Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
We talk of growing old, but you said, “Please don’t.”
“So, d’you want to have sex?”
April 1st, a Monday, April Fool’s Day, four days before our seven-month anniversary. But this is no April Fool; it’s the Easter holidays, and we’re verbally soul-searching at Lyla’s house. Specifically, in Lyla’s room. More specifically, in Lyla’s bed. And my primal male instincts have left the room silent. Like a house where all the residents have been murdered. My mind flicks through the endless, shite horror movies that I watched in London, back in the day, with the crew...
...And it fills up the silence for me. She’s chewing her lip, not sure where to look. How did we get to this?
I’m a boy; innocent-ish, not a predator to the naked (ha!) eye, not influenced by my groin. I’ve never seen a blue film, I don’t get my kicks from the top-shelf magazines, and girls in London liked it that, unlike my friends, I wasn’t trying to unlock Pandora’s box. (Which is an even better metaphor, because one of the girls was called Pandora, unbelievably. She was trying to make me unlock her box, but I was chivalrous and refused, thinking it would make me seem like a better person. But all that happened was that she dumped me for Deano, whose lecherous ways made her want me back, and by that time I was dating Rachel – my ex – the ex who went onto become London’s biggest gay rights activist and Queen Lesbian of the Fulham area.) But that doesn’t make me asexual. Damn straight! Things, like sex and stuff, that would seem dirty if I wasn’t head over heels for her, don’t – they seem like the next step. Sexual evolution, maybe. Ok, so now I feel like a dirty old pervert, but she hasn’t said no, but then the silence surely means that she’s uncomfortable in the situation? Dan, I tell myself, Dan, stop imagining terrible things. She’s probably telepathic and can read your mind. Unfortunately-
“Errr...” Oh, thank God, she’s stopped me inwardly rambling. “Really? Shouldn’t we, uh, talk about this slightly beforehand?”
We’re not virgins to sex-discussions: we’re always debating whether one-night-stands are terribly immoral or not (I think they are, she doesn’t), whether cheating can ever be a good thing (Lyla: possibly, but if I ever do anything of the sort she’ll brand my balls with a red-hot poker and then some), and our views on sex before marriage (totally fine by both of us; I’m agnostic, she’s an avowed atheist, and with neither of us having much time for religion, it doesn’t seem a problem to offend some possibly mythical deity). But we’ve never properly discussed it about us. And no wonder she’s confused! I haven’t so much as copped a feel (not intentionally/obviously, anyway) and here I am, asking for all the lights to be switched on and for all the mystery to go.
“I don’t really know why I asked... forget I said anything. Who would you rather; Liam or Noel Gallagher?” Breeziness and small talk are not my strong points.
“Uhh, well, they’re both douches, but Noel writes the songs so he can have it. Although Liam’s weirdly cute in sunglasses. But to be honest, they’re both a bit ugly. Anyway, you’re not getting off (ha!) that lightly. We probably need to talk about it at some point anyway...” Oh dear.
“Well, we’ve been together for nearly seven months, and, well, if we’re in love... well, why not? It kind of seems like, uhh, the obvious thing to do.”
“I don’t like doing obvious things.” She’s the queen of the articulate soundbite, and it kills me. “Besides, exams are next month. What am I going to do, revise while balancing my textbooks on your bits and shout out literary techniques during orgasm? I just don’t think it’s a good idea, really. Not now. In the summer, maybe.”
She has me there. Despite my superior grades (not that I’m superior about having superior grades, I’m just stating facts), she revises a hell of a lot harder than I do. She works and works, whereas things just fall into my head and off my pen in exams. I don’t know; I’m lucky, maybe, and GCSEs were easy. This year’s only been bearable because of her – Fulham are doing utterly diabolically, Mum’s still in dubious health and Linda is still alive – and, although she’s hardly my sole existence for living (nothing could sound so horrifically wet and over the top), she’s like the gloss that makes everything somehow OK. I can’t imagine this year’s exams will be as easy as they seemed last year...
“Fair enough.”
“Have you wanted to... you know... for a long time, or just recently?”
“I’m a boy. It’s my natural reaction to a nice cleavage. No, joking-” – though she’s already attacked me with a rolled-up copy of this week’s NME – “Hey! I said, joking! But, yeah, I daydream about it occasionally. Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?”
“From time to time. But not seriously. It just makes history lessons pass more quickly.”
“I suppose there’s time for all that. D’you think we’ll stay together for uni?” It wasn’t supposed to sound so clingy or presumptuous, but it popped out of my mouth before I could shove it back into my voice-box. It’s just under a year and a half away, but I just can’t imagine us breaking up. I suppose that’s obvious, isn’t it? Why would you be together if you were just waiting to break up? And now the floodgates have opened and all these questions are vibrating through my head, making it full, and her uneasy expression throws me into further panic.
“We’ll see.” Seeing my angst-ridden face, she rephrases. “I’m just thinking, I don’t really want to talk about it. That’s so far into the future! I don’t even know if I’ll get into uni – I might mess up my A-levels, you never know – and as for us, well, we don’t know what’s round the corner. There might be someone better for either of us – don’t look so worried! I can’t imagine there will be! I’m just pontificating. Or we might fall out irreparably and never speak again. So, shall we leave it until nearer the time? I don’t want to think about the future at the moment. It’s too... scary? I want the future to be more Blur albums and more dates with you, staying sixteen forever. University seems like growing up, and growing up just seems like this huge monster that’s going to eat me.” She pauses pensively. “Wow, eloquent simile, much? Anyway, who would you rather, Justine Frischmann or...”
It’s going to be a long day.
April 1st, a Monday, April Fool’s Day, four days before our seven-month anniversary. But this is no April Fool; it’s the Easter holidays, and we’re verbally soul-searching at Lyla’s house. Specifically, in Lyla’s room. More specifically, in Lyla’s bed. And my primal male instincts have left the room silent. Like a house where all the residents have been murdered. My mind flicks through the endless, shite horror movies that I watched in London, back in the day, with the crew...
...And it fills up the silence for me. She’s chewing her lip, not sure where to look. How did we get to this?
I’m a boy; innocent-ish, not a predator to the naked (ha!) eye, not influenced by my groin. I’ve never seen a blue film, I don’t get my kicks from the top-shelf magazines, and girls in London liked it that, unlike my friends, I wasn’t trying to unlock Pandora’s box. (Which is an even better metaphor, because one of the girls was called Pandora, unbelievably. She was trying to make me unlock her box, but I was chivalrous and refused, thinking it would make me seem like a better person. But all that happened was that she dumped me for Deano, whose lecherous ways made her want me back, and by that time I was dating Rachel – my ex – the ex who went onto become London’s biggest gay rights activist and Queen Lesbian of the Fulham area.) But that doesn’t make me asexual. Damn straight! Things, like sex and stuff, that would seem dirty if I wasn’t head over heels for her, don’t – they seem like the next step. Sexual evolution, maybe. Ok, so now I feel like a dirty old pervert, but she hasn’t said no, but then the silence surely means that she’s uncomfortable in the situation? Dan, I tell myself, Dan, stop imagining terrible things. She’s probably telepathic and can read your mind. Unfortunately-
“Errr...” Oh, thank God, she’s stopped me inwardly rambling. “Really? Shouldn’t we, uh, talk about this slightly beforehand?”
We’re not virgins to sex-discussions: we’re always debating whether one-night-stands are terribly immoral or not (I think they are, she doesn’t), whether cheating can ever be a good thing (Lyla: possibly, but if I ever do anything of the sort she’ll brand my balls with a red-hot poker and then some), and our views on sex before marriage (totally fine by both of us; I’m agnostic, she’s an avowed atheist, and with neither of us having much time for religion, it doesn’t seem a problem to offend some possibly mythical deity). But we’ve never properly discussed it about us. And no wonder she’s confused! I haven’t so much as copped a feel (not intentionally/obviously, anyway) and here I am, asking for all the lights to be switched on and for all the mystery to go.
“I don’t really know why I asked... forget I said anything. Who would you rather; Liam or Noel Gallagher?” Breeziness and small talk are not my strong points.
“Uhh, well, they’re both douches, but Noel writes the songs so he can have it. Although Liam’s weirdly cute in sunglasses. But to be honest, they’re both a bit ugly. Anyway, you’re not getting off (ha!) that lightly. We probably need to talk about it at some point anyway...” Oh dear.
“Well, we’ve been together for nearly seven months, and, well, if we’re in love... well, why not? It kind of seems like, uhh, the obvious thing to do.”
“I don’t like doing obvious things.” She’s the queen of the articulate soundbite, and it kills me. “Besides, exams are next month. What am I going to do, revise while balancing my textbooks on your bits and shout out literary techniques during orgasm? I just don’t think it’s a good idea, really. Not now. In the summer, maybe.”
She has me there. Despite my superior grades (not that I’m superior about having superior grades, I’m just stating facts), she revises a hell of a lot harder than I do. She works and works, whereas things just fall into my head and off my pen in exams. I don’t know; I’m lucky, maybe, and GCSEs were easy. This year’s only been bearable because of her – Fulham are doing utterly diabolically, Mum’s still in dubious health and Linda is still alive – and, although she’s hardly my sole existence for living (nothing could sound so horrifically wet and over the top), she’s like the gloss that makes everything somehow OK. I can’t imagine this year’s exams will be as easy as they seemed last year...
“Fair enough.”
“Have you wanted to... you know... for a long time, or just recently?”
“I’m a boy. It’s my natural reaction to a nice cleavage. No, joking-” – though she’s already attacked me with a rolled-up copy of this week’s NME – “Hey! I said, joking! But, yeah, I daydream about it occasionally. Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?”
“From time to time. But not seriously. It just makes history lessons pass more quickly.”
“I suppose there’s time for all that. D’you think we’ll stay together for uni?” It wasn’t supposed to sound so clingy or presumptuous, but it popped out of my mouth before I could shove it back into my voice-box. It’s just under a year and a half away, but I just can’t imagine us breaking up. I suppose that’s obvious, isn’t it? Why would you be together if you were just waiting to break up? And now the floodgates have opened and all these questions are vibrating through my head, making it full, and her uneasy expression throws me into further panic.
“We’ll see.” Seeing my angst-ridden face, she rephrases. “I’m just thinking, I don’t really want to talk about it. That’s so far into the future! I don’t even know if I’ll get into uni – I might mess up my A-levels, you never know – and as for us, well, we don’t know what’s round the corner. There might be someone better for either of us – don’t look so worried! I can’t imagine there will be! I’m just pontificating. Or we might fall out irreparably and never speak again. So, shall we leave it until nearer the time? I don’t want to think about the future at the moment. It’s too... scary? I want the future to be more Blur albums and more dates with you, staying sixteen forever. University seems like growing up, and growing up just seems like this huge monster that’s going to eat me.” She pauses pensively. “Wow, eloquent simile, much? Anyway, who would you rather, Justine Frischmann or...”
It’s going to be a long day.