I have been referred to the breast clinic to investigate an anomaly with one of my breasts. I love my breasts, they’ve always been with me, my best asset, so of course Im hoping this is all a mistake, all just a bad dream. I have heard them say stress manifests itself in the body eventually, Im guessing this is how.. Oh well hopefully it will just be something benign, otherwise its something gruesome. I guess I just have to wait to find out. My husband is refusing to accept anything other than everything is fine, the idea of it not being ok would be devastating for him. How would he cope without me? How would he deal with the World? How would he bring up our son? But mostly how would he live without me being here for him? He’s refusing to accept its anything other than a mild case of paranoia on my part & that everything is normal, well as normal as can be in out house. This is all worst case scenario of course, it could just be fat! If its something nasty theres treatments available, the statistics are improving every year, so this is not as bad as I keep imagining, women survive these days. Unless it is something bad and its already spread as it has when I close my eyes and the fear radiates through me, in which case Ill keep you posted otherwise Ill be starting a whole new blog to get me through…..
I was deflowered, lost my innocence, lost my virginity, my maidenhood, first got laid, popped my cherry, however you want to say it, on a brightly coloured, long pile, synthetic shag fur rug on the floor of my boyfriends lounge. The mood was set with Up Around The Bend by Hanoi Rocks playing & recording on the stereo tape to tape deck ( I still have the tape) just loud enough so that you could still hear the birds and cars outside just above the melody of Michael Monroe’s overly feminine Finnish voice. It was a hot sultry August afternoon, sun high in the bright blue cloudless sky but we were inside, hiding, we had drawn the curtains to keep it and prying eyes out.
This day had been a short time coming, it was the culmination of months of chasing and weeks of foreplay and abstinence. I was primed, every copy of Just 17 I had eagerly read had told me what to expect, how best to do it, what an orgasm was (theres a plateau don’t you know.), the best colour lipstick to wear to attract a boy. Well apparently you don’t need to know all that , you just have to be a willing subject. He was eager, very, very eager. We started kissing & fumbling on the sofa and fell onto the floor, an emotional whirlwind roaming in my body, my skin magnetic, it was drawing him to touch me, to be in me, my mind swirling with the enormity of what we were doing, how far we were going. Then, surprised at how easy it was, how natural it felt but also how alien, up until then it had been all hands & fingers, lips on soft skin, now it was no hands, no fingers involved, then it was done, this was something else. This was fantastic, everything Just 17 had promised. Why had we waited so long? Why are you not allowed to do this all the time? Why is it not talked about more in school but in a good light rather than the ‘your genitals will curl up and fall off & you’ll have a baby if you look at each other the wrong way’ manner? Can we do this all day, all the time?? I was surprised how good it felt, how painless, how naughty and grown up we were. The euphoria of the moment mixed with bewilderment, shock and a smugness, pleased with myself at being so grown up, so sexually alluring, for not crying in pain but also guilty & ashamed at myself for relenting, giving in to his advances betraying my mothers words of keeping myself pure. But we were doing “it” I was doing “it” with “him” the boy everyone wanted to be with, a catch. We lay there holding each other, then had another go, our tight teenage bodies electric, hot, sticky, trembling.
The feelings of pleasure, achievement & joy didn’t last long, we were interrupted, by his Dad, coming home from work early, the Dad that didn’t like me, had expressed a notion that I was out to trap his son, (I wasn’t, although we probably, most definitely should have worn a condom). The distinct sound of his Dads works van engine cutting through our intimate bubble like a parental siren. The van door closing, the keys locking the door, the boots around the van, across the pavement, on the steps, the key in the front door, the walk through the passage to the lounge door, we had about 30 seconds to gather some kind of composure & clothing. He shot naked for the bathroom, which was luckily downstairs, while I dived for the sofa, skirt & T-shirt somehow on but askew, underwear crunched in a ball in my hand. The room was thick with teenage hormones and the smell of hot sticky fumbling first time sex, his father knew what had been going on as soon as he opened the lounge door, it must of hit him like a wet, hormone soaked towel slap to the face. My luminous glow would have given the game away anyway, I may as well of had a neon flashing sign above my head flashing “WHORE” in bright pink bold letters. Mike Monroe forebodingly sang ‘Tradgedy’ through the rattling old speakers of the stereo while I perched dizzily in shock. I couldn’t speak or look his Dad in the face, I just sat on the edge of the sofa gripping my g-string in a tight white fist, bra on but undone. I smiled as innocently as was possible staring at the ruffed patch on the fireplace synthetic fur rug, wishing his Dad would remember he’d left his jacket in his van or forgot to get milk, something, anything to make him leave and stop glaring at me with his paternal ‘I know exactly whats been going on here’ glare over his metal framed glasses. But he didn’t. He just tutted disapprovingly and looked at me as if I was dirt. My boyfriend came out of the bathroom just in time to stop me crying in fear and guilt and shame, a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping off his pale, firm young man body that had so recently been on top of me, in me, gently rubbing me against the fibres of the synthetic coloured rug, creating static that had now made the back of my hair have a crackly life of its own. He was trying to look as if he’d just showered, it wasn’t very convincing. I urgently darted past him, my hair making a tune of tiny crackles as I walked & leaving him to deal with his very annoyed father, into the now empty bathroom to address my bits, check for the floods of blood I’d expected and reapply my knickers which had practically disappeared into my skin I’d been gripping them so tightly in my hand. There was very little blood to show for the huge momentous event, no telltale bloom, no Carrie-esque event Id been warned about by my God fearing Stephen King reading Mother. I looked at myself in the mirror, I was what you could call dishevelled, I was smiling a wry smile, I was looking to see if I looked any different, I didn’t, I just looked hot & ruffled like a girl that had just been caught with her knickers in her hand having just had sex for the first time on a fake fur brightly coloured shag pile rug in front of the fireplace in the house of the man shouting loudly outside the bathroom door (breathe). I could hear them arguing, they were arguing about me, us, what had been going on. We were turfed out of the house in a barrage of parental fury into the streaming, August afternoon, glorious sunlight.
We were both 15 (I know!). Euphoric we walked hand in hand to the Italian cafe on the square & bought cream cakes & cans of coke & sat on a wall devouring them as was had each other an hour earlier. My hair crackled with static as he put his hand through it to turn my face towards him to lick cream off my top lip. Oh how I loved him, I was intoxicated by him, was totally enveloped by him, he was my first love, my first lover, I was addicted, obsessed. I would have done anything for him, I loved him so much, that Friday Afternoon in August 1986…
“I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.”
― Chales Bukowski