(Not So) Furtive Fumbling

It’s funny sometimes, the memories that our minds decide to dredge up. Sometimes, there is a clear link between what you’ve just been thinking about, a memory that you’ve been searching for, and what then pops into your head. At other times, there seems to be no rhyme or reason as to why your mind has decided to hit replay on a particular event or time in your life.

This poem is based on one of those memories that bubbled up from nowhere, surprising me with the level of contextual information that bubbled up with it. Looking back, I can see that I was an unusual child. Having two older brothers, I grew up being very comfortable around them and their friends, never feeling intimidated by adults. Conversely, I was often a fish out of water, when it came to being around kids of my own age. It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends. I did, but there would often seem to be a level of distance between us. A few years ago, a friend that I’d reconnected with told me how she’d now wished that we’d been closer, when we were kids. She paused for a moment, before answering the question that neither of us had voiced, but we clearly had both been thinking. “You were just too different, and I was trying hard to fit in.” Fortunately, I realized that when you changed schools, there was an opportunity to reinvent yourself, and I grabbed at it with both hands.

Anyway, back to the memory that led to this poem. Growing up in a mining town, in addition to joining the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, kids also had the option of joining the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade. Tracing its origins back to the time of the Crusades, the organization was heavily subsidized and supported by the Miners Union. That meant that as a St. John’s Ambulance Cadet, we got to enjoy camping breaks, and boisterous post-season weekends at either the Miner’s Holiday Camp in Skegness, or its sister site in Rhyl. We’d also attend all of the local events (fairs, festivals, etc.), ever ready to bandage a swollen ankle or put someone into the recovery position. We’d also go on the occasional day trip, and on this occasion, they’d taken a coach load of us to London, to visit the Museum of the Order of St. John, which is well worth a visit if you’re in the area, as it tells the “unique and fascinating story of an ancient religious military Order, from its origins caring for sick pilgrims in eleventh century Jerusalem, through to its modern-day role with St John Ambulance, the international first aid charity.”

One last thing, and by far, the most important thing. No-one ever talked about consent when I was a teenager, and I suspect that far too few people are having those conversations today. Just like Star Wars, the events described in this poem almost seem to be from “a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.” Consent was neither discussed or agreed. Instead, assumptions were made in the heat of the moment. I’ve thought long and hard about posting this, thinking about what happened then, and how I feel about it now. Sometimes it helps to revisit the past, with the knowledge and insights of the present. Clearly, both of us were embarrassed about what had happened, as we never spoke about it again, and barely acknowledged each other’s existence after that. While I wish that it hadn’t happened, I accept that it did. My hope is that by sharing this, it might prompt some conversations about consent.

(NOT SO) FURTIVE FUMBLING

There was little flirting
Each of us sticking
to our age old, same old scripts
Yielding to the goading of our peers
Having spent a day in London
We were still giddy from it all
I was fourteen
And you, a year older

It was on our way home
Our Newport Pagnell moment
At some point
Teasing and tickling became touching
Your reticence
became acquiescence
Once gathered, our eager audience
Left no space for retreat

You were tall for your age
Making your uniform short
Snuggling into the window of the coach
My fingers made their way
beneath your hemline
Nylon-clad thighs were new to me
I felt the elastic at your waist
And the softness of your skin

Disconnected voices
Cheered and jeered us on
A command performance
Where no was not an option
Both of us wishing and needing
to be somewhere else
Some place that wasn’t there
Some time that wasn’t then

Awkwardly tangled
Bravado giving way to fear
I looked to you for redemption
“Let’s get this over with”
Your silence seemed to say
Slipping my hand beneath the cotton
I felt the warmth of you
And time did not stand still

Conscious, suddenly
Of so many eyes upon us
You pushed away my hand
My attentions no longer welcome
My fingers, feeling the heat
of shame, beat a hasty retreat
Exposed and unsure
We both sought safer ground

I moved a few seats away
And for the rest of the journey
We endured the endless taunts
and cruel teasing
Endlessly replaying
while seeking to forget
A rite of passage
So publicly shared

We never spoke again
Never acknowledged
what transpired between us
Whenever our paths crossed
We’d look away
Look any other way
except at each other
Our silence was deafening