Carnal College: Sex, Thighs and Fiddly Dates

Bob Morrissey

While thinking of former “lovers” recently, it occurred to me that both influenced me more by what they said than what they did.

The first was a young nurse who worked at one of the busiest hospitals in downtown Montreal. A friend gave me her phone number and after a quick chat she agreed to meet me inside the Montreal Press Club following a late-night shift.

“How will I recognize you?” I asked.

“I’ll be wearing a short miniskirt.”

“Not for long,” I tittered, under my breath. Then the journalist in me took over. “You realize that ‘short miniskirt’ is redundant, right?”

What followed was a pregnant pause looking for an abortion.

Then she said, “Did you just say what I think you said?”

“No, it really is. You know? ‘Short-mini.’ They’re the same thing.”

“Not that!” she fired back. You’d think someone had just asked her to change another diaper. Nights are hectic in the geriatric ward.

“I mean about the miniskirt. The ‘not for long’ part.”

“I guess I didn’t make myself clear. I said ‘not TOO long.’ I meant I don’t want your miniskirt being too long … club rules.”

By now I was very uncomfortable. She was forcing me to think fast on my feet while I was sitting down. We were breaking up even before our first date. If someone asks how long we went out, do I answer: “About minus an hour?”

What was needed now was bold, dramatic action. Use the element of surprise. But don’t be vulgar. Tease her with your feminine side. Seize the moment.

“Talk dirty to me!” I whispered, seductively.

My timing was perfect.

“Fuck off!” she yelled.

“That’s a good start,” I cooed, still whispering. “Now what about your breasts, what about your fetishes? Have you ever made love on a stretcher? Have you ever taken liberties with a rectal thermometer?”

Then I remembered something I’d read in Tropic of Cancer. I asked her: “Describe your honey pot.” Just to make sure she understood what Henry Miller was referring to, I said, “It’s where you pee.”

It was working. I could hear deep breathing and moaning. Alas, it turns out she was hyperventilating.

“You don’t get it, do you?” she said, trying to catch her breath. “When I said fuck off, I meant just that. I don’t want dirty talk, I want NO talk.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just not good at phone conversations. Please don’t break our date. You won’t  be sorry.”

She relented and two nights later we met at the press club. I was on home turf. My house, my rules. Against all odds, I had managed to stay sober. I relaxed around the shuffleboard table.

We greeted each other with a kiss, even though she had a cold sore. Her miniskirt definitely met club standards. Dink Carroll and Dave Carter would have been impressed. Carter maybe too impressed.

But our relationship was doomed from the start. The second we sat down, I ordered drinks and then asked her how her night went. Big mistake.

“Fine,” she said, “although my patient died just before my shift ended.”

“That must have been awful,” I said. “What did you do?”

“She was panicking so I gave her arm a good pinch to take her mind off it.”

I was gobsmacked, even though I’m not sure know what that means.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Good,” she said. “Now get us a bowl of pretzels.”

The other memorable, unforgettable words came from a teen “lover” of 16, who had just broken off with a 20-year-old hunk. I was only 16 myself, so you can imagine how intimidated I felt.

I was so shy, I didn’t kiss Carol until our eighth date — and that was only at the urging of her mother.

Every Friday night, we’d go to our high school dance together and I’d walk her home after. Even though we’d have a great time, I’d freeze at her front door. “I’ll phone you tomorrow,” I’d quickly say, and then wheel around and head home.

But on our eighth date, just as I got to “I’ll phone you …,” the front door opened and out popped her mother.

“Do me a favour,” she said, smiling. “Please kiss Carol. Every week, she comes home from the dance crying and asks me if there’s something wrong with her because you didn’t kiss her.”

Mission accomplished — beyond my wildest dreams. We graduated from kissing, to petting and, finally, to the bedroom, where I might finally round third base. It was there where I heard the words I’ll remember forever. During torrid necking where we both got carried away, I interrupted our little lustfest by asking her, “Should we do IT?”

Carol just looked a me and said, “Do what you think’s best for both of us.”

We quickly put our clothes back on.