I find that the delivery of things in what they call flat-boxes to be extremely irritating at times. What they mean is that we're going to ship you your goods disassembled and wish you luck in putting it together. OK, I have reasonable mechanical abilities. I can screw bolt A into slot B and assemble my stuff. What I have trouble with is the flat box.
Consider a cardboard box, over six feet tall, three plus feet wide, two feet deep. That is a big box, but I don't want it. So I have to get rid of it. Toss it in the rubbish. Right, like something that size is going to fit in the recycling bin. The only real solution is to whip out the old Stanley knife and slice and dice.
I have two Stanley knives. I went out to the garage bright and early Saturday morning, all set to do a bit of slicing and dicing. No Stanley knife in my tool box. No Stanley knife in the cupboard where I keep the rest of my tools and stuff. (Probably hiding, cowering in a corner, afraid of doing some honest work.)
I checked the junk drawer in the kitchen, similar drawer in my bedroom and I checked the small stationery cupboard in my office. No Stanley knife. Damned if I was going to buy another one. If I did, the first two would come galloping out for a family reunion. I did what any man does when faced with a missing tool. I went next door to borrow one.
Mike was home and quite happy to lend me his knife, providing he could find it. He left me standing in the front room while he went off to forage. That's when Samantha came waltzing in. Samantha was his daughter, an eighteen year old pixie, mousey coloured hair and hazel eyes, but there was nothing mousey about her personality. She was buoyant, full of live. From what I'd noticed she also had an excellent figure.
Too bad I couldn't see it now. It was a cool morning and she was all bundled up in a terry towel dressing gown, hugging it tight. She came to a screeching halt when she saw me, blushing. Embarrassed to be caught in a dressing gown, I guess. She went to beat a quick retreat but I stopped her.
"Hold it a second, Sam," I said quickly, moving over to her.
I'd said she was hugging the gown to her and I meant that literally. I noticed the belt wasn't done up, just dangling loosely at her sides. I took hold of the lapels and calmly spread her dressing gown wide, finding no resistance.
"Well, damn," I said, admiring her nice warm flannelette pyjamas, while she giggled. Giggled, nothing. She was openly laughing at me.
I gave her a reproving look. The nerve of her, laughing at a fine upstanding man like me.
"I dare you to flash me," I said, giving her a challenging look. "Drop the bottoms or lift the top. Come on."
She smirked and reached for her waist. Her top was tucked into the bottom half of the pyjamas so I wasn't sure what she intended to do. She dropped the bottoms, just pushing them down and letting them slide down her legs.
"Well, damn again," I grumbled. She had lovely legs, and I could see them from her toes all the way up to the pyjama top, which was long enough to serve as a damned dress. It came down past the interesting bits, preventing me from even seeing if she was wearing panties or not.
She was laughing at me again as she wrapped the dressing gown firmly around her, doing up the belt this time, with a wink to me to emphasize it. Then she stooped, pulled the pyjama bottoms off her feet and waltzed out of the room, holding the pyjama bottoms conspicuously, as a way of rubbing in my disappointment, I'm sure.
Mike came back with his knife and I thanked him and went home. One thing about having a nice sharp blade, you can take out your frustrations on an inoffensive cardboard box and it won't complain. I sliced and diced with a will, reducing the box to a little heap of cardboard squares which I dumped in the recycling bin.
I have a little shelf just next to the side door of my garage. That's where I put any tools I borrow, a reminder to me to return them. It's the only thing I use that little shelf for. I put Mike's Stanley knife on the shelf, took my two knives off it, and don't ask me how they got there, and put my knives in my tool box. I was tempted to put a padlock on the tool box to stop the things escaping again.
Later that day I was trimming a few bushes in the front yard when I saw Samantha heading homeward. The day had warmed up nicely and she was dressed accordingly. Sandals, with knee high white socks, ragged-leg shorts and a nice t-shirt.
I waved to her, indicating that I wanted to talk to her. She came wandering over, smiling, probably thinking about my bad luck in the morning.
"Hi, Sam," I said. "I've got your father's Stanley knife in the garage. If you care to come and collect it you can return it for me."
She agreed and ambled along beside me while I strolled over to the garage.
"Tell me, Sam," I said. "Are you still a virgin."
She blushed and whacked at my arm.
"Really, Ian, what sort of a question is that to ask a girl?"
"Quite a reasonable one I'd have thought. I'd consider it the height of bad manners to ravish a young lady if she's still a virgin."
She started a little at that and gave me a look.
"Ah, are you saying that you intend to ravish me?" she asked, seeming curious rather than nervous.
"Well, a lot depends on you and how you'd react to being ravished," I told her. "I mean, if you're just going to lie there, crying, and wailing, "it's too big," then no, I'm not. Not worth the hassle. There again, if you turn into a termagant and scream and shout and bite and scratch and hit and kick, then no, with a capital N. I'm a gently raised person and I hate fighting, especially if it's me being hit. Too, too, painful. Bruises I do not need.
However, if you're only going to give token resistance and then cooperate, doing the Confucius bit, then yes, I'll be up for a bit of ravishment where you're concerned.
And that brings me back to my original question and the reason for asking it. Not only would it be rude to ravish a virgin, but she wouldn't know what to do, so her cooperation would be limited. I mean, I want to ravish you, not have to train you."
"Well, while I will admit to not exactly being a virgin, I would like to point out that I'm not really interested in being ravished."
"Um I believe that reluctance is what makes it ravishment," I pointed out, "so that doesn't count. Are you the type to lie there crying and wailing about how big it is?"
By this time we had reached the garage and entered it. I leaned against my car, waiting to hear Sam's answer.
"Well, probably not, but how can I tell unless I know how big it's going to be?"
"A problem. Any suggestions?"
"Possibly a sneak preview?"
"What, take it out and put myself on display? Rather humiliating for me don't you think."
"It would be a lot more humiliating if I was lying there crying tears of laughter and pointing at it," Sam said.
"A point, definitely a point. Perhaps you'd better sneak a peek."
