After two and a half hours, the film had finished, though neither I nor my companion had taken much notice after the first twenty minutes or so, engaged in other distractions as we were. Despite my strong desire not to leave her alone, Rachel slept on a mattress in my sister's room, no doubt after an interrogation from sis regarding our activities under the blanket. I reluctantly found my way to my bedroom, and though I was excited in a way I can't remember experiencing before, I did get to sleep, after scratching a particular itch until it was soothed.
The following morning I awoke after ten, which, considering I had only gone to sleep at five a.m., was an astounding feat. But as soon as I was even close to conscious, I remembered Rachel's smooth skin and soft lips; her warm, receptive flesh; her insistent kisses. I was up, dressed and in the kitchen earlier than my parents had ever seen on a Saturday morning, at least since I had hit puberty and somewhat lost interest in pre-dawn cartoons. And there she was, at the table, eating breakfast with my sister, who rolled her eyes when she caught the cheeky smile Rachel was giving me.
"You're up early" my mother commented "Though I don't think your brother will be joining us any time soon". She was only half angry, I think she was more amused at his incapable state, and I suppose hoping he would learn some sort of lesson from his unenviable condition. I don't think he did. Not that night. Not for years afterwards.
I joined my sister at the table and sat opposite Rachel, who concentrated on her breakfast, sneaking sideways looks at my sister, and occasionally headlong looks at me. Mum was not oblivious to her gaze, and I thought I caught a smirk on her face at one point, then she excused herself and took herself outside into the garden. I assume she remembered being young herself, probably the first time I'd really considered it in my life. A strange thought that was interrupted by my sister's voice.
I'm going over to Rach's tonight..." she said, looking at her friend
"Do you want to come too?" Rachel blurted out before my sister could reconsider her position
"Yeah, sure" I said, with what I thought was an appropriate level of nonchalance "that would be cool"
We made our way from our middle-suburban home to that of Rachel's mother, in a far more expensive and much older suburb closer to the city. Her mother was divorced, and was entertaining her boyfriend at home that evening, because it was late in the day when we arrived. Her mother seemed quietly detached about her eldest daughter bringing home a gawky teenage boy, but I think her interest was focussed on her other male guest for the night.
We ate, and I did my best to make "adult" conversation during the meal, eventually we retired to Rachel's bedroom, and we were entwined in each others' arm and legs on her double bed (which had secretly impressed me, as none of my friends had "grown-up" beds). Meanwhile my sister tried to ignore us by watching the TV in the corner of the room. She eventually announced her retirement, and after finding her way to the guest bedroom, Rachel deftly covered our bodies with her quilt that had been pushed up against the wall.
I was busy getting my sweaty hands inside her clothes, and was surprised that she not only offered the apparently obligatory resistance I was used to, but made similar efforts with mine. Older women were a foreign country to me. By this point I was on a hair trigger, and after exploring this unknown territory for what must have been an hour or more, I was pretty sure I was providing her with appropriate stimulation. She reached into her bedside table drawer and her hand returned with a small plastic envelope, containing a small latex envelope which was for me to use.
I'd like to say it was wonderful. I'd like to say it was the most amazing experience of my life. I'd like to say I took her to places she'd never been in hers. But I'd be lying. Once I was actually in position, it took only a few thrusting contractions of my over-enthused hips, and the pulsing sensation of her pelvic floor, the prophylactic was firmly in the "used" category. I rolled off her, and she stroked my hair, and sighed, and I snuggled my head into the crook of her arm. And drifted to sleep, with one thought in my head. I wasn't a virgin any more.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Monday, 15 September 2008
Spiceworld
My sister is older than me, I suppose I've mentioned before, as is my brother. She had, at my parents' insistence, begun to attend an all girls' school in an attempt to improve her grades by removing certain distractions. A peculiarity of single sex high schools is that members of the opposite sex are still expected to attend imitations of adult events in each others' company. My sister had such an event approaching, and while she happily had a date for the evening, one of her good friends had recently ended a relationship, and was not willing to rush around seeking a partner just for the sake of appearances. So it was arranged for my brother to escort her to the formal end of year dance. Of course, they had never met, but this was a minor inconvenience, apparently.
So, my sister's friend Rachel came over to meet my brother, so they could get to know each other before they were to make a public appearance. It had been decided that we would all go to a party, at least that was the official line to my parents. For some reason, and probably unusually, my siblings and I often went to the same parties, at least, I went to their friends parties, they rarely came to mine. But on this particular night, there wasn't actually a party, there was just a gang of us meeting in the local park, mostly equipped with cheap, potent alcohol.
So, my brother, my sister, Rachel and I arrived in the park, and met the other teens in the dark. There was a small playhouse, which would have provided scant shelter if the weather turned inclement, but did allow a degree of invisibility from the nearest road, even with candles burning on the green pine floor of the cubby. The rest of the park was "bush" - a tangled mess of old native vegetation and weeds, with a creek twisting through the middle of it all, so it was only being spotted from the road we had to worry about, and escape was a simple matter of disappearing into the drooping curtain of a willow tree, if necessary.
My brother seemed in a hurry to get drunk, and wasted no time in getting through half a dozen cans of beer in about 90 minutes. I suppose he may have been nervous, with the pressure he was being put under, though he may not have even recognised it. I had not much to drink, basically because that week I couldn't afford it. So, as my sister had wandered off with her boyfriend to some secluded hollow by the water, I was talking to Rachel in the playground. The conversation was wide ranging, covering everything from our political views, to music, school, work, and religion; which was interesting, as I had never spoken to anyone Jewish about the subject before, being a strange Anglican/Presbyterian/Church of Christ hybrid.
It was not exactly easy to see her, but we did look at each other for the whole time we talked. She was about my height, though how tall that is I don't even remember. Being as I was fifteen and she nearly eighteen, I suppose she might have been a little smaller than other girls her age. Her skin was olive, and smooth, and clear, and her eyes were brown, like cocoa powder. She had long, very dark hair, with tight curls, though I had no idea if they were natural. She was exceptionally well developed in the bust, without being anything like overweight, and it was clear that if she was interested she could have easily found someone to attend the dance with her. And her voice was deep, I suppose, but flowing. The way she formed words was rhythmic and soothing, and I would have happily talked to her for hours more.
But my brother returned, drunk after another three or four drinks. I wasn't keeping track, and he certainly wasn't. He was slurring his speech and said something to Rachel about going fo a walk, which she, having drunk as little as I had, declined, suggesting he sit down for a while. He joined us on the wooden floor, and after a few garbled sentences, fell silent as we continued to talk. After ten minutes or so, he groaned and hoisted himself up with apparent urgency. He crawled out on to the grass nearby and emptied the contents of his stomach, loudly. We waited until the worst of it seemed to be over and went to see if he was okay.
After getting him back home, and cleaning him up (luckily my parents were at a party of their own) he was put to bed, with a thoughtfully supplied bucket in easy reach. And Rachel and I decided to watch some TV. As usual, there was nothing of note to watch, so I put a tape of the movie "Dune" in the VCR. I'm nothing if not romantic. We sat and watched, as I explained the various intricacies of the plot which were left out of the film adaptation. We sat in a bean bag, and as the temperature decreased, shared a blanket, under cover of which, her hand found mine.
I looked across and found her looking at me already with her dark eyes, and slightly smiling. I smiled back, unable to look away from her, despite the climax of the movie approaching rapidly. She leaned forward, still smiling, and kissed me. One kiss on the lips first, then a longer kiss, then she kissed me hard and her tongue made its presence known. Meanwhile, she had rolled me on to my back and was straddling me at the waist, her skirt high up her legs. I just didn't want to stop kissing her. Until she started to grind her hips into me. Then I wanted to start doing something else.
Our attention was caught by the sound of the front door closing down the hall. It was my sister, she came and asked what had become of my brother, and we laughed and told her, having composed ourselves in the few seconds it had taken her to come in.
She gave us a strange quizzical look as she left the room, probably as we were still both in the beanbag and almost invisible under our blanket. Rachel whispered "So... do you want to come to the dance with me?" and bit my earlobe. I grinned idiotically and kissed her again, and slid a hand up her thigh. "Um... Of course!" I assured her, "but... Who's going to tell my brother?".
So, my sister's friend Rachel came over to meet my brother, so they could get to know each other before they were to make a public appearance. It had been decided that we would all go to a party, at least that was the official line to my parents. For some reason, and probably unusually, my siblings and I often went to the same parties, at least, I went to their friends parties, they rarely came to mine. But on this particular night, there wasn't actually a party, there was just a gang of us meeting in the local park, mostly equipped with cheap, potent alcohol.
So, my brother, my sister, Rachel and I arrived in the park, and met the other teens in the dark. There was a small playhouse, which would have provided scant shelter if the weather turned inclement, but did allow a degree of invisibility from the nearest road, even with candles burning on the green pine floor of the cubby. The rest of the park was "bush" - a tangled mess of old native vegetation and weeds, with a creek twisting through the middle of it all, so it was only being spotted from the road we had to worry about, and escape was a simple matter of disappearing into the drooping curtain of a willow tree, if necessary.
My brother seemed in a hurry to get drunk, and wasted no time in getting through half a dozen cans of beer in about 90 minutes. I suppose he may have been nervous, with the pressure he was being put under, though he may not have even recognised it. I had not much to drink, basically because that week I couldn't afford it. So, as my sister had wandered off with her boyfriend to some secluded hollow by the water, I was talking to Rachel in the playground. The conversation was wide ranging, covering everything from our political views, to music, school, work, and religion; which was interesting, as I had never spoken to anyone Jewish about the subject before, being a strange Anglican/Presbyterian/Church of Christ hybrid.
It was not exactly easy to see her, but we did look at each other for the whole time we talked. She was about my height, though how tall that is I don't even remember. Being as I was fifteen and she nearly eighteen, I suppose she might have been a little smaller than other girls her age. Her skin was olive, and smooth, and clear, and her eyes were brown, like cocoa powder. She had long, very dark hair, with tight curls, though I had no idea if they were natural. She was exceptionally well developed in the bust, without being anything like overweight, and it was clear that if she was interested she could have easily found someone to attend the dance with her. And her voice was deep, I suppose, but flowing. The way she formed words was rhythmic and soothing, and I would have happily talked to her for hours more.
But my brother returned, drunk after another three or four drinks. I wasn't keeping track, and he certainly wasn't. He was slurring his speech and said something to Rachel about going fo a walk, which she, having drunk as little as I had, declined, suggesting he sit down for a while. He joined us on the wooden floor, and after a few garbled sentences, fell silent as we continued to talk. After ten minutes or so, he groaned and hoisted himself up with apparent urgency. He crawled out on to the grass nearby and emptied the contents of his stomach, loudly. We waited until the worst of it seemed to be over and went to see if he was okay.
After getting him back home, and cleaning him up (luckily my parents were at a party of their own) he was put to bed, with a thoughtfully supplied bucket in easy reach. And Rachel and I decided to watch some TV. As usual, there was nothing of note to watch, so I put a tape of the movie "Dune" in the VCR. I'm nothing if not romantic. We sat and watched, as I explained the various intricacies of the plot which were left out of the film adaptation. We sat in a bean bag, and as the temperature decreased, shared a blanket, under cover of which, her hand found mine.
I looked across and found her looking at me already with her dark eyes, and slightly smiling. I smiled back, unable to look away from her, despite the climax of the movie approaching rapidly. She leaned forward, still smiling, and kissed me. One kiss on the lips first, then a longer kiss, then she kissed me hard and her tongue made its presence known. Meanwhile, she had rolled me on to my back and was straddling me at the waist, her skirt high up her legs. I just didn't want to stop kissing her. Until she started to grind her hips into me. Then I wanted to start doing something else.
Our attention was caught by the sound of the front door closing down the hall. It was my sister, she came and asked what had become of my brother, and we laughed and told her, having composed ourselves in the few seconds it had taken her to come in.
She gave us a strange quizzical look as she left the room, probably as we were still both in the beanbag and almost invisible under our blanket. Rachel whispered "So... do you want to come to the dance with me?" and bit my earlobe. I grinned idiotically and kissed her again, and slid a hand up her thigh. "Um... Of course!" I assured her, "but... Who's going to tell my brother?".
Monday, 25 August 2008
Somewhere over the rainbow
And so Dorothy had found someone else. And we had, in spite of it all, remained friends. Or more truthfully, I couldn't bear the thought of not being around her, so I maintained a close relationship with her, accepting the slow pain of a thousand tiny cuts watching her with her arms around her new beau, kissing him in that overly-zealous teenage fashion at every opportunity, and generally rub in the fact she wanted someone else. Not that she ever realised. At least I hope not.
But as all adolescent relationships do, this one ended. And as they tend to, it was accompanied by floods of tears on Dorothy's part. Of course, you can see what comes next. The trusted, reliable friend, the knight in shining armour comes rushing to the rescue, offering consolation and words of comfort and reassurance in her time of need. It is at such times one comes to realise this is more the role of a serf than a knight, and the act is one of subservience, in a very real way. But I didn't see it that way then.
Dorothy accompanied me to many a teenage social activity at that time, especially the much revered house party, where most of the taboos of society were broken by people generally below the age of responsibility in a legal sense. It was at one such party, probably a month or two after her heartbreaking separation from her former lover (for it became quite clear from her emotional outpourings he had taken her off the list of potential mothers for the second coming) that a seed of guilt was planted in my mind that has since grown into a vast forest of regret.
There was much alcohol consumed at the party. A vast quantity, and even more astounding considering the age and body size of the consumers present. Not a single person there was over the age of seventeen, which is hardly surprising considering a drivers' licence was a ticket away from such juvenile entertainments. An access all areas pass to even more predictable and socially condoned behaviour patterns, like going to the pub. Dorothy and I were no exceptions to the drunkenness. We drank and laughed and mingled and danced and drank some more.
At one point I didn't see her for possibly half an hour. It may have been more, but of course, in the foggy state I was in, it could easily have been less. My face was flushed, everything I said was hilarious, as were the utterances of my fellow revellers. And while being regaled with yet another hilarious anecdote of inappropriate regurgitation, Dorothy staggered into view, her eyelids shading her glazed eyes, and each step requiring a swaying attempt to regain her balance.
I broke away from the cluster of kids crowded around the half drum of fire, and made my way toward her. Putting my hands on both her shoulders, I asked if she was okay, receiving a reply in a sing-song drunken voice to the effect that "of course" she was fine, but maybe she needed to "sit down for a bit". I looked around and saw a rectangular table against the wooden fence, and put my arm around her shoulders to guide her towards it. It was an old classroom table, and was easily low enough to sit on, so I sat first to steady myself and slid across the table until my back was against the fence. I pulled her up onto it with my chest against her back and my arms around her waist. Her head lolled back against me and she was talking to me animatedly, though it was all nonsense.
After a period of maybe half an hour, and a glass of water or two, supplied by an equally concerned girlfriend, she began to behave more coherently. Still drunk, but not spouting gibberish any longer. A mutual friend of both of ours came and crouched in front of her, I was still holding her around the waist. He spoke to her quietly and close, but at some point, his hand touched my arm and I realised he was kissing her. A rush of jealous blood to my head made me almost involuntarily kick him in the leg, accompanied with an "Oi!"
He stood up, and though he was surely hurt at least a little by my shoe, just gave me a strange smirk and walked away, I think he laughed as he turned away.
"Who was that?" she asked, and I realised she was far from coherent. Or was it none of my business? I extracted myself from behind her and leant her against the fence, explaining I was going in search of her concerned friend. I frantically searched the party for her, and found her chatting to the usual gang of girls I saw each morning on my way to school. I asked if she thought maybe they might look after Dorothy, or take her home, and they all walked back to where I had left her.
But she wasn't on the table, she was up against the fence, standing up, and yet another guy was kissing her, and had his hand well and truly up her skirt, and was grinding his hips between her legs. I saw red. I grabbed him by the shoulder and growled "wathafuggayadoin?!" He gave me the same slimy smirk as the first guy, and staggered off toward another part of the yard. Her friends formed up around her and she was gone.
Was this my fault? Could I have prevented any of this taking place? Did I make too much of it because of my feelings for Dorothy? Can she have held it against me forever afterwards? Should I have told her earlier to click her heels and take herself home? I remember this night vividly, twenty years later, and I still have no answers to those questions.
But as all adolescent relationships do, this one ended. And as they tend to, it was accompanied by floods of tears on Dorothy's part. Of course, you can see what comes next. The trusted, reliable friend, the knight in shining armour comes rushing to the rescue, offering consolation and words of comfort and reassurance in her time of need. It is at such times one comes to realise this is more the role of a serf than a knight, and the act is one of subservience, in a very real way. But I didn't see it that way then.
Dorothy accompanied me to many a teenage social activity at that time, especially the much revered house party, where most of the taboos of society were broken by people generally below the age of responsibility in a legal sense. It was at one such party, probably a month or two after her heartbreaking separation from her former lover (for it became quite clear from her emotional outpourings he had taken her off the list of potential mothers for the second coming) that a seed of guilt was planted in my mind that has since grown into a vast forest of regret.
There was much alcohol consumed at the party. A vast quantity, and even more astounding considering the age and body size of the consumers present. Not a single person there was over the age of seventeen, which is hardly surprising considering a drivers' licence was a ticket away from such juvenile entertainments. An access all areas pass to even more predictable and socially condoned behaviour patterns, like going to the pub. Dorothy and I were no exceptions to the drunkenness. We drank and laughed and mingled and danced and drank some more.
At one point I didn't see her for possibly half an hour. It may have been more, but of course, in the foggy state I was in, it could easily have been less. My face was flushed, everything I said was hilarious, as were the utterances of my fellow revellers. And while being regaled with yet another hilarious anecdote of inappropriate regurgitation, Dorothy staggered into view, her eyelids shading her glazed eyes, and each step requiring a swaying attempt to regain her balance.
I broke away from the cluster of kids crowded around the half drum of fire, and made my way toward her. Putting my hands on both her shoulders, I asked if she was okay, receiving a reply in a sing-song drunken voice to the effect that "of course" she was fine, but maybe she needed to "sit down for a bit". I looked around and saw a rectangular table against the wooden fence, and put my arm around her shoulders to guide her towards it. It was an old classroom table, and was easily low enough to sit on, so I sat first to steady myself and slid across the table until my back was against the fence. I pulled her up onto it with my chest against her back and my arms around her waist. Her head lolled back against me and she was talking to me animatedly, though it was all nonsense.
After a period of maybe half an hour, and a glass of water or two, supplied by an equally concerned girlfriend, she began to behave more coherently. Still drunk, but not spouting gibberish any longer. A mutual friend of both of ours came and crouched in front of her, I was still holding her around the waist. He spoke to her quietly and close, but at some point, his hand touched my arm and I realised he was kissing her. A rush of jealous blood to my head made me almost involuntarily kick him in the leg, accompanied with an "Oi!"
He stood up, and though he was surely hurt at least a little by my shoe, just gave me a strange smirk and walked away, I think he laughed as he turned away.
"Who was that?" she asked, and I realised she was far from coherent. Or was it none of my business? I extracted myself from behind her and leant her against the fence, explaining I was going in search of her concerned friend. I frantically searched the party for her, and found her chatting to the usual gang of girls I saw each morning on my way to school. I asked if she thought maybe they might look after Dorothy, or take her home, and they all walked back to where I had left her.
But she wasn't on the table, she was up against the fence, standing up, and yet another guy was kissing her, and had his hand well and truly up her skirt, and was grinding his hips between her legs. I saw red. I grabbed him by the shoulder and growled "wathafuggayadoin?!" He gave me the same slimy smirk as the first guy, and staggered off toward another part of the yard. Her friends formed up around her and she was gone.
Was this my fault? Could I have prevented any of this taking place? Did I make too much of it because of my feelings for Dorothy? Can she have held it against me forever afterwards? Should I have told her earlier to click her heels and take herself home? I remember this night vividly, twenty years later, and I still have no answers to those questions.
Monday, 18 August 2008
Hear my train a-comin
My school was not even close to walking distance from my parents house, which necessarily meant I had to take public transport to get there and back again. A bus, then a train, then another train meant I had to leave home around 7.30 in the morning, or earlier, if I was to be in class on time every day. My general lack of enthusiasm for education, combined with the shifted sleeping patterns of a teenager meant that many times, this just didn't happen.
But when it did, I was quite happy to take the trip, as at least it gave me the opportunity to talk to some very lovely girls while waiting for my train. I am not sure exactly how we were introduced, somehow they were friends of friends in some convoluted manner, and when I first met them, they were all attending the same eastern suburbs Presbyterian girls' school. They were all pretty in their own way, I suppose, but I was smitten almost immediately by Dorothy.
Dorothy was slim, with dark curly hair that she mostly kept tied back in a pony tail, but which easily hung past her shoulders when she let it out. Her skin was occasionally marked with transient spots, as most teenagers are, but for the most part it was smooth and unblemished. She had deep brown eyes that I could have gazed into for hours, had she let me, and the most endearing gaps between her front teeth. I have an idea that because our sexuality emerges during our school years, there is something fundamentally attractive about a girl in school uniform, especially the formal fashions of the private institutions.
So Dorothy was the object of my attention, and my one reason for hauling myself out of bed on cold winter school mornings. I caught the bus with Tom, who lived nearby my house, and met the girls on the railway platform. This was back in the days when smoking was still allowed on the station, and they would come down to smoke, away from the eyes of their prefects who generally patrolled the bus interchange, not the trains. And for a few months, that was how it was. Tom and I showing off, and generally being teenage boys, the girls laughing at our jokes and responding to our posturing.
I tried to figure out a way to ask Dorothy to be my girlfriend. It was difficult. I tried to arrange meetings and dates with her, but it always ended up being a group outing, as I never had the opportunity to talk to her alone. The girls travelled in a pack. I eventually managed to get her phone number, and I would call her every other day, and we'd talk for hours. Luckily, I had a phone connection in my bedroom, and I would unplug the phone form upstairs and take it with me so no one could hear our conversations. It was during one of these long sessions I asked her, in the most awkward way possible, if she would go out with me.
"I have to ask you something" I said. The worst possible introduction to an important question, and guaranteed to put someone on guard. When she asked what, I basically just said "Will you go out with me". She didn't respond. That's when i realised this was a bad idea. I knew what was coming, too. I was starting to expect the standard response "But we're such good friends"
This pretty much spelled the end of the friendship, of course, because no woman wants someone around who really wants something else from her. Especially not as a friend. The whole issue of trust becomes sharply defined. I was crushed, and I didn't get the train to school for the rest of the week, preferring to take a longer, more difficult route, in order to avoid the embarrassment of facing the pack each morning. It was clear when I next returned to the station why Dorothy had refused me. When Tom and I arrived on the platform, he kissed her on the cheek, and they held hands until it was time to board the train. I guess it was wrong of me to feel betrayed. I wasn't owed anything by either of them, but things between all of us changed after that.
But when it did, I was quite happy to take the trip, as at least it gave me the opportunity to talk to some very lovely girls while waiting for my train. I am not sure exactly how we were introduced, somehow they were friends of friends in some convoluted manner, and when I first met them, they were all attending the same eastern suburbs Presbyterian girls' school. They were all pretty in their own way, I suppose, but I was smitten almost immediately by Dorothy.
Dorothy was slim, with dark curly hair that she mostly kept tied back in a pony tail, but which easily hung past her shoulders when she let it out. Her skin was occasionally marked with transient spots, as most teenagers are, but for the most part it was smooth and unblemished. She had deep brown eyes that I could have gazed into for hours, had she let me, and the most endearing gaps between her front teeth. I have an idea that because our sexuality emerges during our school years, there is something fundamentally attractive about a girl in school uniform, especially the formal fashions of the private institutions.
So Dorothy was the object of my attention, and my one reason for hauling myself out of bed on cold winter school mornings. I caught the bus with Tom, who lived nearby my house, and met the girls on the railway platform. This was back in the days when smoking was still allowed on the station, and they would come down to smoke, away from the eyes of their prefects who generally patrolled the bus interchange, not the trains. And for a few months, that was how it was. Tom and I showing off, and generally being teenage boys, the girls laughing at our jokes and responding to our posturing.
I tried to figure out a way to ask Dorothy to be my girlfriend. It was difficult. I tried to arrange meetings and dates with her, but it always ended up being a group outing, as I never had the opportunity to talk to her alone. The girls travelled in a pack. I eventually managed to get her phone number, and I would call her every other day, and we'd talk for hours. Luckily, I had a phone connection in my bedroom, and I would unplug the phone form upstairs and take it with me so no one could hear our conversations. It was during one of these long sessions I asked her, in the most awkward way possible, if she would go out with me.
"I have to ask you something" I said. The worst possible introduction to an important question, and guaranteed to put someone on guard. When she asked what, I basically just said "Will you go out with me". She didn't respond. That's when i realised this was a bad idea. I knew what was coming, too. I was starting to expect the standard response "But we're such good friends"
This pretty much spelled the end of the friendship, of course, because no woman wants someone around who really wants something else from her. Especially not as a friend. The whole issue of trust becomes sharply defined. I was crushed, and I didn't get the train to school for the rest of the week, preferring to take a longer, more difficult route, in order to avoid the embarrassment of facing the pack each morning. It was clear when I next returned to the station why Dorothy had refused me. When Tom and I arrived on the platform, he kissed her on the cheek, and they held hands until it was time to board the train. I guess it was wrong of me to feel betrayed. I wasn't owed anything by either of them, but things between all of us changed after that.
Wednesday, 18 June 2008
In the desert, you can remember your name
At some stage, somewhere between permanently and comprehensively destroying any chance I had with Emily, and conveniently providing a babysitting service to allow neighbourhood harlots the peace and quiet of an empty house, I changed schools. This could at least partly explain the date with the young, cute redhead, as the lack of eligible ladies at my new school was basically set in stone. It was boys only.
The new school was a fair hike from my house, about an hour every morning to get there, and a similar trek on the return journey. It was a centrally located, traditional, selective school, where we were made to wear ties, blazers, shiny shoes, and the whole old-boys-secret-handshake package. The school itself resembled nothing if not an early twentieth century prison, complete with watchtowers and rusty-but-solid spiked cast iron fences surrounding it. And it was into the prison cells that the twelve hundred odd boys aged fourteen to eighteen would file each day, and attempt to absorb the wisdom of the ancients.
I use this turn of phrase particularly because not a single member of staff appeared to be younger than half a century's vintage, except perhaps the limber and moustachioed Physical Education staff. They were also predominantly male, with a few notable exceptions. The matronly teacher of "modern history" (which really showed her age, as it started with the English Civil War) had a forties style hair-set, which we assumed was an original from the period. She was married to another teacher, who also taught history, and was about as warm and loving as a glacier slowly grinding a rock face into fine powder.
The art teachers were also female, and while one was, we were convinced, a friend of Sappho, the other was somewhere between twenty five and thirty five, a very difficult period to gauge accurately for a teenage boy. It's neither within the realm of still being desirable to them, yet somehow not quite to the level of "old". She was one of the favourites, and at least gave us some kind of female influence, but she was never an object of schoolboy obsession. Unlike the Australian History teacher.
Now, here was a woman, easily within range of our own age, that is to say; less than a decade fit comfortably between her birth and our own. She was also very attractive. Now I have to say, in retrospect, that attractiveness is so highly contextualised, that were I to see her on the street in any other period of my life, in any other context, I may not have looked twice. But to a room full of hormonal lads, colonial history was never so enthralling. She was mid twenties, I'd guess, when I started there, with no real age lines in her face to speak of, aside from some laugh lines at the edge of her eyes. She had deep green, large eyes, but not the kind that pop out when irritated, like some teachers', but expansive, like deep, calm lakes. And her lips drew your gaze, as they related the stories of the early settlement of the country we call home.
Her auburn hair was wavy, not curly, down to her shoulders, and she had been spared the humiliation of fashionable hairstylists, most likely by her low teachers' salary than by choice. The same limitation was put on her manner of dress, though she never looked less than stylish, she was neither a flashy dresser. But her clothing fit her very well, and accentuated the youth she had, which was sorely lacking in the rest of the faculty. And when she spoke it was with a clear, lyrical voice, which never cracked in anger, nor bellowed in accusation. Certainly not to the degree I had become accustomed in other classes.
So here she was, an oasis in the desert of masculinity. The sex symbol of a whole generation of schoolboys, and sure enough the subject of more than one of "those" dreams in my four years there. And it was all I had, for a long, long time. You have to remember your name when no one calls you.
The new school was a fair hike from my house, about an hour every morning to get there, and a similar trek on the return journey. It was a centrally located, traditional, selective school, where we were made to wear ties, blazers, shiny shoes, and the whole old-boys-secret-handshake package. The school itself resembled nothing if not an early twentieth century prison, complete with watchtowers and rusty-but-solid spiked cast iron fences surrounding it. And it was into the prison cells that the twelve hundred odd boys aged fourteen to eighteen would file each day, and attempt to absorb the wisdom of the ancients.
I use this turn of phrase particularly because not a single member of staff appeared to be younger than half a century's vintage, except perhaps the limber and moustachioed Physical Education staff. They were also predominantly male, with a few notable exceptions. The matronly teacher of "modern history" (which really showed her age, as it started with the English Civil War) had a forties style hair-set, which we assumed was an original from the period. She was married to another teacher, who also taught history, and was about as warm and loving as a glacier slowly grinding a rock face into fine powder.
The art teachers were also female, and while one was, we were convinced, a friend of Sappho, the other was somewhere between twenty five and thirty five, a very difficult period to gauge accurately for a teenage boy. It's neither within the realm of still being desirable to them, yet somehow not quite to the level of "old". She was one of the favourites, and at least gave us some kind of female influence, but she was never an object of schoolboy obsession. Unlike the Australian History teacher.
Now, here was a woman, easily within range of our own age, that is to say; less than a decade fit comfortably between her birth and our own. She was also very attractive. Now I have to say, in retrospect, that attractiveness is so highly contextualised, that were I to see her on the street in any other period of my life, in any other context, I may not have looked twice. But to a room full of hormonal lads, colonial history was never so enthralling. She was mid twenties, I'd guess, when I started there, with no real age lines in her face to speak of, aside from some laugh lines at the edge of her eyes. She had deep green, large eyes, but not the kind that pop out when irritated, like some teachers', but expansive, like deep, calm lakes. And her lips drew your gaze, as they related the stories of the early settlement of the country we call home.
Her auburn hair was wavy, not curly, down to her shoulders, and she had been spared the humiliation of fashionable hairstylists, most likely by her low teachers' salary than by choice. The same limitation was put on her manner of dress, though she never looked less than stylish, she was neither a flashy dresser. But her clothing fit her very well, and accentuated the youth she had, which was sorely lacking in the rest of the faculty. And when she spoke it was with a clear, lyrical voice, which never cracked in anger, nor bellowed in accusation. Certainly not to the degree I had become accustomed in other classes.
So here she was, an oasis in the desert of masculinity. The sex symbol of a whole generation of schoolboys, and sure enough the subject of more than one of "those" dreams in my four years there. And it was all I had, for a long, long time. You have to remember your name when no one calls you.
Monday, 26 May 2008
Shyness is nice, but shyness can stop you...
The funny thing about being a fourteen year old boy and becoming aware of the opposite sex, is that, as we are often told: girls mature faster than boys. So it's no surprise to find our early unsophisticated attempts at romance are all too easily brushed off by the inscrutable objects of our desire. They know what we wanted, and they know we had no idea how to get it. The girls our own age, that is.
So, there are many periods of adolescence in which a man is just a man. Or more accurately, a scruffy haired, fuzzy lipped teen is a scruffy haired fuzzy lipped teen. In other words, there are droughts. Extended periods of no love and attention from the ladies of our world. Times when our attention may be trained upon younger girls, who still fall for the corny lines of the "older man". Of course these girls all too often had older sisters who would warn them off our clumsy attempts at luring them to the movies. Or worse, they had brothers, whose methods of dissuasion were somewhat less subtle.
Having younger and older sisters put me in the unenviable position of having their friends surrounding me at this age. The older girls had the stigma of me being their friend's little brother, while the younger one's listened far too carefully to their older siblings for me to have any hope of getting them alone for five minutes, let alone out on a "date".
Not that I recall actually dating very often, certainly back then. Once only was it officially a date, and it was, indeed, the sister of a friend of my own sister who was the lucky contestant. We actually went to see the "delightful Julia Roberts" in Pretty Woman at the local cinema. Clearly it was Ladies Choice that night, as Julia has about as much appeal as a candidate in the holding yard at the local glue factory. So, we sat in the back row, eating popcorn, watching the film. Then the popcorn ran out, and I rested my hand on her knee.
She did nothing to prevent this, despite it being bare below the hemline of her short, retro-style a-line dress. I decided to try and slip it further up her thigh, but as I had left my hand in the same place for so long, it had become sweaty in the warm cinema, and sort of dragged in a jerky and completely unsexy manner along the top of her thigh. Until she quickly and firmly, but calmly placed her hand on my wrist to signify "No Entry".
Undeterred, I rearranged myself in my seat, and successfully deployed the world famous "yawn and stretch" routine, encircling her shoulders with my right arm. For some reason I had been given the impression by some over chivalrous male role model that the gentleman always sat closest to the aisle in a theatre or cinema, such advice is probably less useful nowadays, or may have been completely misleading, even then.
During the closing credits of the film, I somehow maneuvered myself into a position where I was able to kiss her on the lips, and even for a brief moment got my tongue into her mouth, which she seemed to feel was about as desirable as being force-fed raw eel meat. But didn't actually push me away. But she held my hand, meekly, as we walked back to her place. Her parents were, for some reason, not at home, and her older sister had obviously taken the opportunity to invite her boyfriend over for something more unsavoury than what I had experienced at the flicks.
And we sat, in the dimmed lights of her lounge room, for a couple of hours, speaking hardly a word, watching music videos on late night TV, until, about two o'clock, I made my excuses and left. The whole episode confused me at the time, but in retrospect, I think I made a big mistake.
I had mentioned her name to my brother, and said she was cute, or whatever it was I used to describe attractive girls in those days. And she was attractive, I had met her at a party a couple of weeks before our date, and was taken by her strawberry-blonde bob and washed out blue eyes. She had had very fair skin, and a light sprinkle of freckles, which I still find somehow charming and innocent. Then I got a phone call from her sister, asking if I wanted to go out with her. I think she did want to go out with me, as she did actually call me herself once I had confirmed, but at the same time I think her older sister had her own agenda.
And I think she pushed her sweet, shy, little sister into going on a date with me so she could have her boyfriend over. And over. With no interruption. Shame I didn't give her some more of my time. She really was cute.
So, there are many periods of adolescence in which a man is just a man. Or more accurately, a scruffy haired, fuzzy lipped teen is a scruffy haired fuzzy lipped teen. In other words, there are droughts. Extended periods of no love and attention from the ladies of our world. Times when our attention may be trained upon younger girls, who still fall for the corny lines of the "older man". Of course these girls all too often had older sisters who would warn them off our clumsy attempts at luring them to the movies. Or worse, they had brothers, whose methods of dissuasion were somewhat less subtle.
Having younger and older sisters put me in the unenviable position of having their friends surrounding me at this age. The older girls had the stigma of me being their friend's little brother, while the younger one's listened far too carefully to their older siblings for me to have any hope of getting them alone for five minutes, let alone out on a "date".
Not that I recall actually dating very often, certainly back then. Once only was it officially a date, and it was, indeed, the sister of a friend of my own sister who was the lucky contestant. We actually went to see the "delightful Julia Roberts" in Pretty Woman at the local cinema. Clearly it was Ladies Choice that night, as Julia has about as much appeal as a candidate in the holding yard at the local glue factory. So, we sat in the back row, eating popcorn, watching the film. Then the popcorn ran out, and I rested my hand on her knee.
She did nothing to prevent this, despite it being bare below the hemline of her short, retro-style a-line dress. I decided to try and slip it further up her thigh, but as I had left my hand in the same place for so long, it had become sweaty in the warm cinema, and sort of dragged in a jerky and completely unsexy manner along the top of her thigh. Until she quickly and firmly, but calmly placed her hand on my wrist to signify "No Entry".
Undeterred, I rearranged myself in my seat, and successfully deployed the world famous "yawn and stretch" routine, encircling her shoulders with my right arm. For some reason I had been given the impression by some over chivalrous male role model that the gentleman always sat closest to the aisle in a theatre or cinema, such advice is probably less useful nowadays, or may have been completely misleading, even then.
During the closing credits of the film, I somehow maneuvered myself into a position where I was able to kiss her on the lips, and even for a brief moment got my tongue into her mouth, which she seemed to feel was about as desirable as being force-fed raw eel meat. But didn't actually push me away. But she held my hand, meekly, as we walked back to her place. Her parents were, for some reason, not at home, and her older sister had obviously taken the opportunity to invite her boyfriend over for something more unsavoury than what I had experienced at the flicks.
And we sat, in the dimmed lights of her lounge room, for a couple of hours, speaking hardly a word, watching music videos on late night TV, until, about two o'clock, I made my excuses and left. The whole episode confused me at the time, but in retrospect, I think I made a big mistake.
I had mentioned her name to my brother, and said she was cute, or whatever it was I used to describe attractive girls in those days. And she was attractive, I had met her at a party a couple of weeks before our date, and was taken by her strawberry-blonde bob and washed out blue eyes. She had had very fair skin, and a light sprinkle of freckles, which I still find somehow charming and innocent. Then I got a phone call from her sister, asking if I wanted to go out with her. I think she did want to go out with me, as she did actually call me herself once I had confirmed, but at the same time I think her older sister had her own agenda.
And I think she pushed her sweet, shy, little sister into going on a date with me so she could have her boyfriend over. And over. With no interruption. Shame I didn't give her some more of my time. She really was cute.
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
If you can't be with the one you love, honey...
The show ended, as always, with the usual "cast party". Having been to several in my adult years with "professional" actors, an overnight stay in a local scout hall is possibly not quite on a par with such debauched soirees. The most exciting activity involved, beginning with the current year's extravaganza, videos of the show from years gone being replayed on a clunky, ancient, top-loading VCR, in reverse chronological order. This ritual was intended to last all night, for those who could stay awake that long. The charming tradition allowed all who remained conscious to witness themselves getting progressively younger and gawkier, and the new cast members to see that everyone, even if they are now cool semi-adults, is retarded, spotty, and awkward in their teenage years. Okay, admittedly they were in scouts in their early twenties, which is probably not the coolest thing to be doing, but at least they had rusty Land Cruisers to take their scouty girlfriends overnight to the mountains in. That was cool enough.
Mostly people arrived with their sleeping bags, and propped themselves up to watch at least the performance from which they'd just finished. Even though we had heard all the terrible jokes, sung all the choruses, and our legs were still tired form the dance routines, we had not seen our show before this point. It was at the same time joyful, seeing all our work complete, and sad, knowing that we would never, ever repeat that performance. After the final curtain, the plan was to make it through the previous year, and the one before that, until breakfast. In reality, most were asleep before the first tape was rewound and those that were still awake had little interest in the colourful antics of yesteryear, and a great deal of interest in how much they could feel through two layers of sleeping bag. Not much, I'll admit, but there were real adults supervising, so it wasn't even remotely possible to actually get down to anything obscene. Much. The prospect of a wristie with a happy ending in your own sleeping bag was less than appealing anyway.
But Emily wasn't there, anyway. Not that I think she would have even contemplated such a thing. Her parents were apparently concerned about her spending the night in a dark room full of teenage boys. While she protested at length that it was no big deal, and nothing would happen, and it was all supervised, they were right. A room full of teenage boys, ramped up on red cordial and chocolate and cake at three o'clock in the morning is no place for a young lady. But after our kiss, I am not sure she would have even spoken to me, as she barely had for the rest of the production. But Emily was not the only girl in the cast.
Bernie was freckly. Put simply, that was the first thing anyone would notice when they first saw her. Her entire face, and presumably most of her body, though I never got to see much of it, was covered in a layer of reddish brown freckles, so thick it was easier to count the places where her pink skin emerged than number the actual spots. But she was pretty, despite that. Not that anyone paid much attention. She was also loud and boisterous, I guess it was a defense against the cruelty of adolescents. She was always around, making loud and obscene jokes and generally making the boys laugh, and the girls whisper behind their hands.
Bernie decided to camp next to me, rolling out her sleeping bag between mine and a mate's while we were scoffing supper, and slipped into her winter weight bedding when we began to watch the show. Her commentary was hysterical, and soon I was laughing a familiar over-tired, wheezy, childish laugh that began to hurt my ribs and bring tears to my eyes. As the night turned into morning, her volume reduced, and as those around us slipped into heavy sleep, we found ourselves whispering and chuckling through two or three tapes. Eventually, even the minders were asleep, and we lost interest in the video, talking about various random, important and trivial topics in hushed tones, and giggling intermittently at jokes which would not have raised a laugh at any other time, or to anyone else.
I found myself laying side on, facing her, my head propped on one elbow, she mirroring my reclining pose. She made some joke, and I laughed my head off it's perch, and onto my now outstretched arm. She slowly dropped hers so her hand was stretched out above her head, and her fingers entwined with mine in the dark. I rolled slightly forward and kissed her on the lips. They were soft, and moist, and as I drew back I looked into her eyes in the flickering light of the dancing chorus on the TV. She looked back, and leaned forward to kiss me back, properly. I flicked my eyes up for a moment, and spied the windows over her shoulder The grey light of the pre-dawn illuminated them quietly, and the rush of cars passing occasionally on the road nearby echoed quietly in the empty old hall. Then I closed my eyes, and focussed on her kiss, not wishing to end the moment.
She did it for me, drawing away slowly and rolling onto her back, resting her head on her faded pillow slip. I moved slightly toward her, and still holding her hand, snuggled in next to her. She released my free hand, and I put the other over her as she rolled away from me, pulling me with her. She turned back toward me and kissed me again quickly, but gently.
"Goodnight" she said. And we slept. And I was smiling.
Mostly people arrived with their sleeping bags, and propped themselves up to watch at least the performance from which they'd just finished. Even though we had heard all the terrible jokes, sung all the choruses, and our legs were still tired form the dance routines, we had not seen our show before this point. It was at the same time joyful, seeing all our work complete, and sad, knowing that we would never, ever repeat that performance. After the final curtain, the plan was to make it through the previous year, and the one before that, until breakfast. In reality, most were asleep before the first tape was rewound and those that were still awake had little interest in the colourful antics of yesteryear, and a great deal of interest in how much they could feel through two layers of sleeping bag. Not much, I'll admit, but there were real adults supervising, so it wasn't even remotely possible to actually get down to anything obscene. Much. The prospect of a wristie with a happy ending in your own sleeping bag was less than appealing anyway.
But Emily wasn't there, anyway. Not that I think she would have even contemplated such a thing. Her parents were apparently concerned about her spending the night in a dark room full of teenage boys. While she protested at length that it was no big deal, and nothing would happen, and it was all supervised, they were right. A room full of teenage boys, ramped up on red cordial and chocolate and cake at three o'clock in the morning is no place for a young lady. But after our kiss, I am not sure she would have even spoken to me, as she barely had for the rest of the production. But Emily was not the only girl in the cast.
Bernie was freckly. Put simply, that was the first thing anyone would notice when they first saw her. Her entire face, and presumably most of her body, though I never got to see much of it, was covered in a layer of reddish brown freckles, so thick it was easier to count the places where her pink skin emerged than number the actual spots. But she was pretty, despite that. Not that anyone paid much attention. She was also loud and boisterous, I guess it was a defense against the cruelty of adolescents. She was always around, making loud and obscene jokes and generally making the boys laugh, and the girls whisper behind their hands.
Bernie decided to camp next to me, rolling out her sleeping bag between mine and a mate's while we were scoffing supper, and slipped into her winter weight bedding when we began to watch the show. Her commentary was hysterical, and soon I was laughing a familiar over-tired, wheezy, childish laugh that began to hurt my ribs and bring tears to my eyes. As the night turned into morning, her volume reduced, and as those around us slipped into heavy sleep, we found ourselves whispering and chuckling through two or three tapes. Eventually, even the minders were asleep, and we lost interest in the video, talking about various random, important and trivial topics in hushed tones, and giggling intermittently at jokes which would not have raised a laugh at any other time, or to anyone else.
I found myself laying side on, facing her, my head propped on one elbow, she mirroring my reclining pose. She made some joke, and I laughed my head off it's perch, and onto my now outstretched arm. She slowly dropped hers so her hand was stretched out above her head, and her fingers entwined with mine in the dark. I rolled slightly forward and kissed her on the lips. They were soft, and moist, and as I drew back I looked into her eyes in the flickering light of the dancing chorus on the TV. She looked back, and leaned forward to kiss me back, properly. I flicked my eyes up for a moment, and spied the windows over her shoulder The grey light of the pre-dawn illuminated them quietly, and the rush of cars passing occasionally on the road nearby echoed quietly in the empty old hall. Then I closed my eyes, and focussed on her kiss, not wishing to end the moment.
She did it for me, drawing away slowly and rolling onto her back, resting her head on her faded pillow slip. I moved slightly toward her, and still holding her hand, snuggled in next to her. She released my free hand, and I put the other over her as she rolled away from me, pulling me with her. She turned back toward me and kissed me again quickly, but gently.
"Goodnight" she said. And we slept. And I was smiling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)