Noughties Read online

  “Been Pizza Express with the girls,” yaps the head teenager, twirling her hair and fluttering her lids in response to some tiresome questions-by-numbers, administered by the overeducated elders. The front man of the latter is a gangly specimen of the DPhil variety—a red-faced piece of lank—and he plies the fairer sex with Smirnoff Ices and WKDs. He’s the type of bell-end who’ll order a half pint and pay for it by card.

  “That’s so cool,” he says, an unfashionable turtleneck irritating his shave-sore jugular. The girls look like nervous peacocks, pastried over with gunky layers of makeup, debilitated by high heels and cling-film miniskirts. We grimace at each other knowingly as these older hard-ons work their desperate black magic. We roll our eyes and make obscene gestures.

  Ella, Abi, and Megan arrive and join us by the quiz machine. My skin prickles and I can feel the color rising to my face. I can’t even look at Jack. “Evening ladies?” chirps Abi with the habitual rising intonation, like she’s asking a question. We grin sheepishly (ever seen a sheep grin?). And before you can shout that B: Joe Strummer (not D: Joe Bummer) was the front man of The Clash, they’ve been served. Fact: girls get served quicker than boys. They have a preternatural ability to make barmen bend to their every whim.

  Guzzle, guzzle, chug.

  Megan is pretty inconsequential as far as my narrative is concerned, but Abi and Ella deserve mentionable spots in the dramatis personae (Abi in the minor category, Ella in the major). Abi is all makeup and short skirt—the kind of girl who becomes increasingly fascinating in dark scenarios, supplemented by copious booze—while Ella is more inscrutable and weightier of soul. Ella’s got her big-night purple dress on and the matching heels to boot, which further compounds the sense of occasion. Our very last night? It’s hard to believe. Ella gives me a loaded look; just a glance, yes, but rammed with so much history and heartbreak. The minute glisten in the corner of her left eye is enough to spark a personal revolt. (A girl bearing a pitcher of Pimm’s on her head squeezes past, granting me a second’s relief.) If only I had the words and colors to paint the visionary dreariness of my feelings for Ella. But I don’t. They are unknown to me. She means everything, and sometimes everything is too much … everything overwhelms and confuses, and what I need right now is distinction. There is such a crowding of thoughts, such an excess of emotions jostling inside of me, scrambling to get out. If only I had the words …

  I dart my eyes away and sip my beer. I realize that I’ve got to face up to it all, but it still messes with me. And yes, I realize that now is the time to grow a pair. Whether or not I have the skills to do this is wide open. I feel like a puppy, poised and tense, watching the leaves flutter in the breeze as he learns the physics of the mysterious universe around him.

  I know what the root of all this turmoil is though. It’s the one thing I know for sure. I am unbearably aware of what I’m running from. Michaelmas term of my second year, when I was—

  “Photo!” screams Abi, waving her flash new camera in the air, putting me off my stride. Everyone groans with fake weariness while sorting their hair and straightening their outfits. We’re conceited little buggers. These’ll be on the Internet tomorrow—mugshot.com—verifiable and incriminating.

  “One two three?” Abi counts down, wishing she was in the huddle too. A right cheesy one, I can tell; all pouts, grins, and carefully cultivated embraces. We’re pros at this stuff: the performance of a private life. Produced for all to have a gander, we make ourselves into mini-celebrities. We want everything to be known and we want to be bitten for it. But that’s just how it feels, right now, so early in the century.

  “Let’s see, let’s see,” we shout, inspecting our handiwork. We piss-take Sanjay’s half-shut eyes. Megan secretly rues her roundness and tastes a deep pang of dissatisfaction, suffering in silence. Minor characters, negotiating their self-loathing.

  “Gross. Take another,” demands Ella.

  Now, we all know that people judge ensemble pieces entirely on their own performance, so it seems doubly ridiculous for Ella to complain when she is obviously the stunner of the cast. Nevertheless, she strolls over to a group of lads, tossing her wavy blonde hair over a bare shoulder (the hair and neck you yearn to touch and nuzzle), and asks one of them to do the honors.

  “Sure.”

  Ella is an effortless ingratiator. Any one of these fellas would’ve clambered to push her button, simplified and softened by the measured attention. I remember my own initial encounter. It was the first night of university, a cocktail event in college, when the real world was but a drowning murmur far off in the distance. Lecherous second-years sharked about, scanning the fresh talent, mixing drips of Coke and lemonade into plastic storage boxes filled with cheap vodka and Bacardi. Ella and I waded our separate ways through the frantic mob of small-talkers (Hey what’s your name where you from what you studying what’s your name again?) to scoop our cups in the toxic vats. She caught my eye.

  “This stuff tastes of arse,” I said.

  “Mine’s not that good.”

  I laughed. I was terrified.

  “Here, try some,” she said.

  Before passing the cup, she ventured an emboldened mouthful for herself, an elastic cord of saliva connecting the brim to her succulent lips as she pulled away. Stretched tight—tight as the chestline on her panting red boob tube—the string snapped, pinging with abandon into the drink. I took the cup and pressed my mouth against the lip-glossed rim, swigging her while she smiled at me. That drink, more than any (and there’ve been many), went straight to my head. It went charging, leaving dizzying shock waves in its wake …

  We’re ready for photo take-two. The girls turn on their pouts (they’re hardwired for this shit), Jack points at Ella like a gimp, and Abi leans her head on my shoulder. I strategically fold my arms to make my biceps look bigger. Cheese.

  “Would you rather sneeze every time you orgasm, or orgasm every time you sneeze?” asks Jack with considerable sincerity. He’s saved this ice-breaker precisely for the moment the girls arrive, I’m sure of it. Abi loves these games more than anyone.

  “Give me a break?” says Abi. “The latter? Of course? Firstly, you avoid the embarrassment of sneezing in the bloke’s face every time you come? And secondly, who’s gonna complain about bonus orgasms?”

  “I can just picture you,” says Jack, “dallying in wheat fields, staring at the sun, rolling around in the grass with no clothes on … probably lodging a feather up your nose …”

  “But what if you want to protect the specialness of the orgasm?” interjects Ella, sweet and earnest. “Won’t it lose all effect and … meaning?”

  “What, you’re just gonna sneeze up in the fella’s grill?” says Sanjay, the repulsiveness of such an outcome intelligible in the scorn of his voice.

  “What if you’ve got severe allergies? You’d be buckling at the knees all day long!” says Megan.

  “What if you’re allergic to orgasms?” I add as a witty modification.

  “That would suck cock?” declares Abi. The entire group nods in concurrence. We’ve all got one thing on our minds now … the one thing that’s always on our minds …

  Sex. It’s astoundingly democratic and permissive here in the twenty-first century. At school you heard rumors of people at it all the time—Year 11s (always boys) banging awed Year 9s (always girls); ugly brothers and sisters making ugly sons and daughters in bushes on the council estate; sixth-formers settling into “serious” relationships and boning away on a more permanent basis … ragging with regularity. I use impassioned and degrading verbs intentionally, because that’s what young sex is in the twenty-first century: a cold verb; a doing word. It’s all about performance and tally … love rarely figures … doesn’t even make a cameo. There is no meaning in the act beyond your shagging CV. And I meant “rumors” too, coz that’s all sex was to me as my final school year came to an end: a rumor that had begun to preoccupy my mind with alarming tenacity. All its intrigue and unknowns, its supposed u
niversality, had me a gibbering mess.

  I was a conscientious non-fucker before I hooked up with Lucy. I could’ve got my end away multiple times (oh yeah, believe me), but I had standards. I wasn’t going to give it all up for some get-around or industrious cock-monster. No—I wanted my first time to be pumped with meaning. That’s why I was so keen to make it legit with Lucy … so ready to resolve the panicking virgin’s inner turmoil with some outer turmoil. I couldn’t possibly arrive at university branded with virgin status—

  “This is ridiculous,” says Ella. “Shall we grab a table?”

  “Good call,” I say, snapping out of my reverie. I’m never going to get anywhere tonight if Lucy continues to steal my spotlight like this.

  The place is heaving, but there’s an unmanned table near the entrance. I slot myself in on the oak settle that backs up against the wall, with Ella and Sanj for accompaniment. Jack and Scott are darting around doing the old “Excuse me, mate, is anyone using this?” Sip … sip …

  So yeah, my virginity (why not? It’s a welcome distraction and we have got a long night ahead of us). I aimed to dispense with the big V-tag before starting at Oxford and made arrangements, accordingly, about two months prior. The whole affair was pulled off with clinical precision. Lucy and I met in the Wellingborough town center outside a crummy chain hotel, 8 p.m., a sticky July Friday, suggestively early in our relationship.

  “Hey,” I said, glowing red and pecking her on the cheek.

  “Hiya,” said Lucy, not glowing red, receiving the peck on the cheek.

  I took her small overnight bag. I had gentlemanly aspirations.

  I hadn’t asked, but I was pretty sure she had done it before. She hadn’t asked, but she was pretty sure I hadn’t. Neither of us had asked, but we were almost certain that we were going to do it that night.

  I felt like Dustin Hoffman in that film. You know, the one where he goes to the hotel to meet the older bird. Only I was meant to be the older one. I sure didn’t feel like it. “Just do it,” I advertised to myself (the image of Michael Jordan soaring in for a dunk seizing my concentration).

  “Have you got a reservation?” asked the orange receptionist, with her heaving chest that sang of experience and boasted special moves and combos that I could never imagine.

  “Yes … double room for Mr. Reservation please.”

  “Mr. Reservation?”

  “Errrr, no, I said Mr. Lamb.”

  “Right … one second, please.”

  While she did whatever it was she did on her computer and rooted for our key, a hen party tramped into the lobby, clucking and crowing. They had just pulled up outside in a pink Playboy Bunny limo—those once exclusive chariots of statesmen and celebrities. They were a flabby lot, dressed in pink, plastic tiaras riding their heads. The cumulative sexual know-how of this orgy was climactic—something to which their specially made T-shirts bore testament: Deep-Throat Debbie, Katherine the Clunge, Tit-Wank Terri, Donkey-Punch Delilah, Fist Me Full of Fun Fran, The Head Mistress. I mused over the future marriage they were so eager to celebrate: would the golden couple be able to keep the nascent romance alive; maintain their lovers’ dignity through thick and thicker; uphold the integrity of their intimacy? And on cold winter nights would they light a fire and open a book, passionately discuss their reading over a glass or two? Or would they wake up next week, in a few months, next year, on their fiftieth wedding anniversary, and roll over in abject horror?

  What was I getting myself into?

  Lucy looked at me and laughed. I took a deep gulp and smiled back.

  “Oh dear,” I said. The words melted in my throat. Lucy gripped my hand and we made our way to the prepared love-nest.

  The room was no Cleopatra’s boudoir, let me tell you. The brown raspy duvet was smudged with the kindness of strangers and the carpet was hard as concrete. In lieu of curtains hung feeble blinds, and our luxury view on the other side was the delivery vehicles’ drop-off point. It was our very own anti-romance factory.

  “Freedom, eh?” I said, trying to swallow the desperation in my voice. But we had come here to escape parental CCTV, and that much this shit-ole did achieve.

  Sat on the breeze-block bed, we set about kissing and fumbling. Interestingly, we didn’t hold a position for longer than five seconds, rolling and re-forming with hysterical energy. Don’t get the wrong impression—I was well experienced and educated in the first three bases (figure them out for yourself). It was just that elusive fourth base—the deal clincher—that was absent from my repertoire. But all experience crumbles when you know you’re going the whole hog—when you’re promoted to the main stage. This might help explain our manic maneuvers: we wanted a bit of everything, and all at once. That’s just part of the twenty-first-century condition though … isn’t it?

  I thought it best to stretch this thing out, what with the whole night before us—and paid for—so I directed our attention to the unplugged minibar instead. Two minutes later, Lucy was indulging in a lukewarm Smirnoff Ice and I was savoring a flat tin of Carlsberg.

  And then we were at it again.

  It pains me too much to recall every sordid detail … to retrace the event step by step. But if there was a halftime report it would’ve gone something like this:

  “Hello sports fans and welcome to the Virgin Halftime Analysis with me, Corey Shucks, and Rod ‘the Hitman’ Nosh. Eliot’s performance in the first half was perhaps as to be expected, Rod.”

  “That sure is right, Corey. At moments he seems content to make the usual rookie mistakes: frantic with the tempo, a bit too aggressive around the box, and occasionally struggling to keep himself up for it.”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head there, Rod, but remember: Eliot isn’t a big-game player. Let’s get serious here, okay? At the end of the day, when you look at Eliot you’ve gotta like his intensity. Here’s a young guy, not used to the big occasion—a perennial semifinalist, to be fair. You’ve gotta give him a lot of credit, going into a hostile environment and trying to come away with the win—something which, frankly, his franchise has never managed to do before. It’s a game of two halves and the second is going to be huge. For me, if you can’t get up for a big one like this there’s something wrong with you.”

  “That’s a great point, Corey. What are the areas to look out for in the second half?”

  “Well, Rod, watch for Eliot to tone down some of his offense. For me, when he wraps around her he needs to be less grippy and grabby—he needs to stop attacking her like an indoor climbing wall. At the same time, if you’re Eliot, you’ve gotta like the fact that she hasn’t run out of there yet. She’s sticking around and he needs to feed off that. I’m not being funny, but, for me, if you can’t get up for a big one like this there’s something wrong with you.”

  “Another great point.”

  “It may not be pretty, Rod, but he’ll get the job done.”

  It was hard work, I’ll tell you now … but yes, we got it done (a solid 6.5 or thereabouts). The intersubjective dynamic pricked my curiosity. Or was it more intrasubjective? Well, no, actually. No, it wasn’t. Disappointingly there was no ontological mix-up … no blurring of being as the Beat poets had led me to expect. It was far more carnal Earl of Rochester than transcendent Keats. I don’t think Lucy would’ve put it like that, but there you have it. At all points we were two very distinct people, slopping about in our individual anatomies … our individual autonomies. I was brutally aware of where I ended and she began. Zero confusion on that front. But it was a relief, like when you manage to use up all those stray five pences and coppers that have been weighing down your wallet for so long; that cozy feeling of “well, at least I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

  The post-match bit I could handle. Snuggling and chatting I had down. I had prescripted some sophisticated conversation in preparation for this part of the night (“How did that compare to your ex?,” “Got any sexually transmitted infections?”), but none of it seemed appropriate when th
e moment came. Like contented springer spaniels we rolled about in our own mess, riffing on fancy and autobiography into the early hours. Lucy was tender and, as my paranoia would have it, implicitly forgiving. She didn’t tell me about her dreams and hopes, because at that point I don’t think she really had any. But she watched me. She wrapped me in a warm woolen stare. It was the beginning of the summer and already I couldn’t see how we would ever call it off.

  “Are you looking forward to uni?” she asked, staring past me at the wall, pretending not to be bothered. Even then I think she saw the obstacles that Oxford might present: different interests, diverging ambitions, alternative ways of seeing the world … an inflated sense of self. I was far more idealistic about it at the time, or maybe just wilfully shortsighted.

  “I guess. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Cool.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  What am I thinking of? What thinking? What? Such a disarming question, this one, the answer rarely ever worth knowing. I toyed with saying “How beautiful you are,” but feared the cringe police would come tearing in, bent double with their contortions of squirm-armory, clamoring to throw up all over me.

  “Nothing really. You?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Cool.”

  There was comfort in our aimless words. There was true romance in our banality. It all made sense.

  “Haven’t you got something you want to tell me?”

  I thought this one over carefully, rolling it about in my mushy head. At least five minutes passed in our unhurried embrace.

  “I love you?”

  “Oh, I love you too, Eliot!”

  This pleased me. I don’t like getting questions wrong. (Goes right back to Year 6 SATs.)

  Lucy fell asleep first, as would become our standard. Her body looked for mine in its sleep with exploratory fidgets and experimental wiggles. When it found the warm contact of my wakeful limbs, I would crumple and curl around her like a benign Venus flytrap. I happily allowed her everything: her intermittent snoring, her bed-hogging antics, her ovenlike heat, her funny suckling noises, her bullying hair getting in my face. I allowed her everything, as I lay awake, collecting pins and needles in the arm lopped beneath her neck, right through till the beeps and grunts of the early-morning delivery trucks made her stir.