I suppose it says a lot about me that my first crush wasn’t the bohemian art teacher with the pendulous and unfettered breasts or even Sam Fox or any of the other early eighties top shelf totty.
Don’t get me wrong I got my fair share of the tattered porn mags that were passed around behind the metaphorical bike sheds. And yes I did say magazines, remember this was the early eighties well before the internet when a boys best friends was the kays lingerie catalogue – psssst page 28 if you look really hard there’s a bit of nipple that’s not been entirely airbrushed out. From there your ascent into manhood climaxed, no pun intended, with the purchase of your first top shelf magazine. How I pity the youth of today missing out on this essential rite of passage; nothing builds character like buying a copy of razzle from a matronly old lady who bears more than a passing resemblance to your grandmother.
Anyway back to my first crush – well he first person to have my libido rap, rap, rapping on the inside of my testicles was the inestimable Colonel Wilma Deering. Even now I’m not sure what it was. The Farah flick? The glossy make-up? The white spandex? Or maybe the barely concealed dominatrix character? Despite the fact that twiki the camp, comedy robot sidekick was probably more in my league my pre-adolescent fantasies were filled with a heady mix of space born daring do and excessive fornication.
At times I even idly wondered if clambering into my parents chest freezer really was a viable way of meeting girls.
Of course first lusts never last but I still there is a warm corner of my libido given over to kitch sci-fi crushes where Colonel D has permanent residence.