Transitions

Transitions happen in the blink of an eye. It is no accident we refer to breaking with the past. At that point, when something stops working, or morphs, there is the sense of immediate death. Dilapidation is always a possibility, but even then, eventuality will intervene and declare “No more. It is finished”.

The first one I met at a youth club. He had cropped, brown hair. He made me laugh. He went the way of everything ... nowhere. The second one I met at church. He was blonde haired and blue eyed, built like a brick shit-house and very shy. I noticed him and he noticed me. Neither of us knew what to do next.

Thank god for New Year's Eve parties and cheap cider. Big Ben struck midnight. He kissed me forever. Blue. His jumper smelled of him. A brief period of uncertainty followed. I was nervous to imagine outcomes. He wrote to me. I wrote back. We agreed to meet. I panicked. I apologised. We agreed to meet again.

He avoided kissing me for the next three months. I was only allowed to see him on Friday and Saturday nights. It had been determined I should grow up into a lady and, to this end, telephone calls were limited, clothes were scrutinised and behaviour was monitored. They need not have worried, however, because I was scared silly. I had no idea what to do with the hulking boy. I rather suspect he felt the same way.

After a while we got to know each other. Despite his vicious rugby playing exploits, he was actually a gentle young man. I realised I was in love one night, while sitting cross legged on my bed, clutching the telephone. We were talking about something and nothing. It did not matter. The important thing was that he seemed to understand my gibberish.

He called me “Dolly”. When I asked him why he said “Because you're a daydreamer”, then he picked me up like a child and pulled my pelvis onto his hip. He often carried me around in this manner, but only in private. Publicly he used to let me sit on his shoulders. I'd bend my knees so that my feet were tucked under his armpits. Secretly I enjoyed feeling the back of his warm neck against my crotch.

Our relationship developed. At 16 we were both curious about our bodies. Two years of heavy petting followed. Worried that God could see me, I religiously hid under the duvet. Obviously, I had not imbued the omnipresent one with the same abilities as Superman, until the priest confirmed that God did indeed have X-ray vision. I could not stop though. It was as urgent as the need to eat or breathe.

On Saturdays we went to the library. Surrounded by oak panelling and fine leaved knowledge we felt virtuous. Frequently we got lost in the philosophy or history sections. Books were our refuge. We had no interest in shopping. We did not care for vacuous socialising. We sat quietly, next to each other, combing texts for nuggets. When we found something we would read it out, leant up close, so it was half whispered in the willing ear.

We also visited the museum and art gallery. The big statue of Buddha fascinated me. It was golden and massive. Exhibited at the foot of a staircase, different aspects of it came into view as I climbed. Forever burned into my memory is Lucifer, cast in bronze and standing twice as tall as a man, his stiff wings defiant, his naked body inviting and exciting. I looked at his penis, rigidly nestling in amongst metal hairs. I laughed when they moved him into the cafeteria. I always chose the table next to him. I liked him watching over me while I drank tea.

I had a particular thing for the pre-Raphaelite paintings. The peaceful palettes appealed to me. Rosetti's Persephone mesmerised me for hours, time after time. I researched the myth, of pomegranates and snatchings. She was condemned to live half the year in the underworld, until eventually she became the queen of the dead. Her blue dress in the picture spoke of her maidenhood. A virgin, corrupted, who survived and defeated her deceptive rape to win a victory of sorts.

The inevitable happened, and because I was too ashamed to admit it and, therefore, use contraception, I ended up pregnant. I did not tell him. Not only did I consider it to be my fault, but also, I thought it was my problem to resolve. I had an abortion. We were both in the middle of our A Levels. It did not hurt and, once I had decided what to do, it did not cause me much grief either. I possibly should have involved him, because lying on such a magnitude had repercussions.

I went to college and met lots of new people. Stuart's 6ft 7” frame drew my immediate attention. He was as camp as nine rows of tents to boot. Ness became a firm friend. We had a thing about fancy dress and, it did not matter whether an event required it, we went along as Batman and Robin, or pirates, or Hindu Goddesses, complete with blue body paint and extra arms. It was Nick who really caught my eye though. He was tall, skinny and from somewhere “Dahn sahf”. He took me out on his motorbike. I welded the soles of my shoes to his immaculately shiny exhaust pipes. He was not best pleased about that. We got drunk together in his room and he would always end up in the cupboard above the wardrobe. The way he bent his limbs reminded me of a double-jointed escape artist.

It was only infatuation, but it was not fair to my boyfriend. By this time the relationship was three years old. I loved him, of course I loved him, but I wanted something else, Nick to be precise. I worried for days about how to tell him. It did not matter which way I tried to bend it, there was going to be pain.

“I'm sorry, but we've drifted apart/Andrew, I love you, but it's just not working/I think I need some space. I've just started college and there's a lot of new stuff ...”

Turns out I did not have to say anything. He opened the front door and I followed him into the kitchen. He leant his arse against the sink, facing me, smiling. I don't know what message was coming out of my eyes, but his smile faded right about the same time as he folded his arms.

“Andrew, I ...”
“It's fine. I understand. You don't want me any more.”
“No, it's just.”
“Could you leave, now, I'd like you to go.”

I let myself out. I did not see him for over a year. During this period I threw myself into excess and general debauchery. Nick did not want me, in pretty much the same way as I did not want Andrew, and Laurie did not want Nick, in an almost identical fashion. Failing relationships based on friendship I then decided to fuck anything that moved.

There was Luke, Jason, a different Nick, Steven, Andy, Simon, Steven's brother, whose name I now forget, four guys I did in one night, and I don't think I ever knew what they were called, John, another John, Christian, David, Kevan, etc, etc.

The sex was pretty useless to be honest, except in a couple of instances. Mostly it was just a case of validation. 'I exist because you're fucking me'. I even accepted money once. Not in a straightforward cash transaction, but Simon bought me a very nice dress. I wondered if I was a whore. I bought a t-shirt, it said “We are all prostitutes”.

I saw Andrew in the pub. Rebecca, times two (Briggs and Williams) and me were stopping off for a pre-club drink. He was with his new girlfriend. My instinct was to snarl. He came over, on his own, and knelt at my feet so that we were face to face. “How have you been?” he asked.
“You know ...” I scratched the back of my head, where hair meets neck, I always do that when I am nervous.
“No, I don't,” he said simply.
“I tried to call but your dad wouldn't let me speak to you.”
“Really?”
“Yes really.” I fiddled with a beer mat.
“Well it's nice to see you.”
“And you,” I answered automatically.
“Take care of yourself,” he said rising.
People only tell you to do that when they have got no intention of performing that function themselves. I watched him walk back to his girlfriend. She put her arms around him and shot me a poisonous glance. I shrugged and left the pub.

Antony's was our usual haunt. A soul club on the outskirts of town, it seemed to cater for the under twenties. I liked the music. I liked the atmosphere. I was pretty well known there. The tiny dance floor enabled an intimacy of sorts. It is nigh near impossible to strut your stuff to 'Sex Machine' without becoming entangled in someone else's personal space, when there is only a few square feet available.

I drank lager with Jack Daniels chasers. I hated the taste of both. I smoked Gauloise Disc Bleu. They made me cough. I thought I looked cool, in some bizarre way. I wore red stilettos, black, silk stockings, short skirts and crisp, white blouses. I tied my hair back in a severe bun. I usually had my horn rimmed spectacles perched on the end of my nose.

I would not go as far as to say I was popular, although my reputation preceded me, and guys knew that they would, generally, be able to get what they wanted at the end of the night. However, I was a good dancer. Trained in classical ballet I had practically perfect poise and a natural instinct for rhythm. I liked the way men looked at me. Their eyes give them away as helpless puppies. But I was never the prettiest there, if I had been maybe I would have kept my legs shut.

I was surprised when Adam turned up. Rebecca (Briggs) was delighted. For years, while we were at school together, she read my fantasy fuelled stories along with the rest of the class. Adam was the boy the next door, literally, but, because I lived a considerable distance from school, he had remained unknown. Now, here he was, in glorious technicolour, holding court, as was his wont.

'Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap,' went through my head. I knew Rebecca was going to call me on this one. Impending humiliation knotted my stomach. And what the hell would Adam do? We had barely said two words to each other, let alone enjoyed the torrid affair I had written about from the age of 13. Rebecca's smile was definitely malicious. She sashayed away from me and towards him, all gorgeous eyelashes, long hair and perfect finger nails. Half Portuguese and half English aristocrat, she really was something to look at. Shame consumed me like molten lava. I stood glued to the spot, until he called me over.

He dismissed Rebecca with a wave of his hand and she scuttled away. “Tell me you don't think that woman's your friend?”
“She's a bit odd,” I offered by way of an excuse, trying to hold something back that I could use as a possible explanation.
“She's an evil cow,” he said.
I blushed furiously.
“Do you know what she just said to me.”
“I can guess. Look Adam, I'm really sorry but ...”
He picked up my shaking hand in his and called the waiter over. “What you drinking?”
“Er, JD I guess.”
“On the rocks?”
“Er.”
“You better make that a double,” he said to the man with the tray. “Let's go and find somewhere to sit.”

Rebecca was looking daggers at me as Adam found a quiet spot. He opened up his arm, so that when I sat down I was pulled into his side. “You're a funny one,” he said, “How long have we known each other?”
“I dunno, since were about eight.”
“Right, so that's over 10 years.”
“Probably.”
“Since we were kids?”
“Yes.”
“I remember you when you were a kid. You were really bloody unhappy. Your parents kept dumping you off on your sister.”
“That's because they lived abroad.”
“Right,” he said, nodding in time to Wilson Picket's 'Midnight Hour'. The drinks arrived. I gulped mine back. “God, your mate's a bitch.”
“I know that.”
“And you're not. C'mon it was shit for you. So you made up a few stories. Who the fuck cares?”
“She does.”
“Well she's none the wiser,” he said winking.
I felt tears starting up in my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Don't fucking start crying. I'm flattered. Honest I am. Don't worry about it,” and with that he shielded me from Rebecca's gaze by covering my face with his as he kissed me. “Now go on,” I realised this was my cue to depart his company, “And do yourself a favour, get rid of bitch features”. He slapped my arse hard and I laughed from right down inside.

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