“Send me pictures. (Nude!)”
This was the message I receive out of the blue from the Denver news station cameraman/ kung fu champion with whom I had a one-night stand years ago. I consider what would be an appropriate response to such random impertinence and settle on trawling the internet for photos of naked old men and flaccid penises and emailing them to him. I obey the letter of the message, if not the spirit. (Note to people who may find themselves in a similar situation: it’s no good Googling ‘naked old women’ because you’ll only get links to the likes of ‘Bust a nut in grandma’s butt!’ and other tasteful sites. Is there anything that men aren’t turned on by?)
Luckily, my recipient has a sense of humour: “LOL! You got me good babe!!! How the devil are you? Keep in touch!” No hard feelings.
That same week, however, I receive a casual message from Lloyd, an ex with whom I’m normally on good terms: “Who are you f*cking these days? Just curious!” I responded by telling him that I’ve never ‘f*ucked’ anyone in my life and that I'm not doing so at the moment. I really dislike crude sexual slang and I swear, I’d much prefer to hear the term ‘copulate’ than the bloody f-word.
Lloyd then expresses a desire to stop by one evening and take me out to dinner. This begs the following questions: how exactly do my exes view me? Do they live in some kind of time warp? Does Lloyd seriously think that he can turn up seven years after we’d stopped seeing each other and expect me to fall into the same old pattern?
To answer the above, I decide to accept the dinner invitation.
In 2002, I spotted an attractive stranger in Central Library. I was then torn between going home (because I had a shopping bag full of Haagen-Dazs ice cream which was in danger of melting) or following said attractive man into a nearby shop and starting a conversation. I chose Lloyd over the ice cream and opened with the following line: “Excuse me, are you from the Caribbean, by any chance?” before launching into my little speech about how I happen to be absolutely fascinated by Caribbean culture on account on my studying the islands as part of my university degree.
We ended up seeing each other for a year or so, a relationship marred by the fact that he happened to be attached, and went to great lengths to conceal the existence of his girlfriend from me before confessing all. I would then lie in his bed, unable to sleep, wary of his jealous Jamaican girlfriend turning up in the middle of the night and chasing me around with a machete. We sporadically kept in touch after I moved on to my next relationship. He was the lesser of numerous evils compared to some of my exes.
Anyway, I’m quite happy to have dinner with him (his treat, of course) and cackle at the thought of him thinking that he might be staying over afterwards, only to find out that he totally can…in the spare room!
He texts me: “Is it okay if I have a lie down in your bed? I’ll be tired after driving all the way to Cambridge.” I tell him that he can have a lie down in the spare room. When he arrives, he expresses surprise that he is now banished from my bed, and tells me that he got wistful, thinking about visiting me in Coventry.
“Seven years is a long time, Lloyd.”
Conversation continues in the same vein during dinner at my favourite restaurant. I explain that my life has changed, that I’ve been in a life-changing though tragic relationship, which ended a couple of years ago, that I’m taking time out to figure out what's really important.
To add excitement to the evening, when we go back to Lloyd’s car, we discover that the parking area is now shut; the heavy metal gate at the entrance is locked. I call Clarice*, who told us we could park at her workplace, only to find out that her workplace is, in fact, across the road. It’s dark and raining, and Lloyd and I are loitering by the gate, Lloyd trying to undo the lock and me being aware that there’s a security camera pointed straight at us. We try to find another way in. Lloyd’s wondering what to tell his girlfriend. Then, Lloyd performs an uncharacteristically athletic act and scales the gate. He has broken into the car park and is now trying unsuccessfully to break out. I see the humour in the situation and consider calling the police: “Officer, I’ve just seen a black man acting suspiciously!” I reckon that would attract attention pretty snappish. Luckily for us, a car with wardens turns up and they let his car out. Then are very nice about it and I laugh about the whole thing all the way back to my house. Lloyd tells me that if we were on a date, he’d expect me to bend over because of the psychological trauma he suffered thanks to the gate incident.
“Good thing we’re not on a date, then.”
We park under the tree near my house. Lloyd tries to get amorous. I wrestle his hands away from me.
“Why not?”
“I’m not in an amorous mood.”
He doesn’t take the hint and suggests that I come in the back seat ‘to cuddle’. I reluctantly move into the back seat while I’m considering the best way to deal with the situation. It’s foolish, of course, because while I, being the tactile person that I am, am happy to cuddle up to my friends, the difference between them and Lloyd is that I've never had carnal relations with any of them. He doesn’t just intend to 'just cuddle’. Maybe he thinks that I’m playing, but I’m wrestling him for real. “So this is how date rape must occur,” I think ironically. It’s not, really. Lloyd’s not a violent man and I don’t feel threatened - just irritated.
Unbidden, a scene from the Family Guy cartoon pops into my head: Sean Connery as James Bond has just killed the bad guy and he puts his arms around the token Bond totty:
“Now you will have sheksh with me.”
“No, James!”
“Yesh you will.”
“No, James!”
“Yesh you will.”
“No, I won’t!”
“You will have sheksh with me.”
“Okay, yes.”
Bond turns to the audience: “Fifty noesh and a yesh meansh yesh.”
It’s not a ‘yesh’ on my part. “Come on, it’s not gonna hurt you,” Lloyd tells me. Gosh, that’s a great way to convince a woman to get frisky with you: it’s Vlad* all over again! Lloyd pins me down but I manage to grab his hands to prevent them from going underneath my clothes. “Get up. Now. ” When I fail to get an immediate reaction, I open the car door. The light comes on. Lloyd sits up, shocked. Somewhere along the way he’s lost his glasses. “Thanks for dinner. See you around.” I walk out into the rain with a bad taste in my mouth.
At home, Gabriel* and Clarice* are sufficiently attuned to me to know instantly that something’s not right. The good thing about living in a household where everything may up for discussion – from menstrual cramps and haemorrhoids to relationship crash-and-burn disasters – is that nothing is allowed to fester.
I summarise what happened, express my dissatisfaction with how I handled the situation and go off to consider why I’ve ended up in a situation I was uncomfortable with in the first place. That night, for the first time in years, I wake up in the wee hours of the morning, angry, which just shows to what extent the incident bugs me.
I catch myself feeling a bit guilty, as if I were fully responsible for ending up in a backseat wrestle. Maybe it’s men in general – thinking that if a woman isn’t seeing anyone, she’ll be happy to hop into bed with an ex - because that’s what they’d do. Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with boundaries, maybe holding his hand, hugging him was not a good idea. Maybe someone like him interprets any kind of tactile behaviour as an open invitation. Maybe I should’ve gotten out of the car as soon as Lloyd expressed amorous intentions, rather than dithering. Maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the dinner invitation so readily. Maybe I led him on a bit…?
“No!” I firmly put a stop to that line of thinking – I imagine that’s the kind of thing rape victims tell themselves. We discussed my relationship situation before dinner, at dinner, and after dinner and he just didn’t listen. Regardless of one’s tactile nature, no woman should have to say “I’m not in the mood” more than once.
So why did I dither? Why did I fail to immediately extricate myself from an uncomfortable situation? I think it's partly the fact that I didn't have a game plan for that kind of situation; while I know exactly what I'd do in a fire or during a mugging, I hadn't given the possible implications of a dinner with a randy ex enough thought. Also, I was rather fond of Lloyd for some reason and I guess I didn't want to hurt his feelings by leaving abruptly.
In the end, I feel rather sorry for Lloyd. While seven years ago I would’ve been quite happy to have a backseat romp, my life has changed in ways he cannot comprehend while he remains in the same unhappy rut he was in when I first met him.
Timing really is everything.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Friday, 19 March 2010
Foiled. Again.
I’ve had some bad news.
I’ve just learned that El Capitan is highly unlikely to be in Lima when I arrive there in June. My source tells me that he’s likely to be somewhere in the Amazon, on his way to Belém, Brazil, in order to try and catch a boat to Africa. It seems that his epic world journey is going ahead after all.
How can fate be so cruel?! Why can’t he hang around at least until I make an appearance?!
Worst of all, he knows.
Captain Carlos knows that I had a crush on him. How is a mystery to me, because I’m pretty sure I was completely subtle and have done absolutely nothing to give away my feelings two years ago. It must’ve been one of my horrid horrid friends who’d let the cat out of the bag (Pedrito!). Otherwise why would he be commenting on me and the unfortunate state of my heart to Hermes*? Why would he be saying things like, “she’s a really nice person”? Being described as ‘perfectly nice’ is the death knell of any budding relationship because there's usually a ‘but’ that follows that particular combination of words. Ugh!
The ‘but’ in this case is: “I’m sure Anita would be perfectly happy but I normally go for women my own age.” So now I, practically thirty, which is practically middle-aged, am also too young? Ha! So he’s fifty three - that makes him a spring chicken compared to a couple of my exes! What’s a twenty-five year difference when it comes to love? Or sex, to be more accurate in this particular case.
What the captain doesn’t realise is that this youthful vessel encases an old and worldly soul, so for all intents and purposes, I’m actually twenty-eight going on fifty. The relatively wrinkle-free body is a bonus. But how do I convince him of that? Damn my limited Spanish for not being able to bring across my wit, charm, worldliness and emotional maturity!
Oh god, he knows! I’ll never be able to look him in the eye! Literally, since I won’t get to see him on account of him not being in Lima. The one thing that makes me feel marginally better is that it didn’t work out with the rich American woman – that he preferred travelling alone to travelling with her. Aha, so material wealth and being in his age group isn’t everything! He really should keep an open mind. After all, I’m not exactly in a position to offer anyone a full-on stable relationship, so I wouldn’t be looking to tie him down or affect his travel plans. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of slap and tickle, though.
The captain’s got this idea of doing a blog while on the road and eventually turning it into a book. He figures that the story of a Peruvian naval captain travelling the world would make good reading. You know what would make even better reading? The story of a relentless young woman who’s incapable of taking a hint tracking a certain captain through the Amazon jungle and to the ends of the world!
Alas, I have prior work commitments and will have to be satisfied with vague promises to meet in the Crimea or Uzbekistan or something in, like, 2017, so that he can make use of my language skills. Sigh.
To top it off, cruel Hermes* won’t give me the captain’s email address for at least a week so now I’m unable to even sit for hours in front of my computer, agonising over what to say when I finally pen my email.
Woe is me. I shall go away now to lament my sorry existence.
I’ve just learned that El Capitan is highly unlikely to be in Lima when I arrive there in June. My source tells me that he’s likely to be somewhere in the Amazon, on his way to Belém, Brazil, in order to try and catch a boat to Africa. It seems that his epic world journey is going ahead after all.
How can fate be so cruel?! Why can’t he hang around at least until I make an appearance?!
Worst of all, he knows.
Captain Carlos knows that I had a crush on him. How is a mystery to me, because I’m pretty sure I was completely subtle and have done absolutely nothing to give away my feelings two years ago. It must’ve been one of my horrid horrid friends who’d let the cat out of the bag (Pedrito!). Otherwise why would he be commenting on me and the unfortunate state of my heart to Hermes*? Why would he be saying things like, “she’s a really nice person”? Being described as ‘perfectly nice’ is the death knell of any budding relationship because there's usually a ‘but’ that follows that particular combination of words. Ugh!
The ‘but’ in this case is: “I’m sure Anita would be perfectly happy but I normally go for women my own age.” So now I, practically thirty, which is practically middle-aged, am also too young? Ha! So he’s fifty three - that makes him a spring chicken compared to a couple of my exes! What’s a twenty-five year difference when it comes to love? Or sex, to be more accurate in this particular case.
What the captain doesn’t realise is that this youthful vessel encases an old and worldly soul, so for all intents and purposes, I’m actually twenty-eight going on fifty. The relatively wrinkle-free body is a bonus. But how do I convince him of that? Damn my limited Spanish for not being able to bring across my wit, charm, worldliness and emotional maturity!
Oh god, he knows! I’ll never be able to look him in the eye! Literally, since I won’t get to see him on account of him not being in Lima. The one thing that makes me feel marginally better is that it didn’t work out with the rich American woman – that he preferred travelling alone to travelling with her. Aha, so material wealth and being in his age group isn’t everything! He really should keep an open mind. After all, I’m not exactly in a position to offer anyone a full-on stable relationship, so I wouldn’t be looking to tie him down or affect his travel plans. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of slap and tickle, though.
The captain’s got this idea of doing a blog while on the road and eventually turning it into a book. He figures that the story of a Peruvian naval captain travelling the world would make good reading. You know what would make even better reading? The story of a relentless young woman who’s incapable of taking a hint tracking a certain captain through the Amazon jungle and to the ends of the world!
Alas, I have prior work commitments and will have to be satisfied with vague promises to meet in the Crimea or Uzbekistan or something in, like, 2017, so that he can make use of my language skills. Sigh.
To top it off, cruel Hermes* won’t give me the captain’s email address for at least a week so now I’m unable to even sit for hours in front of my computer, agonising over what to say when I finally pen my email.
Woe is me. I shall go away now to lament my sorry existence.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Enter the Captain.
Hermes* emailed me yesterday: “Guess who I got an email from this morning? I hadn't heard from him for over a year and he wrote to apologise for being out of contact and to say that he is now living in Miraflores, actually just a few blocks away from my place. Any idea who it is??? I´ll give you a clue - you know him!” I knew immediately who he was talking about. The Captain is back.
A couple of years ago, Hermes* and I were travelling from La Paz to Lima via Lake Titicaca and at his suggestion, we paid a visit to the Yavari, the 19th century British military boat moored on the lake.
“I know the captain,” Hermes* told me. “With any luck, we’ll be able to stay overnight on the Yavari. Be careful, though: most women who meet Captain Carlos seem to fall for him!”
“Nonsense and poppycock,” I told him. “I’m not easily smitten.”
That evening, I had to eat my words. There was something about Captain Carlos – I couldn’t put my finger on it – that made me even more tongue-tied than normal. I attributed it to my limited Spanish at the time, but by the end of dinner, I had a full-blown crush. His tactile manner made it even worse: I got a mini-heart attack every time his fingers brushed my arm and I found it hard to concentrate on what he was saying, wondering instead if there is a significant other or whether he is married to the boat, having spent fifteen years on the lake looking after it. He did touch on his private life briefly, saying that things haven’t really worked out for him, what with him spending many years in the Navy and then on the boat. “Maybe I have a shot,” I thought.
I made the mistake of mentioning the growing infatuation to Hermes* and he teased me mercilessly when we retired for the night to our cosy bunks in the guest cabin: “Why don’t you knock on the Captain’s door in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a smile?”
If only.
In the morning, the sight of compact, muscled, moustachioed Captain Carlos wandering around, fresh from a shower, the small towel around his waist barely covering his modesty, did nothing to cool my ardour. I spent half the time averting my gaze and the other half willing the towel to fall off. Hermes* already told me that the Captain was fit; one time, he persuaded Hermes* to go for a jog with him along the lake. Twenty-something Hermes* collapsed shortly, while the fifty-something Captain ran rings around him. "Fit" was definitely a good way of describing him.
Over lunch, and he divulged his grand plan: to leave the Yavari, to spend the next ten years travelling the world, using only public transport, making a living by doing seasonal work alongside peasants, sleeping rough, and after he’d seen everything he wanted to see, he was happy to die.
Since he was due to come to Lima for a few days, the three of us made vague plans to meet up. I managed to get his email address and sent him a flattering email, and then spent my days checking my email, finding no reply and getting despondent.
He called Hermes* in the end and invited us over to his mother’s house for lunch. When he asked to speak to me, I had to put up with Hermes* doing hip-thrusting motions in the background and other assirted mockery. The Captain politely deflected my attempt to get him alone, explaining that his time in Lima was limited and his relatives numerous. I had to content myself with sitting next to him at lunch, hyperaware of his physical proximity to me. There was some vague talk of meeting up somewhere in the world during his travels – Egypt, perhaps, or Crimea – but otherwise I had to concede defeat.
Word of my crush got round to my friend Pedrito* who possibly mentioned something to the Captain while passing through Puno, thereby probably ruining my chances forever. Months later, Hermes* informed me that the Captain had met a wealthy middle-aged American woman who fell for him and offered to help him with his travels: “We can do everything you want to do – first class all the way!”
“That woman has been sent here to tempt me,” Captain Carlos grumbled to Hermes*; whether or not he took up her offer, thus giving up his dream of sleeping in the fields with peasants, is not yet known; all we knew is that he left the Yavari and disappeared from view for a year and a half…until yesterday.
All Hermes* was able to get out of him is that “lots of difficult things happened during that time in my life ... I mean bad things ... now I have managed to be freed of them". I knew it! I knew that wealthy American was no good for him! He should’ve totally gone for less-than-solvent, emotionally stable me! Clearly the Captain's return has been on my mind, because last night I was troubled by X-rated dreams featuring...not the Captain, but randomly, a teacher from my secondary school who'd never taught me. Oh dear.
I shall be in Lima in June. Time for round two.
A couple of years ago, Hermes* and I were travelling from La Paz to Lima via Lake Titicaca and at his suggestion, we paid a visit to the Yavari, the 19th century British military boat moored on the lake.
“I know the captain,” Hermes* told me. “With any luck, we’ll be able to stay overnight on the Yavari. Be careful, though: most women who meet Captain Carlos seem to fall for him!”
“Nonsense and poppycock,” I told him. “I’m not easily smitten.”
That evening, I had to eat my words. There was something about Captain Carlos – I couldn’t put my finger on it – that made me even more tongue-tied than normal. I attributed it to my limited Spanish at the time, but by the end of dinner, I had a full-blown crush. His tactile manner made it even worse: I got a mini-heart attack every time his fingers brushed my arm and I found it hard to concentrate on what he was saying, wondering instead if there is a significant other or whether he is married to the boat, having spent fifteen years on the lake looking after it. He did touch on his private life briefly, saying that things haven’t really worked out for him, what with him spending many years in the Navy and then on the boat. “Maybe I have a shot,” I thought.
I made the mistake of mentioning the growing infatuation to Hermes* and he teased me mercilessly when we retired for the night to our cosy bunks in the guest cabin: “Why don’t you knock on the Captain’s door in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a smile?”
If only.
In the morning, the sight of compact, muscled, moustachioed Captain Carlos wandering around, fresh from a shower, the small towel around his waist barely covering his modesty, did nothing to cool my ardour. I spent half the time averting my gaze and the other half willing the towel to fall off. Hermes* already told me that the Captain was fit; one time, he persuaded Hermes* to go for a jog with him along the lake. Twenty-something Hermes* collapsed shortly, while the fifty-something Captain ran rings around him. "Fit" was definitely a good way of describing him.
Over lunch, and he divulged his grand plan: to leave the Yavari, to spend the next ten years travelling the world, using only public transport, making a living by doing seasonal work alongside peasants, sleeping rough, and after he’d seen everything he wanted to see, he was happy to die.
Since he was due to come to Lima for a few days, the three of us made vague plans to meet up. I managed to get his email address and sent him a flattering email, and then spent my days checking my email, finding no reply and getting despondent.
He called Hermes* in the end and invited us over to his mother’s house for lunch. When he asked to speak to me, I had to put up with Hermes* doing hip-thrusting motions in the background and other assirted mockery. The Captain politely deflected my attempt to get him alone, explaining that his time in Lima was limited and his relatives numerous. I had to content myself with sitting next to him at lunch, hyperaware of his physical proximity to me. There was some vague talk of meeting up somewhere in the world during his travels – Egypt, perhaps, or Crimea – but otherwise I had to concede defeat.
Word of my crush got round to my friend Pedrito* who possibly mentioned something to the Captain while passing through Puno, thereby probably ruining my chances forever. Months later, Hermes* informed me that the Captain had met a wealthy middle-aged American woman who fell for him and offered to help him with his travels: “We can do everything you want to do – first class all the way!”
“That woman has been sent here to tempt me,” Captain Carlos grumbled to Hermes*; whether or not he took up her offer, thus giving up his dream of sleeping in the fields with peasants, is not yet known; all we knew is that he left the Yavari and disappeared from view for a year and a half…until yesterday.
All Hermes* was able to get out of him is that “lots of difficult things happened during that time in my life ... I mean bad things ... now I have managed to be freed of them". I knew it! I knew that wealthy American was no good for him! He should’ve totally gone for less-than-solvent, emotionally stable me! Clearly the Captain's return has been on my mind, because last night I was troubled by X-rated dreams featuring...not the Captain, but randomly, a teacher from my secondary school who'd never taught me. Oh dear.
I shall be in Lima in June. Time for round two.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
The perils of responsibility.
My little handshake faux pas has clearly spelled the end of any interaction with my unfortunate date. Even though I’d since texted him to apologise and invited him to my house for dinner, his responses have not been forthcoming ever since he sent me a message to say that he’s had a sudden influx of work and will be in touch when things settle down. I wouldn’t be surprised if work never does ease up for him. Xerxes* suspects that the handshake alone would not have put the guy off so comprehensively. Clearly, it must’ve been combined with some repellent facet of my personality. A shame, because I got the impression that the guy was a straight talker like myself.
Still, I could be wrong. It’s not that I’m terribly sad about never seeing the guy again; it’s more my feeling bad about potentially crushing the guy’s ego with one thoughtless gesture. “What’s wrong with you, you social retard?!” hisses a voice in my head. "Get over yourself," Gabriel* tells me.
Not long ago, I had a conversation with Harun Al-Rashid* about whether or not it was okay to have sex with a) underage parties and b) with teenagers who have reached the legal age of 18, but who happen to attend the school where you teach. I was convinced that legally, b) was okay, if frowned upon, but was assured that it’s still illegal, as teachers are responsible for all the students, whether they personally teach them or not.
“It’s a good thing you’re not a teacher,” I was told, my friend being well aware of my tendency to creatively interpret social norms/ rules to suit whichever situation I happen to be embroiled in.
I do have a tendency to question absolute rules because I dwell on the exceptions. The age of consent in this country may be sixteen, yet some people are ready for it earlier, physically and psychologically, whereas others will never reach a certain emotional maturity and won’t be ready even by the age of thirty, so if I were the type to be tempted by innocence, youth and firm bodies, I would probably review each potential candidate on a case-by-case basis. I knew when I was ready, which is why I wouldn’t outright dismiss a teenager’s claim to know their own mind (and body). It just so happens that I find it far more appealing to explore human geography shaped by a long and eventful life, where each scar, each wrinkle adds to the rich tapestry of their skin. Making love is not unlike travelling to a new and exciting country and I make a very enthusiastic explorer.
When I was doing volunteer work in Jamaica several years ago and was propositioned by a not unattractive 15-year old lad, I was against the idea, but not because I questioned his maturity. In Jamaica, fatherhood at the age of eleven is not unknown, never mind sex. Joe* made it very clear that he’d be perfectly happy to mess around with an attractive 24-year old girl (yours truly):
“I’ll be sixteen in two months’ time!” he told me earnestly.
“I’m old enough to be your mother,” I responded. A very, very young mother who was unusually fertile at the age of eight. That didn’t go down well.
I felt responsible for him. Unlike typical Jamaican lads his age, Joe* had no experience whatsoever, due to his parents keeping him under lock and key, and I’ve never had any desire to initiate novices into the pleasures of the flesh. Too much pressure and responsibility. If you screw up their first time, they may be scarred for life! When approached by a male friend about helping him to lose his virginity, what with my being the non-judgemental and understanding kind, I gave it a week’s serious consideration, thinking “I’ve done a lot worse,” before coming to the conclusion that still, the first time should be between two people who are really into each other, and we completely lacked any sexual chemistry. That, and I was put off by “That way, when I do it for real, I’ll know what to do.” I wasn’t about to be anybody’s ‘practise run’.
When I was fourteen, Sappho*, who was going out with an ‘older man’ (seventeen), painted me a really unappealing picture of what sex was like: “You kind of just lie there and make noises at the right time and hope that his mum won’t hear the floorboards creaking.” It sounded terrible and took her years to get over that. With a woman, things are much better, she tells me.
Now that Joe* has had plenty of experience (with girls and boys), perhaps I’ll be differently inclined if I see him again, but back then, I felt that he should lose his virginity with someone who wasn’t old and worldly and tainted. To complicate matters, I was already embroiled in an incestuous tangle, being pursued by Hector*, a not unattractive fellow intern, and having a clandestine fling with Steve, another intern with whom I’d gotten together after going to unusual lengths to protect him from the amorous advances of a camp gay British Airways crew member after we both ended up drunk on rum punches in his hotel bed. Never again do I want to see one man give another man head another in close proximity to myself. But that’s another story…
I didn’t manage to deflect Joe’s* affections without hurting his feelings and I couldn’t make him understand that I wasn’t questioning his maturity. I was questioning my own ability to handle a situation where all the responsibility rested squarely on my shoulders.
One of the advantages of going out with older men, quite apart from, well, you know, benefiting from their greater life experience, in-depth carnal knowledge (in some cases, anyway), their confidence and their having less to prove than some young insecure whipper-snapper, is the complete freedom from responsibility. If things go pear-shaped, it’s invariably the older party that ‘should’ve known better.’ I go to great lengths to avoid feeling any responsibility.
I’m lying, of course.
I, personally, don’t think it’s at all fair that whenever a large age gap in concerned, society often heaps most of the responsibility and blame on the older party. Many younger parties know exactly what they’re doing and I have been known to take responsibility for the other party’s feelings. Every single time, in fact.
When Xerxes* and I lived together, he eventually banned me from talking about Forrest, my troubled kind of boyfriend, if I didn’t really want his advice and just wanted to talk for the sake of talking. I’m perfectly happy to listen to sensible advice, only to disregard it completely because the only way I learn is from my own mistakes. Since I’m not terribly bright, sometimes I have to make the same mistake several times before it in.
Mine and Forrest’s story was that of addiction, disappointment, brief euphoria, delusion and the triumph of hope over experience. Yet even when it finally hit me, randomly, two years ago while I was cruising through the fjords of southern Chile, that it was finally over and I didn’t want to see him again, even then a part of me wondered how on earth the poor chap was going to survive without me, contrary to all evidence that he coped just fine (kind of) before he met me. I felt obliged to call him ‘to make sure he was okay’, and to write him an extended letter, explaining the reasoning behind my decision. I felt that it would’ve been unkind to just disappear without a word, to just drop him like a hot potato, even though Forrest would never have thought to extend the same courtesy to me.
I wonder now whether the letter was more an opportunity for me to air my grievances and to justify the action to myself, rather than for Forrest’s benefit, which in turn makes me wonder just how many of my ‘concerns’ about my various exes have, in fact been, cunning disguises for my own need to feel good about myself by justifying my actions to myself. If that makes sense. I’m beginning to confuse myself now.
Things are changing. Though I owed him nothing, I still emailed Vlad* the upstart Transylvanian to tell him that I won’t be meeting him again, rather than disappear without a word. I didn’t go into detail though, because it wasn’t a difficult decision and because I didn’t sufficiently care about justifying myself to a stranger. I guess the same applies to my recent date; he was a nice, decent guy, but I didn’t know him for long enough to have any emotional stake in the outcome of the situation, and while I cannot take back my handshake, I did my best to rectify the situation. Regardless of success or failure, I shall dwell on it no longer.
Still, I could be wrong. It’s not that I’m terribly sad about never seeing the guy again; it’s more my feeling bad about potentially crushing the guy’s ego with one thoughtless gesture. “What’s wrong with you, you social retard?!” hisses a voice in my head. "Get over yourself," Gabriel* tells me.
Not long ago, I had a conversation with Harun Al-Rashid* about whether or not it was okay to have sex with a) underage parties and b) with teenagers who have reached the legal age of 18, but who happen to attend the school where you teach. I was convinced that legally, b) was okay, if frowned upon, but was assured that it’s still illegal, as teachers are responsible for all the students, whether they personally teach them or not.
“It’s a good thing you’re not a teacher,” I was told, my friend being well aware of my tendency to creatively interpret social norms/ rules to suit whichever situation I happen to be embroiled in.
I do have a tendency to question absolute rules because I dwell on the exceptions. The age of consent in this country may be sixteen, yet some people are ready for it earlier, physically and psychologically, whereas others will never reach a certain emotional maturity and won’t be ready even by the age of thirty, so if I were the type to be tempted by innocence, youth and firm bodies, I would probably review each potential candidate on a case-by-case basis. I knew when I was ready, which is why I wouldn’t outright dismiss a teenager’s claim to know their own mind (and body). It just so happens that I find it far more appealing to explore human geography shaped by a long and eventful life, where each scar, each wrinkle adds to the rich tapestry of their skin. Making love is not unlike travelling to a new and exciting country and I make a very enthusiastic explorer.
When I was doing volunteer work in Jamaica several years ago and was propositioned by a not unattractive 15-year old lad, I was against the idea, but not because I questioned his maturity. In Jamaica, fatherhood at the age of eleven is not unknown, never mind sex. Joe* made it very clear that he’d be perfectly happy to mess around with an attractive 24-year old girl (yours truly):
“I’ll be sixteen in two months’ time!” he told me earnestly.
“I’m old enough to be your mother,” I responded. A very, very young mother who was unusually fertile at the age of eight. That didn’t go down well.
I felt responsible for him. Unlike typical Jamaican lads his age, Joe* had no experience whatsoever, due to his parents keeping him under lock and key, and I’ve never had any desire to initiate novices into the pleasures of the flesh. Too much pressure and responsibility. If you screw up their first time, they may be scarred for life! When approached by a male friend about helping him to lose his virginity, what with my being the non-judgemental and understanding kind, I gave it a week’s serious consideration, thinking “I’ve done a lot worse,” before coming to the conclusion that still, the first time should be between two people who are really into each other, and we completely lacked any sexual chemistry. That, and I was put off by “That way, when I do it for real, I’ll know what to do.” I wasn’t about to be anybody’s ‘practise run’.
When I was fourteen, Sappho*, who was going out with an ‘older man’ (seventeen), painted me a really unappealing picture of what sex was like: “You kind of just lie there and make noises at the right time and hope that his mum won’t hear the floorboards creaking.” It sounded terrible and took her years to get over that. With a woman, things are much better, she tells me.
Now that Joe* has had plenty of experience (with girls and boys), perhaps I’ll be differently inclined if I see him again, but back then, I felt that he should lose his virginity with someone who wasn’t old and worldly and tainted. To complicate matters, I was already embroiled in an incestuous tangle, being pursued by Hector*, a not unattractive fellow intern, and having a clandestine fling with Steve, another intern with whom I’d gotten together after going to unusual lengths to protect him from the amorous advances of a camp gay British Airways crew member after we both ended up drunk on rum punches in his hotel bed. Never again do I want to see one man give another man head another in close proximity to myself. But that’s another story…
I didn’t manage to deflect Joe’s* affections without hurting his feelings and I couldn’t make him understand that I wasn’t questioning his maturity. I was questioning my own ability to handle a situation where all the responsibility rested squarely on my shoulders.
One of the advantages of going out with older men, quite apart from, well, you know, benefiting from their greater life experience, in-depth carnal knowledge (in some cases, anyway), their confidence and their having less to prove than some young insecure whipper-snapper, is the complete freedom from responsibility. If things go pear-shaped, it’s invariably the older party that ‘should’ve known better.’ I go to great lengths to avoid feeling any responsibility.
I’m lying, of course.
I, personally, don’t think it’s at all fair that whenever a large age gap in concerned, society often heaps most of the responsibility and blame on the older party. Many younger parties know exactly what they’re doing and I have been known to take responsibility for the other party’s feelings. Every single time, in fact.
When Xerxes* and I lived together, he eventually banned me from talking about Forrest, my troubled kind of boyfriend, if I didn’t really want his advice and just wanted to talk for the sake of talking. I’m perfectly happy to listen to sensible advice, only to disregard it completely because the only way I learn is from my own mistakes. Since I’m not terribly bright, sometimes I have to make the same mistake several times before it in.
Mine and Forrest’s story was that of addiction, disappointment, brief euphoria, delusion and the triumph of hope over experience. Yet even when it finally hit me, randomly, two years ago while I was cruising through the fjords of southern Chile, that it was finally over and I didn’t want to see him again, even then a part of me wondered how on earth the poor chap was going to survive without me, contrary to all evidence that he coped just fine (kind of) before he met me. I felt obliged to call him ‘to make sure he was okay’, and to write him an extended letter, explaining the reasoning behind my decision. I felt that it would’ve been unkind to just disappear without a word, to just drop him like a hot potato, even though Forrest would never have thought to extend the same courtesy to me.
I wonder now whether the letter was more an opportunity for me to air my grievances and to justify the action to myself, rather than for Forrest’s benefit, which in turn makes me wonder just how many of my ‘concerns’ about my various exes have, in fact been, cunning disguises for my own need to feel good about myself by justifying my actions to myself. If that makes sense. I’m beginning to confuse myself now.
Things are changing. Though I owed him nothing, I still emailed Vlad* the upstart Transylvanian to tell him that I won’t be meeting him again, rather than disappear without a word. I didn’t go into detail though, because it wasn’t a difficult decision and because I didn’t sufficiently care about justifying myself to a stranger. I guess the same applies to my recent date; he was a nice, decent guy, but I didn’t know him for long enough to have any emotional stake in the outcome of the situation, and while I cannot take back my handshake, I did my best to rectify the situation. Regardless of success or failure, I shall dwell on it no longer.
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