Adventures in Dating...in Heels Page 4

  Near the end of the first term, Christmas was so near I could practically touch it. I bounced into the snacketeria, grabbed a tray of jacket potato, chocolate bar, and some 7Up, and searched for Tony’s familiar black and whites through the crowd of bright global hypercolour T-shirts and polo-neck jumpers that had suddenly crept up on everyone and become the next big thing everyone had to wear.

  Even the name, snacketeria, was so much more relaxed than the school’s refectory. You can hear the difference in the two words, can’t you? Anyway, I flicked the beads in my hair, tipped the brim of my huge hat back to get a better look around. Today, I was channelling Boy George, early Culture Club days when he’d first come on the TV and no one knew if he was a boy or a girl. I had a baggy pink shirt with the sleeves rolled back, an assortment of necklaces—some borrowed from Tony and others staff-discounted from work—a pair of baggy white harem pants, and Aladdin-pointed shoes. It had taken me half an hour to do my makeup that morning: china-white face, red lipstick, yellow blusher either side of my eyes, and pink fading behind the yellow, with eyebrows so sharp they’d take your eyes out if you came too close to me. I was fierce and wasn’t afraid to use it.

  I’d fallen in with a crowd of casual friends from my textiles course who loved to dress up almost as much as me. I started to wear bits of my dressing-up costumes to college—a blouse here, a woman’s hat there, or red stilettos with faded jeans and a baggy white T-shirt with “Frankie Says Relax” across the front. And honest to goodness, no one had anything but praise. I knew I was going to be fine when I saw a man walking towards the music lesson with a six-inch red Mohican and so many facial piercings he looked like a colander. When the Mohican man arrived to class, the tutor checked his name and told him to take a seat, without looking twice.

  Of course, the compliments had egged me on a bit, I suppose. The odd “Nice hat!” or “Who does your makeup?” and once even “You look better than my girlfriend would in that.” Yes, that I’d held close to my heart and savoured for a fair few days afterwards. These compliments were like balm to my battered and sore soul after five years at school of being told I was nothing; at college, I wasn’t just not nothing—at college I was something. I was the talk of the college. One of them anyway.

  Now, I spotted Tony sucking the face off his boyfriend and set off towards them. Tony had been seeing John/James/Jim since their eyes had met across a crowded computer screen and they’d bonded over both working in retail. Oh, and Jim was a massive the Human League fan, so instantly got Tony’s hair as he had the same haircut, inevitably they’d bonded over that too. Jim was borderline goth/new romantic, so they were sharing clothes two weeks in. Tony told me they’d shared an awful lot more round the back of the bike sheds most lunchtimes as neither could keep his hands off the other for more than five minutes, but I won’t go into details to preserve Tony’s modesty. He wouldn’t thank me for any indiscretions.

  When I’d asked if it was serious, Tony replied, “He’s met my parents, but we’re not picking out curtains just yet. Don’t expect one of us proposing to the other one in the computer lab by the end of term. This isn’t an American film, you know.” So that had told me.

  Now, I tapped him on the shoulder. “If you don’t mind. Can I join you?”

  They came up for air and Tony patted the seat next to him.

  I looked around for people staring at their spectacle, but no one blinked an eye. Not one of the others in the snacketeria had stopped their conversations to stare at Tony and Jim. That’s what college was like. Right there, that summed up the difference between school and college. At school, no one could raise the hemline of their school skirt or wear a differently knotted tie without one of the A group knowing and commenting and preventing it.

  I wanted to tell Tony about my latest interaction with the cute-but-dumb head-boy type in my English class.

  Tony waved away dismissively towards Jim. “Don’t mind him. He won’t say.”

  I’d got used to sharing with Tony and Jim for most things, but this was a bit spesh. For this news, I wanted just Tony present. I coughed, threw back some of the beaded strands of hair, and flicked my gaze to Jim.

  Tony said, “I’ll meet you at the bike sheds at four, unless your parents are out.”

  Jim snogged the face off Tony before standing. After adjusting his four necklaces, he flicked his fringe out of his eyes and swept majestically out of the snacketeria, his hips gently swaying side to side.

  “He’s butch. Not.” I turned to Tony with a smile.

  “Pot, kettle. Whatever. We’re having fun. I’m sixteen. I’m not getting married. It’s not Kentucky.”

  “Why Kentucky?”

  “That’s one of the square states, where they live in mobile homes and marry their neighbours at thirteen. Or something.” He rested his head on his hands, his elbows on the table. “I’m all yours.”

  “He tried to snog me. What do I do?”

  “Before I answer that, I need full context: situation, surroundings. Were there any witnesses? Was this a clandestine snog or a full-disclosure snog?”

  I told him how at the end of the lesson, when we’d somehow ended up in the same group discussing Henry IV or The Miller’s Tale or Wuthering Heights or something, he sat next to me, put his hand on my arm, leant forward, and said did I want to study together afterwards. “And then he leant forward and kissed me.”

  Tony leant back, closed his eyes, and started humming a song from the sixties.

  “You’re not helping. What sort of a snog is that?”

  “And then he kissed me!” Tony sang loudly.

  Still no one looked at us.

  Tony continued, “He’s just asked you if you wanted to dance. And you think he’s pretty cute, don’t you?”

  “In a head-boy cute-but-stupid way.”

  “I’m not asking you to have his babies, just a bit of fun. Remember that?”

  I did remember that. It was something I’d lost touch with for a while.

  “Remember what Bruce said: ‘If it’s going up the bum, make sure it’s got a rubber on,’ all right?”

  This could be the moment I’d been waiting for so long. My time had come, and I wasn’t going to miss it. We agreed I’d meet him after school in the Duke to talk about the English whatever it was and see how it went from there.

  “He won’t want to go to some gay pub. That’s too much too soon.”

  “So take him on a quiet night. Have some lemonades or Cokes. Go mad, have a slice of lemon.”

  The landlord at the Duke was very understanding about the younger members of Out! drinking there every week. For some, it was the only place they could be themselves, be with their friends, or be with their boyfriend or girlfriend comfortably without anyone shouting at them. So as long as the younger ones stuck to soft drinks as far as he could see and they didn’t look drunk, he turned a blind eye. A few times, I’d been guilty of having a few cheeky vodka tonics and wobbling back home, chewing an extra strong mint to disguise the smell of booze and fags.

  I WAS GETTING ready for my study date with head-boy Tom, trying to decide whether to wear black polo-neck jumper, black trousers, black shoes, and a long black leather jacket I’d picked up on the sale rail at work, or Andy Bell in the “Take a Chance on Me” video stone-washed jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Of course, there was always the other outfit he’d worn in that video—I had a red wig and, with some textiles friends reinforcement, could whip up a pair of orange trousers, matching orange-sequinned blouse, and white feather boa. But no, that would be too much.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in if you’re good-looking,” I replied, knowing it would be Mum and that Dad would be nowhere near.

  “You off out again?” Mum stood in the doorway, twirling a duster in her hands.

  “Something for my English lesson.”

  “Dad will be pleased. It’s about your dad as it goes. I’m a bit worried, with you going to college in all these outfits that he’s going to see, and well you know what will happen then. I think maybe you should tone it down a bit.”

  I turned from my antique glass-topped dressing table—another gift I’d begged Mum for and she’d somehow sneaked past Dad. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad?” I shrugged, and then faced the mirror.

  “You know what happened last time. He doesn’t react well.”

  “I thought if I didn’t tell him, I just was myself, he’d get the message and accept it.”

  “Hate to say it, love, but he’s not me. I’ve always known, and every time I see you go out, I’m happy cos you’re happy. That’s what I always said when I had you. I wouldn’t have any expectations about what you’d turn out like, just as long as you were happy and not hurting anyone.” She paused and looked around my room. “Your dad, on the other hand, he’s always had ideas about what you’d do, what you’d study, how you’d turn out. I tried to tell him we don’t get any choice. You get the baby that comes out. And you came out, and we’ve got you. And he went on about nature and nurture and all that stuff.” She shrugged and then began playing with the feather duster between her hands.

  “If you’re sure that’s the only way.”

  “I am, love. I’ll try to work on him my end, drop a few little comments in about your friends at college and how it’s so much wackier than at school and how well you’re settling in. But he thinks you’ll go to uni and work in some special bank where they invest other people’s money. Not a bank like I go to, a different type. He did tell me once.”

  “That’s what he thinks I’m going to end up doing?” I rolled my eyes. “Really?”

  Mum nodded. “Really.” She turned and walked to the door. “Good luck with your English thing, whatever it is. You can tell me all about it next t
ime he’s out, all right?”

  “Mum?” I asked quietly, turning to face her once again.

  “What, love?”

  “This is what I am. You know that, don’t you? I didn’t choose this. It chose me. It’s in me, and it always has been. All of it. I’ve felt it from a teenager. If I had been brought up by wolves in a forest, I’d still be the same. It’s nothing you’ve done wrong. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You’re my son and I wouldn’t change nothing about you. If you was different, you wouldn’t be my Kev, and why wouldn’t I want my lovely Kev, eh?” She blew a kiss and left the room.

  I caught the kiss and put it close to my heart. That was as far a compromise as I could go. I was always telling the teenagers younger or less experienced than me at Out! to have the strength to be themselves, that you didn’t have to come out all the time, you just needed to be who you are, and people would either accept or reject you. Otherwise, you end up having a big set piece of a coming-out speech to everyone you meet—the milkman, the man who repairs your washing machine, the woman who runs the corner shop where you buy your cigarettes. And trust me, it’s exhausting. No, if you just are yourself, talk about where you socialise, who you’re friends with, who you’re going out with, they’ll work it out for themselves. It’s a much more natural way of coming out, trust me.

  Chapter Seven

  MY DATE BUT not a date with the head boy Tom was all set.

  I sat with my soft drink at a table in the right-hand corner of the Duke by the door. I was near enough to hear the banter between the barman and a couple of the regulars who’d nipped in for a swift after-college/work drink, but far enough away that they couldn’t jump into our every pause in conversation. I’d gone for the goth outfit. I felt it would be more fitting with how he normally saw me at college. I didn’t want to go straight to full drag and scare him off.

  Tom appeared at the door. He pushed his floppy centre-parted-curtains blond hair back with one hand and grinned widely as he looked around the room with his twinkly blue eyes.

  I felt something shift inside me. Actually, it was two things that shifted, one thing down below and another thing just by my stomach as it filled with butterflies. Bang—that was me falling for him. I half expected some cartoon birds and butterflies to start circling round his head like in the Snow White cartoon.

  I waved to catch his attention, and then he strode over to my table, still smiling on full beam. He held out his hand for me to shake.

  Interesting, novel, formal.

  I shook it and told him to get himself a drink. He offered to get me one, and I accepted, wanting him to feel useful and put him at ease in unfamiliar surroundings.

  He plonked our two soft drinks on the table. “It’s all right, this place, isn’t it? Do you come here often?”

  I laughed at his clichéd line, and he replied by laughing nervously too. “Sorry. That was a bit crappo, wasn’t it? It’s not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “Darker. Seedier. Maybe someone brandishing a whip or something.”

  I shook my head. “Bless you. Most of us are just like straight people, very normal. Except we sleep with people the same sex as us and know all the songs in Cher’s back catalogue. Apart from that, there’s not much to separate us from straight men.”

  He looked at my clothes. “I don’t think I got the memo about clothes, sorry.” He looked down at his stone-washed baggy jeans, pink-and-purple tie-died global hypercolour long-sleeved T-shirt, the armpits had gone an attractive lighter hue signalling how hot he was. “I’m still getting used to not wearing a uniform every day. I’ve worn a uniform since I started primary school, right until last summer, my fifth year at Bishop’s Wordsworth.”

  Mentally, a made a wooing noise and pulled my hands up to my chest like I was slowing down a horse I was riding. That was the I passed the eleven-plus exam grammar school of Salisbury. It meant he’d gone to not some normal common or garden primary school, but a prep school, as it prepped you for the eleven plus. It would have definitely been a private prep school. Private primary schooling, get him, eh?

  He pulled out a notebook and Tess of the d’Urbervilles book from his not ironic or retro, just really posh private-school leather satchel and put them on the table with a bang.

  He was really going to talk English, in this pub?

  “You said you were a bit stuck with this.” He held up the Thomas Hardy book in case I thought he meant his lemonade and lime.

  I smiled and willed him to spill his drink over the table so this could be over.

  “How far have you read?”

  I swallowed slowly. This is happening, is it? It did seem to be so. “I’m up to wherever we’re meant to be. But I mainly skim it to be honest. It’s a bit slow, and I don’t have much time.”

  He went on to describe how the bucolic setting was integral to the something of the storyline, and how Hardy used something else to signify another word that left his mouth, passed my ears, and disappeared without a trace. I’ll let him talk. He’s obviously got some reason for wanting to do this here, in this gay pub, with me, someone he’s snogged, sat two feet away from him.

  So I let him talk and talk and talk. He played with the pen, rolling it between his hands, and scribbled some words in the notebook between turning to passages in the book and reading little extracts and explaining something or other about them. All the time, he kept looking over his shoulder, around the pub, wiping his hands on his knees when he put the pencil down, then picking it up again and back with the twirling and rolling of it.

  Then, when I thought time had started going backwards, after I’d caught the barman’s gaze a few times and rolled my eyes at him, Tom threw the pencil down on the table, grabbed my collar, and snogged my face off. Happily, he was pretty good at it. He pulled me towards him with my collar, and his tongue explored my mouth and tongue, all around the insides, licking. He bit my lips very gently, his tongue still swirling about. Then he put a hand on my knee the side of the table by the wall, so the barman couldn’t see, I guessed. His hand stroked its way farther up until it reached my groin where he grabbed me at first gently, then harder and felt me from base to tip with his whole hand. He rubbed along me slowly, still kissing me as I awoke from my underpants-encased slumber, responding to his touch.

  And then I realised, if I didn’t pull back, it would all be over, far too soon, and I’d have effectively let him give me a hand job in a pub on a Tuesday afternoon. So I pulled back. There were standards to be upheld. Of sorts.

  His eyes were wide, his mouth still open. “What? Was I doing it wrong?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not really a wank-in-the-corner-of-the-pub guy. If that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course. I’m awfully sorry. Most awfully sorry. It’s just I’ve wanted to snog your fucking face off properly since I first saw you, only I’ve not known how to start.” His eyes twinkled in the light.

  “Looks like you worked it out.” I smiled.

  “Suppose I have.”

  “Can we put away this lot and continue the evening without Thomas Hardy and his bucolic whatsit please?”

  He stared at the notebook and paperback on the table. “I thought you wanted help with it.”

  “That was a ruse. A cover. All I really wanted was what you’ve just given me. And more maybe, but that’s not for now.”

  His eyes opened wide. “Can I snog you again?”

  “You don’t have to ask me. Have you ever gone out with someone before?”

  He looked at the table and clasped his hands together in his lap. “All-boys schools.”

  “I’d have thought that was perfect. Soggy biscuit in the dorms at night. Having to fag for each other, all that jazz. No?”

  “I didn’t board, and I’m afraid to break it to you, but it’s not the fifties. All that went out with the ark.”