For some reason anytime I can trigger this level of wildly differing opinions it feels like I did something right.
Ok, for Ben:
Mmm.
Catholic girls.
Repressed.
Not that I'd touch any now in my aging years, of course.
But then, when I was 16ish, it was great.
Nothing better than finding a bubbling cauldren of repressed
sexuality, just waiting to explode.
"Don't do that!"
"Don't touch that!"
"Don't show that!"
"Don't THINK that!"
And then, of course, the pressure builds, and
build, and builds, until ...
It's not like I would wine and dine and pursue.
Totally unnecessary. Just be interested and
reasonably nice.
The slightest glance. The slightest touch. A
minor brushing of a fingertip across a inner
forarm.
The wildest escapades imaginable. Things that
Penthouse letters barely hint at.
Mmmmmm.