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Of course I was only 21 years old, and still ignorant of the marvelous communicative webs that women could weave.“Nick! ” she bubbled, looking up at me with a radiant smile and flashing green eyes.“Ummm…yeah. I also felt a good bit of muscle tone underlying her elongated curves.” Lindy shrieked when I saw her crossing the bridge from the Metro stop at Pont Marie onto Ile St. The picturesque smaller island in the river Seine was where we were staying when in Paris. I’d already noticed her flawless legs beneath her flowered skirt as she’d crossed the bridge to meet me.I resented spoiled American kids who’d taken a six-week course at Alliance Francaise and had come to the Continent for watered-down lectures in the French Alps while they experimented sexually.At least her mother might be getting something out of the trip, I thought.I’d seen Lindy once at an overnight slumber party given by my younger sister and had been very impressed by her cuteness and high energy.
Yet, she was still a young lady that I wouldn’t actively pursue, especially now.
Her name was Allison, a bright girl whom I’d respected, but who would probably never win a beauty contest, and to whom I’d responded only in a Platonic way when her eyes had twinkled at me while we’d been classmates in high school.
In 1961 she was attending an east coast women’s college and had returned home with another girl whose parents were traveling, to stay for a week – what now is called “Spring Break.” While the parents were away, of course, the girls threw a wild party.
My hell-raising high school years were a thing of personal adolescent legend, though like most youthful behavior the stories were far bigger than reality.
At base, my reckless image was a harmless projection I used to cover my innate shyness and lack of confidence.
Regardless, my teenage female classmates loved to play in my jalopy’s backseat for reasons common to many girls of that age.