Many many moons ago, I was unemployed, half-heartedly part-timing at Uni, and living on the beach. I surfed every day, ate free, wholesome Hari Krsna food for lunch, and that was about it really.
Needless to say, I was very pretty 
And like most pretty young things there wasn’t a lot going on upstairs, other than, boobies.
Somtimes food, but mostly boobies.
One day, I was paddling in from a session at my local break, possibly saying ‘dude’, when I noticed long, honey coloured hair flopping about next to a mini-malibu. ‘Hello, I thought, boobies!’. I paddled over, saw a young girl about my age trying to get into shore and not quite making it, and did what any hot blooded man would do in that situation, and offered her a tow in holding my legrope.
“Tank, you, you ‘ave saved moi liff’, said the lovely young lass, with a French accent that drove pretty much all thought, what little there was in there, out.
‘I am Zaza, and you vill neffer see my pussy, but here ees my number, you mus’ scratch eet in your wax’, she continued.
And so began some of the more confusing months of my life. Zaza, true to her word, never let me play with her ladyparts- just as well in retrospect as I had actually very little experience with them at that point. It would have been disappointing.
But she did insist on teaching me to kiss, and sleeping draped over me whenever she stayed over, and once loosening a tooth when I accidentally touched something naughty when I snuggled back. She was extremely vocal about my lack of conversation about other things than surf, and demanded I be more interesting, which I dutifully complied, reading obscure philosophies (Sartre, not that obscure really) so I knew what the hell she was going on about half the time, as she rambled on about her degree in another city she was doing part time.
I was smitten, and a little frightened of this emotionally violent and confusing, yet oddly satisfying relationship, and I wanted it to continue forever.
And then, one day, I called her house, and she had gone. The shared house I was in dissolved that week, and this was before mobile phones, and even the Internet (the Internet was there, but emails were not widely available. I used a Telnet session to access Pine on the University servers! If you know what I just talked about, feel old) was not as useful as it is now for stalking tracking those you love and have lost.
I pined for a good year. And, slowly, by degrees, I got over it. I concentrated on my Uni, met other less entertaining women, some of which even let me see thier pussies, and eventually filed it as one of those experiences that have no explanation, but will always be there as a cherished memory.
(wavy lines) 15 years later, she turns up on Facebook.
And now I can’t think.
