Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

Obviously I never had a girlfriend or anything when I was at home. I was pretty sure everyone could see I wasn’t normal and wherever I went it was like she was watching me, which was a bit of a turnoff too. So coming to London got rid of that and, much sooner than you’d have thought, all this sexual feeling started to reappear. Nothing unusual I suppose for a sixteen-year-old boy but completely new to me — noticing girls, fancying them. Even recognising it came as a shock and the first time something happened I couldn’t believe I was so up for it. I mean I was still bruised but there was this girl at the hostel I’d moved to — she worked in the kitchen there. Older than me. Eighteen, nineteen. Curly hair. Big brown eyes and a fucking tongue you wouldn’t believe. Everyone was scared of her but for me she was It. I couldn’t think about anything else. I was always hanging around where she was, all lanky and shy, holding open doors, offering to carry the mop. I was no good at coy so whenever I saw her I ticced. Badly. And she’d take the piss but then feed me scraps, which was further than most men got. I’m sure she knew I’d never make a move and if she hadn’t I’d probably still be a virgin now. Anyway, one night she took pity on me. Towed me into the women’s dorm and said Do you want to kiss me? I went bright red but managed to indicate that I did. Well, tonight’s your lucky night, she laughed then kissed me and Fuck it was good. I remember trying to work out what I should do with my hands and just putting them on her shoulders. She must’ve thought This is a right one, but all she said was Come lie on the bed, and, when I did, she put my hand on her breast and fffffffff. We kissed some more. Then she told me open her top and I got that hard I thought I was going to pass out. It was the first time I’d ever felt properly turned on, from the inside of myself, you know? But, just as suddenly, she sat back up and said That’s enough, off you go!

The next morning I couldn’t stop smiling at her. The whole canteen must have seen. She kept saying Stop giving me those puppy eyes, you! but most nights that week we did the same. Each time a little further, always at her behest. First time she put her hand in my pants I freaked out a bit but Don’t you want me to? she asked and soon as I said I did I could let her and it was great. I still felt strange about coming though and coughed a lot to cover it up. She wasn’t fooled but she was good about it and just put my hand up her skirt. I didn’t want to get naked because I was ashamed of my scars. She had a way with her though and, a few days later, it only took Want me to put it in my mouth? to get my pants on the floor. And I saw her see them but she never asked, which I was grateful for. Harder was returning the favour. I’d always found it particularly you know not great but the next night I took a couple of pills and Jesus, the reaction from her. Suddenly all I could think about was making her come and what it would feel like to put it in, which meant — by the time she suggested it — I was sort of prepared, in my head. The body though wasn’t much help. Couldn’t get it in, didn’t know what to do once I had. She was instructive, thankfully, and patient. Let me keep trying until I got it right — she probably thought I’d better come or he’ll never get off. But the memory of that first time — real time — and after it, both of us sleeping in her bed with the smell of her hair and the smell of the sex. It was like starting the clock again but, this time, right way round. Like getting clean for the first time in my life. She was the very best thing that could have happened and I knew that, even then.

I crawl up the bed and offer my mouth. He kisses it too. Lets me put my arms round and find he is a bit like glass. But I want him to know I think he’s such a fine man. He won’t though. He’ll never think that. And once I’ve settled back he just carries on.

She was a bad girl too. She’d flirt mercilessly with me. I’d go so red the drunks would roar Forget it lad, she’d tear you limb from limb! But I loved that, the ordinariness, being part of a joke. I used to run back from work just to watch her peel spuds. She’d pretend to be annoyed but kiss me up against the door, then throw me back out shouting Behave yourself youngster! Before long we were getting wasted together, usually with her mates in their half-empty dorm. End up shagging away while they’d complain, chucking pillows or moaning along. The occasional glass of water thrown over us, after which there’d be screaming and chasing about. She encouraged all that and would dare us to kiss. Then I’ll-show-mine-if-you’ll-show-yours and on to the next until I ended up getting passed around between them all. I think it became their mission to teach me how to do the filthiest stuff — which I now realise they didn’t know anything about — but, after everything, you can imagine how I took to being fussed on by four pretty girls. It was all very harmless though. And I’ve done that kind of thing plenty since but it’s never the same, just drink and drugs and athletics. Fairly grim really. Not like those nights. We were only young and had all had our innocence kicked out of us. Pretending to be grown up but, really, just being friends. Nothing heavy. No demands. The confidence it gave me, I hardly knew myself. And, more importantly, because of those girls I liked women again — which could have easily gone the other way because there was so much anger — but instead they set me on my feet. Little-brothered me too. Taught me how to smoke. Made me grow my hair out. Get some decent clothes. And somehow in that room I got to decide who I wanted to be. They seemed to like this boy who was getting a little cocky, took too many drugs but had a laugh and I liked him too so I put him on. From the moment I did the tic was gone and that terrified boy got locked away. I didn’t want him any more and no one needed to know he’d ever been. And that new persona got me through the next few years. So I owe a lot to those girls and, to this very day, the sight of a pink candlewick bedspread — oh my fucking God!

What happened to them? Did you all stay friends?

We didn’t. It just petered out in the end. Someone moved away. She got a different job. I went to drama school. We met up at first. Then less. Then lost touch. Everything was like that in those days. Drifting about. No one making proper plans. Years later I did, once, see her again. She came to the stage door after a show I was in. She looked exactly the same. We couldn’t say very much though because she’d brought her son along. But she said she was glad things had worked out for me because I’d always looked like such a stray. When she was leaving she kissed me on the cheek and said how fondly she remembered that life. And I was really glad she said so because I do as well.

I press my sole to his. How come drama school then?

Working on a stage door with a mate — bit less nasty than stacking meat — then hanging round with the actors, seeing other shows they did. Don’t know why I thought I could but when someone suggested drama school, I decided to give it a go. Auditioned. Got in. Got a scholarship. And that started a really good time. Acting just seemed to offer me another life for free. A way of exploring all the things I wanted to be without trawling through all the shit you’d have to if it was real. And all that anger and confusion, the stories I could never tell, finally had a place to breathe because there has to be a logic on stage that normal life doesn’t often have. Whatever I was I was safe in the part and everyone was safe from the mess I was. Once the show was over, that was it. Like living without consequence — all of which turned out to be bullshit but that’s how I thought of it at the time. Anyway, those years I was freed from myself. Not having to check which bruises to cover up or lie to people who knew what I was. And getting wasted. And having sex. Boys. Girls. I didn’t care. It was all part of being free and imagining good things could happen for me. I worked like a dog and when it turned out I was good, people said so and that helped a lot — a little confidence is a great thing to get hold of when you’ve lived for years with none. And all this time she didn’t know where I was until I needed my birth certificate. She wrote back My Darling Son. Left messages at the school saying she’d be down and I was to call to arrange. That happened a couple of times. But I never did and she never appeared. I heard less and less and I got less scared. Then nothing at all. I left her behind and I started again.