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I confess that at this point part of my brain was saying, "Dump her, this is no good, it's not going to work out, we're not going to get anywhere here." But the problem was I liked Anne; she was a nice person, she was funny, she had a sparkle in her eye and I enjoyed her company. So I was prepared to forgive her, go a little slowly and maybe mount a longer campaign to get inside her clothes.
Following our next date (which again I have no recollection of), I remember when I took her home I parked on the dirt road outside the property rather than driving in, and tried to molest her there. On this occasion when we kissed she was undoubtedly more relaxed. That is until I tried to feel her tits again. Yes, she froze again. By now I had figured out what her problem might be, but how was I supposed to put it into words? "Don't worry, I know you've got small tits but that's okay, I'm not fussy"? Even a clumsy 18 year old knows that that approach is not going to go down too well, so I did the only thing any self-respecting young guy could do, forgot about trying to get my hand up her jumper and inside her bra and put it between her legs instead. She was wearing trousers, I remember (she always wore trousers in fact, so it wasn't quite as intimate as it might have been), but to my chagrin she didn't respond any more positively - just slammed her knees shut and said she had to go inside.
Driving home that night I thought, "That's it. I've given it my best shot. I've been courteous, I've been restrained, I've been a perfect gentleman. Bugger her - she's dropped." But I couldn't get her out of my head. Even though I left it a week or two or three before I called her again, I did call her again. "Hey Anne. How about a movie?" She sounded surprised I'd called but pleased. I guess she thought I had dumped her the way other boys before me no doubt had dumped her. Now I do recall that next date. I thought the only way I could achieve my goal was to treat her with respect - or at least pretend to - and impress her with my sophistication and generosity. So I took her to a restaurant I knew of in the district. I'd never been there but my older brother recommended it. It was a curry house run by a genuine Jamaican. Now the only problem with tat was this genuine Jamaican gent served up genuine Jamaican hot curries, which meant Anne and I sat there eating lamb so hot we had to drink about a litre of water each. But she saw the funny side of that, and I found myself liking her even more. God, if only she was a C cup!
Anyhow, when I drove her home that night and pulled up in the road outside her property she said, "Drive on up to the house. Come in for a coffee." I thought "You beauty - I'm in here." The house was dark, her parents, it transpired, were away for the night. We had the place to ourselves. Now Anne was nervous, there's no question of that, but also determined. There was something resolute about her. Thinking back now I suspect she had decided that if I was going to persevere with her, then she needed to give me some sort of encouragement in return - and she had a pretty good idea how to achieve that.
While she made us coffee I wandered around that huge house - so unlike my own - marvelling at the furnishings and wondering just how much money her old man made in a year.