29. Sex before Marriage

THE POETESS Part 29

It must be here, the poem I wrote for him the very next day when he held me and said a million times how he never meant to do anything to upset me and I told him, no, you never did anything to upset me, you’re a gentleman and didn’t do anything at all…

I said that I understood because what he had lost was more precious than any treasure, any pile of gemstones, any gold.

Ah, here it is. Sitting on my bunk after dawn and watching him sobbing as if lying next to me had been a sin worse than killing me, and all either of us had done is sleep, though at a mischievous hour shrouded in the pure black of night I sensed something on him stir as if memories were re-enacting old truths inside his head… So swiftly I scribbled this. Imperfect I know, especially for a woman who proudly calls herself a poetess…

Without her he was lost, his mind tossed

Across the empty space, this other place,

Needing to caress her precious flesh,

See her face, her breasts, and all the rest,

Her every thought, the words she sought,

Until everything he had … went … mad.

And then he found me

His emotions drowned me,

His tears wet me,

wept on me,

he slept with me…

he crept next to me,

slept….

While something in me wept

For him.

That was it, the way I felt as his misery washed his face in streaks of tears. And when, finally, he announced his return to sanity y getting dressed behind the wardrobe door so I couldn’t see him, I dressed too, this time in my navy satin shorts, wishing the old kilt still fitted me, but I fear i’ll never wear it again though I do try every so often. But I was a teenager back then. Thirty years have added an inch here and an inch there, though I kept my hair long because that’s how Roy liked it.

“I love your hair, Rosie,” mumbled Peter through his last few sobs, “it’s very … modern”

“It’s always been like this. Always modern!” she told him, cheering him up with his smile. “Now we’re here at the seaside, what shall we do?”

“I’m going to go insane if I have to look at your legs in those shorts,” he replied with a tear-stained grin.

“Do you want me to change?”

“For goodness’ sake, no! Just ignore me.”

“Then let’s go for a walk after breakfast.”

“I’ve a better idea. Let’s go for a walk now, and have breakfast at the site cafe. It’s a decent enough place, clean and tidy.”

“Perfect,” she smiled at him, “come on. You put some shorts on too or you’ll look daft in all this sun. It’s scorching hot already.”

“I’m afraid,” he replied ruefully, “that I haven’t got any. I work in the sort of gents outfitters that doesn’t stretch to modern things, like shorts.”

“Then I’ll buy you some,” Rosie said, “let it be my treat in return for a few days in your excellent company!”

And that’s what I did. There was a small shop next door to the site, but despite being small it sold just about everything, including men’s swimming shorts, and there was one pair that was his size. I could tell that he was doubtful. As far as he was concerned shorts on men were for sports like football and tennis and had nothing to do with walking out in the sun with a woman. He was dreadfully old fashioned even for then!

The two of them set out for their walk, to the beach and aiming to walk along the sand that was still firm from the waters of the retreating sea.

“You know, Peter,” she said, smiling so that the sun caught her face and lit up the golden flowing strands of her hair, “you look just the part! I think men should wear shorts all the time!”

“What?” he shuddered, “even in winter?”

“Why not?” she asked him, I wear dresses and skirts in winter.”

“And tights,” he pointed out.

“Why can’t you start a new fashion: men wearing tights? Colourful ones? That would set the sort of trend I’d like to see.”

He shuddered. “I guess I was cast in an old mould,” he said thoughtfully. “I like all the old fashioned standards. No sex before marriage, men wearing the right kind of clothes, that sort of thing.”

Rosie stared at him. This was a side of him he’d never confessed to before.

“Times and fashions change,” she said. “Sex before marriage is okay if contraception is one hundred percent reliable. But its your trade that encourages the remorseless march of fashion! Or people would buy a lot fewer clothes, making last year’s styles last for longer and longer until they wore out.”

“Touché,” he grinned, “so I’ll wear these shorts with pleasure, as long as you think they’re okay.”

And she did.

“Come on: show me how fast you can run!” she coaxed him, trotting a few steps in front of him.

“What? At my age?”

“Why not? You’re not old yet!”

And he proved that he wasn’t and ran until he found himself doubled up and breathless with her giggling just behind him.

They returned to the caravan in time for cold drinks at eleven o’clock. He had two folding camp chairs that he set up outside the caravan and they both enjoyed the heat from the sun as they slowly sipped their refreshments.

It was that evening that the holiday took a more interesting turn. There was the village pub where holiday makers usually ended up., the Trawler’s Arms, and we made their way there. Not walking side by side or anything formal like that, but arm in arm like lovers do. And then, later, when we returned to the caravan, slightly more talkative and giggly as a consequence of the modest amount of alcohol we’d imbibed. I remember it so well: the feeling that all’s right with the world and that we, ourselves, were in charge of ourselves.

“Peter,” murmured Rosie when they were sitting in the last orange rays of sunlight on the folding chairs.

“Yes?” he asked, still in his shorts, and, to Rosie’s eyes, looking remarkably handsome.

“You remember what you said about being old fashioned? About not having sex before marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’re not getting married. I shouldn’t think you’ll ever replace your Mary and I’m saving myself for Roy…”

“And?”

“And I’ve never had sex with anyone…” It was a big confession, one that made Rosie feel shy, almost odd, when she thought it let alone came out with it in words.

“Yes?” he murmured.

“I was wondering. I mean, I’ve always been a big of an innocent. An ignorant innocent at that… could you explain to me about it?”

“Rosie! What would Mary say?”

“She’d probably turn and look the other way and try not to let anything spoil the love you had with her.” Rosie frowned as she spoke, wishing she’d never asked the question.

“Yes,” he whispered, “but she wouldn’t. She’d look at me, take off her panties and say ‘don’t you dare, Peter, you’re mine’.”

“She would?”

“Yes. And, you know, I wouldn’t dare, because I was hers…”

© Peter Rogerson o4.04.21

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