In Praise of Oral

Some poetry spoke to me from the first line I read.  Larkin’s Ugly Sister is eight lines of such sparse beauty it makes my heart swell just to read it.  I never felt that way about Heaney.  Heaney was… OK.  Nothing objectionable, but a blah bit of background noise that I didn’t pay attention to.  I had no idea he needed to be read aloud to be really appreciated.

Anahorish, soft gradient
of consonant, vowel-meadow

On the page (or in this case the screen) it’s a pretty nothing.  Aloud it truly comes to life.

I was 18, not long out of a relationship with a much (MUCH) older man who was dour and serious (and an insecure controlling bully, but nobody is perfect).  Life had been short on laughs for a little while and I was in need of a bit of pure unfettered fun.  Although my parental home wasn’t exactly a strict one (I spent unsupervised weekends home with my brother from the age of 13), it was my first year at uni and the opportunity to have promiscuous sex free from familial judgement was far too good to pass up.

One of my housemates was studying Sports and Recreation, which gave me the perfect opportunity to have her introduce me to all the fittest, sportiest lads on campus, and I took good advantage of that.  Every Wednesday and Friday would see me in the students union bar, every Saturday would see me in Valentinos – possibly the tackiest nightclub on the face of the planet.  All too often I’d start the following day by staring bleary-eyed at the person in my bed, trying desperately to remember his name through the drunken haze of the night before so I could kick him out without appearing too rude.

If this all seems a little tawdry, well yes, it was!  I had very little sexual confidence and was searching for some sort of validation, and in my youthful naivete I confused sexual availability with genuine desire.  I’m not the first 18 year old to sell myself cheap trying to find a sense of self-worth and I have no doubt I won’t be the last, but it was quite a ride for the first couple of terms.  I had a lot of sex, but since one or both of us were invariably roaring drunk I never managed to orgasm and only found myself increasingly insecure, but now also damning myself as a slut.

L was the polar opposite of my ex.  He was one of the Sport and Rec lot, but not one of the brawny athletes.  He was short, an inch or two shorter than me, and black Irish: dark eyed, black haired, skin so white it wouldn't even freckle up, a hint of stoutness that promised to turn into a full blown beer belly in middle age.  When I think back now to my first impressions of him what I remember most is all the laughter that surrounded him.

L was a party in full swing.  He would prop up the bar at the students union most evenings, as well as hanging around there in the daytime, and was always surrounded by people laughing and generally seeming to have the time of their life.  We were aware of each other as faces seen repeatedly in the same crowd but had never spoken, and I envied his friends their easy laughter and the fun they always seemed to be having.

Looking back it would’ve been so easy to introduce myself.  His friends were people I knew via my housemate, and I could’ve simply walked up and joined that group, but I had (in truth still have!) a morbid fear of intruding; of encroaching, of pushing myself in where I’m not wanted.

Instead I stood a little too close ordering drinks at the bar.  I found excuses why I needed to walk past his group.  I took to spending free time in the union in the afternoon rather than going home or into the library.  I didn’t think any of it was having any sort of impact, but then it wasn’t a particularly direct approach.

I don’t remember exactly when he noticed me, but I’d guess it must’ve been around February.  I was on my own after a Wednesday night jaunt and decided to get food from the dodgy burger van outside the gate of the uni.  It was a chilly night but I was wearing a vodka blanket so I was feeling toasty even as my skin mottled and turned to goose-bumps.

For once L was on his own.  He wasn’t laughing or joking, or even smiling, just leaning on the wall and watching intently while I got my carb overload of chips wrapped in a naan tandoori.  Incidentally, but keeping with the topic of written versus spoken word, if you know anyone from Stoke do ask them to say tandoori.  You’ll not regret it.  Tan-duuuuur-i.

When I eventually met L’s gaze I just stood looking back at him until my food was ready.  I didn’t move as he walked over, for once he the one standing too close while he ordered his burger, then as my food was handed across he took my arm and led me to a low bit of wall and sat me down.  Normally I would have objected loudly to feeling manhandled, but I had been watching too long to not spend whatever time I could with him.

The wall was cold and damp under me, greasy steam rising from the food in my hand.  L got his burger and sat next to me, still not saying a word.  The heat of his thigh and his hip touching mine was very welcome, and my shiver was partly from arousal but partly from cold. We ate our food under the harsh strip light of the burger van, L occasionally helping himself to a chip.  When I’d eaten my fill of both bread and chips I offered him the rest, but he took them from my hand and walked over to the bin before pulling me to my feet.  In full view of the many drunken students still milling around he kissed me.  The kiss tasted of salt and grease and alcopops and was far too brief for my liking.

In the combination of the cold and the food I had started to sober up, so tempted as I was to walk him back to my digs and spend the remainder of the night thoroughly exploring him I realised what a waste it would be to add him to the list of the nameless.  I told him I’d see him around and started to walk away.

In his broad Ballina accent he called after me, and started reciting Good-night by Heaney.  It’s a poem I’d read but never particularly enjoyed. To hear it in L’s musical lilt made all the difference in the world, and I’ve adored the poem ever since.

That night I laughed and blew him a kiss, and as I walked away I shouted over my shoulder that I would see L in the union the following afternoon. “Bring a toothbrush” he called, “and stay overnight!”.  Ever suggestible, I did.

GOOD-NIGHT

A latch lifting, an edged cave of light
Opens across the yard. Out of the low door
They stoop into the honeyed corridor,
Then walk straight through the wall of the dark.  

A puddle, cobble-stones, jambs and doorstep
Are set steady in a block of brightness
Till she strides in again beyond her shadows
And cancels everything behind her.

Seamus Heaney