intensely puzzling later life, whilst shacking up with country gals who work with horses, had pronounced foreheads and an axe to grind from prior relationships, sadly no. We were destined, it seemed, to get together and mate. Most of the original and alluring scents of the morphine-headed, meaty-necked maidens I got mixed up with quickly took a backseat to a new preoccupation: saddled with the question in fact, of how to tend to my unquenchable, curious thirsts and all-encompassing mopey moods. Poor ladies. But what an introduction to countless bachelor days that first encounter with the fairer sex was for me.
Our tryst began with me teaching her the game of tennis while simultaneously dreaming of her on some sort of sexy Mensa swim squad, her arriving at our lessons in a white terry-cloth bathrobe, high heels, black Chanel glasses staring at me suggestively, while sucking on a long cigarette and flipping open and shut a silver cigarette case. Her smoke intrigued me. Why, in my vision, she had two Jon Benet Ramsey, Honey Boo Boo–like twins pushing her to the courts in a broken-down golf cart singing selections from Les Misérables is anybody’s guess; it was a dreamy affair, after all, so the less time spent feeding my Demented-and-Delusional-Cul-de-sac-of-not-sticking-to-the-Crux-of-The-Story habit, the better.
Just what made Jenny accept an invitation back to my lair; the Weekend Den of Slick Bachelor-Hood, a.k.a. MY Castle, while mom and the Gregorian Step Monster were away at their cottage, I can’t say. I could not imagine very well just what this minxish lady with super-hero personality and intimidating I.Q. wanted with the likes of me. Never mind that I was sixteen and she thirty-something.