History, 1978-1979
Prior to turning 18 in early 79 I encountered my second or third serious boyfriend, J. For serious read perplexing, challenging, damaging - the type that interests and frustrates in just enough measure to delay the end of the relationship and damage your sefl respect all at once. God only knows why I fall for autistic types; geeks, nerds, musicians and technicians, but there you go. Maybe I'm a bit that way myself, safer with logic than humanity, or maybe in my over-sheltered upbringing I got this daft impression that it was somehow desperately romantic to be involved with a man with a mission, the visionary types, aka the ones so involved in their financial future or current project that communication not related to said obsession is rare to non-existant.
Poor dear J was odd. Another 'romantic' thing about him was his broken family background; the tales of woe he dressed this information with always smacked hugely of self sacrifice and heroism, or they did to me, young and stupid as I was. A major compensation was also his seemingly permanent access to his estranged father's car; a definite status symbol, having a fella with four wheels.
He terrified my mother and was the only boyfriend, ever, that inspired her to beg me to leave well alone. For him, however, I voluntarily itched from head to foot for a week, having helped him build his own cases for his pa equipment, plastering swathes of fibreglass to plywood using a silly little rolling tool and gloops of paint-come-glue, all in a garage full of fumes. How in hells name I didnt get picked up for being completely stoned on solvent is beyond me, I think we broke just about every health and safety guideline in the book and I have never, since, been able to get remotely near to stuff like araldite without instantly getting a migraine and pupils like piss holes in the snow.
It was worth it, however, as nothing I could do for him could compare to volunteering man hours in the building of his empire, that was like giving away money in his mind and for a very short while he was besotted with me. It was mutual until he suggested an engagement ring and told me how much he could afford to spend, which was about the price of a mars bar and nothing compared to his outlay on plywood.
We used to snatch a fumble where we could, like all teenagers, and by the end of our six months none of my underwear sets seemed to be sets any more. I had nightmares about panties left in the scrub down Osterley Park Lane or round the back of the factory outlets around Park Royal. I took the walk of shame in my dreams on a regular basis as at that stage in my life the possibility of being linked to a pair of discarded frillies down a public alleyway was about the grossest humiliation I could imagine. End of the world stuff that, when you are young, innocent and supposedly brought up to know better.
It was a relief, an outrage and a very convenient aid to the end of the relationship to discover that the inconsiderate little nerd had been stealing them and had them all hidden away in his bedroom.
Once caught, he offered them back, like it was some sort of fair cop and I wasnt supposed to be that bothered about it. I had them back, I believe, just to take them safely away from him, but by memory I destroyed the lot; none would ever feel clean enough to wear again, even if they survived a boil wash.
J and I met up through friends reunited, a couple of years ago. Both married (myself twice, by then) both with children and older and wiser, I thought it would be safe. Not so.
The guy has an 'arrangement' with his wife (perfect for her, clever girl) where they are still producing their family, yet he lives alone and visits them on his best 'time to be sociable' behaviour, then goes back to his financial planning, obsessive business building and bizarre working hours in seclusion, well away from the normal members of the family.
He has decided I am weird, and this is good, I encouraged it. Much as I will always have a soft spot for him, I dont think I could take another midnight conversation where he, fresh from one of his real ale pubs, bored, drunk and lonely, wants to tell me about his adventures in BDSM or his latest nob piercing or what his latest extra marital girlfirend taught him to do before she went back to her lesbian partner; a part of the story that he seems particularly impressed by. I have no desire to know how he likes it up against trees in chains thank you very much, nor do I want him asking me what I like, the cheeky sod. The worst part of it was finding out, when he first gave me some links to a certain type of clothes shop, that I was having fits of joyous giggles at the ridiculously comical straps and contraptions, but that he was having a fit of heavy breathing.
If I ever choose to let some sad, lonely, middle aged drunk jerk off over his keyboard at the thought of my abilities or inclinations, he can bloody well pay for it. That said, I would sooner it was no-one I had ever met nor, in my idiot youth, once thought of as anything other than a sad cause for prayer.
Poor dear J was odd. Another 'romantic' thing about him was his broken family background; the tales of woe he dressed this information with always smacked hugely of self sacrifice and heroism, or they did to me, young and stupid as I was. A major compensation was also his seemingly permanent access to his estranged father's car; a definite status symbol, having a fella with four wheels.
He terrified my mother and was the only boyfriend, ever, that inspired her to beg me to leave well alone. For him, however, I voluntarily itched from head to foot for a week, having helped him build his own cases for his pa equipment, plastering swathes of fibreglass to plywood using a silly little rolling tool and gloops of paint-come-glue, all in a garage full of fumes. How in hells name I didnt get picked up for being completely stoned on solvent is beyond me, I think we broke just about every health and safety guideline in the book and I have never, since, been able to get remotely near to stuff like araldite without instantly getting a migraine and pupils like piss holes in the snow.
It was worth it, however, as nothing I could do for him could compare to volunteering man hours in the building of his empire, that was like giving away money in his mind and for a very short while he was besotted with me. It was mutual until he suggested an engagement ring and told me how much he could afford to spend, which was about the price of a mars bar and nothing compared to his outlay on plywood.
We used to snatch a fumble where we could, like all teenagers, and by the end of our six months none of my underwear sets seemed to be sets any more. I had nightmares about panties left in the scrub down Osterley Park Lane or round the back of the factory outlets around Park Royal. I took the walk of shame in my dreams on a regular basis as at that stage in my life the possibility of being linked to a pair of discarded frillies down a public alleyway was about the grossest humiliation I could imagine. End of the world stuff that, when you are young, innocent and supposedly brought up to know better.
It was a relief, an outrage and a very convenient aid to the end of the relationship to discover that the inconsiderate little nerd had been stealing them and had them all hidden away in his bedroom.
Once caught, he offered them back, like it was some sort of fair cop and I wasnt supposed to be that bothered about it. I had them back, I believe, just to take them safely away from him, but by memory I destroyed the lot; none would ever feel clean enough to wear again, even if they survived a boil wash.
J and I met up through friends reunited, a couple of years ago. Both married (myself twice, by then) both with children and older and wiser, I thought it would be safe. Not so.
The guy has an 'arrangement' with his wife (perfect for her, clever girl) where they are still producing their family, yet he lives alone and visits them on his best 'time to be sociable' behaviour, then goes back to his financial planning, obsessive business building and bizarre working hours in seclusion, well away from the normal members of the family.
He has decided I am weird, and this is good, I encouraged it. Much as I will always have a soft spot for him, I dont think I could take another midnight conversation where he, fresh from one of his real ale pubs, bored, drunk and lonely, wants to tell me about his adventures in BDSM or his latest nob piercing or what his latest extra marital girlfirend taught him to do before she went back to her lesbian partner; a part of the story that he seems particularly impressed by. I have no desire to know how he likes it up against trees in chains thank you very much, nor do I want him asking me what I like, the cheeky sod. The worst part of it was finding out, when he first gave me some links to a certain type of clothes shop, that I was having fits of joyous giggles at the ridiculously comical straps and contraptions, but that he was having a fit of heavy breathing.
If I ever choose to let some sad, lonely, middle aged drunk jerk off over his keyboard at the thought of my abilities or inclinations, he can bloody well pay for it. That said, I would sooner it was no-one I had ever met nor, in my idiot youth, once thought of as anything other than a sad cause for prayer.
posted by Cheryl at 7:33 pm
<< Home