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Due to a dramatic happening during my youth, I had always vehemently avoided celebrating Valentine's Day. Until recently.

But, believe me, I didn't exactly evolve into the patient, romantic, enchantic charmer I've become. After wedding my present ball and chain, I surprised myself by swiftly surrendering into the Valentine mushiness of wining and dining my woman. Why? Actually, I'm a little bit afraid of her.

I don't understand how she could possibly have considered me unromantic in the first place. Having been quite the player over the years, I don't recall a single woman complaining that I wasn't romantic enough. (Full disclosure: most of my girlfriends were inflatable women).

My very first date happened on a Valentine's Day when I was a 16-year-old incurable neurotic. My raging adolescent hormones were surpassed only by my impatient nature. Classmates nicknamed me Impatient Pete. Confound it, I was a busy boy. Out of my way, world!

My attention span was measured several times and never surpassed 44 nanoseconds. When at home, I couldn't wait to join my friends at school. When in class, my daydreaming made it impossible to concentrate. Especially one day when a big girl named Fast Nancy made wicked eyes at me and insisted that I take her to a Valentine dance. How could I refuse? Actually, I was a little bit afraid of her.

Arriving at her house 20 minutes early, I was chagrined to learn that "Fast" Nancy wasn't ready. Then, how the hell did she get that nickname? During the eternal wait with her parents, her dad inexplicably babbled on and on about his ability to knock a guy out on the first punch. Just as a heavy glaze crossed over my eyes, my date mercifully descended the staircase. Promising her parents to drive carefully, we slid into my red Studebaker and slowly drove out of their sight. I checked my watch and exclaimed: "Wow! Time's a wasting!"

I burnt rubber.

At the dance, I wanted to burn up the carpet. Since I kept stepping on her feet, Fast Nancy soon nixed the idea of romantic (boring) slow dances. Instantly, a miracle was in the making as Fast Nancy finally lived up to her name. Turned out, she could dance faster than Chubby Checker. Looked a little like him, too. I was falling in love. With dancing. Having a ball. Dancing. In less than an hour, however, my antsy noggin was rushing me onto other things.

So, Impatient Pete soon danced Fast Nancy right out the door. We raced off to Nifty's, a popular teenage eatery. Crafty cronies had told me that a movie and dinner was defined as "code for foreplay." So what was a fast dance and fast food code for? And, just what was foreplay?

Wouldn't ya know, Nifty's was packed. As we waited in line, I demonstrated my impatience by pounding the palm of my hand upon my thigh.

Fast Nancy became annoyed: "What gives? Are you trying to make some invisible horsey go faster?"

"Well, my God already! What's holding things up? We were in kindergarten when we got into this line."

Complaining incessantly about the "sloooow" service, I hurried Fast Nancy through her french fries so that we could make a rapid run out to Make Out Point. After a few minutes there, I informed her that I wanted to wrap things up ASAP so I could get home and watch the late movie.

Fast Nancy blew her stack: "Expedite! Expedite! Expedite. That's all you want to do, you dork! I have an idea: let's see how fast you can drive me back home!" she yelled. "Yes, Ma'am!" I exclaimed. "Wow! Now I'll even make it home in time to make popcorn before that movie begins."

I burnt rubber.

Suffice it to say, Impatient Pete flunked Make Out 101. As a result of our momentary visit to Make Out Point, crafty cronies re-nicknamed Fast Nancy as Avenging Vixen. Worse, due to her tirade about our "nanosecond" night, Impatient Pete became known as "Eskew the Sexpediter" - promptly plunging me into eternal virginity.

Actually, I lost my virginity to my third wife who promptly redefined the word "foreplay" as code for two hours of begging.

As for my first Valentine? Clearly, we'll never have Paris.

- Steve Eskew

Retired businessman Steve Eskew received master's degrees in dramatic arts and communication studies from the University of Nebraska at Omaha after he turned 50. After one of his professors asked him to write a theater column, he began a career as a journalist at The Daily Nonpareil in Council Bluffs, Iowa. This led to hundreds of publications in a number of newspapers, most of which appear on his website, eskewtotherescue.com.