Cambridge beat Oxford and I was there to see it. For those readers who might be seeing this from the U.S. or else where, and might not have a clue what I’m clucking on about – it is the annual boat race between Cambridge University and Oxford University. I only mention this because my husband and I were once students at one of these prestigious seats of learning. It was where he broke his nose, and his metatarsal; dislocated a finger, suffered mild concussion and lost his virginity.
University is the place where a lot of people lose their virginity, discover alcoholism, come out, investigate the meaning of life through the medium of illegal substances, and, if they are lucky graduate with something better than a 2:2.
But I’m rambling and should get to the point of this blog.
Today, as the weather is mild, and I had a free hour, I took a walk down memory lane, past the place it all started. Didn’t get any vibes – too much water has flowed under the bridge since that night. I did managed a wry smile, though.
How do I write about feelings and thoughts I had over three years ago, even though I can recall them as vividly as if they were fresh out of my thought box this morning. I felt this? I thought that?
Perhaps it’s time I invested in a writing-blogs-for-dummies book.
You have to be in the moment to really get across how you felt and how that feeling made your skin tingle and your spine scintillate. Good word that – scintillate.
Sometimes I struggle with describing my emotions in the past tense. They feel somehow disembodied from me, like I’m reading a book about some fictional character hyperventilating about a man she slept with, and can’t make her mind up if she regrets going down on him.
So, want follows is my attempt at a first person, just happening version of events, told as accurately as people with my disability can recall.
If you are confused about my disability, please go to the about me page, and all will become crystal clear.
It’s been two weeks since………you know what………..when I did what I did……..with you know whom.
The world hasn’t come to an end; I’ve gotten away with it. If it wasn’t for the memories, it could have been just a particularly vivid, extremely erotic, very dirty dream.
I’ve got to the stage when I can look into the eyes of my reflection and don’t see fear staring back at me. There are only two people who know everything about that night; him and me. And I’m pretty damn sure I’m never going to tell. And he……it’s unlikely we’ll run into each other again.
Now that I’m almost free from fear of prosecution, I find myself rerunning that night as if I am at a play, and the whole thing was happening to someone else, who just happened to look like me. Honestly there wasn’t anything bad about it, except for the betrayal and guilt that comes with it.
If I’d been a single woman, I would probably be wondering why he hasn’t called me; who he’s fucking now, and who he’s been fucking since he fucked me.
But I’m not a single woman, and shock horror, I’m still wondering who he’s fucking. Surprisingly, being married doesn’t make you any less a girly.
I saw Christian Wednesday, he hasn’t seen the other man. “Gone to St. Tropez,” he said.
“Member of the idle rich, is he?” I said.
“Very rich, from what I saw of his place. There was a Pollock, a Grosz and a Blanchard on the wall. And he has a beautiful wife and a young family somewhere.”
“Were they on the wall too?” Somehow I didn’t recall that coming up in conversation that night.
“There were pictures. You might have seen them if you hadn’t run off and left me.”
“I didn’t run off. You were in a safe place. There was no way I could have carried you back to your apartment.”
“I suppose not. He made me breakfast you know.”
“Did he? Was it nice?”
“Perfect. Then we went out and had lunch.”
“Sounds like a date.”
“I wish. But he wasn’t into holding hands and kissing. Though, I got the feeling that he was really into you, from the amount of questions he was asking.”
The bottom fell out of my stomach. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him that I couldn’t tell him anything, other than that you were married to a gay hating brute, who would probably beat you black and blue if you so much as looked at another man.”
“Don’t know what you see in the man. He’s so…so fucking barbaric.”
“Let’s not go there again. It’s my husband you are talking about. Are you seeing him again?”
“Why the questions? Do I sense a little interest coming from you?”
“Of course I’m interested. It’s obvious you really like the man.”
“What good’s that going to do me? He’s as straight as a stick. Anyway, I get the impression he’s a pussy hound.”
“Did he talk about other women?”
“Not directly, but I had a sneaky look around his place and there are cupboards containing some interesting toys and gadgets. And I mean some fucking serious shit.”
“Lady, you are far too innocent.”
I’m starting to enjoy my own life story. My coffee has gone cold.