Notes on Spring Love: The Danger of Virgin Goggles

For those of you who are new, Ogilvy is my dearest friend from school. He is so dear to me that I would gladly throw out the word friend and call him brother. It would take aeons to list his merits but only a second to list his one demerit. Ogilvy is ridiculously unlucky in love. He often writes to me in times of need, seeking my counsel on the matters of his heart.

He first wrote to me in two summers ago complaining about his summer fling that was more summer than fling. That is to say that no flinging of any sort occurred during his summer.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/notes-on-summer-fings-lessons-from.html

He wrote me again last summer and asked for my tuition on the preparation of dodo (fried plantain) for the champion of his heart at the time.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/notes-on-summer-flings-importance-of.html

Then he emailed me in Winter and asked me to help him revive the waning affections of Coks, the Rosalie of my primary school years after he took her to see Brave. Yes, Brave, the pixar animated movie about a 16 year old girl.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/notes-on-winter-love-lessons-from-brave.html


Dear Afam,

Did I ever tell you of the story of how I lost my virginity? I know that a man calling itself a virgin is something akin to a dog calling himself a cat but you get my meaning. I don't think I told you of how I was ruined by one for all.

Gil



Dear Ogilvy,

No you did not. I was under the impression that you were thrust into the arms of piety and propriety by your apparent and unbelievable lack of anything closely resembling the thing we have all come to call game.

Love,
Afam



Dear Afam,

You wound me. My game exists purely because of the common misconception that I have no game. I may never be smooth or suave. I will probably never deliver that perverted pick up line with so much confidence that the 10 in the bar goes home with me, but I am perfectly capable of delivering 50 pick up lines so badly that she wets herself in hysterics and has no choice but to come home with me.

In spite of your hurtful remark, I'll tell you.

I met Georgie before my first semester in university was done. I awoke after a night of complete decadence and debauchery to a facebook friend request from a beauty. I added her without second thought, such was the superiority of her facial features. She reminded me of the circumstances through which we had met, which I couldn't recall because I had been completely off my face at the time.
Apparently she was standing in line talking to a friend of hers when I tapped her. She ignored me for a while then she felt my hand on the nape of her neck tucking in an errant tag. She turned in disbelief and I said, "You aren't that fit. Sometimes there's a guy in the line who's just trying to be decent. If you're going to wear a dress with the tag in it so that you can return it later, you must at least have the good sense to conceal the tag properly." After that I pulled out a pen and wrote my name on her arm.
After a fairly long and interesting facebook conversation that lasted about four days, she invited me to hers for a movie.
We sat awkwardly for about 30 minutes watching or trying to watch Youth in Revolt. You know? The one with Michael Cera. Our fingers were touching, and we kept looking at each other when we thought the other wasn't looking. I got tired of playing the game of eye contact avoidance and turned all my attention to her, that I may sieze her lips with mine the next time she looked my way. When she did our faces seemed to gravitate to each other. Soon our foreheads were touching and the distance between our lips, reducing. The first kiss was sweet and brief. It stank of innocence and good intentions. I seized her bottom lip with my lips for a second and released her.
Everything that followed could have been  from a dream, or a dream of a dream. It should have been documented my Victor Hugo or Tolstoy or Dumas. It was apparent that she was more experienced than I. She hinted at what things I should do, where I should place my lips, where I should use my tongue, what should be scratched and what should be caressed with fragility. She was my piano and I her maestro. If she did not sing, I only had to play another note. So tuned in was I to her every need.

When we were done, we lay in bed talking of life, love and the future. I thought we would get married. I thought that this would be the start of the greatest romance. I didn't know then that I had caught a severe case of the virgin goggles that because she'd stolen my first experience so cruelly, I would so pedestialize it that no other could possibly reach it. In my world there was only she. I didn't know then that she was free spirited, that she would flee from anything resembling attachment. I was damned. She only had to call, and I would fly to be with her. She didn't call often, thrice in first year, twice in Second year. I deleted her number then because I was sure that as long as I had it i would keep pining for her. She was the moon to my wolf. no amount of howling would bring her closer.

After a year without seeing or speaking, I bumped into her in uni. We once again exchanged numbers, and within a week we had rekindled whatever it is that we had had. I played her like a grand symphony. I banged some keys like they needed the pounding of Thors hammer to make even the slightest sound, and some others I played like they were so brittle that if I didn't take care I would only get to play them once. I played the piece like it would be the last time I would ever play it or hear it but even after that I'm back to where I was, glancing at my phone every 5 minutes. Checking to see if she's read that wattsapp message and wondering if she'll reply before tomorrow. I am lost. No, lost is too kind. I am damned.


Hopelessly Damned,
Gil

 
Dear Ogilvy,

Believe it or not, this actually makes sense to me. The question is what do you want from me. Within that truly sappy narrative, you made no mention of what I could help you with. I am left to assume that you either have it under control, or you are quite happy with the state of things as they are. If you are comfortable being damned, I see no reason why you shouldn't be damned. I can only save you from yourself if you want to be saved.

Afam.


Dear Afam,

I need you. You must save me. The current state of affairs is too tragic for words. It's almost as wretched as Eponine's tale. If there is anyone capable of saving me it is you.

Praying for a Hero,
Gil.


Dear Ogilvy,

It pains me to tell you that the cure for your affliction is just as bad as the affliction itself. I wish I could tell you that you would be rid of it just as quickly as you got over all the others but that would be untrue. If only you'd come to me sooner. If only you hadn't let the wound fester and rot. But not to worry, I will fix you better than fix it Felix fixes that abominable apartment building.


I saw Wreck it Ralph the other day. I wish I'd done something more interesting, like lie naked in the cold and snapped off my toes as they blackened from frost bite.

I know that it would be nice to think about those 2.4 children, and that white picket fence but she is not the one, she will never be the one. However because you are surely constructing sonnets of love to her as we speak you'll probably ignore this golden nugget of advice. Instead I will give you the means to dominate and tame this nasty specimen of woman.

You're sadly unsuited for the specimen you described because you are too nice. To her your niceness is a price on her head. a price that she doesn't think that she is worth. As a result you must treat her as she treats herself. You must be wicked to her. Every word you send to her must be filled with hate and pain and vitriol. You must degrade her at any and every opportunity. To save yourself you must be a Villain.

Then you must show her your love by accompanying her everywhere she goes and waiting outside buildings for her. Only by showing her the full measure of your affection and angst will you be free of all the pain that she causes you daily.

Soldier On,
Afam.


Dear Afam,

I did as you recommended and she got a restraining order against me. Don't talk to me for a while.

Gil.




Happy Days,
Afam


ps. There really wasn't a better way to deal with it. Now Gil will be forced to move on to bigger better things or he will go to prison. As Gil is a man who is well acquainted with the advantages of self preservation, I look forward to a new email at the end of the month about a Sheila, a Leila, a Zeek or even a Sandra (God Forbid!)