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    Losing It
    Losing It
    Losing It
    Ebook169 pages1 hour

    Losing It

    By Bolt Ranjit and Roddy Maude-Roxby

    2.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Written in rhyming couplets 'Losing It' is the story of Lucy, a luscious young virgin who goes to London to try losing her virginity.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMuswell Press
    Release dateNov 23, 2011
    ISBN9780957213678
    Losing It

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      Book preview

      Losing It - Bolt Ranjit

      RANJIT BOLT

      Losing It A Novel In Verse

      ILLUSTRATIONS BY RODDY MAUDE–ROXBY

      In Memoriam, Sydney Bolt

      1920-2012

      Contents

      Title Page

      Dedication

      ONE

      TWO

      THREE

      FOUR

      FIVE

      SIX

      SEVEN

      EIGHT

      NINE

      TEN

      ELEVEN

      TWELVE

      About the Author

      Copyright

      ONE

      I thought I’d start by bringing in

      My beautiful young heroine –

      Lucy, as lovely as the day

      Is long, or almost, anyway.

      And yet, for all her loveliness,

      She had to suffer the distress,

      With twenty less than two years off,

      Of being the mock, the jeer, the scoff

      Of all her friends and peers, because,

      Not mincing words with you, she was,

      At eighteen – don’t be shocked at this –

      As virginal as Artemis!

      And whereas, long ago, Lord knows –

      In Homer’s time, or Cicero’s

      Or many ages I could name,

      So far from being a cause of shame,

      Such purity was highly prized,

      Virginity being recognised

      As a most honourable state,

      Today a girl must get a mate,

      And if she lets the time slip by

      Without one, people wonder why,

      The taunts and brickbats start to fly.

      In these lewd times, virginity

      Is practically a stigma we

      Wear more reluctantly each day

      After the age of – sixteen, say.

      Instinctively, young Lucy knew

      A pretty-boy would scarcely do –

      She snubbed them time and time again –

      She must have someone with a brain.

      She was, herself, no quarter-wit

      (In fact, the total opposite)

      And would prefer a clever fellow,

      Be he as plain as straw is yellow,

      To someone dull, or dim, or dumb,

      Although as handsome as they come.

      How right she was! There’s nothing worse

      Than being unable to converse

      On equal terms with someone who

      You’ve picked to share a bed with you.

      It breaks your heart when, after all

      The night’s cavorting, they let fall,

      Over the eggs, or muesli, stray

      Remarks, opinions, that betray

      A total want of intellect –

      Romantic fantasies are wrecked

      And, as the grisly meal drags on,

      You’re praying for them to be gone.

      She’d had, for three years now, or more,

      Good-looking morons by the score

      Pursuing her – they were a bore.

      But, strange to say, she hadn’t met

      A bright boy she could fancy yet.

      Some had been ugly and not quite

      Proportionately erudite,

      While others looked quite cute, and were

      Smart – but not smart enough for her.

      The search was profitless and long.

      Sometimes she almost got it wrong –

      Thought she had found the perfect person

      In fact could not have picked a worse one

      Was ready to perform the act,

      Or nearly, but escaped intact.

      And so, as three years came and went,

      She’d stayed in her predicament,

      Just like a sweet, unwritten tune

      That hoped to be composed quite soon.

      Virginity, my curse on you!

      What dire lengths I was driven to

      To shake you off in my own youth!

      You drove me mad, and that’s the truth!

      And then it happened, quite by chance

      All gone were shame, and ignorance

      As, man instead of bashful boy,

      Heart flooded with conceit and joy,

      I ran round Oxford screaming out

      The news, lest there be any doubt,

      Dismaying friends, naming the girl,

      And startling tourists in the Turl.

      As spots to get deflowered in go

      London’s the likeliest one I know

      And there it was that Lucy hied.

      Her great-aunt happened to reside

      Near Hampstead Heath, and she had said

      That Lucy could have board and bed

      For just as long as she might need

      To do the necessary deed.

      Her parents worried, but agreed

      (If they had tried to thwart her aim

      She would have set off all the same)

      But yes, they fretted. Who would not?

      Lucy in London – that fleshpot!

      That hydra, readying its maw

      To swallow their sweet daughter raw!

      And was she raw! – completely green –

      Despite being nubile, and nineteen,

      And born in an anarchic age

      When teenage pregnancy’s the rage.

      Her friends were all ahead of her

      And that was the most poignant spur

      To Lucy’s urgent quest: peer groups,

      While best shrugged off as nincompoops,

      Are never easily dismissed –

      It takes real gumption to resist

      The constant pleasure they apply.

      Her parents knew this, which was why

      They didn’t stand in Lucy’s way

      Though they were deeply troubled, nay

      Distraught.

      Within a day or two

      A cab climbed Fitzjohn’s Avenue

      With Lucy in the back. "So this

      Is it! The great metropolis!"

      She murmured. "I’ve a shrewd idea

      I’m going to rather like it here."

      Mind you, the place she’d picked to live

      Was hardly representative:

      Hampstead, which roosts high up above

      The city, like a Georgian dove,

      With more quaint nooks and strange dead ends

      Than teenage girls have Facebook friends.

      Its narrow, ancient streets, its squares,

      Bankers’ retreats and luvvies’ lairs,

      Many regard as rather twee

      While still allowing this to be

      A beautiful and charming spot.

      "Was it Well Road, then, luv, or what?

      Coz if it was, we’re bleedin’ ‘ere,"

      The cabbie growled, then gave a leer,

      For all he’d had a rotten day,

      And added: "You care now, eh?

      There’s lotsa dodgy blokes out there."

      Then gawped as he discharged his fare,

      For he, if anyone, would know

      That figures such as hers don’t grow

      On trees. He watched this living ray

      Of vernal sunshine walk away,

      In his wing mirror for a while,

      The day’s best looker, by a mile.

      Her aunt’s house was a Gothic pile

      Close, as I said, to Hampstead Heath.

      It made beholders catch their breath,

      If they had any taste at all,

      For it was cut out to appal,

      Quite perfect in its hideousness

      You’d shy away from it, unless

      You are the type that can enthuse

      About redundant curlicues,

      Arches that make no visual sense

      And other such embellishments,

      Which covered it, and which belong

      To the New Gothic style gone wrong.

      In short, this mansion was a mess

      (Though quite imposing, nonetheless).

      She pulled the bell-pull, and a weird,

      Lugubrious butler soon appeared,

      Got up in garb of dismal black

      More suited to a century back

      Than any menial of today.

      His manner suited his array –

      Silent, and solemn as the tomb,

      He ushered Lucy to her room.

      Dinner will be at eight, said he,

      Then turned about decrepitly

      And slowly sidled off.

      "Queer sort!

      Quite scary house, too," Lucy thought,

      "I wonder if I’ve boobed? Ah well,

      Stay positive – too soon to tell –

      You pull yourself together, girl –

      We’re damned well giving this a whirl!"

      By chivvying herself this way

      She kept anxiety at bay

      Till it was suddenly dispelled

      When, wafting through the house, she smelled

      The marvellous, savoury yet sweet

      Aroma of some roasting meat

      And fear gave way to appetite.

      At table they were three that night -

      Unless you count the jet black cat

      That, through the evening, mutely sat

      On Aunt Alicia’s ancient knee.

      So here you are, my dear! cried she

      Lolling, contented, in her chair

      And smiling with a wicked air.

      She wrapped her great black woollen shawl

      About her, and tipped back the tall,

      Black, pointed hat upon her head

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