Start us off on the note of sixties sex-comedy. You know the one. The kind that rings and giggles with the joy of free love. The frolicsome spree that frees beautiful women of their clothes. That’s it. Now love is funny and easy, don’t you see? Now women’s bare, slender bodies are there for us all. You don’t have to hide them away anymore.
Isn’t it funny to think of a boy sexually assaulted? It’s a regular riot, isn’t it? By a fat, hungry woman getting off on a footballer fantasy, no less. A creation of her own. Women don’t even need anything to get there, you know. They’ll pay you just for going along with the gag. Giggle at the struggle. Go on, it’s all right.
Now let’s slide into tender, thrilling, coming-of-age territory, yeah? A boy’s first time. First time with a beautiful red-head. All splashy flirtation, towel-snapping delight, a world where sex has no cost or consequence. We can pretend. Don’t forget to dream. The dream makes the woman. Gives her a place to live.
Heartbreak lives here, too. Our first hopes are the fullest and crushed the hardest. That mystery of how a cherub-faced boy becomes a scoundrel. Sweet, innocent violence. Yes, you remember. That loaded chamber full of blood, full of love.
The moment’s gone too fast. Splashed away to be refilled for the day’s next swimmers. Legs close. Tide goes. It’s too fast to be fair. It’s too fast and slippery for desire so pummeling. Desire you’ve been gnawing the days away with. Desire you’ve been pouring a hot, wet mold of adulthood into.
Swooning, accidental love. Cold-crushed, consuming love. The tender beginning has the shortest insect lifespan and yet, stays a lifelong smear. What a life, what a dream.