Sixteen, Sixty-One

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by Sixteen, Sixty-One- A Memoir (epub)


  What to wear, what to wear? What was this? Drinks. But drinks what? I-want-a-repeat-of-the-other-night drinks? I-want-to-let-you-down-easy drinks? I-want-to-get-to-know-you-better-and-possibly-date-you drinks? I-have-a-girlfriend-so-please-don’t-mention-this drinks? I had no idea.

  And I also had no idea whether it would be weird to wear underwear Matthew had bought me with the intention of showing it to someone else. And if it was, what was I supposed to wear? All my underwear had been bought by Matthew, for Matthew or from BHS by my mum, and my instinct told me the latter was worst of all.

  I opted for jeans and a snug T-shirt but with a lot of eyeliner and a sexy bra but plain pants. We met at the bar and Rupert bought me a Corona. Then a Jägerbomb, then a shot of tequila.

  We stumbled back across to my building and I found my bottle of £3 Aldi red wine in the back of the cupboard. We took it to my room, fumbled to uncork it and poured the blood liquid into mugs while simultaneously undressing each other. Rupert spilt some on the carpet and I giggled. He unclipped my Gossard bra as I fingered his belt and pulled him to the bed.

  ‘God, you’re sexy.’

  I smiled and thought of being tied up by Matthew.

  ‘You seem kind of shy when you’re in public, but you’re so, I don’t know, confident in bed. It’s such a turn on.’

  I slithered down his chest and kissed the tip of his penis, noticing for the first time that it was circumcised.

  ‘Is this okay?’ I whispered with a smile.

  ‘Wow, yes,’ he breathed.

  I kissed his cock and tried to rub it with my tongue, but there was no movement. I brought my hand to meet my mouth on his skin, but my fingers just slid, then stuck with the lack of friction. I tried whirling my tongue over the top as Matthew liked, but got little more than a sigh.

  After what felt like hours of pure humiliation, Rupert stroked my hair and said, ‘It’s okay, it’s you I want anyway.’

  He pulled me up to the pillows and propped himself above me, then looked around expectantly.

  ‘In the paper bag in the drawer,’ I muttered, still embarrassed.

  He reached around and found the white sweet bag full of condoms a nurse had thrust upon me at the Freshers’ Fair. After a few seconds, he was splitting my legs with his thighs and sliding into me. I gasped at the friction, wishing he would slow down but eventually getting into it. I wrapped my legs around his back and rocked with him as he thrust backwards and forwards, staring at a point on the wall above my head.

  As I reached the familiar plateau I knew would provide no release yet still longed for, I heard myself whisper, ‘I love you.’

  Rupert said nothing and I wondered if I’d said anything at all.

  He came quietly and rolled to his side, removed the condom and jumped out of bed to wrap it in toilet paper and place it in the bin.

  It probably wasn’t quite as blunt as it felt, but essentially he got dressed and told me he had to go home to finish the reading for our class tomorrow. He kissed me, still naked and clinging to my duvet for a modicum of self-respect, on the forehead, then left. I suspect I cried. I definitely showered. I swept my underwear from the floor, thinking of the two men who had now seen me in it. I finished the bottle of wine and lay in bed touching myself, rising to that plateau, then sliding unsatisfactorily back down again. I hugged my tattered childhood teddy bear and fell into a lonely sleep.

  ‘Hey.’ Rupert caught up with me the following morning on my way to our seminar. ‘Do you have a sec? It’s only quarter to.’

  ‘Uh, sure.’ I smiled weakly, wondering for the tenth time this morning if he’d heard me last night.

  ‘So.’ He looked down. ‘I don’t want to be a jerk. I’ve had fun, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ I tried to sound nonchalant.

  ‘The thing is, I’m not really looking for anything right now. I mean, I broke up with someone quite recently and I’m a bit messed up in the head and I think uni should be about having fun and finding yourself, so …’

  He trailed off.

  ‘Right, yeah, me too. I wasn’t looking for anything either.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a relief. I was worried you were going to hate me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Cool, then we’re friends?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I guess we should get to class then. Did you read The Yellow Wallpaper?’

  ‘Uh yeah.’

  ‘Yikes, I didn’t. I just looked on SparkNotes.’

  8

  The following weeks passed in a lonely blur. I signed up for a LOVEFiLM account and became a member of the independent cinema in town. My days tumbled into a routine of watching half a foreign language film over breakfast while agonising over what to wear and wishing I could pull off French chic like Eva Green and Emmanuelle Béart, followed by hiding in the back of a lecture hall and absently scribbling angrily atomic doodles resembling the EUR tower from Antonioni’s L’Eclisse beside my illegible notes, wandering through the streets alongside an imaginary Jules and Jim to watch an afternoon film in an empty cinema, then returning to college to cook pasta for a non-existent extended family of boxers called Rocco, finishing my film from earlier while my dream-world brother and lover waited for me in the bath, scanning the books for tomorrow’s seminar while sipping wine and imagining myself an academic version of la femme Nikita, and maybe watching some TV in Tim’s room while we swapped stories from our days, muttering fantasies of less mundane lives spent with more sophisticated peers.

  This monotonous but artistically stimulating existence was broken by an email from my childhood boyfriend Todd. The son of one of my dad’s flatmates from college, we’d played together since we were kids and ‘gone out’ for a month when I was fifteen and he was seventeen. He’d lived in Northampton, though, and we’d soon decided a long-distance relationship consisting of little more than pecks on the lips even when we saw each other was rather pointless. We’d stayed friends and he’d often email me saying something reminded him of me. Usually these messages plunged me into guilty feelings towards Matthew and drove me to send frosty replies. But now my fingers hovered over the keyboard. Todd was studying German in Birmingham. His message said it’d be fun to meet up. My head was forming excuses and brush-offs before it had even processed the request. I paused. Why not? I was free now. And a normal teenager. A normal university student. What could be more normal than a weekend trip to see an old flame? He might not even be single, of course. Perhaps he just wanted to see me as a friend. But even if he was and even if he wanted more, what was wrong with that? It might even be fun.

  A week later, Todd met me at Birmingham New Street and carried my bag for me as we took two buses to the messy terraced house he shared with three other pot-smoking students. I saw little of Birmingham that weekend or in fact much of Todd’s house beyond his bedroom. It was not the sexy booty-call I’d been picturing, nor was it the usual awkward disaster I’d come to expect of my life. There was an issue with Todd being unable to use a condom and, blotting out the voices of school nurses, sex-ed teachers and responsible friends, I gave in to his moans about ‘loss of sensation’ and ‘so much more intense’. Even after that, we had problems manoeuvring into all the positions he’d ‘always wanted to try’ and mostly settled for short bursts of missionary. But Todd made me feel good about myself and I realised it was something I’d been missing since Matthew. He told me I was the sexiest girl he’d seen, whispered about my ‘tight pussy’ and ‘amazing arse’. When he kissed me goodbye at the station on Sunday, he looked sheepish and apologised for some unnamed thing. I smiled and pressed my lips to his cheek before saying ‘Thank you’ and squeezing my way onto the too-crowded carriage.

  Returning to college, I found a series of emails from Matthew with the subject heading ‘Urgent’, and one from someone called Rose.

  I’d heard of Rose before. She may have been Suzanne’s daughter. Or possibly niece. Or had Matthew boasted of having kissed three generation
s of her family? Or did I remember that having to do with his being in love with his primary-school teacher?

  Actual blood ties and familial relations were easily confused in the world of Uncles. Rose may not have been an Uncle, though. I did remember that the jury had been out for some time, deciding whether this psychology-trained porn star could be admitted to the secret club.

  Either way, she knew about Uncles, and she was writing to me because Matthew had a problem. Matthew’s preceding emails explained this problem by telling me I needed to visit a clinic. He’d sent me two pages of dense, single-spaced prose about what to tell the nurse, about the painful bend that had developed in his cock shortly after I left, and about the probable herpes diagnosis that would mean I could only safely have sex with other carriers for the rest of my life.

  I read Rose’s email alone in my gross mint-green bedroom, crying to myself after calling the University Health Centre and being told, ‘We don’t deal with that. You have to try the GUM clinic.’

  From: Rose Shaw

  To: Harriet Moore

  Sent: 13 November 2002, 09:47:32

  Subject: A message from a friend

  Dear Harriet

  You do not know me, but I am a friend of Albert’s. I fear you might see that and delete this email immediately, but please read on. I am a friend of Uncles. I have known Albert my whole life and I have seen him struggle against the world for all of that time. But in the last couple of years I have seen something different emerge in him. He has told me about you. He rang me when he first made love to you, worried you did not bleed. Do you remember getting cross about that? He says you have always been feisty. He has contacted me every time you have fought and every time you have told him you’d prefer a ‘normal’ life. He has worried he’s done the wrong thing by you and is always asking me whether he should block his own fears and allow you to fly away.

  He asked me the same last night. I told him it’s out of his hands. You will fly if you need to. But, if you’re a real Uncle, as he has told me you are, you will return with love in your heart.

  He’s asked me to give you some advice about getting tested at a clinic. He fears if he tries to help you himself you will say he is meddling, but given my line of work I might be able to help. I’m a sex worker, by the way. I trained as a psychologist, then got bored and got into porn. I’m a bit old for it these days (36, groan!), so I only do a bit and am trying to redefine myself as a sex therapist. My manager Damien is helping me out with that – he has contacts in Hollywood, so with any luck I’ll soon be listening to the likes of Tom Cruise moan on my couch.

  But anyway, you need to get yourself checked out and I’ve attached a document with a list of questions you need to ask the nurse. There’s also a bit of information there about herpes and the like. Don’t be scared baby, it’s not the end of the world. Even if you’re positive, there’s no reason you can’t have a healthy sex life with Albert.

  He’s told me so much about you and I’m desperate to meet you. Have you found any girls yet on your little hiatus from Albert? I hope so, though I’ll also be jealous. Albert makes it sound like you’re totally ripe for a girly encounter. I keep telling him I’m more than happy to hop in a car and oblige, but he refuses to let me. Jealous you’ll fall for me instead if you ask me!

  If you need anything: if you want to talk about Albert or girls or ask about the tests or just say hi, I’m always around.

  Take care, babycakes

  Rose xx

  Rose’s attachment calmed me with medical facts and instructions about who to see and what tests to ask for, but I was confused by the rest of her email. A friend of Uncles? A healthy sex life with Albert? What about without him? What if I didn’t want to be an Uncle any more?

  I walked to the clinic across town the next day, only to be told I needed to go away and phone to make an appointment. I returned to halls and ran into my housemate Tim as I came through the front door. Seeing I was upset, he put his arm around me, boiled the kettle and began distracting me with impressions of our other housemates. I hiccupped giggles through my trembling lips and considered Tim. He wasn’t an Uncle, that I knew: he studied plants and wasted his free time on computer games. But he was kind, he noticed when I wasn’t okay, and, more importantly, he was my friend. Perhaps my only one.

  Later, holding my hand, he escorted me back to the clinic. After my tests; after bursting into tears in front of the unsympathetic nurse, after entirely omitting Todd from my sexual history because I thought she might force me to phone him from the premises once I had my results; after I dithered about writing the name of my real doctor because he was a family friend and might put two and two together if he saw both mine and Matthew’s results; after they forgot about me for an hour and broke three needles trying to take blood for the procedural HIV test; after they gave me the all clear on everything and told me to be more careful in the future; and after Tim took me for fish and chips and I cried into my mushy peas, I stumbled back into my bedroom and replied to the mysterious Rose.

  From: Rose Shaw

  To: Harriet Moore

  Sent: 16 November 2002, 11:22:13

  Subject: RE: A message from a friend

  Harry, I’m soooo glad you replied.

  I know it’s difficult working out what to do with Albert. I hear your cries for a normal life – that’s natural – but take a look around, babe, do you see any of those kids leading normal lives that are happy? You and Albert have a beautiful thing, something most people never EVER find. And you’re going to give it all up because you want to kiss boys and girls that won’t call you back and only care about the price of the next beer they’re going to buy? Remember the poetry, babycakes.

  Sorry, I don’t mean to lecture you. All of these are your decisions to make. I just find it hard to sit back and watch two beautiful Uncles who could be so happy together throw it all away. I’m not an Uncle, you know. Albert said I could have been once, but I chose porn and all that rough sex stuff instead. It’s great, don’t get me wrong, but you have to switch yourself off. It’s not like you and Albert. You guys can have the mucky sex stuff, but it’s infused with the purest of love. God, you two could go so far. Has he spanked you yet? I used to beg him to spank me, he’s so good at it, but the bastard was stingy. I wish he’d let me meet you. I get wet just thinking about the fun the three of us could have. Not that you’d probably be interested in an old bag like me. Get Albert to show you some of my pictures and we’ll see. If you’re only half as amazing as he makes out, you’d have us both as your slaves. And we could get you other little girls if you liked, do your bidding … Uhm, I must stop. Sorry if you’re shocked. I’d like to tell you everything I want to do to you, but I don’t want to scare you off. Perhaps you don’t like reading about this stuff. I just can’t help it. I’ve never met you, yet I think I’ve already fallen for you.

  I’ll leave you to your studies babycakes.

  Rose xxx

  And, lonely the following night, I found myself pausing Manon des Sources and replying again.

  From: Rose Shaw

  To: Harriet Moore

  Sent: 17 November 2002, 21:06:51

  Subject: RE: A message from a friend

  Wow! You really are as amazing as Albert says. And ripe as plums in August for a girl by the sounds of it. He should have found you one by now. If you were mine, I would have done your bidding a long time ago.

  I’m glad my email made you horny. There’s much more of where that came from. And, no, I don’t think it’s too weird that you and I are emailing like this while you and Albert are on a ‘break’. I won’t tell him if you don’t. ;) In all seriousness, maybe a friendship with me could help you work out your feelings for him. And if not.. well, we can have fun trying! I know, I’m wicked, aren’t I?

  Soooooooooooo, you and Albert haven’t tried p
roper spanking yet? Well, babycakes, you are missing out. Perhaps I’ll have to introduce you to it instead. There’s nothing better than a good raw hiding to get your pussy juicing. We’ll have to start gently to build you up to it. Perhaps just a playful bend over a kitchen counter and some light palm contact. Three or four strokes, then some feathery kisses over your pink flesh, trailing a tongue down between your thighs to lap up the sweet nectar of your peach … Later, we could try a paddle, or a leg divider, to get your butt nice and taut. I’m not sure I want Albert to do this at all; I want you all to myself. Or maybe I’ll do the spanking and watch you juice with longing while I make Albert sit on the other side of the room. Then, when you’re nearly screaming with desire, I’ll allow him to slip his cock in you from behind and feel you spasm around him. Well, maybe, or maybe I’ll just be incredibly selfish and rut you myself with a strap-on.

  Oooh, do you know about frotting? I want to teach you everything.

  Your slave

  Rose xxx

  *

  Rose emailed a couple of times a day, usually once about all the things she wanted to do to me and once to tell me how much I was hurting Matthew, how ill he was getting, and how much of a saint he was to still be willing to take me back. I replied hungrily to the former, my mind swirling with all the things I felt I couldn’t admit to my peers and revelling in the idea that one person in the world didn’t think I was a freak because I reached for my vibrator every night and found good literature erotic. The latter emails, however, froze me to my cheap desk chair, turned my skin ashen and made me want to smash my third-floor window and scream into the night. I was not functioning. I looked like a regular student from the outside: I drank cheap cider with my housemates, learnt how to burp the alphabet and even helped Tim steal an entire footpath sign, post and all. But, behind my bedroom door, Matthew and I had nightly rows on the phone, followed by ‘I still love you’ or ‘I need you’ texts each morning.

  After almost a month of this rubber-banding, he booked a night at a nearby Travelodge. It was late November and he’d told Annabelle he was visiting his mother. We cried together in the cheery blue-and-yellow room before having sex. I apologised for being a child and for hurting him, telling him I’d never leave him again, and he wrapped me in his arms, promising to protect me from the dead-eyed plebs I lived amongst. If I remember correctly, that was also the first night I presented my new digital camera and allowed him to photograph me.

 

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