top. "Cheers!"
She took a seat at one end of the sofa and patted a seat cushion. "Come and sit beside me?"
The heady mix of the rum cocktail and Marjorie's overpowering French perfume soon went to my head. Was it my imagination, or had she slipped a lit bit closer, so that our thighs were now touching?
"Did I tell you Max won't be home 'til late?"
"Yes, you did mention it in the garden."