Leslie.
“I’m breaking up with you. I have never been so humiliated in my life.”
For a brief while I dated a woman with the wonderful name of Leslie Goldinger. Leslie was notable for having an amazing figure with boobs so large she often looked as if she was about to tip over. Every so often, in our short relationship she would allow me to touch them. For a hormone filled sixteen year old, this was a gift from the gods.
A good friend of mine was named Charles. He came from a wealthy middle-class family and rebelled at an early age. (He ended up a professor of labor relations at Glasgow University and a staunch member of the Communist party). Charles was into counter-culture and introduced me to Bob Dylan in the early sixties, years before he became popular in the UK. He also started wearing blue jeans and encouraged me to buy a pair. In the early sixties in Glasgow, the only people wearing blue jeans were plumbers, handymen, and factory workers. I was intrigued and bought my first pair. That day, Leslie and I were invited to a party locally. We arranged to meet there. I turned up in my new jeans and this caused a commotion. The other guests, narrow minded copies of their snobbish parents, started sniggering and making comments about me coming to fix the pipes etc. They didn’t bother me but Leslie was aghast and refused to talk to me. This was upsetting as I felt I was making headway in the boob area. The next day came the phone call severing us forever.
“I’m breaking up with you. I have never been so humiliated in my life. How could you wear those, those… horrible things? Goodbye.”
A few years later I came across a copy of Mayfair magazine. Mayfair was a tawdry, English version of Playboy magazine. Resplendent on the inside was a series of photos of Leslie, naked, displaying these amazing boobs for the entire world to see.
Davida.
Davida was a friend of my mother’s. My mother had known Davida when she was a child and had maintained a friendship with her. She was about 10 years younger than my mum and about 15 years older than me. She would visit from time to time and one day, when I was about nineteen, we started to flirt with each other. As luck would have it, Davida needed a ride home and I eagerly volunteered. This started a brief affair, which was enhanced by the danger of being caught by her husband or my mother. We’d occasionally meet for a tryst, either in a hotel or her house when her husband was at work. She didn’t have a phone so communication was spotty and I would turn up praying her husband wouldn’t be at home. One day, my prayers went unanswered and after ringing the doorbell, her husband opened the door. I had anticipated this eventuality and had concocted a story about being in the neighborhood and that my mother had asked me to say hello on her behalf. He listened to my lie and obviously didn’t believe a word. I’m pretty sure he was about to punch me when Davida appeared at the door, thanked me for the visit and said she would soon contact my mother. Her husband was turning red as he slammed the door in my face. As I retreated, I could hear him yelling at her.
She never again came to call. My mother, who had this freakish sixth-sense, suspected I had something to do with her absence and frequently grilled me about her. I never told her the truth.
Ying Lin.
My mother had a Jewish cousin in London who married a Chinese man; in the nineteen forties inter-racial marrying was a strict no-no and no one on either side was happy. Nevertheless she had a good marriage and raised two fine children, a boy and a girl named Ying Lin.
Aunt Sophie was fat and her husband was skinny. My mother once asked about this and Sophie told her that being fat in London Chinese society was considered lucky and often friends of her husband would touch her for good luck.
One day a letter arrived. Ying Lin would like to come up to Scotland for a few days to visit and would we put her up? A few weeks later she appeared.
Ying Lin was beautiful. Long straight black hair, large almond shaped eyes, a winning smile, and a bubbly personality. She was about eighteen and I was twenty. We hit it off immediately and soon became lovers. She stayed in Scotland for a week and every day was full of fun and sex. She returned to London and we occasionally wrote to each other. At that time I worked for my brother-in-law and we ran a small furniture shop in Motherwell outside of Glasgow. A few months later, there was a furniture convention in London that we were both attending so I wrote Ying Lin and she agreed to meet me in the lobby of the Cumberland hotel near Marble Arch where we were staying. I shared a room with my brother-in-law but he had decided to go out to dinner that night with two friends.
That evening the lobby was full of people in the furniture business. Like hi-fi conventions, many people knew each other and hung out socially. I came down waiting for Ying Lin and after nodding hello to some friends a hush fell on the crowd as a young Asian woman entered. She was dressed in a mini skirt and a white faux-fur coat. Her hair was piled high on her head held together with black chopsticks. She was devastating and looked like she had just emerged from a fashion magazine. She stopped in front of the crowd, looked around, and then spotting me, yelled, “Hi, Roy!” She rushed over and gave me a big hug and a kiss. I looked around and all eyes were centered on her and then, with rising jealousy, me.
We sat down for a moment. We had arranged to go to eat in her father’s Chinese restaurant but as my brother-in-law was out, I suggested we go upstairs to the room before dinner. Ying Lin, bubbly as ever readily agreed.
A short while later while making love, the door opened and my brother-in-law along with his two friends entered. Unfazed, I turned round, looked at them and said,
“You’ve met Ying Lin, haven’t you?”
