How does a young man handle such intimidation? By ignoring the raw truth.  She reminded me of Lance's sister. Mel was stout as a pint of Guinness and I was weak as a can of Coors (around her, anyway). As pretty as the St. Pauli girl.  Breasts the size of cumulus clouds, nipples as big as pomegranates (you gals with nipples the size of grapes, no worries, it's all in what you got, Margaux Cabernet Sauvignon comes from beautiful little red grapes).  Her hips round as Lambert Dome in Tuolomne, butt firm — athletic, legs like quaking aspens, a face as inspiring as a shooting star flower.  Her eyes sparkled like Ceres the star, and she was serious. I was scared. Mel had an aroma — her pheromones? — of Emmi Swiss Cheese.  I love Swiss cheese on sour dough bread, a lot.  Her water came out like Bridalveil Falls — I heard it sprinkle many times as she never shut the the bathroom door — part of her tease. Her belly, oh gawd! Mel's personality, a smiling pool shark in Reno, Nevada, but her touch was a whisper of light air.  She wanted to feel my perlon, see my equipment.  She had an alpinglow that was hypnotic. Lance? He was a long hair freak of nature. Good climber but Mel got all the attraction genes, Lance just got the Levis (We did The Line at Lovers Leap, California, a superb  5.9 crack. On the crux pitch Lance used three pieces and ran up it in five minutes). Many a late night I played with my fly rod, thinking of Mel. Faire dinkum, pure grace, too much for me. I asked my mom about my psychological problem, and she said, "Your getty up will come in time." 
 
I could not function around Mel (she was a 5.15 in 1978), like I couldn't function around Roadside Attraction. Performance anxiety, again (are guys weird?). And then one day I grabbed hold of my aluminum nuts and embraced my fear. I was going to make love to my crystalline dear. How do you make love to a gal with no crack? Not even lichen on her skin! There was another slight problem: I didn't have my own gear that day, no harness, draws, rope, shoes. No Vegemite to smear, on my toast. 
 
My partner had the necessary tackle including rubbers a size too big. Ever mounted a five star, stone-faced gal (or guy, sorry gals), with waders on?  I did not know if I'd slip out, uh, off.
 
The harness my pal loaned me was decrepit, a first generation — should of been incineration, model. Tie in loop was nearly shredded. 'Biners looked like they fell off of El Cap, nylon in taters. The rope was blown out in places, core exposed like intestines and a hernia. Shoes — EB's (no Fires yet) were ugly, used up, extremely stinky. I could see the stench inside, bubbling like hydrochloric acid where I was to put my foot, a witches cauldron of bio hazard gumbo, and I gagged. One thing was clear: did I really want to climb her that year?! I despised the way I was to appear, to meet such a nice, clean, naked dear. 
 
My earthy roadside attraction didn't mind, she was Guinness beer with a two hundred year old yeast infection. I was gonna drink her right here. On this pitch you can belay off the car bumper, so we did. On this late afternoon fall day, no matter my garb or pukish smell, I sloshed my boots to the base of the route. I ate my aphrodesiac Spanish Fly for good luck (nearly gagged again). It was time to rack 'em up, with two blue balls.  How'd that happen? She actually had a little lichen, like hairy arm pits. I like girls with fir, au naturale. Her line was titillating. My fingers caressed her skin.  We began our ballet listening to Steely Dan music. A little foreplay, rehearsal, beforehand.  Her first clit, I mean clip, was ten feet off the deck. There were no crash pads back then or clip sticks, so it was X rated to the first pro. Her granite groin was smooth, just a few dimples in the right places. I was cool, calm, and vibrating.  She felt my 'biners. The rubbers held. I hate rubbers. Kama sutra.