Going Grey at Eighteen

Seeing how I had only reached puberty at seventeen and three quarters, when Paula Gilmore had pendulous breasts at 9 and a half, which swung and collided, flapping loudly during gym class. Those were the days before training bras. She was a freak of nature as far as I was concerned, but boys loved her. And that’s why I prayed every night that she might die an untimely dead, in a particularly gruesome way, mind you, and then I would that I may rise victorious, receiving the gold metal on the Middle podium, when they handed out the award called puberty.

So, seeing the fist grey hairs on Feb 9th, 2001, only one day before It circled on the calendar. On this day, February 10th, 2001 I will loose my virginity. I was panic stricken.

OK, so maybe screwing a taxi driver, for a fare reduction, in a lay by on the A-64 wasn’t the most romantic of places to progress toward adulthood, but really who’s to judge. When I put my mind to something, it will happen, I tell you.

My solicitor still refers to it as, the incident. But it was much more than that. It was love.

No Valarie, that wasn’t love.

Plying an elderly man with whiskey and amphetamines, zapping him with a stun gun and pistol whipping him until he gave in and had sex with you, that’s not love.
I was always careful, when soliciting taxi drivers. I would discretely photograph their licence which was clipped to his visor. His name was Fred Venabules. I folded and refolded his photo, in my left hand, to calm my nerves as I sat on the witness stand.

Lucky him. He was my first. I was his last.

But, Valarie, you’ve still never told me why you bludgeoned him and threw him in the swamp.

Because, sir, I was afraid he’d see my grey hair. Don’t you understand how horrible that must have been for me.

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