I snapped the elastic back into place.
Gradually, I started focusing my attention on her thighs, then on the inside of her thighs, then on the top of the inside of her thighs. In a series of tiny adjustments, her legs parted, accommodating my hand.
Slowly, her hips rose a fraction from the mattress. I followed the invitation, and found my fingers in the hot, wet gusset of James’s boxer shorts. After this, I just held firm and watched. I hardly needed to move. Her hips rocked back and forwards over my hand, gradually faster and harder, until she made this funny squeaky noise, had a little shudder, then pushed my hand away, rolled over and fell asleep.
Instead of going back to my bed, I curled up behind her and tried to doze off, with my erection pressed firmly into her bum.
In the morning I was the first to wake up, so I crawled to my bed and woke up again there, in order to do my bit for the illusion that nothing had happened. Having done that, I went downstairs, made two breakfasts, and took them back to the bedroom. I balanced the tray on Liz’s clock-radio, and got into bed with her. She was still half asleep, but had somehow conveniently put her T-shirt on.
Together we chomped through our cereal and toast like two good mates who just happened to be having a companionable breakfast on the same mattress. Neither of us mentioned what had happened, even though with every mouthful I took, I noticed a thrillingly salty odour on my fingers.
Later that week, Liz and I bought our tickets. We would leave immediately after the end of her term, and return almost three months later, just in time for me to start university.
Not now having sex
After a while, sleep-overs with massage became a regular occurrence. The massage technique gradually developed until it involved both of us stripping down to our pants and rubbing different bits of our bodies together.
Since Liz never raised the topic of our burgeoning sexual relationship in conversation, I decided to play along with her and let us continue with the illusion that we were two good mates who just happened to have a fondness for near-nude medicinal massage. The healing properties of this massage gradually found themselves focused more and more on the genitals, at which point underwear became a bigger inconvenience than ever, and suddenly we were naked.
It is a well-known fact that if two people lie in bed, without clothes, rubbing each other’s genitals together, sooner or later, one genital will slot into the other.
This is what happened. A very advanced form of medicinal massage.
It was at this point that we chose to discuss contraception.
‘You’re on the Pill, aren’t you?’
‘No. I stopped.’
‘Have you got any condoms?’
‘No. I threw my spares away.’
‘Why?’
‘As a gesture.’
‘For fuck’s sake! A gesture of what?’
‘Fidelity, of course.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘You’d better pull out.’
‘All right.’
‘NOT YET, you idiot.’
‘Oh, OK.’
I wiggled my dick around a bit, until it started to tingle, then pulled out.
‘Will you toss me off?’
‘No!’
‘Go on. Please.’
‘Why should I?’
‘I’ve done you loads of times, and you’ve never even touched me.’
She scowled, and reached under the duvet. Having somehow found the only part of my penis without any nerve endings, she tugged it until it ached. Cradling her hand, I showed her what to do, and within seconds, I had squirted on to her belly.
It was, I feel I must stress, only the semen of friendship. A form of natural massage oil, if you will. For there was nothing sexual between Liz and me. Absolutely not. Further proof of this can be found in the fact that she still refused to kiss me.
Afterwards we both went to sleep, probably more out of tact than anything else. I knew she’d need time to decide what to say. It would now be very hard indeed for her to deny that something had happened. With any luck, we’d wake up the next morning, have a bad-breath kiss and officially name ourselves lovers.
*
The second Liz opened her eyes, she leaped out of bed. I followed her downstairs, and we had breakfast in silence until I popped the big question.
‘Liz? Why won’t you kiss me?’
She carried on eating, staring into her cereal bowl and chewing slowly while she decided on an answer.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she mumbled.
‘In the circumstances, nothing seems very obvious at all.’
‘I don’t love you,’ she said.
‘So?’
‘What do you mean, “so”?’
‘I know you don’t love me. I know where we stand. It’s just that if we’re going to… you know… have sex, then we might as well try and enjoy it.’
‘I love James. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
‘Not much. Look – it’s ridiculous that you keep on about him while you’re doing all this stuff with me. I don’t see why you can’t just acknowledge what’s going on – then, when he gets back, we can all return to normal.’
‘Is that really what you want?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you think things work like that, do you?’
‘I don’t see why not. We could always give it a go.’
‘You are so naïve. I find it hard to believe that you can know so little about relationships. You’re talking shit.’
‘Why? What would go wrong? You think I wouldn’t be able to let go?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d be fine. If I’ve agreed in advance, then I won’t be able to complain, will I?’
‘And there is the small matter of James. Have you never heard of a thing called jealousy ? I don’t think he’d be exactly over the moon.’
‘I thought you agreed to have an open relationship so that he could screw around in Asia without feeling bad. It serves him right.’
‘I don’t believe you. I don’t know why we’re even discussing this. You’re just so naive that I don’t know where to start. You don’t seem to know anything. And I’m not just a piece of meat that you two can trade between you.’
‘We’re the ones that are being traded. You’ve traded him in for me.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘Of course you have.’
‘I have not. If… if you feel that just because you have clawed away at me, preying on the fact that you know I miss James… and now that you have finally got some pathetic piece of gratification for your efforts – if you think this means you have taken James’s place, then you’ve got a lot to learn.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like… like… everything. You don’t seem to know a single thing about how relationships work. It’s as if you’ve never heard of human emotions. It’s as if you haven’t even got the imagination to realize that what happens on the surface isn’t always the sum total of… isn’t always the most important thing.’
‘Oh, right. I see. I’m superficial because I think that having sex means something. At last I understand. It’s all my fault for making the… the naïve assumption that because you are now having sex with me instead of James…’
‘I am not now having sex with you instead of James. Look – you’ve been groping me for long enough, and you’ve finally got your way, and I hope you’re satisfied, but now it’s going to stop.’
‘Great. And I’m the superficial one.’
‘Yes.’
‘Look. Even if you stop doing it we both know that you want it. We both know that we’ve done it.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Yeah, right. I forced you.’
‘You did.’
‘WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’
‘You did. You forced me. Over a matter of weeks, you have gradually forced yourself on me.’
‘That’s bollocks.’
‘It’s true. I do
n’t know how you can deny it.’
‘I didn’t force it to happen. It just happened. And I didn’t notice you resisting.’
‘If I haven’t been resisting, why didn’t it happen straight away?’
‘Maybe I didn’t want it to happen.’
‘Yeah, that’s likely. You’d shag anything.’
‘You’re really flattering yourself, here.’
‘Anyway – we haven’t had sex. There is a difference between wanking on to someone’s belly and making love.’
‘It was your hand.’
‘My hand was limp. You were moving it for me, if you don’t remember.’
‘And you’ve forgotten what happened before that, have you?’
‘Oh yeah – you dabbed your weenie at me for about ten seconds. Wow. That’s what I call passion. I’ve never had it so good.’
‘If you’d had some condoms…’
‘But I didn’t. For precisely this reason.’
‘If you hadn’t been afraid that we were going to make love, you wouldn’t have had to throw them away.’
‘We did not make love, and we’re never going to. If that’s your idea of love-making, then you’ve had a very sad life indeed.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’
‘And I hope I’ve answered your question. That’s why I won’t kiss you. Because you’re a fucking prick.’
Nothing much
It was a week before I summoned the courage to give her a ring.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s me.’
‘Hi.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Shall I come over?’
‘No. I’m busy.’
‘I thought you said you were doing nothing much.’
‘Yes – but I’m about to do something, aren’t I?’
‘What?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Fair enough.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Shall I come over later?’
‘No – I told you. I’m busy.’
‘But I’m not allowed to ask what you’re doing?’
‘Look – I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on. I don’t want to fail my course, you know.’
‘What about after that, though? Shouldn’t we do a bit more planning?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We already know exactly where we’re going. We’ve decided as much as we can decide. You can’t control everything, you know. If we try and plan anything else we’re just going to kill the whole thing dead.’
Given that I had used the word ‘planning’ as a euphemism for sex (possibly a linguistic first), her answer was a very bad sign.
‘I’m fed up of planning,’ she said, ramming the message home. ‘We’ve decided what we’re going to do, and we should just leave the rest until we get there. You’re far too anal – you know that? You can’t decide everything in advance for your whole life.’
I didn’t know what to say. This is it, I thought to myself. I’ve blown it, and we haven’t even got to India yet.
‘Look – I’ve got to get on,’ she said.
‘OK.’
‘Bye.’
Click.
‘Bye.’
She put the phone down before I even said ‘bye’.
There were only three days left before our departure. In that time, we didn’t speak.
PART TWO
What do backpackers do all day?
The Book
On our first full day in Delhi we went to the Red Fort, which was enormous and impressive but fundamentally a bit boring. A guy just outside was selling floppy hats with a brim all the way round, wearing a huge pile of them on his head as a crowd-pulling technique. The sight of him made me realize that I felt as if someone had been dropping bricks on my head. I needed one of those hats.
‘Hello, friend. You buy hat?’
‘How much?’
‘Best price.’
‘How much?’
‘What you like.’
‘What I like?’
‘You give price.’
‘How much are they normally?’
‘You give price, friend. Any price – cheap price.’
‘Um… fifty rupees?’
This was just under two quid, which seemed reasonable to me, but the instant I said it he plonked a hat on my head and waited for me to pay. I’d obviously offered far too much, but I didn’t really see how I could go about changing my mind, so I gave him the cash.
Liz, pretending that she hadn’t seen what happened, asked me what I had paid and laughed in my face. I said I didn’t care, and thought it was a perfectly fair price for what I had got, since it was a very cool hat.
‘Haven’t you noticed that every other Westerner in the city is wearing one? You might as well walk around carrying a placard saying “Tourist”.’
I looked around to see if what she had said was true. A group of thirty middle-aged Europeans with a tour guide emerged from the fort. More than half of them were wearing my hat.
‘Where’s your tour guide, Dave? Aren’t you going to join your friends?’
‘Look – this isn’t a fashion parade, Liz. It feels comfortable, so I’m happy. If you want to get sunstroke just so you don’t look like a tourist, that’s your problem.’
‘I am going to buy a hat. I just might not buy it from the first guy I see in front of the biggest tourist spot in the capital city. Personally, I’d rather be just that little bit unobtrusive.’
‘Great idea. A hat’s really going to do the trick. What else are you going to do? Put shoe polish on your face?’
‘Racist.’
I wished I hadn’t bought the hat now, but thanks to the argument I’d have to wear it all the time, just to show that she hadn’t changed my mind.
I did wonder how much everyone else had paid for it, though.
Jeremy had told us that the rickshaw to and from the fort shouldn’t cost more than ten rupees each way (roughly thirty pence). Our attempts to get this price were met by the rickshaw drivers with derision. Liz managed to respond to their prices with equal, if not greater derision, and I ended up spectating on twenty-minute arguments in both directions. At regular intervals, either Liz or the driver marched off in a huff, and when it was Liz’s turn, I felt honour-bound to follow her.
Liz managed to get the trip for fifteen going and twenty coming back, both of which she considered to be significant moral victories. Huddled in the back of the noisy, stinking rickshaw, I could tell that she expected some kind of approval for her labours.
‘Well done, Liz.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You saved us at least 15P there. That’s almost 8p each.’
‘Will you stop acting like such a spoilt Westerner? We’re in India, now.’
‘So?’
‘So you have to haggle. It’s part of life.’
‘You don’t have to. Stump up a few extra pennies, and you don’t need to stand in the midday sun screaming your head off like some deranged memsahib.’
‘It’s not about that, and you know it.’
‘What is it about, then?’
‘Look – if you just take the first price they offer, you look stupid. They laugh at you behind your back.’
‘So? Who cares?’
‘And if Westerners go around paying double for everything, it gives us a bad reputation. It sets a bad example. It makes us all look spoilt, and far richer than we really are.’
‘But we are rich. Ten rupees is nothing. It doesn’t matter if we pay double.’
‘That’s not the point. If we did that, it would completely upset the local economy.’
‘Oh, right. I see. It’s like the beggars all over again. There I was, thinking you were being tight-fisted, and it turns out you’re selflessly doing battle for the good of the local economy.’
‘I’m getting very bored of this pseudo-worldly sarcasm crap, Dave. It’s got nothing to do with being tight-fisted. I’m
just not going to let those people make me look like an idiot.’
‘And you looked really sensible giving yourself a haemorrhage over twenty pence.’
‘Oh, sod off.’
We were stopped at a junction by a traffic policeman, and a pair of child beggars tapped on the side of the rickshaw, then stuck their heads pleadingly inside. Liz fished around in her money belt for coins, presumably to demonstrate that she wasn’t stingy. Both myself and the beggar watched her fiddle with the money belt, which now contained a wad of notes almost half an inch thick. I saw the child’s eyes widen with awe.
‘I haven’t got any coins,’ said Liz.
The rickshaw driver revved his engine. Liz flicked through her banknotes, frantically searching for a low denomination.
‘Can you give him something?’
‘I thought…’
‘DON’T START,’ she snapped, with impressive venom. Her fuse had obviously been considerably shortened by her arguments with the rickshaw men. And by her lack of a hat.
Just then, the driver turned and swore at the beggar in Hindi. The beggar ignored him, sensing that he was close to getting some money.
The driver carried on shouting at the child while I fished in my pocket for a coin. Just as the traffic began to move, I found one and put it in the child’s hand as we pulled away. His wrist was knocked by the rickshaw, and I saw the coin fly out.
Spinning round to look out of the back, I saw the child on his knees in the middle of the road, oblivious to the traffic which was hooting and swerving, inches away from smashing into him. As he receded into the distance, I saw the other beggar join the search of the Tarmac, and the beginnings of a scuffle when one of them picked up the coin.
Back at the hotel, Jeremy was sitting on the veranda, reading.
‘You made it?’ he said.
‘Just about,’ I answered.
‘How much did you pay for the rickshaw?’ he said.
Liz jumped in before I could answer. ‘Fifteen.’
Are You Experienced? Page 5