1997… I was 14 at the time. Fourteen, impressionable and, as it would turn out, easily aroused.
I still remember it as if it was only yesterday: we went to see Austin Powers in the cinema. Now, that would’ve been awesome enough — I was 14, watching a ’15′ rated film! — but to top it off, I had a girl with me. Yeah! Somehow… somehow I had managed to get a girl to go with me to the cinema. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the first ever date that the pubescent hairy-upper-lipped Sebby went on (girls wouldn’t call me Sebastian until a few years later… I grew into it).
Don’t get excited yet though! You know I didn’t kiss a girl until I was 18. This story isn’t about how I shoved my tongue down some poor, unsuspecting girl’s throat at the back of the cinema. This isn’t going to explain why I have a ‘thing’ for doing it in public places.
[For more Too Much Information this Thursday, hit up Lilu's blog!]
No, this is a story about how Austin Powers has cauterised permanent scar tissue on both my psyche and sex life. Today, 12 years later, I am still haunted by Austin’s dorky, gawpy, toothy smile.
Austin… and his shawn scrotum.
Austin… and his sharks with frickin’ lasers.
Austin… and his orange sherrr-bert.
Oh Austin, you were such a hoot! The date was going well. We were both laughing. We were both turning to each other at the improbably disgusting bits and making faces. I had successfully yawned-and-put-my-arm-around the girl. This was it. This was going to be it!
To fully understand my apprehension, my nervousness, you have to appreciate that by this time, almost all of my friends had already had a girlfriend. I was always the one that sat in the corner while the others played Spin the Bottle (why would it always land between two people and point towards me in the corner?!), or the Closet Game (did other people play that game, by the way, or just us?) So… this was progress. My arm around a girl. I remember telling my mum all about it later that night… I was so proud…
Anyway… it was all going so well… but then…
From the moment those sexy, sultry, clad-all-in-pinky Fembots strutted onto the screen, I knew why the film had a 15-rating. I knew, in a pulse-quickening, pant-warming and rod-thickening moment that I was about to have one of the most embarrassing moments of my teenage life. I looked down. Hello there, little Seb… I gulped. I shut my eyes. I dare say I even prayed a little.
To this day, I don’t know why she did what she did next.
Maybe it was just an accident.
Perhaps, looking back, she really did like me.
Stephanie reached down between my legs and… grabbed. I don’t want to make it sound more romantic than it actually was: there was no gentility, no caution, no preamble. She just grabbed. A little too firmly, if I may say so myself. I yelped. I squirmed. I moaned. I was just about to blow my loa–
‘Baseball, cold showers, baseball, cold showers.’
I looked up at the big screen. Austin had come(!) to my rescue!
I bit my lip and tensed, fighting the overwhelming urge to make a mess of my pants. Women can be so cruel. And then Austin went one step too far.
‘Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day! Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!’
Yup… thanks Austin.
With the mental image of Britain’s greatest and most ruthless female emperor firmly burnt into my retinas my teenage stiffy rapidly dissipated. Stephanie, rather understandably given the circumstances, asked if she’d done something wrong.
‘No… no… it’s not you… it’s me.‘
I wish this story ended there, a little parcel of teenage embarrassment, neatly tied up and stored away… but it doesn’t.
To this day, whenever I’m getting it on with a girl, and usually when I’m approaching the sticky love-cave from behind, I see Maggie’s face. She turns to look at me, her grinning, square-jawed, chisel-cheeked rictus beaming at me, lust sparkling in her eyes, do me, baby, do me, Sebby. Just for a moment — the tiniest split of a second — I’m screwing an on-all-fours Margaret Thatcher.
So if you’ve ever been lucky enough to be on the receiving end in my bedroom, boys and girls, and I suddenly yelp, retract my scope and curl up in a ball by the end of the bed… it’s not you, it’s me; me and my damned imagination. God damn you, Austin Powers, International Man Of Mystery And Spoiler Of All Future Sexual Encounters, God-damn.