Jailbait Julep

"You’re only as old as who you feel"

I can’t remember who said it, but it was often quoted to me when I was dating Jailbait. Honest to God, I had no idea how old he was when we met. He looked older, certainly sounded older, and most definitely has more emotional maturity than any other man I’d ever been involved with to date.

Like I always thought, you don’t stop dancing when you get old, you get old because you stopped dancing. I had my dancing heels tightly on.

Jailbait was the sweetest. When we finally had our first date, I tried my best not to approach the age conversation. He already knew I was sensitive about my age, and knowing my experience (professional, thank you, and not the walking the streets kind either ….) and a bit about my background, he was well aware I was older than him.

It never bothered him, and I tried my best never to let it bother me, but my Asian upbringing was far too ingrained for that. Nevertheless, I don't regret one second of our time together.

As he was in still at university - the best I could hope for was 22. But as he looked about 24, I figured he could’ve been on a Masters or a PhD even. (I desperately hoped, more like!)

When he said he’d "pick me up" at the train station, I waited in anticipation. Every Dutchman I knew, with the exception of the Baron (who claimed to be more English than Dutch anyway – public school educated tosser that he was, and would sooner confess to his French lineage before his aristocratic Dutch roots), rode a bike. Even my boss’s mode of transportation was of the two-wheeled variety. When I asked Jailbait if he was picking me up on a bike, he answered mysteriously -

"Wait and see. This is a real Dutch Date."

And so it was ….

He greeted me at Amsterdam Centraal on a bike. And apparently, he’d expected me to get on it - heels and all. I looked on in disbelief as he patiently repeated his instructions to get on the backseat. As elegantly as I could in my short summer dress, I clambered onto the backseat and held on for dear life. (I bet he liked that part … I eventually grew to love it!)

My hair may have been held back by my Dior shades, but at that moment, I was no different from my ancestors who started their lives in Malaysia at the rubber estates back in the day. All that was missing was a big fat plait down my back! If only my great grandmother could see me now.

It was quite the experience. We zipped around the traffic of Amsterdam with amazing ease. Jailbait was certainly adept (in more ways than one, as time would tell) … but then again, he probably could cycle before he could walk! There was a bit where he suddenly stopped at the traffic light and said, very seriously, "In this life or death situation, you get off."

I thought he was joking - he wasn’t!

He took me to a pub. I was pretty resigned to it, and was not expecting anything more than a casual drink any way. The Dutch were known to be casual as well as thrifty. Very used to the British boy’s idea of a date (football and beer, down to the pub), I didn’t think much of it.

The entrance to the "pub" read "Dolce". Still new to Holland, I was surprised, but not suspicious. It turned out that it was a pub, but the most beautifully decorated pub I’d ever been in. It was very Creole-New Orleans, the one city in the USA I’m dying to visit. It had musical instruments hanging from the ceilings, amazing murals on the walls, and instead of lights – chandeliers, candles and lamps. It took my breath away.

But that was not all. While Jailbait jabbered on in Dutch with the waitress, I looked about at the full capacity crowd and thought at best, we’d get seats at the bar. But no. Apparently, Jailbait had all of this immaculately planned. I would quickly learn to give the boy more credit…

The waitress, smiling at me in what I now know must have been a mixture of envy and pleasure (for me and for the sweetheart I was with), lead us out to the back, which opened up into a cozy little garden dining area, with ornamental trees I’d never seen before, decorated with christmas tree lights. The sky and the stars were our ceiling, and there were a few small wooden tables spaced apart in a beautifully set up romantic little enclave.

I was too stunned to move. No one had ever made this much of an effort for me. On a first date, no less! And he didn’t even know me. This was meant to be casual, it was meant to be me taking a chance on someone who was obviously not right for me. But from the very start … it was simple magical.

Over rose wine, the Dutch summer favourite, all my fears about not being able to make conversation with a very Dutch young man still in school (university!) quickly disappeared. Despite our incredibly different backgrounds, we could talk. Despite the language barrier, we could make each other laugh. Despite everything – age, nationality, life paths … we seemed to be connecting on a deeper level.

I didn’t really know what he wanted out of it … but finally, when he held on to my hand one time too many, I knew I had him. I remember our first kiss vividly. We were talking – at least, I was talking, and I noticed he was suddenly quiet (amazingly, the boy could talk as much as me! A definite first.). He was looking down, seemingly fascinated by playing with my fingers, like he’d found a new toy. Then he just locked his gaze with mine … the way one only reads about in romance novels.

He had laughing blue eyes, and a permanent smile. None of those dark broody smouldering looks I’m always talking about. But I was drowning in those baby blues all the same. I restarted my sentence a few times, before finally giving up.

He knew it was coming, I knew it was coming. I can’t believe how such knowledge transpired without words, without actions. I almost stopped breathing, for fear of ruining this storybook moment. He must have been taking lessons from Hitch. He leaned towards me, a bare invitation, and waited for me to meet him halfway … so, whats a girl to do?

Like I said, magic.

Much later, he casually dropped this in our conversation, "I’ll always remember the day I met you."

Thinking he was just being very sweet, and honestly, not really believing him, my answer was flippant, "Neither will I". But for me, because it was the 7th of July 2007. 070707. A lucky number all around. I was already thinking of the meaning of signs.

He was keen for me to understand that was not what he meant. Earnestly, he explained. "No, its because it was the day I stopped smoking." All I could think was "Thank God, I don’t want to date a smoker!" because no matter how old this boy was, I wanted a second date. There was such magic here …. I needed to find out more.

Casually, I asked him how long he’d been smoking. The clanger was in his answer – "Well, I started smoking when I was 15. So … five years now."

As much as I hate math, I could do it. Wasn’t this just typical of my life?! Ladies and gentlemen, I was dating a foetus!

"If grass can grow through cement, love can find you at every time in your life." Cher

This is not us, but we did this often enough in the streets of Amsterdam. Our running joke was how we were going to get ourselves our own bench (you're not allowed to sit on benches outside other people's houses in Amsterdam.) In fact, I know this exact spot this picture was taken. The hair colour may be reversed .... but it could have been us. Definitely, some of my sweetest memories. Me and my toyboy. Hey, Demi and Cameron could do it ... Mariah MARRIED hers, so don't blame me for this trend!