by Ned Williams
There was a further brief period where I only just managed to stop myself from going through the door. Eventually, the midwife allowed me into the birthing room. Without having to do battle with a frustrated father, she came over as a lot warmer.
Marti was sitting up in bed and, unbelievably, looking majestically calm but tired.
The midwife said, “She’s given birth to a bouncing baby boy.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Wonderful. It was an easy birth,” the midwife informed me.
“Just like having a fucking good shit!” Even in my heightened emotional state, I was shocked. I’d never heard Marti use that sort of language before. “D’you want to hold him?”
“Do I?” I eagerly answered.
As I took the delicate creature I asked, “Have you thought what you are going to call him?”
“I thought: David.”
I took him in my arms and the midwife helped me to cradle him correctly. “David,” I intoned, “our little David.” He was so small – a fragile piece of glass. Looking down at my little sapling’s wizened old face who was struggling to open his eyes, I was totally dumbfounded. How was it possible that this little creature was alive? I had felt it kick when he was growing inside Marti’s stomach but he was now alive, breathing... independent. This tiny, helpless person would grow and grow and have no memory of how he was now. What would the world make of him? Would he take after me or Marti – or both? I sent up a silent prayer that he would live a long, happy trouble free and successful existence. I wanted to savour every minute of this momentous moment of my life. Even in her exhausted state, Marti started to laugh. Both the baby and I were crying.
A Painful Dilemma
Occasionally, in my adult life, I have been involved in playing those dreadful truth games which seemed, at one time, to be all the rage. One such time, only a few years ago, late on at a very straight party, the hostess challenged each of her guests to spill the beans on the most embarrassing moment of their lives. It was far on into the evening and everyone was mellow with sleep but not quite yet ready for a full collapse. We were put on our honour to relate the truth. Needless to say, most of the reminiscences involved sex. If the stories were taken as a straw poll as to which gender had the most exotic private life – the girls would have won hands down.
Eventually, it was my turn. For a moment I was stumped. Throughout my life, as you may, by now, have gathered. I’ve had plenty of such adventures which would rate twelve on the ‘Richter Embarrassment Scale’. I had to think of the very worst. There were many contenders but I finally plumped for an event that involved Sheba and I one quiet evening at the bed–sit. In keeping with the general ambiance of the party, it, too, was about sex.
Sheba and I had, over the years, become ever freer in our intimacy. One of her lovers had taken the trouble to introduce her to the joys of oral stimulation. He seemed rather too encouraging about it – not that she minded. We were sitting on the floor when she confessed this to me. Now, as we had been involved in an intimate way for some time, I was pleasantly surprised to be asked if I would give her marks out of ten on her newly acquired technique. I was more than happy to oblige. She was very good – but needed a lot more training! However, I refrained from offering to tutor her further. After a while, the whole session settled down to a good, old fashioned sixty nine. Gradually, we progressed to ordinary penetrative love–making. Then she came out with another surprise.
Very correctly, she was worried about becoming pregnant and, although she was on the pill, thought a secondary defensive front would be wise. I was happy with this decision as I certainly didn’t want another child. About that time, there were a large number of contraceptive devices flooding the market. One of these was in the form of a foam which women were expected to squirt with much indignity and ingenuity inside themselves. Sheba gleefully produced a canister of the stuff from out of her copious bag and waved it about triumphantly. The thought of the foam being used as a lubricant was quite a turn on for both of us and I watched, hypnotized, as she squidged the stuff into where it was supposed to go. The next hour was wonderful. We writhed, grunted and squelched in as many positions as we could manage without my actually having to withdraw. After it was over, we lay, as she used to enjoy, with me still inside her. I don’t know how long we remained in this position. The foam was causing all sorts of strange sensations. It seemed to heighten sensitivity and I assumed Sheba was experiencing much the same thing. Neither of us wanted to separate.
However, the time came for us to part intimate company. It was getting late and I had to go and service some clients. I attempted to withdraw and simultaneously, like a pair of demented banshee’s – we chorused out a scream of agony. Yes, the foam must have overflowed, congealed and set.
The result of this unfortunate flood; our pubic hairs were welded together with what seemed like strong glue. They were caked solidly. Removal of my penis was impossible. We tried to relax as best we could to relieve the agony. There were tears of pain in both our eyes. Yes – it was that bad. Problem – how the fuck were we going to get out of this mess? I had visions of living the rest of my life as one half of a Siamese twin – with Sheba being the other. I even thought we could probably market ourselves on the racks for this strange posture. Something else soon made itself known. I needed to go to the toilet – and soon. After mentioning this small inconvenience, she assured me that it was alright as she was in the same frame of mind.
Time went by. My demanding kidneys eased a little. Our attempts to remain motionless were not a complete success. Because we knew it was unwise to move, all sorts of nagging pains and cramps started in our muscles. I think it was the same principle as when the dentist says ’don’t swallow,’ and gallons of saliva gleefully begin secreting into your mouth.
Sheba suddenly had a thought. “Scissors!” she said.
My imagination leapt. “Pardon?!”
“We’re going to have to cut ourselves apart.
“Now look here…,” I said, trying to shut out the bloody scene which shot into my mind.
“Our pubes, stupid.” She added hastily. My sudden shout of terror must have informed her as to where my mind was racing.
“Thank God for that – for a moment, I thought you meant…”
“I know what you thought, don’t worry, I wouldn’t expect you to sacrifice that for our predicament.” She smiled. I was reassured. “Now then, as I was saying, scissors. Do you have any?”
I thought through the inventory of the flat. It boasted a single, solitary pair. They were in a chest of drawers – on the other side of the room from where we squirmed. “Shit!!” she spat after I had imparted this particular nugget of information. “Why don’t you keep them in your bed–side cabinet?”
“Well pardon me, oh sweetness, but I didn’t anticipate that, one day I might have to face this sort of complication.” We were getting rather stressed. My kidneys had woken up again. I tried to calculate the distance we would have to travel to get to our saviour. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.”
“I think that’s rather academic. We must ‘make it’.” We lay still for a while. After what seemed like an eternity, she extended her arm to reach for the telephone which stood on the bed–side cabinet. “Shall I call 999 and see if they…”
“NO!!” I shrieked.
“Only joking – but it settles one thing – we will have to gird up our loins and somehow get over to those fucking scissors!” She laughed. Her suddenly lifted spirits were quickly silenced as our nether regions told us that they didn’t have a sense of humour.
I groaned and nodded in acceptance. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I had my loins girded – so I quickly put the lurid thought out of my mind. “We’re going to have to make the effort, aren’t we?” I didn’t need an answer.
“’fraid so, ducks.”
Painfully, we slid across the bed as fast as our tug–o’–war pubic hairs would allow. T
he effort was exhausting. When we rested, horizontally on the edge of the bed, we agreed it would not be a good idea to crash to the floor and crawl to the scissor drawer. Neither of us had any desire to be flayed alive – which is what we suspected would result from such a foolish course of action. Somehow, we must stand up and try to sidle across the room. We prepared our thoughts for the attempt at finding our feet.
Locked together, as we were, to gain the vertical seemed an impossibility – but we both knew we must. Anything to save the unrestrained mirth our predicament would cause to the Emergency Services – if it ever came to that.
By lying side by side, with much difficulty and a few false starts, we somehow managed a minor miracle and stood up. Another problem instantly and urgently made its painful self known. Sheba stood about five and a half feet in her stocking feet and I was about six in my socked ones. Think about it! Our orifices therefore had difficulty in achieving the same mean sea level. More yelps. We finally attained equilibrium by her standing on tip–toe and me, with some hefty bits of contortioning, bending my knees.
We then carefully shuffled, crab–like, across the floor to the elusive scissors and freedom. Needless to say, the bleedin’ things were not in the top drawer. Nor the second! As we sank ever lower trying to locate the bloody things, we seemed to be performing some sort of strange dance or ritual. Correct – they were in the bottom drawer.
“What if Paul comes in and catches us like this?” Sheba asked as we stared at the key of freedom to our unusual manacles.
“He’ll probably think we’ve taken up some obscure oriental cult. Come on, let’s get it over with.” I didn’t like the twinkle in her eye as she gleefully snipped the air with the scissors.
By leaning away from one another, she could begin the delicate art of practising her scissor work. I watched every close of the blade with much vested interest and a lot of fear.
“Don’t panic. I’m going very carefully,” she tried to reassure me.
“Gee, thanks Sheba,” I think I was beginning to sweat, “remember, I have a lot more to lose than you.”
“Only on the outside, darling.”
“And, at the moment, that’s the bit that really worries me.”
“You want to do it?” She offered me the scissors.
“No. I’ll try and be brave.”
“There’s a good little boy,” she cooed. I believe the evil little cow was actually enjoying this.
After some delicate pruning, worst of which was separating the hairs on my testicles, we were free.
I can honestly say I have never before, or since, felt such a blissful sense of relief. My nether regions were paining me like mad but now the ordeal was over it was quite bearable.
A few moments later, after we’d relieved our insistent kidneys, we relaxed, enjoying our freedom. Sheba picked up the malevolent canister and muttered “That’s the last time I buy that rubbish.” She aimed it at the waste paper basket but suddenly froze in mid action. “Ah! Umm! Oh dear.”
I didn’t like the sound of this at all. “What?” I growled, staring at her hard.
“Well,” she seemed reluctant to continue, “It says here, you’re supposed to apply the contents an hour before intercourse. I suppose that would explain why…”
“Does it also warn you that if you don’t, there’s every chance the guy could get instantly castrated?!”
The pain was beginning to ebb and, as usual with Sheba, we ended up on the floor in helpless laughter.
Enter Paul.
“What the fuck’s been going on here? What have you two ladies been up to?” He looked in a bad mood and seemed rather peeved that we were enjoying ourselves. Ignoring our nakedness, he busied himself with finding a clean shirt.
“Don’t be so stuck up – it could be very painful – as we’ve just found out!” This remark from Sheba started us laughing again.
“You’re both mad!” he mumbled and left us to our private joke.
I insisted Sheba would solemnly promise never to mention this to anyone. She kept her promise.
When I’d finished telling my story to my fellow party goers, I expected ‘A Chorus of Disapproval’. Fortunately they found it funny. I think, because it involved a girl, it was acceptable. I wonder what reaction I would have had if I’d regaled them with a story from the darker side of my past. Perhaps I chickened out.
Back to Prison
After about another three months of low voltage warring, something happened which had been a long time coming; Paul and I came to a decision over which I had very mixed feelings. We finally and mutually agreed that our relationship wasn’t working and there was nothing either of us could think of that would save it. There was no great operatic style break–up – it was simply a case that we had fallen out of lust with one another. Our relationship had been founded purely on this lust which was all very well, but I knew I now needed more than just the physical side of things. Love never entered our equation. I knew that I needed a friend as well as a lover. With Paul, other than the sex, there was very little else we had in common. Apart from the Gay Scene, he had neither interests nor hobbies. Our conversations were eternally on a superficial level. He ignored any attempts I might make to talk about subjects like music, art, drama or literature and merely sat there and listened with a blank look on his face. His concentration was not only wandering but going on a high–speed vacation. As far as I was concerned, in the beginning everything had appeared to be almost perfect – however, even then there were some nagging doubts which would not go away. Paul expressed a desire to know more about all my interests. He was quite a novice in the arts world and bemoaned that he never had a chance to learn. He declared that he was eager to do so. As he had a good eye for drawing, I brought him along to one of my art classes – for free. He found the whole thing far too academic. There was too much talk and advice and not enough creating. He became restless and, subsequently never expressed a desire to attend a second class. I quickly discovered that his enthusiasm for my interests had been a frivolous ruse to get me to move in with him. So, Mickey had been right, I was a trophy – a gold medal of conquest. Once I was there, he dropped that charade and lost all pretence and soon continued with his own social life. Not long after this, I did the same and, in the last month of the relationship, returned to make more regular visits to the racks.
Coincidentally, in that month before our break, Paul had a massive row with his boss and was thrown out of his job. I really couldn’t be bothered to find out why and he didn’t seem too eager to tell me. After enjoying a fun week at home, he decided not to bother to find any more work. Goodness knows how he hoped to pay his side of the bills. Very quickly he found himself in a lot of debt and, although I was still able to pay my way, I simply couldn’t afford to support both of us along with the cost of my art classes. Even the money I had earned from my clients quickly disappeared. He wouldn’t ask his parents for help and I didn’t feel close enough to him to class our separate incomes as ‘our’ money. They were either his or mine.
Just before the month’s rent was due, we had a summit meeting. I told him I couldn’t afford to pay the landlord for both of us. This wasn’t quite true but I used it as an excuse for things to be brought to a head. Without resentment, he told me that he wanted a new friend of his to move in anyway. This was fine by me. We could have been discussing whether to have a drink of coffee or tea. In this session, there were no tempers, denunciations or feelings of being betrayed in fact, it was dreadfully matter–of–fact. Yes, it was all exceptionally civilised.
Paul had to go out to see someone so I was left alone. It was then that a great feeling of terror stole upon me. I felt a creeping fear through every fibre of my body. Mother would have to be told that I was returning to her palace. I shivered. I had made the effort of visiting her a few times whilst I was away and I received such a silent and hostile reception each time, I couldn’t wait to get out. She never expressed a desire to visit me at my flat, indeed, she did
n’t appear to want to know anything about it. Was she too afraid that I might be living a better life than her?
I cursed the fact that none of my friends lived away from their homes. At the time, living in a flat was considered somewhat Continental and, as such, not the British way of doing things. Teens tended to remain with the family until they walked down the aisle. Even members of the gay community used their home as a base until they met their Prince. Like myself, all my friends were still haunting their mid teens so the chance of moving from one flat to another with one of them was totally out of the question. Even the rents wouldn’t have been able to help. In an emergency, they might have been good for a couple of night’s stay but it would not have been a long term solution.
I thought it best if I get the delicate negotiations with my mother out of the way as quickly as possible so, that same evening, I went to see her. Knocking on her back door, I awaited her approach.
Initially she looked at me as if I were an unwanted carol singer. “Oh, it’s you. What d’you want? You’ve had all your stuff. You’re not getting anything else.”
“Can I come in? I need to talk to you.” She harrumphed and stood aside to let me in. As I passed, she eyed me up and down as if I were something from another planet. “All new clothes, I see. A bit flashy, aren’t they?” I had changed my wardrobe considerably in the months I’d been away.
No liquid refreshment was offered. As soon as I could, I blurted out my problem. “Can I move back in please?”
Sitting in her chair a broad smirk of triumph grew then played around her eyes and mouth. “And what brought this on, my son?”
“Oh – er,” inspiration was slow in coming, “it just didn’t work out.”