by Raz Shaw
Emotionally speaking, that is.
SEX AND CANCER, PART ONE – IBETTERFUCKHIMJUSTINCASEHEDIES
Sex. Cancer.
Two words that scare the fuck out of a lot of people. Individually.
Put them together and we’re in a world of pain.
Or beauty. Or pain. Or painful beauty. Or beautiful pain.
Sexy cancer. Cancerous sex.
When you have cancer, what you’re looking for is blood that will give you life. Lifeblood. You’re also looking for things that will make you feel sort of normal and real and alive. Sex ticks those boxes. For me at least.
Sex has been my language of choice for as far back as I can dare to imagine.
The language of love, is a strange indecipherable over-analysed thing. I have always been sceptic number one when it comes to true expressions and demonstrations of love and affection. They are rare. The Facebook world has ruined us. Almost all love declarations now seem to be easy, trite and without thought. I want to live in a Brief Encounter world where love expressions cost much. Where they constantly battle against an ingrained reserve. Where expressions of love are so hard won that the tiniest look can make your heart sing like Mario Lanza.
The language of love, I struggle with. The language of sex, I don’t. It’s a much more immediate and tangible form of expression. It’s a language I have spent my whole life learning. It’s a language through which I am able to share more of myself than in any other mode of expression. It’s a cocoon in which I can become someone else. An open, sensitive, affectionate someone. It works best when it is adrenaline-fuelled. Which is always good for an addict! From a very early age, I was aware that this was something exciting, something unique, something I could own. A medium of communication like no other.
Cancer leaves you bereft. Way outside your zone of comfort. It strips you of all that you thought you had. All that you thought you knew. Turns you into a child again. A child with little education because he has lost most of it in the flood. The cancer flood. In my desperate struggle to stay afloat, I searched for something, anything, that would make me feel like me again.
Sex was that thing.
I instinctively knew I had to take myself through my own backstory and try to reposition that old sexual confidence into the heart of cancer-riddled me. If I could remember and almost relearn some of that confidence and combine it with my newly found cancer swagger, I might be on to something.
And it seemed to work. As I relived my sexual history in my mind, every memory reminded me a little more of my true place in the world. Every memory injected a bit more fuel into me. Every memory normalised me just a little more. Until eventually I had rediscovered some of my fluency and was confident enough to put it into practice.
And that was a big key for me. Rediscovering myself through reliving key moments of my past. By putting all those pieces together, I felt nearly whole again, nearly normal, nearly me. Nearly.
VIRGIN RAZ
I reached puberty at the relatively early age of eleven and from then on I was desperate to discover the hidden secrets of sex. That need, that desire, that throbbing urge wasn’t helped by having two older brothers who would talk about their conquests all the time and who took delight in constantly drawing attention to the doughty sword of virginity hanging over my head.
A typical dinner conversation:
‘Have you done it yet? Have you? Well, have you? Have you?’
‘Have you? Have you? Have you?’
‘You done it yet? Have you? Have you? Have you?’
At twelve years old, I would just laugh.
At thirteen, I would go bright red, die inside and laugh.
At fourteen, I would just stare in horror, make some squealing noise that was meant to signify a yes but had NO NO NO, OF COURSE NOT, NO NO NO written all over it.
‘Have you done it yet? You popped your cherry yet? Done it?’
At fifteen, I would not laugh. I would say ‘Fuck you, it’s none of your business.’
‘Come on. You lost it yet? Got your leg over?’
At sixteen, I would say nothing and feel nothing.
‘Well? Well? Have you? Have you still got your V plates? Have you parked the pink Porsche down the side alley yet?’
At seventeen, I would say yes. It was a lie.
‘Come ON! Have you done the dirty yet? Have you? Have you?’
At eighteen, I would say yes. It wasn’t a lie.
And what a relief it was to not have to lie. Thirty-seven seconds of relief on the kitchen floor with Rachel Channing, to be precise!
Along the teenage way, I tried to play out my sexual urges like a weird early eighties movie. In my memory I saw a boy who was filled with an extraordinary mix of blind panic and innate confidence when it came to all matters of sex. The panic was partly just the usual sexual panic of youth but it was also a reaction to the strange sexual arrogance that I knew also existed inside me. The young me was panicked because he wondered whether all the sexual greatness that he had to offer would ever be received by anyone ever. He really did feel that! If the twenty-eight-year-old me could just rediscover a tiny bit of that bizarre arrogance, he might be on to something. If the twenty-eight-year-old me could remind himself of a time when hope and delusion were fuelled by innocence rather than desperation, his present predicament might look a little different.
I was lying on a bed in the day clinic ready to have my first wrestle with chemo. I wasn’t prepared for it. I wasn’t ready for it. I didn’t want it. It said on the chart at the end of my bed that I was twenty-eight years old. I was not. I was eight. Nine at most! I was a child. And all this was just plain odd. Everything and everyone seemed the size of a house. And I was the size of a gnat. That’s what it felt like to be me. When I was eight, I wanted to be eleven. Eleven would be proper. Would be old. Would be proper old. Eleven would be playground superior.
I lay on a bed in the day clinic and I yearned to be eleven again. Longed for it.
Take me back there. To eleven. Please. Let’s go. I want to be big again. I want to be on the edge of grown up. Not the gnat puerile nothing I am now.
THE DELUSIONS OF YOUTH
I am eleven years old. I am helping Miss Harrison put the music stuff away. The drums always go in last. The drums live in the top cupboard. The routine is always the same. Miss Harrison would climb on the table and I would hand the drums to her. This was our routine. IS our routine. I watch her climb onto the table. I feel the thrill inside me when she stands on her tippy toes to reach the top cupboard and her long slender calf muscles extend to the max. I know she is doing this for my benefit. I don’t quite know what this is, but I think the adults call it flirting. Yes, she is flirting with me. Definitely. I can’t control my breathing. Can’t control anything! I know she is about to climb down off the table, take my almost spot-free face in her hands (thank God I applied my zit cream this morning) and kiss me and kiss me and kiss me. And she will be the one. The one who… And she does climb off the table but she doesn’t take my face in her hands. Which is strange. She must be waiting for the perfect moment. Or maybe she is shy. That’s really sweet. Endearing. Maybe she’s waiting for me to make the move? Maybe I should. Maybe I should just kiss her. I know that’s what she wants. Maybe I need to just kiss her to let her know that I am OK with the age gap. Am fine with it. Am totally OK that she’s really old. That’s what she wants me to do. She wants me to put her at her ease and kiss her. She is nervous because it means so much to her and she is shy and she wants me to make the first move and she wants me to hold her face in my hands and kiss her and then she can relax and just run with it. The way she has in her dreams for weeks and weeks. The way we both have. And maybe this is HER first time too and maybe we can both just get lost in each other’s first time. And I can tell her not to worry, that I know what to do. That I have two older brothers who have done it. ‘I know what to do. Don’t worry, Shirley (that was Miss Harrison’s first name so I think she’d like me to use it. It
would thrill her). Don’t worry, Shirley, I know what to do. I have two older brothers who have done it.’ And we will be together and we will do it. And I will be able to sit at the dinner table and boast about my girlfriend, Miss Harrison. Shirley. And I wouldn’t have to lie. And Shirley would come over for dinner and eat with us. Come to think of it, scrap that. I think it would be a bit awkward for my family. They don’t know anything about music. No. This will be our thing. And we will decide between us when we want to make it public. When we want to declare our love to the world. And so she comes down from the table. Looking like a goddess, may I add. And I know that I have to make that move. I know she is desperate for me to do it. Desperate for me to take twenty-something her in my eleven-year-old arms and kiss her. When shall I do it? Now? Yes? Yes. I have seen it on telly. On The Sweeney. I will just walk up to her. Look up. Look her in the eyes. She will bend down towards me and when she gets close enough I will reach out my arms and softly grab the back of her neck and pull her towards my virtually zit-free face. Thank God I brushed my teeth this morning. I am going to do it. I take a deep breath and slowly walk towards her. Just at that moment, my mother arrives. I can see the disappointment in her face. Miss Harrison’s, not my mother’s.
I can tell that her ‘Thanks for the help, Darren’ was really ‘Next time. Next time we will truly consummate the burning passion that is most clearly between us.’
But next time never came. Thankfully for her. But the delusional eleven-year-old always believed that it might.
Maybe Shirley Harrison is out there now ruminating on the what ifs.
‘What if the eleven-year-old Darren Shaw had taken me in his arms and kissed me all those years ago. Life might have been so so different!’
Ain’t that the truth!
And I lay there, in the day patient clinic, watching peculiar coloured chemicals about to be pumped into me, smiling at the thought of that absurd eleven-year-old. Twenty-eight was proud of eleven. Fifty is, too. Proud that he could dare to want to be different. Proud that he wasn’t ashamed of that difference. And that memory and that pride made my childlike fears begin to dissipate. The syringe looked almost normal size. It looked bearable. I watched as the first flow of chemicals was pumped through the cannula into my veins. I was shocked at how cold it felt as it hit my blood. It wasn’t painful shock. Just cold shock. I closed my eyes in avoidance. I needed more weird-child me. More adult-child-adult me.
STALKER ME
I am twelve years old. I am on the Tube. I see a woman. She is really, really old and really, really sexy. She is off-the-scale old. Probably about twenty-one. I know! Old as life. There is something beyond the old that magnetically draws me to her. She is without a doubt the sexiest woman I have seen since Miss Harrison. And I do know what sexy means. Sexy means that my heart starts to beat out of control fast and I go hard. Simple as that. I don’t go hard, my penis does. And this woman does both to me. The heart thing and the hard thing, and I am compelled to follow her. I’m not sure what I will do beyond that. Haven’t thought that far ahead. But it’s fine. I’ll deal with it. I’m Darren Shaw. I can deal with stuff. Plus I’m sure women are OK with twelve-year-old boys following them. Totally. And she does seem to be OK with it because after a twisty follow around the Tube station, she asks me my name. She is twenty-one. Probably. I am twelve. Definitely.
‘My name’s Eleanor. What’s yours?’
She has a strange foreign sounding accent. With a deep squeal I tell her.
‘Darren. Darren Shaw.’
We get to the platform and she puts her arm round me. We are sitting on the platform seat thing. She offers me a cigarette. I suavely decline. She puts her arm round me again. I didn’t know what freezing was till this moment. I freeze. Her arm draped around my shoulder is the most uncomfortable sensation I have yet felt in my vast twelve years of life. And when I said freeze, what I should have said is that every single bit of me freezes except one tiny bit of me, which had been frozen solid, but now defrosts into a lifeless lump of unused flesh. And the Tube arrives and she gets up and jumps on board. She turns and looks at me. I am stuck on the platform not knowing what to do. She is beckoning me to join her but my feet won’t move. I look at my watch and it is five already and I have to be home for supper by six and if I get on the Tube with her I will be late and how will I explain that to my mother and my mum’s a bit scary when she’s angry like the time she washed my mouth out with actual soap and water when I told her to fuck off and the doors slowly close and my feet are still glued to the platform and the train slowly moves off. And Eleanor keeps my gaze the whole time. And the whole time she is wearing a sly grin as if to say, ‘That showed you, kid. That showed you not to follow a strange woman double your age. Live and learn.’
And I stand there and stand there and stand there. I feel the flush of youthful guilt fill up my cheeks. And I have lived and I definitely have learnt. I have. I know that I won’t follow a woman again. Not till I am much much older anyway!
And my mind jolted back into the reality of chemo land. I was more than a little bit impressed by the strength of purpose of that twelve-year-old. So much need and adrenaline in someone so young. If I could just have 30 per cent of that adrenaline back. Forty maybe. If I could have some of his energy and focus and drive and youthful lust, I may kick this thing sooner rather than later. I may even have an amazing ride along the way. So to speak.
The nurse patted me on the hand.
‘All done,’ she said. ‘If you just lie here for a few minutes while we do the chart and stuff, then you can be on your way.’
I was OK until that moment. The re-programming had been going swimmingly. The memory of the confidence of my youth had got me this far without too much fuss. But something was different. I knew I would walk out of there a changed man. Changed because there was no escape now.
I have cancer. I am having chemo. I have had my first chemo. This is real. Life. No escape.
Dread began to creep up on me. Dread of all this. Dread of the real world. Dread of the future. Dread of now. I close my eyes and desperately Doctor Who myself back fifteen years.
THE FULL HOUR OR JUST THE HALF?
I am fourteen years old. I have lived through three years of no-sex purgatory and I am ready to do something about it. Be more proactive about it. I know where my father keeps his magazines. We all know where my father keeps his magazines. In the back of those magazines, there are adverts. For all sorts of things. Most of which baffle me. What is a sex toy anyway? And why are they advertising toys in a magazine that is clearly meant for grown-ups? But I do know what a visiting topless massage is. I do. And I know that they often do more than just massages. They do. How do I know that? I am not so sure. I have older brothers. That must be it. So I spend three months saving every penny I can. Down the back of the sofa there is always cash. Sometimes the biggest coin, the fifty pence coin, would be lodged deep under the cushions. Finding one of those is like Arsenal winning the FA Cup. That happened last year. Arsenal beat Man U and my hero Liam Brady was the Man of the Match. I have finally collected enough money. I’m sure she won’t mind bags and bags of coins. Money is money, right? I wait till two in the afternoon on a summer holiday Tuesday because I know nobody will be home for three hours. I pick up the phone and dial the number.
‘Hello.’
‘Er, hello.’
‘Can I help you?’
‘Is this the, erm, visiting massage service?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Can I book, erm, a visiting massage?’
‘Certainly, sir. Can I just check that you are over eighteen?’
‘Oh yes. Yes. Yes.’
‘Good. We have to check, you understand.’
‘Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Of course.’
‘Would you like the full hour or just the half?’
‘The what?’
‘The full hour or just the half?’
‘Um… um. Oh. OH! Erm. The. Erm. The. Erm. Half of the hour. I mea
n, half an hour please. Thank you.’
‘Certainly. sir. The fee will be thirty pounds plus the taxi fare. Cash on arrival. Would you like that immediately?’
‘Erm. YES. I mean, yes. Thank you.’
‘Certainly, sir, and what is your address?’
‘Erm, 4, Oak… Erm, can I just ask. Erm, do you do, erm, erm, erm, erm, erm, extras?’
‘Erm, extras, sir?’
‘Erm, yes. Erm, you know. Erm. Err… Extras. Do you do erm… erm… extras?’
‘Anything beyond our normal service you will have to discuss with the masseur when she arrives, sir.’
‘OK.’
And I give my address and book the ‘topless visiting massage’. And I get off the phone and my heart is out of my chest and breathing is a problem. I walk around the room in a circle for ages. Yes. Yes. Yes. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. And breathless excitement slowly turns to breathless panic.
What am I doing? She’s going to come here. Actually going to come here. And I will have to get naked for her. I will have to do naked. For her. With her. I may be a touch out of my depth here. Maybe. Even me. Even I. Maybe. NO! I can do this. Can I? Yes. Of course. But I am only fourteen. I don’t need to rush this. I am only fourteen. I am not the adult I think I should be. I am only fourteen and my virginal sexual urges have pushed me into unthinkingly doing something that I am not ready for. I am not ready for this. Not ready. Not ready. Not ready. When I say not ready, what I actually mean is I am ready but not now. Now is not when I am ready. I pick up the phone and even more hesitatingly cancel the ‘massage’. Relief invades every bit of me. I can breathe again.
As I lay there, in the day patient clinic, waiting to be discharged, I smiled at fourteen’s lucky escape. He was spiralling groin first towards adulthood, and just at the last minute he had the insight to save a little bit of his innocence for a rainy day. And once he made that phone call he could breathe easier. For a while anyway. Fourteen years later, that was all I was looking to do. To breathe. To find a bit of the old me, make a new me and breathe. And the memories puffed me up and propelled me out of the hospital front door and readied me for what was to come.