I've said before I didn't spend my entire social life at school, I had myriad activities outside school. Walking by myself. Whistling. Riding my bike around the streets on my own. Humming. Writing letters to girls I liked. Destroying letters to girls I liked. Writing terrible poetry that always, always, always rhymed, no matter how hard I tried to be artistic and deep. Drawing interesting and bloody ways to kill my enemies, all of whom were among my best friends, and my personal list of arch nemeses changed on a daily, sometimes hourly basis.
And once a week I would go to Scouts. Which was entertaining in an old fashioned "Huzzah lads! Let's see who can run around the hall five times and get back in here with a pine cone before I blow this whistle" kind of way. We wore uniforms. We wore scarves. I know exactly what a woggle is, and indeed, how to make one from rope or leather thong. I can tie a variety of life saving and decorative knots; read maps with or without a compass; light a fire with four pieces of newspaper and a single match; track various types of native and domestic animals; cook in a gigantic cast iron pot as well as on a large bean-tin over a candle (though this is restricted only to pancakes) and various other impressive yet useless skills for a boy living in a major capital city.
One other thing which people may (or may not) know about Scouts is: they love to sing. Every meeting, there were songs to be sung, and every camp, there was a campfire "concert" which consisted of various heart stirring pseudo-Christian, pro-Imperial songs, a few mildly bawdy ditties, and a whole bunch of terrible skits based on the worst dad-jokes imaginable. If you ever wondered where the father of your children learned all those terrible jokes that erupt as soon as he has signed the birth certificate, chances are he knows what a left handed handshake means, and somewhere has a strange pointy four sided hat with his name emblazoned on the inner band.
This was all jolly good fun (what?), and honestly, it was. But even better than regular scout meetings was an annual event which combined the local scouts of the whole local area, and when I was a young teen, that was actually hundreds of kids. It pushed all these boys together, ranging in age from about thirteen to about seventeen. And it brought in another large group of kids, too. But these kids wore blue uniforms, and were shaped in such a way they made the scouts do very strange things, especially to each other, in order to gain their attention. The Girl Guides were also in our Gang Show.
A Gang Show is like a University revue. Only, possibly slightly less sophisticated. So while every ten years or so, a popular, intelligent, hilarious and biting revue comes out of a major University in this country, we are still waiting for a major television network to give a regular series to any Scout-based production. This is in part because the material in most of the shows had worn thin when Victoria was still on the throne, and probably gave rise to her infamous "We are not amused". That which wasn't older than any of my living relatives was penned by older memebrs of the scouting movement involved in the production, whose talent was generally inversely proportional to their enthusiasm. But this was fine. It was indeed encouraged, as after all, we were just here to have fun, and everyone had to put in as best they could in the areas they had some inclination.
While all the acting and singing and costumes and lights and music and dancing and the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd were very exciting, it was still probably the girls that kept me coming back every year. In fact, it was in the rehearsals and show of my second year in the show that I got a steady girlfriend for the first time ever. It was also around this time that I learned how to make relationships very complicated very quickly. But I shall return to that story, anon.
Emily Harris was a girl of my age, around my height, with a broad smile and tight ringlets that would not sit flat ever. She was fresh faced and always laughed at my jokes, which was a bonus, as I felt that was pretty much all I had. The cast would be split up to rehearse different individual acts for the show, people having been cast according to their relative competencies in each area of performance: Acting, Dancing and Singing. There was always a large chorus who would always have massed singing and basic dance routines to practise.
I seemed to always get chosen for acting parts, and often for small group singing, where three or four singers would sing small parts together in the hope of masking each others deficiencies. I suppose it was a step up from the massed chorals of the rest of the group. I was placed in one such small group with Emily, and having been in rehearsal for a couple of weeks, and getting to know her a little better, I decided I liked her enough to "pop the big one" Okay, but remember I was only fourteen, it doesn't get much bigger than asking a girl to be your girlfriend. So, when we were finishing up away from the rest of the cast in a meeting room of the local church where rehearsals were held, I stopped her and eloquently expressed my feelings for her in a way I can only dream of reproducing today.
"Hey Em"
"Yeah?"
"Umm... wanna go with me?"
She giggled "Ah... okay"
Then skipped off. Literally. Guides were a bit like that.
That may well have been the high point of the relationship. Still, I went home happy that night.
Wednesday 20 February 2008
Tuesday 12 February 2008
My Bloody Valentine
There was a girl in high school with whom I can squarely lay the blame for my first directed sexual thoughts. Prior to her, I had experienced feelings of mild excitement, vague arousal, general warmth in the tummy region, and associated feelings of attraction and admiration when dealing with girls. I wanted to kiss them, I wanted to impress them, I wanted to be near them, but not for any clear objective. The first time I saw someone and thought "Wow, I really want to do to her what I saw in brother's magazines" was when I was fourteen and in high school. She had the otherwise unremarkable name of Kylie Bone. But to a whole class of teenage boys raised on American teen-titty comedy, she was simply The Boner.
Of course this was never mentioned to her face. She was too nice for that. She never seemed to be completely aware of, or entirely comfortable with, her over-developed body. Her face was pale, with very light brown freckles, and a slightly turned up nose. She had deep green eyes that were usually wrinkled in a smile and pearly teeth that only real money can buy. Her straw blonde hair was cut in a kind of bob, as was the fashion for at least part of the eighties, though she was not exactly fashionable mostly. But her body was about four years ahead of her, chronologically, and was rounded and curvy in a way that most girls' would never be. The sight of her long legs leading up to her netball skirt and bloomers as she bent over a desk was distinctly the one that triggered my first blatant sexual notion.
I was transfixed. I was staring. She was bending. She was talking. Her friends were laughing. She turned to see why and saw me, unblinkingly staring right at her bum. She squealed, I jumped, her face went extremely red, and I ducked away from my desk and stumbled out of the room, ducking and weaving, as she threw my folder, my pencil case, and any other pieces of stationery that came to hand at my retreating head. I didn't dare re-enter the classroom until the teacher arrived. Then I got ignored by the Boner for the rest of the day. This was a shame, as my crush, amongst other things, was growing, uncalled for, throughout the day.
So it was that a couple of weeks later I came to be writing a card to her. It was, of course, a Valentines card. I was going to slip it into the vent in her locker on Valentines day, and all would be revealed to her. I didn't just want to stare at her arse all day, I really liked her, and wanted her to be my girlfriend. I would make all this perfectly clear in a letter outlining my possible devotion to her, and my wish that she would get with me at lunchtime. Or morning recess if she had netball practice.
So I drafted a letter. A heartfelt plea for her attention and a treatise to her heart to open up to mine, and to her legs to open up also. The language could have been torn from the very pages of Shakespeare's finest sonnets.
"Dear Kylie, you're a real spunk. I really want to get with you at lunchtime"
I was going to sign it with my name, but chickened out at the last moment, and wrote, in fine Valentine tradition "Your not-so-secret admirer" in a clear reference to my recent ogling of her a few weeks prior.
I slipped the card into her locker before school, and waited for a sign she had got it. When I saw her come into our homeroom, she was beaming and clutching my card to her well rounded breast. The left one. I tried to catch her eye, and she looked in my direction and visibly swooned. I did my best to look suave and cool, raising an eyebrow, but being incapable of lifting only one, giving the distinct impression someone had just put electrodes on my testicles and I was somewhat surprised. She smiled and turned away coyly, peeking back over at me all the way through morning assembly, and all of first period. I had a different class to her after that, and I winked at her clumsily on my way out, though I think she probably missed it.
I didn't see her the rest of the morning. I didn't see her until lunchtime, in fact, when I spied her pushed up against one of the portable classrooms, securely attached to the face of Luke Milton. Luke's athletic arms were holding her to him, and alternately trying to squeeze her boobs or her bum, her slender arms wrapped about his waist to allow her full access to clean his rear most fillings with her tongue. Luke sat on the desk directly behind mine from Kylie's desk. And I had heard him talking about her quite loudly the other day, though not in the kind of terms anyone would wish to hear, say, their sister spoken of. An anonymous nom-de-plume may be of use at certain times, in certain situations, where discretion is the wisest of choices. But it's the stupidest thing anyone in their right mind could ever conceive of writing on a bloody Valentine.
Of course this was never mentioned to her face. She was too nice for that. She never seemed to be completely aware of, or entirely comfortable with, her over-developed body. Her face was pale, with very light brown freckles, and a slightly turned up nose. She had deep green eyes that were usually wrinkled in a smile and pearly teeth that only real money can buy. Her straw blonde hair was cut in a kind of bob, as was the fashion for at least part of the eighties, though she was not exactly fashionable mostly. But her body was about four years ahead of her, chronologically, and was rounded and curvy in a way that most girls' would never be. The sight of her long legs leading up to her netball skirt and bloomers as she bent over a desk was distinctly the one that triggered my first blatant sexual notion.
I was transfixed. I was staring. She was bending. She was talking. Her friends were laughing. She turned to see why and saw me, unblinkingly staring right at her bum. She squealed, I jumped, her face went extremely red, and I ducked away from my desk and stumbled out of the room, ducking and weaving, as she threw my folder, my pencil case, and any other pieces of stationery that came to hand at my retreating head. I didn't dare re-enter the classroom until the teacher arrived. Then I got ignored by the Boner for the rest of the day. This was a shame, as my crush, amongst other things, was growing, uncalled for, throughout the day.
So it was that a couple of weeks later I came to be writing a card to her. It was, of course, a Valentines card. I was going to slip it into the vent in her locker on Valentines day, and all would be revealed to her. I didn't just want to stare at her arse all day, I really liked her, and wanted her to be my girlfriend. I would make all this perfectly clear in a letter outlining my possible devotion to her, and my wish that she would get with me at lunchtime. Or morning recess if she had netball practice.
So I drafted a letter. A heartfelt plea for her attention and a treatise to her heart to open up to mine, and to her legs to open up also. The language could have been torn from the very pages of Shakespeare's finest sonnets.
"Dear Kylie, you're a real spunk. I really want to get with you at lunchtime"
I was going to sign it with my name, but chickened out at the last moment, and wrote, in fine Valentine tradition "Your not-so-secret admirer" in a clear reference to my recent ogling of her a few weeks prior.
I slipped the card into her locker before school, and waited for a sign she had got it. When I saw her come into our homeroom, she was beaming and clutching my card to her well rounded breast. The left one. I tried to catch her eye, and she looked in my direction and visibly swooned. I did my best to look suave and cool, raising an eyebrow, but being incapable of lifting only one, giving the distinct impression someone had just put electrodes on my testicles and I was somewhat surprised. She smiled and turned away coyly, peeking back over at me all the way through morning assembly, and all of first period. I had a different class to her after that, and I winked at her clumsily on my way out, though I think she probably missed it.
I didn't see her the rest of the morning. I didn't see her until lunchtime, in fact, when I spied her pushed up against one of the portable classrooms, securely attached to the face of Luke Milton. Luke's athletic arms were holding her to him, and alternately trying to squeeze her boobs or her bum, her slender arms wrapped about his waist to allow her full access to clean his rear most fillings with her tongue. Luke sat on the desk directly behind mine from Kylie's desk. And I had heard him talking about her quite loudly the other day, though not in the kind of terms anyone would wish to hear, say, their sister spoken of. An anonymous nom-de-plume may be of use at certain times, in certain situations, where discretion is the wisest of choices. But it's the stupidest thing anyone in their right mind could ever conceive of writing on a bloody Valentine.
Tuesday 5 February 2008
Tastes just like Cherrie Cola
I grew up in a time when parents would name their kids ridiculous things. Obviously they still do, but I went to school with some people of unusual and sometimes downright embarrassing names. Parents who couldn't remember the sixties because they were REALLY there, frittering away a free education by consuming every mind altering substance they could lay their hands on. Mind you where they lived, when they were having kids in the early 1970s, that probably didn't consist of much more than cheap red wine from South Australia and some bad Hunter River pot sent in the post. But still they did their best to play the part of expanded minds, long before they grew up and had inflated heads. Often it was not the parents fault, it was just a weird cultural coincidence that Dougal had the same name as a character from the Magic Roundabout, and similar shaggy mop hair. Every now and then, an attempt at naming someone for a naturally beautiful phenomenon would come up, and hence I went to school with the creatively spelled Rainbo. Of course she was re-christened Rambo by a bloodthirsty bunch of teenage boys anyway. But the parents of one girl in particular must have known exactly what they were doing. There was no mistaking that everyone would find it amusing that they were in class with one Cherrie Blossom.
Cherrie was, I suppose, a reasonably attractive girl. She was tall for her age, though, which often made her a target of derision from the other girls, and relatively flat chested, as though her added height was a result of being stretched. But her face was pretty, and her awkward stoop made her move in a way that was at once gawky but endearing. I always noticed that tall girls develop hunched over posture, especially in the teen high school years, as if they are trying to withdraw themselves from view, which merely has the effect of making them more ridiculously obvious. Like a giraffe trying to hide amongst a herd of zebras. She had almost-black hair, with a consistency of dried grass, such that it stuck out at strange angles, despite her best efforts to tame it. I was never entirely sure if she straightened it to enhance this spasticity, but as long as I knew her it remained the same black haystack . As a result of this contrary nature, it was kept mown pretty short, and she was quite possibly the first time I developed a crush on a short haired girl. A recurring theme in my life, strangely.
I say strangely, though, as I developed a crush on Cherrie Blossom with very little encouragement from her whatsoever. In fact, I hadn't noticed her at all, much, until her existence was brought to my attention by some concerned friends. A group of other young ladies I went to school with had decided that, as "everyone else" was pretty much coupled up, it was clearly high time I also found true love in the back of the bus I shared with them every day.
"You know who likes you?" they taunted.
Of course, being a tough thirteen year old boy, I intended to act aloof in front of my mates who were sitting around me on the oval at the bottom of the school. They then recounted the story of how Cherrie told someone, who told someone else, who told someone they knew who told them that she thought I was cute. Even at this early age, I took exception to that particular adjective since reading once that it meant "endearingly ugly", so I was not overly impressed, though I knew most of these girls never used it that way. It was still less impressive than handsome, or gorgeous, or hot, though no one really used that term back then, except in the movies.
But they had planted a seed in my mind. A germ of an idea that grew in intensity as I went about my business. I started noticing her far more often. I also noticed that her chalky white complexion grew pinkish and blotchy when she caught me looking her way. So it was true, then. Perhaps. At least it was a distinct possibility. Then there followed a week or more of badgering by the girls. It was quite obvious to them, and clearly should have been so to me, that I could not continue to carry on as a single man in this hectic social life of the schoolyard. So it was decided I should be pressured into asking her out, and she, I was told, unaware of the whole thing, would surely go along with the plan. After all, the girls who were feeding me intelligence (now there's a confusing use of the term if ever there was one) were much more popular than Cherrie, who while being quite cute, and rich enough, was something of a nerd. In my "friends" words: perfect for me. And I went along with it, acting up to my assumed role. In some ways, convincing myself I believed it was my choice; convincing them I was into the idea. I still don't know why, for sure. The adolescent need for acceptance is strong.
Eventually it was up to me to make something of this. I had resolved I should ask her out, I should do it on the bus she took along with me every afternoon. And I tried, but couldn't quite swing the conversation around in time before she made her exit every day. A week went by, then another, and another, and eventually, I began to wonder why I was even considering this. I didn't really have any feelings for her, I was being pressured into the whole thing by the girlfriends of my friends, in order that there were no third wheels at their social occasions. In the end, I had to clear all this up. I had to tell Cherrie Blossom what was happening.
One day I jumped off the bus at her stop, claiming I was going to the nearby shopping centre, where I would be picked up by my mother. This was a complete lie, and it took me forever to get home from there afterwards. But it was here I planned to explain the situation to Cherrie. She looked happy at first, and clearly thought I was going to ask her out. It soon became clear my intention was almost the exact opposite, and by the time I came around to the end of my long winded explanation (that even though I thought she was really nice, and very pretty, I didn't actually want to go out with her) she was crying. She never really spoke to me after that day.
I suppose she was embarrassed by my rejection of her, that she'd ever said anything to my friends, or her friends, or anyone. I knew that she had been fed a great deal of misleading information about my feelings for her, as well, and it didn't make me fonder of my girl-friends for doing it. I don't know that I resolved to do it, but I definitely began at that point to become better able to hide my feelings. I suppose in the long run it has been a useful skill to possess, but it has been costly. The fleeting embarrassment of a sweet rejection and an understanding kiss on the cheek is far more easy to live with than the unending heartbreak of losing someone you truly love because you never let them inside the wall.
Cherrie was, I suppose, a reasonably attractive girl. She was tall for her age, though, which often made her a target of derision from the other girls, and relatively flat chested, as though her added height was a result of being stretched. But her face was pretty, and her awkward stoop made her move in a way that was at once gawky but endearing. I always noticed that tall girls develop hunched over posture, especially in the teen high school years, as if they are trying to withdraw themselves from view, which merely has the effect of making them more ridiculously obvious. Like a giraffe trying to hide amongst a herd of zebras. She had almost-black hair, with a consistency of dried grass, such that it stuck out at strange angles, despite her best efforts to tame it. I was never entirely sure if she straightened it to enhance this spasticity, but as long as I knew her it remained the same black haystack . As a result of this contrary nature, it was kept mown pretty short, and she was quite possibly the first time I developed a crush on a short haired girl. A recurring theme in my life, strangely.
I say strangely, though, as I developed a crush on Cherrie Blossom with very little encouragement from her whatsoever. In fact, I hadn't noticed her at all, much, until her existence was brought to my attention by some concerned friends. A group of other young ladies I went to school with had decided that, as "everyone else" was pretty much coupled up, it was clearly high time I also found true love in the back of the bus I shared with them every day.
"You know who likes you?" they taunted.
Of course, being a tough thirteen year old boy, I intended to act aloof in front of my mates who were sitting around me on the oval at the bottom of the school. They then recounted the story of how Cherrie told someone, who told someone else, who told someone they knew who told them that she thought I was cute. Even at this early age, I took exception to that particular adjective since reading once that it meant "endearingly ugly", so I was not overly impressed, though I knew most of these girls never used it that way. It was still less impressive than handsome, or gorgeous, or hot, though no one really used that term back then, except in the movies.
But they had planted a seed in my mind. A germ of an idea that grew in intensity as I went about my business. I started noticing her far more often. I also noticed that her chalky white complexion grew pinkish and blotchy when she caught me looking her way. So it was true, then. Perhaps. At least it was a distinct possibility. Then there followed a week or more of badgering by the girls. It was quite obvious to them, and clearly should have been so to me, that I could not continue to carry on as a single man in this hectic social life of the schoolyard. So it was decided I should be pressured into asking her out, and she, I was told, unaware of the whole thing, would surely go along with the plan. After all, the girls who were feeding me intelligence (now there's a confusing use of the term if ever there was one) were much more popular than Cherrie, who while being quite cute, and rich enough, was something of a nerd. In my "friends" words: perfect for me. And I went along with it, acting up to my assumed role. In some ways, convincing myself I believed it was my choice; convincing them I was into the idea. I still don't know why, for sure. The adolescent need for acceptance is strong.
Eventually it was up to me to make something of this. I had resolved I should ask her out, I should do it on the bus she took along with me every afternoon. And I tried, but couldn't quite swing the conversation around in time before she made her exit every day. A week went by, then another, and another, and eventually, I began to wonder why I was even considering this. I didn't really have any feelings for her, I was being pressured into the whole thing by the girlfriends of my friends, in order that there were no third wheels at their social occasions. In the end, I had to clear all this up. I had to tell Cherrie Blossom what was happening.
One day I jumped off the bus at her stop, claiming I was going to the nearby shopping centre, where I would be picked up by my mother. This was a complete lie, and it took me forever to get home from there afterwards. But it was here I planned to explain the situation to Cherrie. She looked happy at first, and clearly thought I was going to ask her out. It soon became clear my intention was almost the exact opposite, and by the time I came around to the end of my long winded explanation (that even though I thought she was really nice, and very pretty, I didn't actually want to go out with her) she was crying. She never really spoke to me after that day.
I suppose she was embarrassed by my rejection of her, that she'd ever said anything to my friends, or her friends, or anyone. I knew that she had been fed a great deal of misleading information about my feelings for her, as well, and it didn't make me fonder of my girl-friends for doing it. I don't know that I resolved to do it, but I definitely began at that point to become better able to hide my feelings. I suppose in the long run it has been a useful skill to possess, but it has been costly. The fleeting embarrassment of a sweet rejection and an understanding kiss on the cheek is far more easy to live with than the unending heartbreak of losing someone you truly love because you never let them inside the wall.
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