Memory Laid

So, then, exams are over, then. You're probably wondering what happened to all of my potentials – or “the font gang”, as I ended up calling them. Well, Comic Sans hit the bottle pretty hard when I rejected him, and ended up getting stretchered off the cobbles after a jump from the Rad Cam roof. Times New Roman (the clock-collecting Italian) got quickly dropped when I realised he was secretly sans-serif, if you know what I'm saying! Wingdings went a bit weird when people accused him of having links to 9/11, but the less said about that the better.

I still remember my first relationship as though it was yesterday. I saw him at school, which in those days I went to almost every day except for weekends. I still remember his name, all these years later, as well as other vague details such as what city he lived in (mine), and the school that he went to. And his eyes, and his hair, both of which he had – though that was hardly unusual for a child of our age and background.

It was all innocent back then. The sun shone, the birds sang. I'd borrow his ruler, he'd peck me on the cheek, I'd give him a handjob on that bit of tarmac behind the caretaker's flat, but nothing more. We were, literally, inseparable. “Oh, [my name]”, one of my teachers told me in an exasperated tone. “You two and your handjobs! Are you never going to learn!”

On the bus, in the street, in the library: these are just three examples of places where we might've been together. Old ladies would look at us, with my hand on his cock and say “bless”. I did 'learn', eventually, and now can't do it without oven gloves for fear of viruses. But try telling that to a six year-old girl with the choice between that and Pythagoras!

I still think about him sometimes. I might see him on Facebook, or he might just pop into my head, and I might let out a long sigh, or spend an afternoon imagining what might have been, or I might write two thousand words about him to fill up a word count for a blog that's meant to be about sex. Sometimes I'll look at pictures: pictures of him with me, pictures of him in black tie, pictures of him without me, pictures of him by a light switch, pictures of him eating some bread, pictures of him holding a bottle in the dark, pictures of him smiling at nothing in particular.

Another thing that made me think of him was when I met and had sex with him two weeks ago.

I still remember it to this day. It was a break between exams, and I'd taken the day off to do my bit for charity, attending the “Lie Around For M.E.” event in Uni. Parks. When I arrived at 12, hardly anyone had bothered showing up. I collapsed on the floor with the other three, and hoped they'd avoid a charity disaster not seen since “Chess against Scabies”, or “Jailbreak for Agoraphobia” (ten of them were found huddled in a nearby phonebox a week later).

Suddenly, walking up from the horizon and towards me, I saw him. I still remember him being exactly how I at that point had still remembered him being. He said my name, laid down beside me, and his eyes searched mine. Absolutely nothing had changed. Is this the same guy whose foreskin I used to tickle while eating Coco Pops and watching Aquila?, I thought out loud.

“What?”, he said.

“Nothing”, I said.

Eight hours and six double vodkas later, it was inevitable. He kissed me, putting his tongue in my mouth in a way that most six-year olds are basically incapable of doing. We took a shower in my room, and then I steered him towards the bed. I decided to put on some music, and fumbled with my alarm clock which is also an iPod. I still remember buying it. (Argos, it was. £27.99. The sun shone, and the birds sang.)

The music flooded the room, and I smiled at how apt it was to our situation:

I told the witch doctor I was in love with you

I told the witch doctor I was in love with you

And then the witch doctor, he told me what to do

What is love? I don't know, but maybe I was in it. It was indeed like some shamanic magic had taken over my heart. I longed for some celestial witch doctor to tell me what to do.

And he said ooh-ee, ooh-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla-bing-bang

Ooh-ee, ooh-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla-bing bang

This bit, I will admit, made less sense. I still remember that.