Memorable moments: The longest wait

A friend of mine once shared a story from a solo trip to Thailand that serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of travel-induced optimism. He had gone for a massage and, finding the masseuse quite attractive, soon found himself in a state of unmistakable physical arousal.

The woman looked down, looked back at him, and asked a direct, three-word question: "You want wank?"

Being single and on holiday in a far-flung land, he didn't take long to weigh his options. He figured, “Why not? I’m miles from home, I’m unattached—let's go with the flow.” He gave her a nod of consent.

She smiled and immediately left the room. My friend lay there, his heart racing with anticipation, assuming she had gone to fetch some oil or perhaps to prepare for the "service."

She was gone for a surprisingly long time. He waited in the quiet room, his expectations mounting with every passing minute of the silence. Finally, after a significant delay, the door opened and she stepped back inside. She looked at him with a pleasant, professional curiosity and asked:

"You have good wank?"

It turned out she wasn't offering her services; she was simply offering him the room for a bit of "private time" while she went off to have a tea break. He had spent ten minutes in a state of high-alert romantic anticipation, while she had simply been waiting for him to finish the job himself.

The Franschhoek threesome

In the early days of our relationship,  Ally and I escaped to Franschhoek for a romantic weekend. We’d found a cute, secluded cottage on a farm—the kind of place designed for long, slow mornings.

Our first day began exactly as planned. We woke up in a sprawling, comfortable bed and spent the morning enjoying the rare luxury of being able to laze around. We canoodled, cuddled, and did exactly what loving couples do when they have nowhere else to be.

At around 10:30 AM, we finally decided it was time to face the day. Ally stood up and peeled back the heavy duvet to let the bed breathe.

There, nestled in the warm hollow where we had just been lying, was a scorpion.

It was a small, brown fellow—exactly the kind you don't want to find in your linens. As every South African knows, there are two main types of scorpions: the big, black ones with impressive pincers but a relatively mild sting, and the small, brown ones with tiny pincers and a massive, potentially lethal sting.

Our uninvited guest was the latter.

We stood there in horrified silence, realizing we had spent the last several hours sharing our most intimate space with a high-velocity venom delivery system. The "romantic morning" was instantly replaced by a frantic search for a glass jar.

We eventually caught him, escorted him to a far-off corner of the farm, and asked him very politely to never seek a "threesome" with us again. Thankfully, he took the hint, and it remains the only time in our relationship where we’ve had to worry about a third party in the bed—especially one with a tail.

Memorable moments: The bottom drawer betrayal

My neighbor Helen was undeniably sexy, and for weeks, there had been a undeniable spark between us—a series of subtle flirtations that seemed to be building toward a predictable conclusion. When she finally invited me over for dinner, the atmosphere was already charged.

After a couple of drinks, I excused myself to the bathroom, where I found a large, artistic nude photograph of her staring back at me. It was the ultimate mood-setter. I walked back into the lounge feeling more animated than ever, the "signal" loud and clear.

The tension peaked when Helen looked at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Come to my bedroom," she whispered. "Let’s be naughty together."

Bingo.

We retreated to her room and sat on the edge of the bed. I was mentally preparing to go in for the definitive kiss, my heart hammering with anticipation. But just as I leaned in, Helen pivoted away. She reached down and slid open her bottom bedside drawer.

Instead of a romantic gesture, she produced a very large, expertly rolled spliff.

"Hope you don't mind us doing this here," she said casually, as the first cloud of smoke began to drift toward the ceiling. "People can see us from the lounge window, so it’s much more private in here."

The disappointment was absolute—a crushing, silent landslide. The "naughty" behavior she had promised wasn't a passionate encounter; it was simply a clandestine smoke in a room with better curtains. We spent the rest of the evening on a mellow, hazy high, chatting comfortably as the romantic spark evaporated into the air.

Memorable moments: The Grinder revelation

A couple of years back, I invited my meditation group over for an evening of quiet contemplation. We were deep into the "Now," watching Eckhart Tolle on the TV and soaking in the stillness of the room.

Toward the end of the night, my long-term housemate, Martin, returned from his weekly Friday ritual at the pub. Martin is a wonderful character, funny at the best of times, but particularly "tiddly" after a few pints. He wandered into the lounge, still radiating the boisterous energy of the public house, and joined our circle of calm.

My friend Sushann, curious about our living arrangement, asked Martin how the two of us had originally met. The mundane truth was that we’d connected through a website called Roommates.com.

Martin, however, saw a golden opportunity. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye and the confidence of three beers, he looked at the group and deadpanned:

"We met through Grindr!"

For anyone familiar with the app, the joke was obvious—a renowned hookup site for gay men was the furthest thing from our "Roommates" reality. The room erupted in laughter, and we moved on, eventually drifting back into our meditative presence.

Or so I thought.

A few weeks later, Sushann pulled me aside, her expression heavy with solemnity and a touch of newfound understanding.

"Wow, Graeme," she said with all seriousness, "I didn’t realize you were gay."

It turned out she was the only person in the room who hadn’t caught the punchline. To her, Martin’s drunken "revelation" wasn't a joke; it was a profound piece of personal history. It was a classic "Myburgh" moment: while I was sitting there immersed in a world of spiritual presence and higher consciousness, Sushann was busy recalibrating my entire identity based on a Friday night prank.

Memorable moments: The Observatory leak

Back in Cape Town, Russell, Roger, and I had a regular, somewhat clandestine ritual: the Sex Quiz in Observatory. It was held in a private basement area of a local pub, tucked away from the more "prudish" patrons upstairs.

The highlight of the night was a round where the quizmaster would play snippets from various adult films. The challenge was simple: guess what happened next. You earned a point for a correct answer, and another if your guess was funny enough to make the room roar. To facilitate this "educational" exercise, a TV was mounted high on the basement wall.

One night, we were deep into the third snippet—a particularly explicit scene that required some creative guesswork. Suddenly, a flustered pub staff member came sprinting down the stairs, looking like he’d seen a ghost (or at least something he wasn't supposed to).

He spoke urgently to the quizmaster, who hit the "Stop" button with panicked speed.

It turned out that the pub’s technical team had forgotten one crucial detail that evening: they hadn't separated the TV feeds. Throughout the entire building—including the main bar and the quiet family restaurant upstairs—every screen was showing our "private" quiz content.

It was the ultimate reminder that in life, just when you think you’re in a private "basement" of your own making, the rest of the world might just be watching the broadcast.

Memorable moments: The vowels of doom

During my time at Volvo’s UK headquarters in Duxford, I was part of a high-pressure team tasked with redesigning the global corporate website. One morning, in our hushed, open-plan office, I prepared to pull up the live site at volvo.com for a quick reference check. My fingers flew across the keys, but just as I hit "Enter," a phone call distracted me.

I looked away to answer, leaving the page to load in full view of the room. A few seconds later, my colleague Andre Pocock leaned over, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

"My goodness, Graeme," he hissed, "what on earth are you looking at?"

I turned back to my screen and felt a jolt of pure, corporate-grade horror. Instead of the safe, Swedish lines of a family station wagon, I was staring at a giant, high-definition, and very explicit anatomical image. 

In my distracted state, my fingers had betrayed me. I hadn't typed the home of the "Iron Mark"; I had swapped the two vowels in volvo with other letters and navigated directly to a site that was much more "biological" than "automotive."

The contrast between Volvo’s brand values and the screen in front of me was absolute. I managed to kill the window before the rest of the department could wander over, but for the rest of my tenure, I never hit the "Enter" key again without the realization that you can't navigate life—or the internet—without a great deal of care.

Memorable moments: The sexy beast of Old Mutual

One morning, I walked through the Old Mutual marketing floor on the way to my desk, sensing a shift in the atmospheric pressure. As I moved past the cubicles, I noticed a series of amused, knowing smiles from colleagues, as if the entire floor was in on a secret I hadn't been invited to.

I wondered if I was imagining things until I passed David from Agency Marketing. He gave me a supportive nod and a wink.

"You go, stud," he chirped. "We're all rooting for you."

I reached my desk, confused and increasingly wary. Sitting there, face-up for the world to see, was a thermal-paper fax. It didn't contain a marketing brief or a strategy update. Instead, it was a bold, typed declaration:

"I can't wait to get my hands on you later, you sexy beast."

It was from Ally. In an era before private messaging, she had mistakenly assumed that the office fax machine was a private, direct line to my desk. Instead, it had spent the morning sitting in the communal tray, being enjoyed by every "gregarious" marketer and agency staffer who had wandered by to collect their own documents.

In that single moment, I discovered a profound new psychological state: the ability for immense pride and agonizing embarrassment to coexist in the exact same heartbeat.

I walked in a "high-potential trainee" and left the "Marketing Stud" of the building. It turns out, no matter how hard you work on your professional brand, all it takes is one misplaced fax to permanently rebrand you as a "Sexy Beast."

Memorable moments: The lassies of Kathmandu

In 2023, I set off for Nepal with a group of friends, including Russell, to tackle the trek to Everest Base Camp. Before we hit the trail, we spent several days in Kathmandu, where I quickly discovered a local obsession. In the central square, they served the most incredible lassis—the traditional chilled yoghurt drinks, thick with flavor and topped with a generous dusting of nuts and currants.

They were delicious, refreshing, and—dangerously for me—incredibly cheap. I became a regular. In one particularly enthusiastic sitting, I managed to put away four of them in a row.

After the trek, we went our separate ways. I returned to the familiar "blue-dot" navigation of Sydney, while Russell flew back to Cape Town. Being a good friend, he met up with my family to give them a firsthand account of our Himalayan adventures.

My niece, Samantha, who was in her early twenties, was listening intently as Russell regaled them with stories of the mountains. But then, the conversation took a turn for the surreal.

"Wow," Russell said, shaking his head in fond remembrance. "Graeme sure did love the lassies in Kathmandu. On one morning alone, I saw him pay for four of them."

A heavy, awkward silence descended over the room. Samantha looked visibly shocked, shifting in her seat with a face full of genuine discomfort. My sister, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure, leaned in.

"What’s the matter, sweetie?" she asked.

Samantha didn't hold back. "Well," she stammered, "I just don't think Russell should be sitting here talking about Uncle Graeme’s predilection for Nepalese prostitutes or his sex life!"

It took a few moments of frantic back-pedaling for Russell to explain that the only thing I was "consorting" with in the central square was a blend of fermented dairy, sugar, and dried fruit. I realized then that while I was busy enjoying a harmless local delicacy, my reputation back in Cape Town was being accidentally dismantled by a missing 'i' and a very imaginative niece.

Memorable moments: Taking a turn for the nurse

I’ve always had a bit of a "thing" for nurses. It started in my late teens when a varicocele sent me to the hospital for surgery. I was attended to by a nurse so strikingly pretty that I promptly "took a turn for the nurse"—a condition far more pleasant than the one that had brought me to the ward in the first place.

Years later, after my divorce from Ally, the universe seemed to be leaning into my preferences once again. I met Lizzy at the local park, brought together by the chaotic introduction of her Schnauzer and my Mack. She was lovely, and when I discovered she was a nurse, I was particularly smitten.

As we dated, I eventually confessed my long-standing admiration for the profession. Lizzy, ever the mischievous soul, gave me a wink. "Ooh," she said, "I’ll wear my nurse’s outfit to bed for you tonight."

I spent the evening in a state of high-altitude anticipation. I had a very specific cinematic image in my head—something involving a crisp white cap and a short skirt—the classic "Florence Nightingale" aesthetic.

I lay in bed, heart racing, as Lizzy slipped into the bathroom to change. The door finally creaked open, and she stepped into the light.

There she was. In her blue scrubs.

There was no white skirt, no stockings, no vintage charm. Instead, she was swathed in several yards of baggy, sterile, utilitarian nylon overalls—the kind of outfit designed to withstand a twelve-hour shift in a trauma ward, not a romantic evening. She looked ready to perform a difficult gallbladder removal, not a private masquerade.

She was so clearly keen to please that I didn't have the heart to tell her. I summoned my best "impressed" face and pretended to be thrilled, but inside, I was feeling a profound sense of "ward-room disappointment."

It turns out that in the world of modern medicine, romance and practicality are rarely on the same shift. I realized that night that if I wanted a vintage fantasy, I should have dated someone from a 1950s period drama; Lizzy was a woman of the 21st century, and in the 21st century, the path to a man's heart is apparently paved with baggy, anti-microbial polyester.

Memorable moment: The blonde magnet

Mack always loved me, but I was never under any illusion about the hierarchy of his heart. He was absolutely, unconditionally devoted to Ally. When we eventually separated and she moved away, Mack was left with a lingering, hopeful void.

Every trip to the park near my house became a high-stakes investigation. If Mack spotted a woman with blonde hair—whether she was fifty yards away or just a glimmer on the horizon—he was off like a shot. He was convinced, every single time, that he’d finally found his missing person.

I, of course, had to follow in his wake. I’d jog across the field, arriving breathless just as Mack was realizing his mistake, and I’d have to offer a sheepish, "Sorry, he thought you were someone else... Hi, I'm [Name]."

It didn't take long for me to realize that Mack had inadvertently become the most brilliant "ice-breaker" in the history of dating. He was introducing me to every attractive blonde woman in the neighborhood with a success rate that a professional matchmaker would envy.

I looked at him one afternoon, panting and happy after yet another "investigation," and realized I was sitting on a goldmine. I thought to myself, I should really be renting this dog out to the eligible bachelors of the neighborhood by the hour. I could have made a fortune. Mack would get his exercise, the bachelors would get their introductions, and I’d be the tycoon behind the world’s first "Canine Wingman" agency.

Memorable moments: The Quizmaster’s missed calling

Russell has a vast, almost intimidating general knowledge. He possesses a photographic memory that never fails; I also have a photographic memory, though I usually forget to take the lens cap off. This makes him a formidable opponent in any trivia setting, and an even better Quizmaster. During the COVID lockdowns in Australia, he’d gather all my local friends on Zoom from Cape Town and host brilliantly fun sessions that kept us all sane.

But the true extent of Russell’s "genius" really shone through during the infamous sex quizzes we used to attend in Cape Town pubs.

The format was simple but inspired: the Quizmaster would show a scene from a vintage adult film—nothing too extreme—and we had to guess what happened next. You’d get a point for accuracy, but more importantly, you’d get a point for making the room laugh.

Russell was in a league of his own. His predictions for the "next scene" were consistently more creative, elaborate, and hilarious than the actual movie. Whether it was an unexpected plumber-related plot twist or a bizarrely timed monologue, his "scripts" were far superior to the real thing.

I’m convinced Russell missed his true calling as a writer-director in the adult industry, specifically in the untapped genre of "Comedy Porn."

It takes a special kind of genius to turn a blue movie into a red-faced comedy routine. Russell’s photographic memory and quick wit made him the undisputed king of the pub quiz, reminding us all that if you aren't laughing at the ridiculousness of life (and especially sex), you’re probably doing it wrong.

The Palmiet shadow puppet show

Early in our relationship, Ally and I went camping at Palmiet. We were young, smitten, and—after a few days in the fresh air—feeling particularly adventurous. Late one night, while the rest of the campsite was still gathered around the dying embers of the communal fire, we retreated to our tent for some "private" time.

We were being incredibly careful. We spoke in hushed whispers, moved with what we thought was ninja-like stealth, and made sure our "naughty action" didn't make a sound that would alert the neighbors.

The next morning, my best friend Ivor greeted me with a look of suppressed, agonizing amusement.

"What is it?" I asked, sensing I was the butt of a joke I hadn't heard yet.

"Oh, no," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I can’t say. It’s far too embarrassing."

"Oh, come on," I pressed. "No secrets between friends. Out with it."

He leaned in, his eyes dancing. "Alright, let me give you a little tip for the future, Graeme. If you and Ally are planning to get 'jiggy' in a tent, for the love of God, switch the internal lights off first."

My heart sank as the basic laws of physics—specifically backlighting—hit me.

"Otherwise," he grinned, "you’re not just having a private moment; you’re broadcasting a highly detailed shadow-puppet show to everyone at the campfire. It was a five-star performance, Graeme, but I think the audience is expecting an encore."

I went into that tent a master of discretion; I emerged the accidental star, director, and lead cinematographer of the Palmiet Adult Film Festival.

Memorable moments: The posh poodle predicament

When I was an early teen, I went on holiday to Plettenberg Bay with my school friend, Greg Perkes. We stayed with his grandparents, who were the living embodiment of "posh"—all silver tea services, refined accents, and an atmosphere so polite you felt you needed a permit just to sneeze.

We were sitting in the lounge, balancing delicate china plates on our knees and exchanging pleasantries. My arm was hanging casually by the side of my chair when, suddenly, I felt something latch onto my forearm. It was followed by a very specific, very rhythmic sensation between my fingers.

One of the family’s prize poodles had decided I was the love of its life.

In any other house, someone would have shouted or shooed the dog away. But in this house, the commitment to "decorum" was absolute. Greg’s grandparents continued to discuss the weather and the tea with unwavering focus, staring directly ahead as if my arm wasn't currently being courted by a small, curly-haired romantic.

I was trapped. I didn't want to rip my arm away and shatter the fragile polite silence, so I just sat there—nodding, sipping tea, and trying to look "refined" while a dog made a very honest woman out of my left limb.

It took an eternity to delicately extricate myself without making a scene.

I went in expecting a lesson in high-society manners; I left realizing that "posh" is just a fancy word for being able to ignore a poodle’s mid-afternoon climax while asking if I’d like another lump of sugar.

Memorable moments: The remote betrayal

During my university years, my Cape Town housemate Oliver and I shared Willow Road with Andre. To us, Andre was ancient—at least thirty-five—and he spent his post-divorce life cycling through girlfriends with the speed of a professional sprinter. He was determined to be the one doing the dumping, often juggling three oblivious women at once.

Naturally, Oliver (a serial prankster) and I decided it was time to humble him.

Oliver told Andre he’d acquired a "juicy" adult video that had to be seen to be believed. Andre, ever the connoisseur, was immediately intrigued. Oliver started the film, handed Andre the remote, and gave a stern warning: "Don't fast-forward, or you'll miss the best part."

Oliver then "slipped away" to the bathroom, and I retreated to the kitchen to "make coffee."

Right on cue, Oliver’s sister and her friend used a spare key to barge into the lounge. Panic-stricken, Andre hammered the "Stop" button. Nothing happened. He hammered it again. Still nothing. We had, of course, removed the batteries.

In a desperate, last-ditch effort to save his reputation, Andre launched himself over the coffee table like a heat-seeking missile. That is exactly how the girls found him: sprawled on his stomach, frantically stabbing at the TV’s manual buttons, while a symphony of very loud, very explicit "adult antics" played out directly above his head.

Andre may have been a master at juggling girlfriends, but he was no match for a TV that refused to take orders.

Memorable moments: The midnight hero of Willow Road

Life at my house on Willow Road was rarely quiet, but one night, the silence was shattered by a series of high-pitched, blood-curdling female screams.

Convinced a violent crime was unfolding right on our doorstep, my "hero" instincts kicked into overdrive. I bolted from my bed and sprinted down the corridor, fueled by pure adrenaline. I burst through the front door and into the night air, ready to confront the attacker—only to realize two things simultaneously:

First, the "victim" wasn’t being attacked; she was in Andre’s outside room, and she was having a spectacularly good time.

Second, in my rush to save a life, I had completely forgotten to put on any clothes.

I retreated in a state of naked humiliation, but the vocal performance continued in an impressive ebb and flow well into the early morning. I eventually managed to fall asleep, though my "heroic" ego was severely bruised.

The next morning, Andre sauntered into the kitchen with the grin of a man who had won the lottery.

"My god, Graeme," he beamed. "I’ve found the girl for you! We met at a bar and had some great fun last night, but I’m moving on today. I’ll put in a good word; you’ll stand a very good chance."

I looked at him, my midnight sprint still fresh in my mind. "No thanks," I said firmly. "First of all, I don’t want to catch anything. Second, I like to get to know a girl before I shag her. And thirdly... what if she doesn't scream for me?"

I think I’ll stick to saving people who actually want to be rescued—and preferably while wearing trousers.

Memorable moments: The mile-high monologue

On a long-haul flight from Sydney to Cape Town, I settled in for some spiritual growth. I’d recently bought a book by an author I admire and was tucked into a middle seat, ready to dive deep into the text on my Kindle.

I hit the power button.

Immediately, a loud, authoritative, and terrifyingly clear robotic voice—not unlike the one used by David Hawkins—bellowed from the device:

"THE ENLIGHTENED SEX MANUAL—BY DAVID DEIDA—PAGE FOUR."

Somehow, the text-to-speech mode had been triggered. In the sudden silence of the cabin, it sounded less like a private reading and more like a public service announcement for the entire row.

I fumbled madly, my fingers turning into useless sausages as I clawed at the screen, desperate to kill the power before the "Enlightened" details of page five began broadcasting to my captive neighbors.

I went into that flight looking for spiritual transcendence; I left it wishing for physical disappearance.

Memorable moments: The day the lightbulb went on

As a kid, I made a life-changing discovery: I could scale the great tree in our garden. I was obsessed. For a solid week, I spent every spare hour perched in the branches, a miniature king surveying the world below from my secret leafy fortress.

Then came the day I returned from school to a scene of devastation.

The tree was gone. My father stood there with a chainsaw, and my kingdom lay in a million splintered pieces. I was heartbroken. For years, I nursed a quiet, righteous "peevement" against him for destroying my favorite sanctuary without so much as a warning.

Then, I hit a certain age.

I looked back at the layout of the old garden and realized exactly where that tree had been located: directly level with my parents' bedroom window.

Suddenly, my father’s urgency with the power tools made perfect sense. Every married couple deserves their privacy—and no father wants his son accidentally becoming the world’s most innocent voyeur.

Postscript

I recently shared this story with my mother, expecting a laugh over my belated realization. Instead, she looked at me with total confusion.

"Graeme," she said, "there was never a tree outside our bedroom window. Dad chopped a tree down at the back of the house, not the front."

I told her I was worried about her memory, but she was adamant. "My memory is not what it used to be, but I'm pretty sure. Check with Jo."

I did. My sister’s response was a second, even more violent "chainsaw" to my childhood kingdom: "No, there was never a tree there."

I was absolutely shocked. I can remember that tree so vividly—the texture of the bark, the specific branches I gripped, even the caterpillars I used to watch crawling along the leaves. I had carried that tree with me for decades, using it to define my childhood sense of adventure and my father’s "ruthlessness." To find out it never existed is a staggering realization. It suggests that our personal history is less of a documentary and more of a convincing fiction. If the very foundations of who we think we are are built on memories that can vanish into thin air, it makes you wonder what else we’ve perfectly imagined.