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So all was as before except that I went back to school and Jacob left the one that he hated and got himself a job. Temporary, he said, but it was only stacking the shelves in the local supermarket.
That term we took our final exams, which was a pretty traumatic series of events, but we got through them.
You’d think that after taking them and before receiving those so-vital results, we’d have been set free, but no, the term hadn’t ended, so we had to stay on, at loose ends with nothing else to learn. But our form teacher had work for idle brains. The hands could take care of themselves, and sometimes there were queues behind the fives courts.
For those that don’t know, the game of fives is a bit like squash except (a) it’s played outdoors, and (b) instead of a racket, you wear a glove. There are three walls, the fourth being fresh air. There’s also a step that you can trip over, as well as a built-out projection like a small buttress called a pepper pot (no idea why), which if you hit the ball behind, it’s impossible to return. Point to you. First one to reach twelve is the winner. There are minor variations for all the major public schools—Eton, Harrow, Winchester, and Rugby. We followed the Eton version.
Back to our form teacher, a charming but unprepossessing character with advanced alopecia and a tendency to wipe his glasses on his tie. As the tie was invariably covered with food stains, it would not, we reasoned, be all that effective as a lens cleaner. Anyway, his idea was that we should each take a major civilization from the past, research it, and present a final dissertation or essay. Not very originally, I chose Ancient Egypt. I wonder if subconsciously this was a throwback to my headmistress at kindergarten. It never struck me then, and I only thought about it just now as I wrote the words.
Most of the other members of the form (Upper VI Mod) treated the task with a certain amount of latitude, if not lassitude, but I found myself absorbed in the doings of the Old Dynasty kings, Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure, the self-aggrandized exploits of the self-styled Rameses the Great (18th Dynasty), and that strange pharaoh who founded a brief monotheistic worship of the sun god, Aten, and called himself Akhenaten.
I got a special mention in my final report for that piece of work.
And then we left school, throwing all our textbooks out of the top-floor library window in celebration.
I was a man. I could vote. I could fight and die for my country. I could fuck or be fucked, suck or be sucked, and, unless I did the last few in public and got caught, no one could tell me nay.
Chapter 3—University
TO SAY I went mad would be putting it mildly. Pubs, clubs, saunas, gyms, cottages, trolling grounds like Hampstead Heath and Clapham Common: we sampled them all. With Jacob a not unwilling companion, perhaps not as bold as me, but well up there.
Of course we took precautions: we had twelve-pack condoms each, and sometimes we used them all. It was the excitement, the danger of gay bashers, occasional police raids to “clean up” areas after complaints had been made, the searching, the groping, the finding, the stripping to whatever level was necessary, the entering, the plunging, the withdrawing, in, out, in, out, quicker, quicker, harder, farther—until the final screaming, or maybe controlled silence, of the orgasm, pumping semen into mouth, ass, hand, or just, like Onan spilling his seed, onto the ground.
In more public life, Jacob in his supermarket hoped for promotion to manager; me waiting for and finally receiving good—no, great—results and applying for a place at Bristol University. I had put down tentatively, before I knew my exam grades, that I was interested in journalism. In my mind’s eye, I could see my name on the byline of the greatest scoop in history with one of the leading national newspapers—the Times obviously—but taken up by all the others—the Guardian, the Mirror, and the Sun—so I’d chosen journalism, BA (Hons).
I also thought English, though my English is fairly good (another BA Hons), but what about a fun one, or am I setting my sights too high? There was a Film Studies with Languages—kill two birds with one stone as it were. I must stop writing in clichés, bad practice. I enjoyed films, so I put my name down for that. And of course there were the societies, the GLBT a must.
Freshers Week and we all eyed each other up and down. That guy looks gay or else my gaydar is letting me down. Wow, that’s a hottie. There was the GLBT stand with a slim young girl behind it.
I went over. “I’d like to put my name down.”
“Which are you? G, L, B, or T?” She had a sense of humour.
“Bi-curious! I’m curious why anyone could be bi.”
She smiled, said her name is Sarah, that she was reading psychology, wrote down my name, and told me meetings were Monday and Thursday at the Small Hall. She pointed.
“When do we have the orgies?”
“By private arrangement only and never during the actual meetings, though we do provide sticky buns and coffee.”
“Is that some pervy sexual aberration?”
“I regret not.” She gave me a list of upcoming events, and I moved aside to let a heavy-set girl take my place.
One of the events was a Gay Pride March. That would be interesting. but first I had to find out about my courses. Where and when were they held? Who would be my tutor? Would I like him/her? I guessed the obvious place to ask was Information, and I joined a mile-long queue (hyperbole, another figure of speech to avoid).
Okay, introductions over. I’d got a room in-house, settled in. Met my tutors—a woman for journalism, serious, obviously ultra-efficient, was herself a journalist, mentioned several eminently forgettable publications she worked for, but I was sure impressed. She was Tuesday and Friday with occasional visits to publishing houses, printing works, etc.
The film guy was young and ultra-enthusiastic. Would either become a bore or win me over with his emotional energy—we would see but gave him the benefit of the doubt at the moment. He was Monday and Thursday, which was great as the two courses didn’t clash.
Presumably Wednesday was when I did the work!
And weekends were for enjoying myself. Great!
I phoned Jacob back in London and he went and hid himself in a corner of the warehouse to escape detection and listen to me wittering on. “It’s going to be great, and you’ve got to come down to join the Gay Pride March, and I’ll provide you with a suitably decorated placard to carry, and you’ve got to wear the gayest outfit you’ve got, and I’ll meet you at the station early, show you around my pad, well room, and….” Eventually I ran out of breath, and he whispered, in case anyone was listening to a voice apparently issuing from behind a huge carton of tinned pineapple chunks, “Glad you’re having such a good time.”
He didn’t sound all that glad, but I understood his situation and sympathized with him.
