At times when I reflect on my youth I am somewhat embarrassed to admit to my sexual naiveté.  I was a voracious reader, and the heroes of my novels were always men of honor, and the young ladies who populated the pages of these books were as pure as the driven snow.  This is the way I thought of the young girls of my acquaintance.  I could not conceive of them having a sinful thought or sexual fantasy.  I was aware of the “naughty girls,” but I avoided them.  

I would never admit my idealistic romanticism to my friends, male or female.  To be honest, I must confess that my own thoughts occasionally strayed into forbidden pastures; nevertheless, I usually kept them under tight control, and they never morphed into action.  In the company of males I would sometimes pretend to be a sophisticate, but it was a sham. In reality, my teen years were mostly lived in a demiworld of noble knights and virtuous demoiselles.  I resembled a 20^th century Man of La Mancha, without the windmills.

To illustrate how sexually dumb I was, I relate the following true story.

My mother had a rather attractive thirty-year-old African American woman who worked for her once or twice a week.  I began driving at the age of sixteen, so I was soon called on to drive this woman home.  Naturally, she sat in the back seat.  I believed that to be somewhat condescending, so I asked her to join me in front.  She refused.  It was a year or so afterwards before I began to understand why.  My offer was entirely innocent, but how could she know that?  Also, she was doubtless thinking of appearances.

As I say, I was dumb.