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12M

6

That Guy Thing

By

John French

 

Synopsis

An autobiographical self-help book sees the author blunder through the myriad problems in men’s lives as he goes from boy to man and back again. Through the years, we take a light-hearted look at, virginity and how not to lose it. Long-term girlfriends and how to avoid them. Platonic relationships - liar, liar, pants on fire! Finding Miss Right, only to find you were oh so very wrong and careers - how to work your way up the corporate ladder, then land on the corporate snake and slide back to the start.

     The author is everyman and for every man who didn’t see the hairpin bend in the learning curve and can’t find a solution to one of life‘s problems, this book’s message is - saddle up pilgrim and take a ride through the pages. You were not so alone after all.

 

Sample

I don’t want to go in. I do not want to go in and did I say I didn’t want to go in? Sitting there outside the hospital, I could feel it all slipping away - self-respect, dignity, even the last vestiges of masculinity. Ahead of me was the appointment with the consultant, who’d be boldly going where no man had gone before if you get my drift. So I’d put on a leather jacket, grown some designer stubble and practised my hard stare, just to let him know that I was a regular guy and would not, repeat not, be enjoying the experience - if ever a prostate check can be described as an experience that is. I’d tortured myself on the rack of my imagination.

     ‘Think worse case scenario,’ I thought and imagined the scene. Trousers round my ankles and bent over the desk as though I hadn’t handed in my homework. The fat consultant’s warty fingers would be like jumbo sausages as he reached for the rubber gloves. “There may be some discomfort,” he’d say in the tone of voice that heralds the onset of agony.

‘Think worser case scenario.’ That he’d have a class of medical students tagging along and he’d invite them each in turn..?

‘Think absolute bastard of a worser than worse case scenario?’ That I’d feel not one but both his steadying hands on my shoulders as he..? Well whatever. I was still going to have to bend over and take one for the team. Understand now why I don’t want to get out of the car? Yet I had to go in. My doctor had sent me and the reason was scorched on my memory.

     The woman was beautiful, vivacious and I liked her a lot. We’d arranged to spend the day together and, after a couple of drinks, she came back to mine. There was no finesse - we both wanted it and this first time was going to be hurried. Her dress looked great on her but it looked even better on the floor. This was going to be so…

…HOUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM!

     There ought to be a special, one-time-only punctuation mark on a keyboard to express the shock and horror of the moment I realised Mr Floppy had paid me a visit. Thinking quickly, I stuck my tongue out, headed south and stayed there until the screaming stopped. I then told her that going down on her was so exciting for me that I just couldn’t hold back etc etc and idly wondered if this was the first ever case of a man faking his erection?

     In a restaurant afterwards, I let her do all the talking and just grunted in the right places. Truth to tell, my mind was elsewhere. What had gone wrong? I’d wanted her particular notch on my headboard since we’d met so it wasn’t the girl’s fault. It had never let me down in the past. I’d always risen to the challenge - cometh the hour, cometh the man so to speak. Perhaps it was stress? Well if I wasn’t stressed before, I was doing it to competition standard now. I mentally ran through a list of possible. Fatigue? Diet? Cholesterol? Hormones? Feng Shui?

     I needed advice and a trusted friend to confide in so, after threatening to burn down his house if he breathed a word, I told him what had happened.

“Why don’t you see a doctor?” (Now why didn’t I think of that?)

     I was tested to bits.

Cholesterol? Fine.

Hormones? Fine.

“Do you drink?” he’d asked.

“Not much,” I replied truthfully.

“Do you smoke?”

“Not much,” I lied, so he packed me off for a prostate check and here I was in the hospital car park, counting the minutes until the dreaded appointment. The radio was on and the opening chords of “Honky Tonk Women” by the Stones came on. I love the Stones but I was just so glad it wasn’t “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” otherwise the rain already falling on my parade would have turned to hailstone.

     As I listened, the song brought back memories - no, delete memories and insert prophetic vision, because if today was the end, then “Honky Tonk Women” was number one in July 1969, the year it all began.

     1969. Neil, Buzz and the other one were on the moon. Woodstock was on and the Stones were in the park. I was doing Colwyn Bay with the Boy’s Brigade annual camp. I had to. It was my only opportunity for a life of adventure, excitement and travel to foreign lands. Promotion had been rapid. I was a squad leader in the junior section and when I joined the seniors, enlisted in the band and rose to become solo bugler - and all before I was twelve!

     Now I was twelve and a seasoned veteran at camping. I’d done last year on the Isle of Man and many weekend trips to the Peak District, so I treated the huge tents as a home from home. That first night saw a group of us old campaigners settle in and form a clique, hoping that none of the first-timers would find themselves homesick and cry for their Mums. To take their minds off things, we’d tell ghost stories which, with hindsight, only made things worse for them.

     After a day of inter-tent competitions, tug-of-war, archery etc, we had the evenings to ourselves. Most kids went to the mess tent for communal folk singing, but Ray and I decided to explore the neighbourhood.

     We had many adventures. First we tried to climb a nearby cliff but got told off by a quarry worker. We were unimpressed. Being told off in a Welsh accent didn’t carry the same gravitas as the verbal batterings we got at home in Manchester, so we ran away giggling. Then we found ourselves on the edge of a small town - by some park gates to be exact.

     The park had little going for it. A slide, a climbing frame and a couple of swings, both occupied by girlys. As we walked toward them, I presumed we were going to tell them to get off so we could have a go, but Ray was a few months older, his hormones had kicked in and the motor was running.

     I wish I could remember the chat-up lines we’d used. I remember catching on fast that Ray wasn’t interested in the swings and, it being a guy thing so not to be found wanting, I copied his every move. When he leaned in and started snogging one of them I did the same. Her name was Rhona and I found myself in the clutches of an older woman. She was fourteen and I had to stand on tip-toe to reach. Our lips touched and it was all very nice, if a little strange and a bit scary. So we spent a pleasant hour walking around with our arms clamped around each other as though we were joined at the hip and a snog every five minutes or so. My subconscious must have registered that the grass had just been cut because the faintest smell of it brings back memories and an inner smile to this day. We arranged to meet the following evening and headed back to camp.

      The ghost stories were forgotten as the boys wanted chapter and verse. Even the homesick kids stopped crying and listened as we reported our exploits. After that, there was a sharing of information on all we knew about snogging which didn’t take very long and anyway, weren’t Ray and I now the resident experts? I must have been doing it right as I learned the following facts.

You had to keep your eyes shut and it was rude to peep.

You had to hold your breath.

If her lips went clockwise, yours had to go anti-clockwise.

The harder you pressed lips the better it was.

One boy even mentioned something called French kissing that involved shoving your tongue in her mouth which sounded a bit improbable - surely you’d catch germs?