Nipples and Knuckles
After Dungeness Eryk and I checked into the hotel in Rye and ordered a winter Pimm’s each. It was delicious, warm and musky with hints of cinnamon and cloves, but after two sips I felt sick, so Eryk finished mine. Our room had a high white ceiling with black beams, a contemporary four-poster bed and a teal-green wood-panelled bathroom which looked like the interior of a fancy beach hut. Expensive REN products were lined up along the edge of the tub. I ran a bath but accidentally made squelchy noises against the enamel as I climbed in so rubbed my butt against the sides a few more times to let Eryk know I wasn’t breaking wind. I left the bathroom door ajar so I could hear the music playing from my Boom speaker.
I’d brought much more stuff with me than Eryk. He only had his laptop, a toothbrush with splayed-out bristles, a travel-sized tube of toothpaste and a spare pair of underpants with him. I bet his preparation for the trip consisted of a wash, a shave, maybe a bit of hair trimming here and there, and a coffee on the way to pick me up. My preparation, on the other hand, consisted of, first of all, timing. I made an appointment with my hairdresser to get my roots done two days before the trip, followed by a blow-dry on the morning we left. I tried to book a session with my favourite beautician, Lin, at the Vietnamese beauty salon around the corner for the day of the trip, to have the hair ripped out of every part of my body, my upper lip threaded and a pedicure (red, but not too vampiric, muted), but she was away that day, so I went in the day before. This was OK because at least the redness would’ve gone down by the morning, and the blobs of wax left here and there after leg-hair removal, which turn into little grey grollies in places I can’t see, would have dropped off or been washed away by a couple of showers by the time Eryk and I met. The downside of not waxing the day before a date is that my hair grows so quickly I sometimes have to shave my knees beforehand (which I did – and plucked a few stray hairs from the backs of my fingers). Then I packed: a portable speaker and two leads so we’d have music in the hotel room and the atmosphere would be less awkward if we got physical; SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas for us to read out loud to each other because it’s true and funny and I thought Eryk was secure enough to get it – it would at least be a topic of conversation; a spare pair of jeans, a black rain jacket and two tops (a black crepe shirt with see-through chiffon sleeves and my old staple, a 1990s Gucci seventies-inspired shirt, so I had a choice of what to wear for dinner). I wore block-heeled ankle boots from Acne for the journey and nicked my daughter’s dark-red New Balance trainers for walking in Dungeness. My make-up bag bulged with mascara, mushroom-coloured eye shadow (Estée Lauder, a freebie from Selfridges when I bought cleanser), eye-shadow brush, lipstick (Charlotte Tilbury, ‘Walk of Shame’), eyebrow powder (Guerlain) and brush, black kohl pencil (Mac), BB cream with SPF 30 (YSL, it’s brilliant), loose Chanel face powder, deodorant, hand cream, toothbrush, toothpaste (Janina, full-sized tube), pills (HRT and Thyroxene), magnifying mirror and dental tape. My bag weighed a ton. I arrived at our meeting point waxed, plucked, painted, blow-dried (but still looking natural due to all the money I’d spent and skill, and also that’s what men think natural looks like) and sweating from carrying my bag. I also had a shoulder purse with glasses, sunglasses, packet of tissues, hand wipes, butt wipes, lip pencil, eye pencil, hand mirror, phone, debit card, loose change, lip salve, hand cream, pen, travel pass, keys, asthma inhaler and Tic Tacs.
Are you still with me? I’m barely with myself.
I don’t know how I can still think of myself as a rebel after doing all that for a date, but I do. I also tried to look conventionally attractive when I was in the Slits, but kicked against it at the same time. It’s a painful position to be in, having a side, but being inexorably drawn to the other side too. The Slits’ singer, Ari, had a more extreme personality than me. She wasn’t torn by sides, she knew who she was and suffered much abuse for being so unapologetically herself. Girls like Ari are precious and rare. They stand out for going against the norm and take a lot of flack for refusing to conform to female stereotypes.
After the bath I put on my new underwired, black net bra and looked in the mirror. My nipples, squashed flat and poked sideways by the tight mesh, made my breasts look like two milky jellyfish trawled up from Dungeness beach. The bra was a designer brand, Myla or Agent Provocateur (can’t remember now, never wore it again, chucked it). I had also bought matching mesh knickers but took them back to the shop because I thought wearing the whole outfit implied I was expecting a raunchy performance from Eryk, which would be daunting for him. I’m not up to giving the performance such attire requires myself. I wore a pair of plain black pants from Gap instead. All this effort and preparation was an attempt to boost my confidence and to attract the listless Eryk.
I jumped into bed first. On top of the net bra and Gap pants I wore a loose, worn-out grey T-shirt, and on top of that the hotel’s white waffle robe tied at the waist. I was trying to untangle the belt of the robe, which was caught under my back, when Eryk joined me. He was also wearing a hotel robe but underneath he had a bath towel wrapped tightly around his nether regions. Eryk stroked and touched me. He knew I like being fingered so he did that too. As I got worked up, I tugged at what I thought was a thick blanket caught between us, but Eryk stopped me with his hand. I mentally came back into the room and looked down to see that it wasn’t a blanket but the bath towel wrapped around his groin that I was pulling. (Both our robes and my T-shirt were off – my net bra got no comment, which made me feel foolish.)
‘Is this staying on?’ I asked, gesturing at the towel, trying to keep a note of impatience out of my voice.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Can you put your pants on instead? It’s so thick,’ I suggested.
He swung into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and slipped his pants on, shielding himself with the towel like he was changing in front of the hordes on Brighton beach. We started again. Eryk’s moves felt a little workmanlike and I wondered if he was getting the physical bit out of the way as fast as possible so he could relax and get on with the rest of the evening (alcohol, sleep). This upset me and I decided to talk to him about it later. I’d rather we didn’t do anything physical than have him clinically try to finish me off – not that I orgasm, but he probably thought I did. Same as the last time we were dating each other, we didn’t have penetrative or oral sex. I was intrigued by Eryk’s behaviour. I enjoy a chase and need some mental stimulation to get me going – even frustration will do. His Dance of the Seven Veils thing was a good match for my sexual foibles. I’m happy to experiment with different ways of communicating affection and sexual desire.
We rolled around together and after a few short bursts of intense kissing, scratching and tweaking we were both out of breath, so we dozed for half an hour, then went down to the bar. I had a peppermint tea and an aubergine fritter, and Eryk had two whisky macs. We were back upstairs and in bed at 11 p.m., and there was no more touching. I didn’t initiate it in case he thought I was hassling him. I tried to sleep but felt bloated from all the chips I’d eaten earlier.
Barbara Fartland*
Eryk was soon asleep. I, on the other hand, knew I could not – and must not – sleep. I must not sleep because I must not fart. I didn’t know Eryk well enough to fart. I lay in bed, eyes open, butthole clenched tight all night long, drifting off for a second only to be awoken by a little squeak. Please don’t let him be awake, I begged the ceiling. By the time morning crept round the edge of the curtains I was tetchy from lack of sleep, exhausted from butthole clenching and knew for certain I couldn’t be bothered to be with a man ever again. (I once met a woman in California who said she’d given up chocolate because it gave her wind … Californians, eh?) I decided to end it there and then by picking a fight, but Eryk didn’t take the bait, so I stopped, paid for the hotel because I’d told him the weekend was my treat and we left. I felt like a useless hooker or john. I was too befuddled to work out which.
We arrived back in Lo
ndon three hours later. Eryk deposited me at Victoria Station and drove off to work. I lugged my bags down the escalator, onto the train, changed from the underground onto the overground at Highbury and Islington, caught the train to Hackney Central, then the 55 bus to the end of my road. By the time I reached my front door I was on the verge of weeping. I had half an hour to lie on my bed and stare at the wall with grit-dry, red, murderous eyes, before driving across town and picking my daughter up from school with all her end-of-term paraphernalia.
Not one man I know, have known or have dated in the last forty-five years has ever, or would ever, put the amount of effort into himself that I put into that date – just to feel comfortable. And I know for certain that if men lived in a society that expected them to put that amount of work into a date, they wouldn’t bother dating. And now I feel the same. Can’t be arsed.
* Chapter title thought up by my friend Trace
51 I kissed Mum’s forehead. Her skin was cool and I noticed she didn’t have any wrinkles. Ninety-five and no wrinkles. She only ever had a few and they seemed to have lifted off her face. ‘It’s not fair, Mum, you don’t have any wrinkles,’ I whispered into her ear. She would have laughed at that. I don’t know if she heard me. It doesn’t matter, Vida did.
I wasn’t sure what to do next. Let someone know Mum had died or sit with her for a while longer? I wanted to sit with her but was worried that after the way I’d behaved they’d think I’d murdered her if I didn’t tell them straight away. My next dilemma was whether to go and find the nurse myself or send Vida to get her. I pictured Vida alone in the yellow room with her dead grandmother while I fetched a nurse and thought, No, that would be too awful for her. Then I pictured Vida running down corridors she didn’t know very well to deliver the message of her grandmother’s death to a stranger and thought, No, that will be too much for her. In the end I told her to keep Grandma company, I’d be back in a minute, and walked to the door. The second I was out of sight I ran. It didn’t occur to me until two years later that we both could have gone to find the nurse. Leaving Mum alone when she’d just died didn’t feel like an option at the time.
Mia was at her work station. ‘I think she’s gone,’ I said. She plucked two clear rubber surgical gloves out of a cardboard box. I didn’t wait for her. I ran back to Vida.
Spartacus
I love being single. It’s almost like being rich.
Sue Grafton, D Is for Deadbeat, 1987
I let go of Eryk, even though it’s rare for me to come across a man I can stand being in a room with for a long time. I don’t mean a man I can work alongside – that’s occasionally possible – but one I can be with all weekend, night-times too. I persevered with him for over a year but the more I saw of him, the more I realised that his persistent unreliability made a relationship untenable. I also noticed he was skipping meals so he could drink more alcohol without putting on weight – he was consuming between ten and twenty-five units when we were out, even if we were just watching a play. And he never did reveal what was in his pants. The trouble is, if you’re heterosexual and there’s a lack of men around, like after the war for Mum and in my fifties and sixties for me, you can kid yourself you’ve done well just to have found one with teeth.
I used to give a guy three dates, but now I can tell in one if there’s a possibility of it going anywhere, even as a friendship. And frankly, my dear, I’d have to be a bit desperate to want to lose a big chunk of myself all over again and put up with a dominating male presence in the house. No, that’s not saying it right. I have been desperate. I’ve sobbed on the sofa at night because I’ve been so lonely and wanted a partner so badly. More than once I’ve thought I would happily compromise every day for the rest of my life to make a relationship work, but a lot of the men I’ve dated have been incapable of even basic kindness. I can’t have anyone in my life, female or male, who’s unkind. I’m not mentally or emotionally robust enough for that any more. Associating with destructive people when you’re lonely is tantamount to self-harm, like drinking too much alcohol or injecting drugs. Just because it’s people that are inflicting the harm doesn’t make it any less dangerous. I’m out. Safer on my own.
I’ll be the girl and the boy, the mummy and the daddy from now on. It’s me who fixes the roof, unblocks the drain and changes the plug. I’m Spartacus.
52 Mia lifted Mum’s arm, checked her pulse and said, ‘Yes, she’s just gone.’ She must have been able to tell from the temperature of Mum’s skin. I was terrified that she’d just let go of Mum’s arm and let it flop back down onto the bed, but to my relief she didn’t, she placed it carefully by Mum’s side.
Two men from the funeral home appeared and asked me what clothes I’d like to dress my mother in. I chose a pale-blue linen blouse, a new chunky-knit speckled blue, black and white cardigan from Marks and Spencer, smart black trousers and black socks. I knew from doing the same for my father that they don’t use shoes. Then a doctor arrived and told me I had to sign the death certificate. Vida and I left Mum to be dressed and wandered off with him to find an office. I didn’t dare ask for a bit more time with Mum, or whether we’d be allowed back to see her again, because of what had happened. I wanted everyone to think I was a reasonable person. I would’ve liked to sit with her for a while longer and let it sink in that she’d gone. I regret that I didn’t ask to do that.
Legacy
I didn’t see my sister again. I went round to Mum’s to clear the flat two days after she died and Pascale had packed up and gone. After I’d sorted out the accounts, which took months, we were left with four hundred quid each. A year later I discovered £12,000 worth of shares among Mum’s papers. She’d been squirrelling away one or two shares a month since the 1970s. I sent Pascale’s half to Canada and spent my half on a new tooth and patching up my roof. Toof and rooth. Mum would have loved to have seen my face when I found the shares. She liked surprising people and upturning their expectations of her. My inheritance can’t be measured in cash though. Mum’s most valuable bequest was all those years of unerring faith in me. She taught me survival skills. Not how to whittle a stick, make a shelter in the woods, catch and skin a rabbit or spear a fish. Not to run like the wind or outwit a spy. Not even to cook, clean or love. But somehow, without me noticing it happening, I became someone who after every failure, rejection and mistake can pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again. That life skill, the first one you need, came from my mother. So thanks to her, despite the rest of my upbringing and my awkward personality, I’ve survived. It’s true I’m not very charming – unless I want something, but often not even then – and don’t fit into society particularly well, and if a man tries to lord it over me or take advantage in any way, I explode. But Mum made sure that my sister and I were solvent, had a home and made it into middle age before she went.
It’s true what Gloria Steinem said of herself and many women of my generation – that we lived our mothers’ unlived lives, but for me that turned out to be a good thing. My mother’s unlived life consisted of not being in a band, not buying her own home, not being a filmmaker or an author, not experimenting with clothes or living life the way she wanted to. My daughter has a much less exciting time ahead of her if she chooses to live my unlived life. All she’ll have to look forward to is doing her homework, revising, passing exams, not smoking, staying in, saving money and preparing for her future. On the plus side there’s being well educated, retaining most of her brain cells, gender fluidity and skiing.
In Bed*
I am in bed until.
Mary Robison, Why Did I Ever, 2001
I made one grave error when I moved to my new home: I paid a lot of money for a bed. It’s the best piece of furniture in the house and I spend too much time in it. I even talk to it: ‘See you later,’ I say, and pat it as I leave my bedroom. I smile when I see it again at the end of the day. As a child I was always drawing pictures of beds: flying four-posters, beds on wheels with engines, beds you could live in and ea
t in and go to school in. Whole worlds in beds, beds you never had to leave. I’d rather lie in my bed and stare at the wall than go to a party.
My bed was handmade at SCP. It has a grey padded-wool headboard and stubby stainless-steel poles for legs. I’m not quite an objectophile, although I do share some traits with people who prefer objects over humans (quite common in people who’ve had some level of childhood trauma†). I’m not an objectum sexual either (a person who fancies objects and buildings instead of other people). I don’t have sexual feelings for my bed, but I do feel affection for it. It asks for nothing, never judges, just holds me and is comforting through the good times and the bad. Sometimes my bladder is the only reason I get up. Not even hunger can shift me – the only time I can stand to be hungry is when I’m in bed. I’ve discovered that if I lie still and count to about ninety, the hunger pangs go away. They’re like heartbreak: you just have to acknowledge the pain and wait until it passes. One day even my bladder won’t be enough to shift me. I’ll just lie there in a pool of piss and waste away.
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