Bold is youth when in its ignorance it steps out to put the world to rights, or achieve some end for which it is not yet fitted.
Thus I stepped forth boldly declaring I would write a musical stage show to be put on at our church by the church youth group.
I had never written a play and could not read a note of music but it was all in my head. Perhaps that was where it should have stayed until such time as I had learned the art of writing dialogue and music, maybe when I was in my thirties, or even never and certainly not at nineteen.
"It's easy," I affirmed before the gathered youth, "all shall be accomplished in short order." They, being but mere mortals gazed in what I thought was adoration at me; now I know they were really thinking, "If the bombastic idiot is prepared to undertake this arduous task and not call upon us to labour with him, then let him proceed."
Thus is came to pass that I set the insertion point racing across the computer screen as words poured forth. Undoubtedly, to my mind, the result was a masterpiece of adventure and romance based upon a cursory reading of Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, penetrating, as I thought, to the dark depths of the human psyche.
The words came easily enough, or so I flattered myself, but then I came upon the stone of stumbling, namely, the music. Here I tripped and fell flat on my creative face. Yes, the words of the songs were there, and in my head they sang aloud, but how to get it out of my head in the form of sounds that others could hear?
This problem I was discussing with a group of post church service worshippers, including among them the church organist, a buxom, ebullient lady of some thirty years, large busted and bright of appearance, Halushka Smith by name, married to Stan Smith and having one female child, Marion, of some six years.
On hearing my difficulties Halushka said, "Daniel, I can help. Sing your songs to me and I shall write down the music. Come to my house on this day at this time, and together we shall make music."
Now here I must pause to expand on my description of Halushka, because, you must understand, there were many who yearned to make music, metaphorically speaking, with the desirable Halushka, all of them being of the male gender. As to the ladies of our congregation, their response to Halushka leaned more towards feelings of envy.
You see, not only was Halushka buxom of figure, standing some five feet six or seven inches in height and ample of bosom, but her cheerful round face, with dark sparkling eyes, pert nose and full lips, conveyed the not unwarranted impression of being attractive. Many, not excluding my self, envied husband Stan the happy nights of Halushka bonking we imagined he enjoyed.
Perhaps in my male concern with the female figure I have been remiss in not adding that she was a bloody good musician.
The offer to partner Halushka in the making of music set my heart pounding. Perchance we should be alone in intimate confabulation? Not, you understand that I anticipated a carnal outcome to such a meeting, but the mere fact that I was to be given a private audience by Queen Halushka would allow me to bask in the envy of my fellowmen.
So it was on the appointed day and time of the audience I arrived on the doorstep of the Smith abode, armed with pens, pencils, paper and the words of songs. On ringing the doorbell I was almost instantly admitted by the smiling and delicious Halushka.
She was clad in a most fetching loose garment of soft white cloth that had a taunting way of hanging in delightful folds from the nipple points of her breasts.
"Come in Daniel...come in...this way."
I was guided to a room in which stood an upright piano.
"Now, let's have a look at what you've got."
I handed her some sheets of paper with my songs set out upon them. Halushka stood scanning through them for a moment, then seated her self on the piano stool and put the papers on the music rest. I ensconced myself in an armchair and awaited developments.
Halushka had another look at the sheets, then setting all but one aside, took some manuscript from the top of the piano and said, "We'll work on this one. Now, you said you know the tune you want, so how does it go?"
I couldn't see which one she had selected so I said, "Which one is it?"
"The Spectre of Raspberry Lane."
"Ah, yes, it goes like this."
I hummed and whistled for a few seconds, and then Halushka said, "For goodness sake, Daniel, what are you doing right over there, come and sit beside me so we can work together, I won't eat you." I didn't know about her eating me, but I had a definite desire to consume her.
The piano stool was one of those bench types on which it is possible for two people to sit, just. I suppose they were designed for people wanting to play duets. I sat beside her and had the thrill of feeling her thigh pressed against mine. This detracted a little from the task at hand, and increased my desire to consume her, but I made the effort and concentrated.
Ignorant of what was involved I had no idea how long the work would take. An hour later I was still humming, whistling and going "la...la," and Halushka was constantly erasing and rewriting the notes, all the time making suggestions like, "Try it this way," or "Try it that way." Her words reminded me of a girl friend I'd once had who liked to experiment.
After and hour and half we had arrived at what we thought was a satisfactory tune. She played while I sang it through, and I have to say it wasn't bad. Under Halushka's guidance I had a better tune than the one that had been in my head to start with.
As we progressed I noticed that Halushka's thigh pressed increasingly more firmly to mine, and she kept giving me what I can only describe as coquettish sideways glances, and I could occasionally feel her breast pushed against my arm. As she wrote down the notes her pink little tongue would flicker over her lips, and I became aware of a delicious female fragrance that seemed to emanate from her.
It was all very disturbing for a young and potent male, especially as I had been deprived of coitus for at least a fortnight. To explain, it was the long summer vacation, the institution where I was studying was closed, and my fellow student and sex partner had gone westward on a home visit. So far I had not succeeded in finding a replacement.
I hope that explains why, in close proximity to Halushka, I was finding it difficult to hide an erection and focus on music making at the same time. Both having as their basis the creative urge it's difficult to concentrate when both are present.
Halushka took another song from my collection entitled, "Rosemary's Night of Love," she said, "Daniel, this is a bit sexy for a church presentation don't you think?"
"It is a depiction of the soul's true flight on wings of spiritual love that must inevitably find its fulfilment in the physical union of man and woman and its ultimate creative outcome." I had just made that up and had no idea what it meant, but no matter, it didn't sound too bad.
Halushka looked at me oddly and murmured, "Oh really? Well, this is a bit more complicated than the other one, sweetheart, it could take a while; have you got the time?"
I noted with a thrill of excitement the use of the endearment, "Sweetheart."
Once more in my musical ignorance I had thought we'd have the whole lot done in a couple of hours; now I could see it was going to be a long time. "I'm on vacation," I explained, "so if you're available we can make it almost any time."
