Defying Customs

If you come to Quebec City, you are bound to see priests walking around in their black gowns, a dignified figure of moral righteousness and hidden lust. Heavens look bright above the St. Lawrence River on a Saturday afternoon with scattered clouds.It?s early April, not the time for flocking tourists yet. People are out and about, enjoying some time off with their loved ones or attending to some errands. People are wearing greatcoats with hats as the weather is still rather cold. Chromed cars from Buick, Chevrolet, Ford, Packard, Studebaker, etc., keep passing by on Grande Allée.Children wearing skirts are finding spots on the asphalt where to play hopscotch, while the ones wearing dungarees are out with their toy revolvers and arguing over who?s going to play the sheriff. Two cops are patrolling afoot down the avenue, smiling in the sunshine under their peaked caps. Unlike policemen from England, these cops carry guns, real guns from Smith I don?t even have my driver?s licence yet. The most popular colours for cars are black, cream yellow and mint green. They all have white-walled tires, except for the 1951 models that sport all-black tires because of shortages due to the Korean War.I work as a caddie at the local golf club during the warmer months; I am proudly wearing the suit I have bought with my own savings. Sadly, the cold weather compels me to wear it under a raincoat. I?m also wearing a brown fedora hat that matches my necktie, a chocolate-brown tie adorned with three diamond shapes of a pearly beige-like colour called ?sand dust?. What?s more, I have carefully waxed my brown leather shoes. I?m shy with girls, but I keep hoping to find my first date, hopefully a steady date and a pretty one.The newspapers are announcing the seventh and final game of the Stanley Cup semi-finals between the Montreal Canadiens and the Chicago Blackhawks; the game is to be played at the Montreal Forum next Tuesday. The Boston Bruins are playing the mighty Red Wings and Gordie Howe tonight. Boston leads three games to two in the best-of-seven series. Some say Detroit will bounce back; I think Boston is going to win tonight; they?re as tough as nails. I actually have a two-dollar bet running on that game with a neighbour?s son who has a pretty sister. I?m not the betting type; I did it out of bravado in order to impress the said sister, a pretty brunette about my age.This year?s regular season has seen a big change in the hockey game?television coverage. The first television broadcast in Canada of an NHL game occurred on 11 October 1952. It was a French-language broadcast of a game between the Montreal Canadiens and the Detroit Red Wings with the Canadiens winning two to one. Billy Reay scored the winning goal during a power play in the third period. Maurice Richard picked up an assist on the Canadiens? first goal during the second period. He picked a fight with Gordie Howe later in that same period.I didn?t see that game since my parents don?t own a television set. We listen to all the games on the radio set in the living room, with my mother knitting, my father quietly sipping a cup of coffee and me thinking about the pretty neighbour?s daughter. We live on Père-Marquette Street, near Avenue des Braves and within walking distance of the Plaines d?Abraham.I love going to the Plaines d?Abraham for a stroll, especially in the quiet times of the year when there are few tourists. Oftentimes, I bring a book and do some reading on a park bench, overlooked by maples, ashes and spruces under a heavenly sky with clouds galore. Sometimes, I bring some peanuts and bread crumbs for pigeons and squirrels.I love reading a good book under the sky, with the wind caressing my clean-shaven cheeks. Quebec City is quite windy. I often need to hold my fedora as I walk down the street, especially when getting closer to St. Lawrence River.I love Latin; there is something unfathomable in the act of getting lost in the words of long-dead writers. I especially love these writings when they involve love with beautiful girls. I?m a schoolmaster in the making. Life in the clergy doesn?t appeal to me; I like girls too much to sacrifice my love life to the Catholic Church. Thankfully, I?m my father?s only son.I?m curious about girls. I never had a girlfriend; it?s beginning to get on my nerves since I?m already sixteen. I like watching women as they go by in their long dresses, neatly wearing their small, round hats, their seasonable coats and there small gloves that cover their lovely hands?they are so delicate!I always take a look at their lower legs and ooh... their feet as they walk by me, usually wearing stockings and low-heel shoes. The grown women are nearly always on low-heel shoes, while girls my age wear saddle shoes or penny loafers. Shoes come in three colours?black, brown or white. The white is usually the white part of black-saddle shoes; full-white shoes are for the summer.I love a girl?s Ataşehir Escort feet. I worship them! In summertime, I make sure to stop near the pool and watch women?s feet. When I draw girls in my secret papers, they are always barefoot.I often close my eyes and wonder what kissing a girl would feel like.On the evening of my sixteenth birthday, as I was helping my elder sister in washing the dishes, I got a bit close and took a whiff of her hair scent. Her warm chestnut brown, with stylish twirls that ran down to her shoulders, was fascinating to watch; I loved the scent... So girly!?Hey, cut it off!? my big sister said, pushing me away, which required some straining on her part since she was a five-foot-three-inch girl trying to push her six-foot-one-inch ?little? brother.?You should be ashamed! Get yourself a girlfriend, little brother!? she snarled.?I?m sorry, Suzanne. I... I was just c... curious...? I blurted. She dropped the towel and left me alone with the unfinished dishwashing. I stoically accepted my punishment, alone with the curvy, white refrigerator.That scent of hers! Vanilla, a touch of nutmeg and some fresh flowers... Gee!I did not mean to make sexual advances to my own sister; that would be gross and amoral. I simply felt curious.My sister won?t introduce me to her friends. They?re all three or four years my senior. She?s already a young woman; she got a job only two months ago, working for the police Records the lad she went to the prom with turned out a sneaky alligator. She still got time; she?s turning twenty next June.To my sister?s friends, I?m just a kid they won?t date. Yet, one of them seems to like me; her blue eyes often linger a split-second longer on me whenever we interact, however briefly. She has chestnut hair, very much like my sister?s and I bet she smells just as fresh and dandy, with the small difference that she is not my sister.Dating a younger fellow is just something a respectable girl won?t do. I know, I know, I should pick some high-school girl and ask her for a date, but why not date an older girl? I think this is just another one of those stupid social customs that get in the way of love.Right now, I?m sitting on a park bench on that splendid Saturday afternoon; the sky offers gorgeous cloudscapes with a light breeze, although it?s a bit chilly. There are still remnants of snow under the shadows, under thickets of trees, in the backyards, etc. Winter lingers long in Quebec City.At the dead centre of the park stands a large equestrian statue of Joan of Arc. During summer, that park is lush with colourful flowers and bustling with tourists.?Hello, nice lad! May I sit on that bench? The other seats seem to be taken...?My head turns toward that soprano voice from heaven, only to be transfixed from beholding the most attractive woman I?ve ever seen!She?s wearing a small felt hat, of a sophisticated golden brown, over cascades of raven hair, medium in length, encasing the face of a femme fatale, with soft features that are too mature to belong to a teenage girl, an effect that is reinforced by her make-up and the typical dark rouge she?s wearing. Her neatly defined eyebrows strike me as enhancing the richness of her medium-fair complexion. These dark eyebrows make me wonder whether she has an equally neat carpet of darkness down between her legs; I feel my manhood come alive.There?s a vacant bench right beside mine.I stand up, drop my book, and blurt some nonsensical words as I try to say I don?t quite understand her English.She then smiles?a killer smile to die for?and this time, she greets me in good French with a thick accent, calling me ?beau jeune homme? (handsome lad).With her white-gloved hand, she picks up my book; as she bends over, even though she?s wearing a burgundy greatcoat, I can?t help but look at her curves and try to imagine how gorgeous her nakedness must be. She isn?t tall; I think she?s a bit shorter than my sister, perhaps five-one or five-two.She gracefully hands me my book as we sit together. I can?t move or speak. My eyes are lost in her black hair; I?m too shy to look into her eyes, so my gaze gets busy in the sleek shadows of her hair?I love a dark-haired woman. I just so strongly love them!?You read Vergil? In Latin? That?s interesting...? she says, in her thickly accented French that has a definite British swing to it. She seems quite amused by my gaping expression. I?m trying to guess her age; she?s definitely at least twenty-five years old. Her features are pristine and heavenly soft, but they display the maturity of a young woman whose teenage days are well behind her.She introduces herself...?Je suis, Elizabeth. Et vous, comment, vous, appellez-vous?? (I am Elizabeth. And you, sir, what is your name?)I summon some of my senses back and return the favour by answering in English, thickly accented with my Canadian French...?I am, Gaston. Uh, enchanté... Happy Ataşehir Escort Bayan getting to know, uh, you... That is, I say, lovely feet, uh, I mean, nice weather today, uh, gentle breeze and all... Yes, I?m Gast...??Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! ...?She laughs, and really laughs, but not in a mocking way; she seems to find my state of confusion quite entertaining to watch. By now, she?s probably aware of how young I am, and if she does, then my suit is cold and my game is up. There?s no way such a glamorous woman would get romantically involved with a boy who just turned sixteen.Then, she positively electrifies my entire being by resting her little hand on my forearm. In that simple gesture, this woman from the United Kingdom just crossed the ocean of social distance and conventions that were separating us. From the way she looks and smiles at me, I feel that what seems impossible is suddenly entering the realm of possibilities.?Oh, Gaston...? she whispers, her face getting unseasonably close to mine, ?you must not think that I?m making fun of you; it?s just that... how can I say it? It?s just that your genuine look of innocence, and your youth, ooh, your youth! It?s all so refreshing, as opposed to those suitors who keep sending me cards and flowers, invitations to fancy restaurants, etc. They?re all alike! All they think of is only one thing! And even a youngster like you knows what it is they want.?There is some weird heat and passion in the way she says, ?Your youth.? She speaks about my teenage youth as if it were some magic talisman that was the key to the most sacred of all treasures.?Are... Aren?t you married? Nice ring by the way...? I ask, hesitatingly.?Ha! Ha! Ha! No, I?ve been too busy these last fifteen years to get married. I?m an actress; yes, but let it be our secret, just between you and me... I?m a film actress. Oh, you never saw me in motion pictures here, for I only play in British B-movies, but I love to play! (She gives me another killer smile; her gloved hand is still resting on the sleeve of my raincoat.) This ring... this is only a shield; something I wear to avoid being constantly harassed by would-be lovers. I can handle myself, but they get quite annoying at times. By the way, how old are you, my dear lad??Her tone is getting surprisingly familiar and her dark, sparkly eyes never leave mine while her dainty hand stays on my forearm. Again, there?s that same mystic passion in her voice when she says, ?My dear lad?.?Well, Ma?am, you, you see how tall I am, and I... I...? I hesitate, in great fear of seeing her lose her interest in me upon learning how young I am. I love the sight and feel of her as she looks intensely into my eyes, her pristine face inches from mine as her hand lingers on my forearm.?Come on, handsome!? she says with a playful smile, her eyes all lighted up as if she were a little girl entering a candy store. ?Come on, don?t be shy! Here, Gaston, let me tell you a little secret about your Elizabeth...?She then positively terrifies me as her mouth softly reaches close to me and I find myself hoping and fearing that she?s going to kiss me and smear her rouge on my lips, but she?s only reaching for my ear, and then she whispers these words, very softly, her sensual voice like a gentle wind of May caressing a field of dandelions...?I?m almost thirty-two years old, and I love a well-built teenage lad! You... You may hold my hands, Gaston; I?d like this very much...?I do just that. With my trembling hands, I hold her white-gloved hands and tenderly look into her eyes. She?s got me. Right from this moment on, I become obsessed with her, my black-magic enchantress!I feel many gazes on us. We are not alone in the park and people are noticing how inappropriately this grown-up woman is behaving with me. My age is quite apparent in spite of my suit and hat and raincoat. Some of these people know me by sight; they?ve seen me in church on Sunday.I don?t care what others think. This moment I?m sharing with her is priceless. It is pure sensuality and freedom between two descendants of Adam and Eve.Everything about her is glamorous, from the brightness of her complexion to the golden brooch adorning her dark wine-red coat, a long coat that finishes low enough to cover the upper third of her lower legs; the lower two-thirds are dark silk from heaven that I long to touch?stockings that display her dainty ankles as my gaze voraciously falls on and devours her small feet encased in her low-heel shoes, shoes as black as the spell she just cast on me.These shoes... they tease me with the all-important desire?I must see and touch her lovely little feet! Holding her feet would mean holding her entire feminine being.?Your hands... They?re... very lovely... Ma?am, this is...??Call me Elizabeth. Please, do. You have no idea how precious this moment is for me; you really have no idea...?She suddenly has longing Escort Ataşehir eyes. Some people are nearby and keep staring at us as we sit holding hands, and most notably, there?s a priest looking at us with a scandalised expression. I know he?s just about to scold her and give me an annoying sermon.Priests are usually quite arrogant and sententious. Ignoring him will not drive him off. I realise with alarm that I forgot that this is Quebec City, a God-fearing, Catholic city, and this is not New York City or Los Angeles. Normally, I would be terrified in front of the priest and his powerful authority, but I must not disappoint her! I must be a man and stand my ground!He?s already approaching us and about to open his big yapper. I must do something, and do it quickly. I scan the place and find that there is no policeman in sight. That priest is a small man; if I just walk and leave, he?ll be unable to stop me.I get up and as I do so, that bastard imposes his hand on my arm, while Elizabeth stands up by my side.?Where do you think you?re going, my son?? the little man says, using the authoritarian tone of a man used to being listened to and obeyed without question. These priests are such little tyrants!Something snaps within me. I?ve had enough of them and their sermons! They expect me to be a good man and abstain from any sexual activity until I get married, probably in several years from now. I want to enjoy life now! You only get to live this life once. I want to make it count. I want this lady to take me to her hotel room; there?s no Canadian law against it and no one is going to stop me!I do not answer and look at that little priest dead in the eyes with an expression that clearly says, ?Mind your own business, daddy-o!? As I do so, I take my glamorous companion by the hand and lead her away from the small crowd of staring people. I see that everybody is clearly in shock, especially the priest, who stays alone in his black gown near the now-empty bench.People are in shock. No one ever defies a priest. I?m lucky that no cops are nearby. They would take me to the station and right to my parents from there, and my father would then beat me up.I can?t believe I?ve done what I just did. This is an act of open rebellion!That little man wearing his priest?s gown... He was staring at Elizabeth and rather staring down at her bosom. He doesn?t follow us; I overhear him; he?s asking the onlookers if anyone among them knows me. The little rat! He?ll give them a sermon and report me to my parents, and to the college, yet he?s secretly lusting over Elizabeth and jealous.Once we?re some distance away from the park and behind some leafless maple trees, walking on an avenue that leads to Grande Allée, I stop and want to say something, but she laughs again...?Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ohh, Gaston... That priest... Did you see his face when he saw how tall you are? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! ... Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ooh, Gaston, you?re turning me into a giggling girl! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! ...??Well, Elizabeth, I think he?s jealous. Yes, I think that deep down, he would love to be holding hands with you and be the tall one. Life isn?t easy at school for a short fellow. That?s probably why he became a priest; now he?s got some power and he can think he?s important.??Yes, I know. Most girls like a tall guy. I like a tall lad; yes, a tall lad...?She speaks these last words with longing and passion in her eyes as she looks up straight into me. Her eyes are a warm brown. She?s of a deliciously average height, yes, she must be five feet two inches tall. I become bolder and my eyes start wandering a bit south on her bosom. I see she has breasts, breasts of average size that must be wonderful to see and touch, but the thick fabric of her burgundy coat shrouds her anatomy in tantalizing mystery.I notice she?s blushing and quietly looking down. This is quite a change in her; it seems that I?m now the one in charge. I feel that this is what she?s expecting of me. I don?t want to disappoint her. I?m hand-shaking nervous, but I refuse to falter.?Gaston,? she says as her hand rests on my upper arm, ?you make me feel like I?m sixteen again! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! So, where are you taking me now? Let?s spend the afternoon between ourselves! Let me be your date!? she says with an enthusiastic giggle, sounding remarkably like a girl of my own years.?Elizabeth, I?d love to take you to a malt shop and share a milkshake with you, but you have no idea what life is like here. That priest, he?s going to hail policemen and send them after me! They?ll be looking for me... looking for us. They?ll find people who know me and they?ll call my parents... The police may even detain you! They sometimes do that to lone women.?"The police detaining me? How exciting! Like in a crime movie... Oh, I'm so bored!"I don't understand why she doesn't take the danger she's in more seriously. I hold her hands very tenderly, loving the fact that we are on a quiet avenue, and I add... ?I do want to be your date, sweet Elizabeth. Eliza, do you want to be my first girl???Yes, yes!? she says, enthusiastically, giving me once again that look of a girl entering a candy store. Taken by a sudden impulse, she reaches forward, stands on her toes and takes me by surprise.