by Jane Moore
Brian lifted up the lid of his school desk for protection, and lowered his head behind it. “Psssst!”
Mark snapped out of his daydream and turned to look at him. “What?” he whispered, so that the geography teacher wouldn’t hear.
“Did you . . . you know?” Brian formed a circle with the thumb and forefinger of one hand and used his other forefinger to make a thrusting motion through it.
“No,” Mark replied glumly. “Not even close.” He thought about sex a lot. On a good day, it distracted him maybe twenty times; on a bad one, it could be up to sixty. His main problem was that he wasn’t getting it. Worse, he’d never had it. Catastrophically, Brian had.
He didn’t reckon that Brian was better-looking than he was, or that he was brighter or wittier—no, they were pretty well matched in those areas. The inequality in their sexual experience was down to the fact that Brian had bought—to put it kindly—the free-spirited Hannah Foley a snowcone at the local package store and been rewarded with perfunctory sex in a disused shed at the local park.
But Mark was dating Jenna Davis. She was “a nice girl,” and didn’t do that sort of thing. Her father was a bank manager who had recently been transferred to Southampton from Norwich, so she had only joined Mark’s secondary school at the start of the 10th grade. As a new girl, her arrival had prompted a fleeting interest from several of the boys, who always got short shrift from their wised-up female schoolmates. But she had got on with her work, giving them no encouragement. Finally they had got the message.
About a month after she had started, Mark had sat opposite her in the library one day and struck up a conversation about the Second World War, swiftly followed by a track-by-track analysis of the latest Nirvana album.
He hadn’t really noticed Jenna before that but, to his surprise, he found himself suggesting they make a Saturday trip together to Woolworth’s to check out the charts and new releases and she agreed. The outing marked the start of their relationship.
Then, Mark’s sexual urges had been distant rumblings. Now, six months later and with his sixteenth birthday behind him, it was all he could do to keep from pawing at her every chance he had.
Brian’s gauche mime was referring to the previous night, when Mark and Jenna had stayed in alone at her parents’ house. Halfway through a bottle of cheap but effective Thunderbird wine, he had made his move and, tantalizingly, he hoped, kissed her neck.
“Hmmm, that’s nice,” she murmured, moving closer, her hand rubbing his knee. She was wearing a loose blouse and he had caught a glimpse of her bra. Slowly, he tugged her blouse out of her waistband, his hand creeping up the hitherto forbidden flesh. “I do love you, Mark,” she whispered, planting small kisses on his upper and lower lips.
Reaching her left breast his hand rested on the erect nipple.
She shot backwards as if she had been stung and pulled her blouse back into place. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry,” he said hurriedly. “I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” She frowned, as if disappointed in him.
Mark had masked his frustration well, even telling Jenna that he respected her for turning him down, but inwardly he was desperate.
Jenna was pretty, in a natural way, and undeniably a lovely girl. Mark preferred her to some of the brassier, more boisterous girls at school, and enjoyed her company. But she wouldn’t go all the way, which threw him into a daily dilemma.
“Just dump her and date someone who will,” said Brian, with his trademark sensitivity. “What’s she waiting for? Bloody marriage?”
“What are you waiting for? Bloody marriage?” Mark parroted to Jenna a few days later, after she’d yet again slapped his hot little hand away from her breast.
She looked hurt. “We don’t have to have sex just because we can,” she said quietly. “I want to wait until I’m ready.”
“And when will that be?” he snapped, and conjured up an image of his beloved Southampton soccer team in an attempt to make his erection subside.
“Your voice sounds funny,” she replied, looking hurt. “Why are you so angry with me for wanting the time to be right? I thought you respected me for that.”
As ever when she was upset, Mark apologized, enveloped her in a cuddle, and assured her that, yes, she was right to take her time and that everything would work out just fine. It pained him to think he’d hurt her, but he was increasingly frustrated in this sexless relationship and finding it harder than ever to disguise it.
Several months later, and now past his seventeenth birthday, Mark’s hands had progressed across Jenna’s body with the stealth of Hitler across Europe. But, much to Brian’s amusement, he was still technically a virgin. “You’ve only done it once yourself,” he retaliated, after yet another of his friend’s unsubtle gibes.
“Ah, but the one-eyed man rules in the kingdom of the blind,” said Brian, amiably. “Or, in this case, the kingdom of the one-eyed trouser snake.”
It was true. In Mark’s mind, Brian’s experience gave him carte blanche to lord it over his friend at every available opportunity—and it grated.
Jenna now allowed him to fondle her breasts and, on a couple of occasions after one white wine spritzer too many, she had allowed his hands to roam down her waistband. But she had still refused his pleas to go all the way, and had recoiled in horror when he had produced a condom from his jeans pocket one night when her parents were at the movies.
“Oh, I see. You thought I was a sure thing for tonight, did you?” Her bottom lip was trembling. “You had it all planned on a stupid little checklist. Parents at the movies, empty house, take a condom.”
Mark sighed. “No, Jenna, it wasn’t. If you want the truth, I’ve been carrying this condom for weeks, probably months, in the vain hope you might make love with me. In fact, it’s probably rotted by now . . . much like this relationship.”
His remark hung in the air between them, an admission he had been holding back for some time.
“Do you really mean that?” Her voice was small.
Mark cleared his throat. “No, it hasn’t rotted . . . wrong words.” He took her hand. “But I do think we need a break from each other, time to think about what we want.”
It was standard drivel taken straight from some soap opera he’d watched the previous week. Mark already knew what he wanted: sex. And he wasn’t getting it.
“How long?” Jenna’s face was crumpled with distress.
“Let’s just see,” he said softly. The ball was firmly in his court and he didn’t want to throw it back too soon. “Time will tell.”
A man with a mission, he had approached Hannah Foley between classes, even before Jenna’s tear-stained pillow had dried out. “Fancy a night out?” he asked nonchalantly.
Hannah, chewing gum, looked him up and down. “Where?”
“I thought we could have dinner at the Harvester.”
“Oooh, get you,” she said. “All right, then.”
Over steak and chips, she had bored him stiff with her encyclopedic knowledge of the life and death of the Doors’ Jim Morrison, while he stared down her ample cleavage and imagined the delights cupped within. At one point, she removed a clumpy black shoe and placed her bare foot between his legs, massaging his groin under the table. Mark thought he might pass out with sheer ecstasy.
Later, tense with anticipation, he placed an arm round her shoulders and walked her home via the school playing fields. Pulling her towards the shadowy safety of some nearby bushes, he started a kiss of some ferocity. Within seconds, his hand was inside her blouse, the other lifting her skirt, and when he felt no slap to his face, there was no stopping him.
There, on the playing field where he’d scored a good few rugby tries, he dropped his trousers, wrestled on a condom, and kissed his virginity goodbye.
“Bloody hell, it only cost me a snowcone to get my leg over,” said Brian, when a glowing Mark had told him the next day. “Trust you to fork out for a three-course
meal with wine. I hope the steak wasn’t fillet.”
Actually it had been, but Mark didn’t care. He was walking tall, his chest puffed out with pride that he had become—in his own eyes, at least—a man. The relief was overwhelming.
He had been brought up to respect women and treat them well, so he had asked Hannah for another date, anxious that she shouldn’t feel cheapened by what might have been a one-night stand. This time there was no fillet steak, just a stroll down to the local recreation ground and a shared bottle of lukewarm beer stolen from his parents’ cellar.
“D’ya wan’ another shag, then?” said Hannah, as they passed the beer bottle between them, and Mark realized she probably didn’t trouble herself with feeling cheap. Now that he’d lost his virginity, his interest in Hannah had waned. But he didn’t want to upset her by rejecting her offer. So to make himself feel better about it, he fumbled around with her one more time, then never called her again.
Since their decision to take time out and think about their relationship, he and Jenna had seen each other several times for a drink and a chat but little had been resolved. Occasionally Jenna looked wistful, but Mark pretended not to notice. The last thing he wanted was endless hand-wringing heart-to-hearts that ended with her saying, “I’m not ready for sex.” He assumed that when she was ready she would tell him so. Until then, it was best to keep it platonic and fun.
All three passed their finals and were headed into their senior year, and they spent a pleasant summer together.
When September arrived, they had enjoyed a surfeit of good times and were ready to throw themselves into schoolwork.
Since he was a small child, Mark had wanted to become a chef with his own restaurant. His parents were wealthy: his father had invented a compact, cost-effective air-conditioning system aimed at small businesses. The idea had been taken up by a major company, which paid him a small percentage of the value of each system it sold; when it took off overseas, his parents had been rolling in cash.
Mark had told them of his restaurant dream, but they had never offered to help him out and he’d never dared to ask them outright for backing. They were traditional parents, and Mark knew they wanted him to get a university degree, like his brother, Tony, who was ten years older and worked for a major investment firm in London.
So he’d toed the family line, spent the next year studying hard for his A levels, and applied to several universities to study English.
Although Mark and Jenna were still apart on the day the results were to be pinned on the school noticeboard, they agreed to meet up with Brian to face the music together.
“Yes! Fucking yes!” Brian punched the air and danced around the corridor.
Mark’s eyes scanned the list until he found “Hawkins, M: English, A, geography, B, general science, B.” “Oh, my God!” he spluttered. “I’ve done it. I’m going to Birmingham!” He joined Brian in a victory dance.
Several seconds passed before they realized that Jenna was motionless.
“Jen?” Mark put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.
A tear was rolling down her cheek. “I’ve only passed one,” she whispered. “I’m not coming with you.”
“I won’t go, if you like,” Mark had said, as he and Jenna sat nursing their coffee in the local Burger King later that night, “Maybe it’s the perfect excuse I need to get a job in a restaurant and work my way up.” He knew she’d never try to stop him going to Birmingham, but he had to offer.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “I’m not sure I’m the university type so I’m not that bothered.”
Mark wrinkled his nose. “What went wrong? It’s unlike you to fail.”
“No idea. I thought I’d prepared well, but I guess my mind was on other things.”
Mark knew she was probably alluding to their fragmented relationship, but guilt stopped him saying so. He changed the subject. “How did your mum and dad react?” he asked. He didn’t mention that his parents had cracked open some vintage champagne to celebrate his results.
“They were fine about it—they knew I’d tried my best. That’s all they’ve ever asked me to do.”
“So, what now?”
Jenna brightened. “You know I’ve always loved doing people’s hair? Well, I’m going to see if I can get an apprenticeship in a salon round here.” She gestured out of the window. “Who knows? One day I might even open my own place.”
“I could open my restaurant next door.” He smiled.
Whether from genuine love or the thought of Mark leaving for university in a couple of months’ time, they shared a long, tender kiss across the Formica table and picked up where they had left off.
As he walked her home, his arm protectively round her shoulders, Jenna mentioned that her parents were away next weekend, and she would be alone. “I’m ready to make love.” She nuzzled the back of his neck. “If you still want to . . .”
Unsure of what their future now held, Mark thought it would probably be wiser to leave things as they were. But he knew what it had taken for her to suggest it, so rejecting her was not an option. That Saturday night, clutching a bottle of wine for courage, Mark rang the doorbell.
“Hello.” She put her arms round him and kissed his cheek. She was wearing a light touch of mascara and lipstick and her long brown hair was loosely curled, softly framing her face. He thought he had never seen her look so lovely. “Come in.” She led him into the living room, scene of his former frustration, with its lace curtains, floral sofa, and the picture of the stern-looking woman over the fireplace.
The wine, abandoned on a side table, wasn’t needed. Propelled by a mixture of nerves and excitement, they began to kiss immediately in the middle of the room.
“Lie down on the floor,” Mark murmured, taking a cushion from the sofa and placing it under her head. He kissed her tenderly until he felt her relax.
“I’m glad to see you’ve brought that condom with you.” Looking apprehensive, she smiled.
Afterwards, they lay quietly for several minutes while he stroked her hair, occasionally burying his face in it and inhaling the heady scent of Jenna mixed with apple shampoo. “How do you feel?” he said eventually. Of course, what he meant was “How good was I?”
“It was well worth waiting for,” she murmured.
His backside was starting to go numb on the hard floor, so he shifted. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” He stood up, took her hand and led her towards the stairs.
In her bed, he held Jenna in his arms until her breathing steadied and he knew she’d fallen asleep. Mark stared at the ceiling. He had released the years of frustration, but he couldn’t relax. His mind was racing with thoughts of university and what his future might hold.
The big dilemma was whether his plans included Jenna.
Friday, June 28
2:05 p.m.
Adam removed his pink Chanel sunglasses with all the high drama of a spaghetti-western star and eyeballed her. “But why?” he asked again.
“Why not?” Faye took a defiant glug of the house champagne she’d ordered from room service. “Men can have a last fling before they get married and no one questions it.”
“Not strictly true, darling, but I’ll let that sweeping generalization pass for now. Supposing that was the case, it still doesn’t explain why you would want to behave in that way. The last time I looked you didn’t have a dangly bit between your legs.”
During an arduous journey of flight delays and a French cab driver who had been even more irritable than the norm, Faye had told Adam about the previous weekend’s “night of shame”—as he was now calling it. Now they were reclining on the vast mahogany four-poster bed in the château’s honeymoon suite and indulging in what they loved best: a good, analytical gossip—although Faye had to admit that she preferred it to be about other people than herself.
Adam, her best friend—who described himself as “Homo sapiens, homeopathic, and homosexual”—had clearly been torn between reveling in this
outrageous piece of news and reproving her. He had chosen the latter and had now been lecturing her for fifteen minutes.
“Don’t get all sanctimonious on me.” She stretched her left leg across the lavishly embroidered bedcover. “You lot are terrible at staying faithful.”
Adam put a hand on his heart and assumed a wounded expression. “If by ‘you lot’ you mean the gay community, then you’re wrong,” he said. “We are perfectly capable of staying faithful in long, rewarding relationships. It’s only when we’re unhappy that we seek love elsewhere.”
Faye made a face. “‘Seek love elsewhere,’ ” she mimicked, in an infomercial voice, and they both burst out laughing.
“Oh, all right, then, I meant shag around. But the sentiment’s the same.” He removed the olive from his martini and bit into it. “I just don’t understand why you’d want to do something like that when you’re about to get married. I mean, what’s the point?”
“I told you.” She pouted. “I’d had a bit to drink, he was handsome, and, if we absolutely must analyze it, I suppose I was panicking about getting married. But I didn’t go all the way.”
Adam shook his head. “I meant, what’s the point in getting married?”
It was an uncomfortable question, which Faye felt too weary to answer. She wasn’t sure she even had an answer, so she used the age-old tactic favored by politicians: she dodged it. “Anyway, what Mark doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“But it hurts the relationship,” said Adam emphatically. “It’s the same thing.”
Faye looked at him incredulously. “You sound like a bloody therapist.”
“My sweet, that’s what you need. There’s—something—missing—in—there.” He tapped the side of her head as he said each word.
“Maybe.” She turned down the corners of her mouth. “But it’s true that if a man has one last fling, it’s seen as a rite of passage before he becomes manacled to his wife and supposedly loses his freedom . . . I hate that imagery, by the way. But you’re saying that women aren’t allowed to do it.”