Thinking about girlfriends

What WAS I thinking?  I wouldn't say that the answer to that was 'nothing'.  And I wouldn't say that I was trying to shut my true sexual self into a box (or indeed a closet).  In many respects the hard work of the previous years (coupled with the social awkwardness and ostracising that goes with that) had resulted in me being somewhat asexual.  But I do clearly remember waking up towards the end of my first term thinking - 'I really should do something about this - I really should do something about this this year'.

 

I had had, as we know, some forrays in the world of girlfriend-dom.  Many with E (soft kisses, fumblings in cinemas and theatres) and some minor ones here and there in between.   I was convinced, at one point, that I was in love with A - something that notably resulted in a late night stroll in the neighbouring village, dressed as the Phantom of the Opera.  But now I was a grownup.   Now I was at university.  It was time for business.

The two notables were L and A.

In the meantime there was a strange non-starter with a couple of girls from the neighbouring halls of residence - we'd spend a lot of time drinking together until G told me that there was more than drinking on their minds and it all came to a rather argumentative halt.  My brother thought that it was all about C - the girl upstairs, who remains a friend.  No.  Just No.  There were some strange arguments with R, now and then, when he moved in (systematically, time after time) on women I expressed only the vaguest of interest in.



L was an experience.  A friend of a friend.  Very blond.  Very good looking.  From Essex.  She was into me, I heard.  I thought I was into her.   Much excitment amongst the plain friends ensued.  A one night half-stand that involved no more than half naked fumbling and grinding ensued.  In the morning I said I wasn't so sure.  She said 'it's too late now'.  I started keeping my distance.  Big Time. I tried to gallantly improve things a week or so later.   She sensibly had seen the light and kept her distance in return.



A was a bigger experience.  A friend of a friend.  An unconvincing hippy (as I had become at the time).  Candles.  Tie-Die.  Dust.  Nose piercing.  She was into me, I heard.  I thought I was into her.  Much excitment from the mutual friend.  A lot of kissing.  A lot of pretending.  A one night half-stand that involved a lot of half naked fumbling and grinding.  A little more action this time.  But no more than a bit of over-enthuisastic mutual that ended quickly and stickily.  Yuck.  It really wasn't working for me.  A few days later, surprise suprise, she said that she wasn't 'feeling it'.  No Shit.  We stayed friends.  She ended up marrying a banker. 

I even came back to University after the Christmas break deciding that I was going to 'go for' either E or L (another one).  I went round to see E and she started telling me about a boy she was into - it wasn't me.  I went round to see L - see was fed up and going home that weekend.

The plain chums were very disappointed indeed.  And disappointment shifted into suspicion when I said that I wanted to direct a play.  A play called 'Bent'.

And I was still a virgin.

Finding Myself

In the first few weeks of University, I did enough 'finding myself' to last a lifetime.

Some of the time, I was in home territory - hanging out with the 'inbetweeners' and, dare I say it, leading the pack somewhat.  In that crowd I was, I guess, the most socially able and the better looking (the competition wasn't up to much) one.  And they were nice people - we were of a 'type' and I was neither excited nor bored by them.

 

Some of the time, I was learning how to sweatily mosh at Balls and social nights - pushing other sweary moshers around to the Wonderstuff and drinking enormous amounts of snakebite and black.

Some of the time, I was wide-eyededly learning a new language of intellectual cool - new bands, new poets, new writers, new film-makers - none of which was coming from my tutors.

Some of the time, I was back in my room, wondering what I was doing here, listening to the awful student indy band practicing in the bar underneath my window.

In the first few months, I did enough 'finding myself' to last a second lifetime.

The brown leather jacket from Wembley Market was unceremoniously ditched in favour of a trenchcoat from the A&N store.  Converse shoes and baggy jumpers were adopted, as were beads and a canvas bag. 

And I, of course, started smoking.  With a passion.  I'd always, long before this time, imagined myself as a smoker.  My constant running backwards and forwards to the bar ('does anyone want another drink - i do!') was indicative of a certain nervous energy.  But I can remember, the morning after having tried smoking for the first time, putting the packet in my bag and R saying "are you going to do it again?".  Hell Yes.  I'm a smoker now.

In that first year, I did enough 'finding myself' to last a hundred lifetimes and I got nowhere near finding myself.

I had a girlfriend.  I parachuted.  I bungy-jumped.  I went to Balls (E came to one) and Parties.  I queued for the phone.  I queued for the post.  I drank everything with 'black'.  I drank in a bar where people pee'd in the bin.  I never ate breakfast.  I made passionate friendships.  And equally passionate enemies.

They were great times.  They sucked.

Where to start?