Chapter Eight: Stonewash Balls and Desperation Takes Hold

Now and then noises filtered through the walls; distorted waves of soft and loud. And sometimes there were beats and the tickings of a pulse like water lapping up against a sea wall. And one afternoon there’d been the chorus of a million tiny membranes being stretched and released- that usually made the heart speed up and then the heat quickly radiated down to the belly where the eggs sat tight and gently vibrated, perfectly in synch with one another. Other times, the terrible roar of food as it rolled down into the digestion system - solids hitting froth, then trailing off to a steady rumble, then a growl as the solids dissolved and were moved on their way. But then other times things were very quiet. This was usually accompanied by complete darkness; not even the yellow glow filtering through the soft, pink roof. Nothing but the whistling of oxygen, the tip-tap of blood moving through the veins, circling away and then returning.

Three hundred and seventy eight was in a trance. Focused on nothing but the flutter of fluids carrying vitamins one way and toxins the other. Every now and then it turned inside the dark, cramped space; rotated forwards, then back again. Meanwhile the others were restless inside their clusters; they shivered and fired off tiny signals to the surrounding nerves. They readied themselves for the big off. The expectation had been that the fat one’s friend would be the next to go but in fact the opposite had happened. The friend had nestled itself firmly in its sack as if it was too scared to move. And who could blame it? They’d all heard the unsettling noise – like the flick of a tongue clicking against the roof of a mouth. It was frightening to think that one day they would be the one on the other side. And would finally find out what the noise really meant. Surely it was better to wait? But how long?
And as it tried to work itself into a trance, rotating forwards and backwards, concentrating on the flutter and flow, three hundred and seventy eight was thinking exactly the same thing.

On reflection it had probably been a mistake - trying to kill two birds with one stone – combining seeing George with my next big, sperm hunt. But it hadn’t been a conscious plan. In fact it had started out as an innocent drink between a sister and her depressed, computer game -addicted brother. I felt it was important to get George out the house and away from Mum and her never-ending list of potential jobs. I’d intended to give George another one of my great pep talks. Then work out practical steps to get him off the conveyer belt of despair and back into the cut and thrust of life. Except he didn’t want to talk. In fact he did nothing but stare at the beer mat on the table with a face so sad and anxious I couldn’t bear to look at it. Like he’d been turned inside out. I tried to remember my own experiences, channel the emotions of my nineteen-year-old self. But I had more trouble accessing it this time and instead became the nagging beast once more.

‘Why can’t you pull yourself together?’
‘Well we’re not getting anywhere if you just sit there and sulk.’

After a while I started to get on my own nerves. So I got up and went to the ladies. The pub was the same dump that Simon and I often frequented after work and the array of characters propping up the bar looked like the usual bunch of losers. The TV was showing an interminably dull snooker game. The hopeless soaks had taken up residence in the corner; their noses morphed into cauliflowers, skin mottled pink, bloated fingers gripping pints for dear life. Then as I made my way towards the loo, I heard a wolf whistle. I’d like to say that I’m the kind of woman who gets whistles everyday but in fact I can count the times on one finger - certainly the last time had been somewhere back in the mid- eighties, wearing a short puff ball skirt and my perm at its most luxuriant. So this time I couldn’t help turning round to see who’d done it. And in that moment, confronted by the weary face of a man in his late forties (who still had a skeletal kind of attractiveness), everything fell into place. I’d already identified the need to lower my standards and go for the Hairy, the Tiny and the Desperate. And this was perfect! What kind of surprise lurked beneath that grubby, Inspiral Carpets sweatshirt and stonewash jeans pulled so high that his balls were visible, each one squashed against the top of each leg?

EASY MEAT!

My key problem was I wasn’t fertile. In fact the eggs would be so disinterested at this point that it was scarcely worth going through with it. I’d have to delay our fertility dance for at least a week or more. As I applied my lipstick in the toilet, I did my calculations. ‘Ovum-day’ had been back with Medium Brown, which had been nine days ago. Yes the timing was way off. Okay you may be thinking I was being incredibly presumptuous- thinking that the Whistler would be a sure fire bed companion. All I can tell you was there was something in his eyes. He was desperate. He hadn’t had any in a long time. This would only add to his potency, his sperm would be concentrated, one drop would be enough to fertilise a thousand women. But what about his jeans? They were a worry- it was never healthy to wear trousers so tight that your balls couldn’t breathe. I needed to get those jeans off. Get them off. Get the balls breathing. Then hopefully encourage him to wear loose fitting shorts for at least the next week or two until his blood supply returned to the effected parts. It was tricky to see the rationale for wearing the shorts- maybe I could make a flattering reference to how great his legs looked and tell him what a shame it was they were trapped inside two skinny bolts of light-washed denim?

I made my way back to the bar, preparing myself for some light banter, a bit of flirtation - enough to convince this bloke it was definitely worth waiting the nineteen days until our date at the Beefeater Inn in Forest Hill (my treat). I needed to come across as a DEAD CERT. Except when I got back to the spot; I discovered he’d disappeared. Where had he gone? Home already? Or had he popped to the gents to slick his receding hair back and run his dentures under the tap, dislodging the roasted peanuts he’d been munching on just before he’d whistled at me? I hung around, scanning for any other potentials but most were so incapacitated that it was clear they’d struggle to stand up, yet alone remember they had a date in nineteen days time. After five minutes it was clear that the man had gone. I looked down to see my self-esteem gingerly lift up a corner of the desperately ugly orange carpet, then slowly pull itself underneath until it disappeared from view. It would not be coming out for some time. Mr Stonewash Balls had run for cover! He’d quit and run! I ordered a double rum and coke and returned to the table. Except when I got there, George had gone too.

The evening was a big success.

I finished my drink and headed outside. Immediately I spotted George leaning against the bus stop smoking a cigarette; looking every inch the cliché of teenage rebellion.
‘You were gone for ages,’ he said throwing his fag on the pavement and grinding it up with his trainer, ‘ I saw that disgusting bloke perving at you and I didn’t want to cramp your style.’
‘Don’t be childish,’ I said.
‘I thought we were supposed to be having a night out together.’
‘This is a night out isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t enjoy watching you try to pick up some random bloke. In fact, it’s a bit sad if you ask me.’
George turned to face me. There’s a certain look that family can give you – it’s like they’re wandering around your head and your head is a giant car boot sale, then they stop suddenly and pluck out the truly terrible characteristic, the one that you’ve hidden in the bottom of the cupboard along with your Curiosity Killed The Cat album and Ra Ra Skirt. And then they hold it up, right up to the light so you have to face it head on and the shame bubbles up inside you and you feel sick. In fact the only positive thing is at least it’s family and you can do exactly the same thing back when the need arises.
‘How dare you. I was not chatting him up!’ I said.
‘You’re behaving weird- you didn’t look at me ONCE in that pub. All you did was pull your top down so all the pervs could see your cleavage. Is that what happens when you get old? You have to display everything just so you can still pull?’
The shame had quickly evolved into pure, steely anger. That’s another thing with family- you don’t censor anything. The hate comes straight out your mouth with no editing required.
‘What do you know about pulling? You’re a bloody virgin! A techno invalid. No wonder! All you do is sit in that dark little room watching porn all day!’
George’s bottom lip started to wobble and it felt like I was hitting a puppy with a bin lid but he’d hit a nerve and I wasn’t going to back down.
‘You’ve been looking at my computer,’ he said, his voice shaking.
‘Someone has to do it. We were worried sick. What were you thinking just disappearing like that? Did you think that’s okay?’
George held his hand out for the bus. His cheeks were flushed pink and he’d pulled his fringe over his eyes so I couldn’t see his expression. As I followed him up the stairs I felt lousy. I was supposed to be encouraging him- it was easy enough to remember how confusing and depressing being young was. And things were so much tougher now what with all the violence and addictions to shopping and alienation from real life and parents who expected so much but had no real understanding of how much the world had changed since they’d been young. Signing up to become a driving instructor was not going to solve everything! The bus rolled on towards home. Neither of us said anything. But I knew if I didn’t apologise, George would lock himself in his room and the cycle of taramasalata-eating and swearing and twenty four-hour computer gaming would start up again. Or he’d go AWOL.
‘Look, I didn’t mean it about the porn. Everyone watches porn. It’s normal. I mean at least some of it’s normal. The film with the two women and the dwarves dressed up as Nazi’s, that’s not normal. I mean it’s not healthy.’
‘What and chatting some old geezer up in a pub is healthy? I’d rather not bother. I’d rather not meet anyone if that’s what I have to subject myself to.’
‘Listen it’s different- you’re young. You can be choosy. In fact if you cut that fringe you’ve actually got a really nice face and if you wore a belt and some shoes that didn’t stink like a rat had died in them -well you’d be pulling women left, right and centre.’
‘I look weird,’ George said looking at the floor, ‘And I don’t know how to be cool.’

This time I wanted to take his hand and fast forward at least ten years so he could miss the girls who wouldn’t call, the ones who said cruel things to their friends and the ones that he pursued too hard and lost. But perhaps it was different for men? Perhaps I was reading too much into it. Perhaps he would enjoy the thrill of not knowing whether he was going to get that call. He’d thrive on the uncertainty. And he wouldn’t notice when his long-term girlfriend, the one who shook him awake when he was having nightmares about being a nineteen-year-old driving instructor, was secretly thinking about his best friend whilst he was humping away into infinity. The image made me sick; family and sex is never a good combination and it also made me quickly realise just how jaded I’d become. Of course other people could be happy and in a relationship. It happened all the time. Look at Mum and Dad- they’d been happy hadn’t they? I stared straight ahead and focused on the person walking over the zebra crossing. They looked vaguely familiar.
‘When does life start?’ George said, ‘I mean when is it actually going to start?’
I leant forward and pressed my nose against the glass. The shoulders, those broad shoulders.
‘Does it get any better than this? Does it really?’
It was Medium Brown! George was still babbling his existential angst as I pushed him to one side and shunted my body up against the window. And in that moment, Medium Brown (for it was him, I knew it was) looked up. And our eyes met. Then the bus speeded ahead and I continued staring at the space where he’d been standing. Something in my stomach growled.
‘I don’t want to be desperate, I don’t want to be left old and alone,’ George said looking me up and down from underneath his thick fringe as I pulled my face from the glass, my nose still squished by the impact.

Medium Brown - he was back! Then suddenly everything about that night crashed over me again - the slipping off of the shoes, the knocking over of the drinks, the inappropriate sighing at the sports and the clumsy attempt at oral sex. My self-esteem had just peeked its head out from underneath that dreadful carpet only to scoot back underneath again.
‘Are you listening to me?’
Then I realised something truly awful, more awful than the fact that I’d tried to make a play for a man who wore stonewash, more awful than the fact I’d cussed my brother and ground his soul even further into the ground so perhaps he’d never become someone who could function normally - I’d actually WANTED to see Medium Brown again. Suddenly I realised it was just like when Sky Plus forgets to record the last five minutes of a film; the same thing had happened with Medium Brown. He’d never got a true opportunity to know me. It was unfinished. He’d thought I was this desperate, sad nymphomaniac and actually, well I wasn’t a nymphomaniac and even if I was, it was only temporary and in fact it was purely purpose driven. I wasn’t having sex for pleasure. I wasn’t a slag. And so what if I was? But no, my cause was a noble one. I wanted to fulfil my true ambition, okay I know there’s more to being a woman than motherhood but at the moment motherhood was looking infinitely more appealing than stacking and un-stacking other people’s stories, other people’s dreams. This was MY DREAM. I was following my dream. And what was creepy and desperate about that? I had to see him again. I had to convince him that I was more than just a gyrating monkey-sex-goddess on a stick.
‘What’s wrong?’ George said cutting across my thoughts.
‘Nothing, nothing at all. I’ve just seen someone I know.’
‘Can you help me find a job? Please? I can’t bear the way Mum keeps looking at me and I don’t want to become a driving instructor. She won’t listen to me.’
‘Sure thing,’ I said distracted.
I’d just realised pursuing Medium Brown was definitely not part of the plan. In fact the plan took me in one direction, a selfless journey where I spent my days caring for a small person with no hair and no teeth, waiting until they were interesting enough to talk to me. Whilst Medium Brown was completely selfish - it was just about retrieving my self-esteem from out under the carpet, proving that I could get him to like me, proving a point. But perhaps the two things could be married together?
‘I can’t become a driving instructor! I can’t drive. I can’t even hold onto the steering wheel properly,’ George said.
‘Okay, I heard you already.’
I needed time to think. The dust would settle. The plan was being disrupted by a teenager with a raging paranoia about becoming a driving instructor and a brown haired, match - dropping man who didn’t want to have oral sex with me. But would he make a good Father?

These were dangerous thoughts. Dangerous.
‘Let’s go and get one more drink in before last orders,’ I said.
The bus rumbled on.