Friday, 11 January 2008

The 30 Year Old Virgin?

There is a question I would say I’ve been asked a lot more than most men my age. I should probably be offended. Indeed, I am offended. That question, as the title of this entry rather gives away, is: ‘Are you a
virgin?’ Ange asked it last night.

As it happens, I’m not. I’ve had sex with two women. Ange wanted to know about it. About them. I tried to play it down. I didn’t particularly want to tell her. ‘It was just, you know, normal. Jesus. What? Sex is sex, isn’t it?’

But of course I was lying. I get the feeling from people I know and books I’ve read that sex is never really ‘normal’, or at least it’s as ‘normal’ as people are, and everyone’s at least a little insane. But more than that, sex with a freakishly ugly man is never normal.

So. Here goes.

I lost my virginity when I was 24 years old. To Avril. Avril was my Diana Adams.

Diana Adams is a character in the film Mask. Not only did Mask establish Cher as ‘a serious actress’ and bring Peter Bogdanovich ‘back from the dead’, but it was also the film that for a long time gave me hope. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that it was the most important film of my teenage years. It helped get me through what was one of the most difficult periods of my life. I thought about it a lot when I was at my lowest ebbs. When I was really, really down, really, really alone, weeping and wishing I had never been born, Mask came to mind and gave me hope. Before Mask it was The Elephant Man. But Mask was much more important, as it had kissing...

...No one kissed The Elephant Man. Poor guy.

Mask is the story of Rocky Dennis, who was born with craniodiaphyseal dysplasia, an extremely rare bone disorder which causes a calcium build-up in the skull. Imagine a boy with – instead of a head – an enormous Fisherman’s Friend in a ginger wig. That was Rocky Dennis. And Mask was the true story of how he overcame adversity. Well, at least until he died, aged 16. So it’s the story of how he overcame adversity for a while, and then succumbed to it.

For all of his physical misfortune however, Rocky had two things I never had when I was growing up – three if you count a cool name: he had a supportive circle of family and friends; and he had Diana Adams, played in the film by Laura Dern.

Diana Adams was – believe it or not – a blind girl. Which makes you think. Firstly, it makes you think, yes, that makes sense. For only a blind girl would see beyond the surface and discover the worth in such a shocking-looking geezer. But then secondly, hold on just a minute – surely, when she got round to feeling his face, wouldn’t she have pretty much the same reaction that other people would have when clapping eyes on him for the first time? Well, no, because she’d got to know him by then, without the impediment of having to judge his freakishness.

Which reminds me of a very cruel parody in Family Guy. I wouldn’t mention it, but it does make me laugh.

Diana: Rocky, I don’t even know what you look like. Can I touch your face?

Rocky: Of course, Diana.

Diana: Oh, God. Oh – oh, God, what is this? What – what is all this? Am I touching the outside of a house? Oh, God! You’re a monster!

Rocky: I’m beautiful on the inside.

Diana: Yeah, but, Rocky, there’s a limit. Oh – oh, what is this now? Does your face have a pelvis?

So, to get back to the point. I identified a lot with Rocky Dennis and to be perfectly honest, my face is not a million miles away from his: not quite as unshapely, but with more elbows and eczema disfigurement. So from the moment I saw the film I was on permanent look-out for an attractive blind girl who wouldn’t give a damn about my big, ugly face. (I did go as far as to volunteer at a college for the blind, but that’s a story for another time, when we’ve got to know each other a little better and I’m pretty sure you won’t run screaming.) Suffice to say, my search for a blind girl was very much in vain.

Then, quite by chance, I met Avril.

Avril was 33. She was not what you’d call good-looking, but she did have beautiful eyes and large, quite magnificent breasts. She was bright, articulate, funny and severely physically handicapped. In a word, phocomelia. It’s what lots of thalidomide victims got. Apparently it comes from the Greek for ‘seal limbs’, a reference to the flipper-type hands which are a common symptom.

Avril was in a wheelchair. She had two tiny legs and one tiny arm. Her right arm was almost normal length but still somewhat twisted, and the hand was smaller than it ought have been. Her breasts however, were, as I say, magnificent. And her other lady parts weren't half bad either. The first time I laid eyes on her, I must admit, I thought, ‘Now there’s a woman who might be desperate enough to have sex with me’. She later told me that she thought pretty much exactly the same thing. Another film that always springs to mind whenever I think of me and Avril is Freaks. One of us, one of us. We made a wonderful couple.

I became friends with Avril through her brother, Stu. I became friends with Stu through my ukulele, George. That’s right, I christened my ukulele George. And why the hell not? So, Stu had placed an advert on the noticeboard of the music shop where I bought my strings. He was a music producer currently working with a bunch of comedians on a sketch show for Radio 4. At least that was the plan, and they needed a ukulele player for a George Formby spoof song. It was cutting edge satirical stuff. It actually was in a way. It was a song about September 11th, and the terrible events therein. Within a month of it having happened. It was close to the bone for sure, but sadly, it wasn’t very funny. Anyhow I went along to audition and got along very well with Stu.

In the end Radio 4 thought the comedy element even less funny than I did and the show went nowhere. Which meant that I ended up – as I have so very many times in my life – doing work for no money. But Stu felt bad about that, plus he liked me, so he invited me over to dinner one night. At his place. With him and his wife. Super. I actually didn’t relish the idea of spending the evening with a happy couple in their happy home with their happy, well-adjusted baby gurgling close by, no doubt having happy, well-adjusted baby dreams, but I did relish the idea of a free meal, so I graciously accepted.

And it was actually very pleasant. Stu’s wife was lovely, Mick was charming and even the baby was inoffensive enough. I was enjoying myself, eating olives, drinking wine and looking forward to the food, which smelled succulent and meaty.

Then the phone went. It was Stu’s sister. She was outside in the car, fuming angry. She’d had a big row with their parents. Stu huffed and puffed, apologised, excused himself, then went outside to help his sister down the stairs.

While he was out of the room, Carolyn said, ‘I don’t know if Stu’s mentioned Avril before…’ He hadn’t. ‘Well, just so you know, she’s in a wheelchair.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s um… that’s great. Well, not great obviously. I mean, that’s fine. Which is to say, I’ve not got a problem with that. Obviously. I mean, why would I?’

Carolyn smirked at me and briefly limpened a wrist as if to put me at my ease.

I smirked back.

Avril was still in feisty mood when she whirred up to the table. Stu introduced us. Avril immediately picked up on my unsureness as to whether to shake her hand or not – she was used to it. I had already stood up and was wondering whether even that was not a rather insensitive manoeuvre. She held out her right arm. ‘Shake my tiny hand,’ she said. I laughed and did so, and even then it crossed my mind, the old adage about men liking women with small hands. But I thought better of sharing it. Instead I said, ‘Pleased to meet you. That reminds me of the EE Cummings poem.’ Then I felt embarrassed. I blushed. But I’d started, so I had to finish. ‘Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands,’ I quoted.

Avril pulled a face. ‘What are you saying?’

I blushed some more. ‘I don’t know really. It’s a poem.’

‘I’ve got absolutely no idea what that means,’ she said.

‘Now play nice,’ said Carolyn.

Avril laughed. ‘No, I’m not being mean. I genuinely don’t understand. The rain doesn’t have hands. Or am I missing something?’ She looked at Stu who shrugged unhelpfully.

‘I don’t think it was meant to be taken literally,’ I offered.

‘You don’t think he wrote the poem about a deformed girl then?’ asked Avril.

‘Actually I think he did,’ I replied. ‘Yeah, I remember now. He definitely did.’

Avril laughed again. ‘Marvellous,’ she said. ‘That’s marvellous.’ I drank some more wine, relieved.

At the end of the evening Avril and I were left alone. Stu and Carolyn were tidying up in the kitchen and making coffee.

‘You know the worst thing about my disability?’ Avril asked me, apropos of nothing.

‘Hold on a minute,’ I said. ‘Let me think.’

I thought. The answer that occurred to me was ‘Not getting enough sex?’ but I didn’t voice it, because I didn’t want to offend. So instead I said, ‘Going round in circles when you swim,’ which was just stupid. But she laughed, which was nice of her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The worst thing about being in this chair, and having these fucked-up limbs…’ – she had quite a fruity vocabulary, Avril – ‘…is that most men tend not to think of me in terms of someone they might like to fuck.’

Perhaps over-enthusiastically I responded. ‘I know! That’s what I thought, I just didn’t like to say! But I do know exactly what you mean. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but I’m – well, I’m quite an ugly bloke.’

‘Oh, I dunno,’ she replied. ‘You’re not Tom Cruise, but you know, you’re not…’ She ran out.

‘That was a valiant effort,’ I said. ‘And it’s appreciated, it really is. But the fact is, I am a frighteningly ugly bloke, and I don’t mean to demean your condition when I say this, but ugliness of this extent is actually a kind of disability.’

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘In a way,’ I continued, ‘it’s worse. Because at least you have an excuse.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Let me explain. People look at me and their reaction – I’ll warrant – is similar to the reaction they have when they look at you. They think, you’re just not in the running. No pun intended. You’re less than human. You’re not someone they’d consider – whether for sex, for a job or, nine times out of ten, even for conversation… You know why I spend so much of my life writing stuff? Well, because I’m good at it as it happens, but also, probably equally importantly, I write because I can get a lot of work these days without having to turn up for an interview. Most of the jobs I get are on the strength of my writing. I don’t have to impress in person.’ I was getting into my stride now, and a little tiddly. ‘I’m pretty much good at everything I do – no arrogance intended – but I’ve never got a job if I had to go for an interview in person. Even if I’ve been perfect for the job. And this is because – again, no arrogance or self-delusion intended – I’m butt-fuck ugly.’

Avril laughed.

‘Yeah, laugh it up. At least you’ve got rights groups and laws looking out for you. Do you know it’s not illegal to discriminate against ugly people?’

‘That’s a disgrace,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should start a campaign,’ she said.

‘Maybe I should,’ I said. ‘Maybe I will.’

‘It’d be a complete waste of time though,’ she countered. ‘You’d still be discriminated against. Trust me. So where did you say you lived?’

The question took me by surprise slightly. ‘Herne Hill,’ I told her. ‘Why?’

‘Just making conversation,’ she said. ‘Do you live alone?’

‘Yeah,’ I said.’

‘Nice,’ she said. ‘Good for you. Maybe you should invite me round for dinner this weekend then? I promise I won’t discriminate against you.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Maybe I will.’

So. A few days later, in an act of mutual desperation, I lost my virginity. Actually, that sounds terrible. It was an act of mutual attraction as much as anything. And as I found out later, Avril wasn't remotely desperate. I was, however. I had waited an awful long time for this moment, and in the end, it was worth waiting for. It was fun, and it was passionate, and although I didn’t realise it at the time, it was actually incredibly kinky. We did things you people wouldn’t believe. Then, at half past midnight, she asked me to call her a cab.

‘Don’t you want to stay?’ I asked her. ‘You’re welcome to stay.’

‘I’d like to,’ she said, ‘but my husband likes me home.’

‘Your… You’re married?’

‘Did I not mention that? I thought you knew.’

I didn’t know. She’d been married for six years. She and her husband had an open relationship. He was also, as she put it, ‘a spaz’, and he liked her to go off and have sex with other men. They would relive it together. It turned them both on. He knew she loved him. She knew he loved her.

Is this weird? I have to say, it sounds weird to me. I asked Ange, ‘Do you think it’s weird?’

‘I think it’s fucking weird,’ she said. ‘Sweet though.’

‘It’s not as weird as guys getting off on sleeping with disabled people.’ Avril told me. ‘Blokes who can only get an erection,’ she continued, ‘if a woman has a stump. Or a flipper.’

I told Ange that too. ‘That’s just wrong,’ she said.

Maybe, Ange. Maybe. But it’s nowhere near as wrong as what happened the second time I went to bed with someone. She wanted to know more. But I was tired. And despite myself, I’m still ashamed, and I’m hanging on to that story for as long as I possibly can. I think at least until something else comes along to distance me from it.

To finish the Avril story however, I ended up seeing Avril every once in a while for around two and a half years. Then I started to feel somehow morally compromised by our relationship. At least that’s what I told myself at the time. In retrospect I think it was just that what I wanted was a proper relationship. Not that a long-term affair with a lady in a wheelchair is somehow improper – just that, you know, I wanted to be in love.

And there you have it.

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Anonymous said...

Would you prefer for me to comment here so it's apparent someone is reading your blog or would you rather I just message you? Or shall I do both?

I bet you like to get comments here. But I'm not going to comment on the blog this time since I've already done that in a message.

I want to know more about your experience volunteering at a school for the blind. I have some neighbors who are blind; they're a couple. My boyfriend and I refer to them as "The Blinds." I'll tell you about my scheme to acquire a free tiny pony (Oh my god, their cuteness is indescribable!) by pulling a mean prank on The Blinds and then coming to a rather heroic rescue. Oh, tiny ponies! People take them on airplanes and let them sleep in their beds like pet dogs.

Uh, I commented on your blog.

K said...

You have just been bookmarked
and have gained another reader. Thought I'd let you know

La Bête said...

Aww, god bless the both of you. And yes, I do like comments on my blog. In fact, I give out a little cheer every time I get one. Hurray!

I'd quite like a free tiny pony myself. Please get me a pony and send it over on a plane.

Thank you.

Anonymous said...

Damnit! Hello? You really need to give your audience another installment if you want to keep them interested.


Your Most Faithful Reader

claire said...

I read your blog all the time and think your very charming. I doubt you could be as ugly as you think when your personality is so sexy. don't ever underestimate the power of a brain. I'm in America what they call an 8.5 or a 9 and I'm in love with a 2.Keep writing cause I have a crush on you too, just don't tell my hubby!

claire said...

Keep writing,you make my day and I think I have a crush on you too!

Lana Chan said...

There is something really appealing about how absolutely open you are about who you are in your history and in your thoughts. The completely disarming honesty is actually quite endearing. It shows that you're not afraid of who you are and not ashamed to show it to the world.

It's one of the things I lack in my writing the most.

La Bête said...

anonymous, I am so sorry. I gave myself a once a week minimum for posting here and so far I'm well within that, so I don't feel bad. Or at least I didn't till you threatened me with your failing interest. I shall try harder. You cruel taskmaster, you. I've been away from the internet for the past few days, that's all. I've been spending some time with friends. My life has become a social whirlwind.

Hi claire, welcome and thanks. Can I ask you, how do you know you're an 8.5 or a 9? Is there some sort of kit you can buy in the States which rates your appearance? Maybe a piece of special paper on which you urinate? It's funny you should mention numbers for looks by the way, because I've spent a lot of the last couple of days reading The Game. You must be what they refer to as an HB9. Toot toot!

Lana Chan, thanks for your kind words. I'm not sure I understand how your writing lacks those things, but if you're aware of it, surely you can rectify it?

Right. Better get on.

Big ugly hugs to all of you, maybe with a straying hand or two.


Anonymous said...

What a fucking fantastic blog this is.

I'm sure I will come up with something more interesting (and hopefully funny) to say in the comments section next time. I was going to say something about tricking blind people with tiny ponies, but someone already mentioned that. What are the odds?!

That's about all I have to say about it really. Please keep it going.

Iron Fist said...

I clicked over here from Blogography this afternoon and have been reading through your blog. And I really liked this post, so I thought I'd chime in and say so.

Annie Rhiannon said...

My new favourite blog. Hello.

Clare Sudbery said...

Wonderful post. Makes me want to blog about stuff like this again. Honest, well-written, moving. Perfect combination.

Clare Sudbery said...

In typical me-me-me fashion, I'm reminded of this, wot I rote.

Beth said...

You are such a good storyteller. I'd love to hear more and it especially annoys me to know that someone is holding something back, yet they wave it out there like a tease. I'm not a very patient type, but I'll be following in hopes of more. And kudos to you for wanting 'more', you certainly deserve it as much as anyone.

Michael Kimball said...

I read a bunch of your posts and bookmarked you so I can come back. You're a really strong writer. Ever consider writing up all of this as a book?

Heath said...

Love can happen anywhere anytime and with anybody...God is great.

Discrete dating site for those married , or in a relationship,
and looking for someone married or in a relationship.

La Bête said...

Ooh, you spamming God-bothering swine. Dating for married people too. You should be ashamed.

Raven said...

You are hilarious! I love your writing style (I'm a tad envious...ok a LOT envious at how easy it appears to be for you) and will definitely be reading regularly. And ugly or not you have one thing going for you that is far superior to looks - intellect, and even better, you know how to use it :)

KiwiInOz said...

Ive also bookmarked you!
You have also gained another reader!

Anon said...

I wish I had your way with words.. My blog appears fruitless, pointless and I look rather dim next to your way. I do not begrudge you though, I am very pleased you've found your calling, you make gripping reading for all of us and I thank you.
Keep up the excellent work.
Also - EVERYONE is beautiful to someone ok. And quite clearly you have a fab fan base here.
I wish i had your rationale... Alas.. I do not... Maybe it'll come with more time?!? Hmmm.
I hope you're well anyway. x

Wereae said...

Aka ja na tah mukash nuktuk du apan ze?

Anonymous said...

Wow, I loove your writing! This entry was so entertaining. I loved it. The dialogue was so real, it's almost as if you had a mic recording every single word spoken. Awesome :D

Katcal said...

Heh, this post was so much like something I could have written... Keep going, I'm enjoying it!

Sayuri said...

Your story was so interesting to read! I really like the way you write! Its nice to read someone's experiences. I dont know if you are really ugly , as you keep mentioning.. what I see is someone who has a beautiful "inside world", and through your stories you made me reconsider a lot of things.. or re-think things I have thought of in the past (if that makes any sence).