h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

August 1979

Deadlines. I've set a deadline. A cut-off point. A point of no return. Something to build towards. The end of the game. All this jabbing and pumping. All this book reading. SN and I have taken the experimentation as far as we could care. Hasn't she used my body as much as I've used hers ? Blame it on Shere Hite. Blame it on the pill. Blame it on FF - she was the one who told me SN was on the pill in the first place, probably just to deflect attention away from her. A clever diversionary tactic which transferred my allegiances over night.

SN has left school having taken an A/0 in Biology. It's like having an affair with an older woman. Her goals are now so different to mine, so stuck, so adult, so clearly spelt out. She's two months younger than me ... two months ? Like Mum and Dad look what happened to them. Same age relationships never work (look at my parents). An age gap is crucial. SN's already too grown up for me. I'm in no hurry to have a job. I can understand why Dad left. He stuck on 32 for a decade while Mum wore herself out bringing up 4 kids. Had it been his intention to marry a woman 10 years his senior ?

SN and I would end eventually. She knew it. I knew it. It began to suffer from predetermined terminal illness. That note. Getting it into the open tarnished what fun remained. We wouldn't let go, not unless we had to. We continued to service each other in bed, took it in turns, tit for tat. I do that she does this, no giving, all taking, bargaining and routine. Admit it. I'm keeping SN on 'til things develop with VL - if they develop with VL.

It's like using stepping stones to cross a river in a blind-fold. I'm not going to move forward 'til I know I have a sure footing in front.

I hope SN'll meet a doctor at the Freeman Hospital. That way we'd part on equal terms, feeling mutually satisfied at what we'd got out of each other ... how I'd describe the whole relationship, mutually satisfied. We took everything in turn. I gave a bit of that, she gave a bit of this .. time of my life. It was my schooling. Practice makes perfect. Self-inclined. Harmless and free. A good grounding in sex. All teenagers should be so lucky. Here on in I'd be master, the one with the know-how.

Our split was comical when it came. Imagine a Buster Keaton sketch. Imagine him in a motor-bike with a side-car. His girl is in the side car. What happens at the junction ? He takes himself off in one direction and she takes herself off in the other. She screams as the self-propelled, side-car grinds to a halt on the hard shoulder til a copper comes along and gives her a hand. A few years later she marries him.

That note reminding me to get VL's address was a frank confession, revelation. It was like an entry in a private journal. The problem with a diary is that it gives life to passing thought. Hidden thoughts. Ideas and meaning that would never be expressed openly. I remember my earliest Five Year Diary being gathered up and read out in the Junior Common Room at Sedbergh. I was ridiculed as it ridiculed them. There was neither wit, nor charm, in it just privacy exposed. My clumsy words had no edge to them. It was like threatening a gladiator with a banana. Never put your thoughts down in writing. Never reveal your motives. I've found that out.

I tried to cover myself, but there was no reason I should want VL's address unless I intended top ring her, or write to her.

Mum had bought me the moped from Auntie Judith. It was a Mobilette, a 'sit up and beg.' It got me into school, got me around. Unlike a bike you don't build up a sticky sweat and who wants to turn up at a girlfriend's house smelling like a rugby scrum ? It saved Mum having to come and fetch me home in the dark and was compensation for having failed my driving test.

Alistair Laidlaw and I used to put in some extra swimming training at the Jesmond baths after school. we'd go past the Church High School on Tankervill Terrace in Jesmond. Alistair had stopped to chat with VL. I kept out of their way and made small talk with VL's younger sister Helen. Then, a few weeks later, flush from the successes of singing in the Caucasian Chalk Circle rehearsal At the Central High I felt confident so pulled up to chat to VL. She was waiting for her Mum to pick her up from school. She said they had a holiday home in the Lake District.

She said Dufton. I said we live in Appleby, 5 miles up the road, we promised to meet up at half term. Here was an answer to hours of fell walking in the drizzle. Someone our own age to play with.

Mum ran SJV and I down to Scotch Corner where we were met by Dad,

I'd already established that VL was at Dufton. She promised to be around by 12 the next day, SJV's birthday. OCT: 1979

I was a bit dull with VL. Especially with others around. I took her across the courtyard and unlocked the Keep. We were alone for 20 mns. I showed her around. We got together on piano and guitar. VL stays for dinner with cousins. I sing with her. We got no closer.

At the R.G.S. Christmas Disco six weeks later the 'big tit' won the fancy dress competition. It was an enormous papier-mâché breast made out of chicken wire.

I'm not unfaithful. physically. Worse. I'm putting my intentions, vague, misinterpretable scribblings, in writing. When SN asks me about the note I'm not quick to find excuses. I say I'd leant VL a manuscript, Mozart's Sicilienne.' We both play the flute, I said. If I'd got VL on the hook I'd have ended my relationship with SN then and there. Too much shagging to sacrifice for that.

I'm inclined towards VL. I'm bending that way. She's sending me to sleep every night. I can see that smile sitting in my lap, bubbling like a water-fountain as I play with myself. I imagine the perfect time, the perfect place. Her first time. My understanding.

Hang on to SN while I plan the next move. Why go celibate for a couple of weeks ? I'm 18. Every day counts. Sex is like swimming training. I miss it if I got without it for more than a week. You keep fit through practice, practice makes perfect, miss a week and it takes a month to get it back. That's how I feel about sex. And now I've got VL (OP) to think about. I can be her first. I can get it right. Do it the Shere Hite way. How every woman wants her first time to be. Do they ? That's what research says. Private. Tender. Intimate. Gentle. Not being pressed for time. Satisfying.

I'm aroused. SN has found a note in my wallet. There's a bulge in my pants. The note was written months ago. Should I tell her that. Would that make it worse ? I can feel it. Underneath the stars and stripes jockey shorts. The bulge. Making its presence known. Showing who runs my life. Provoking me. I re-hitch myself. Shove my hand down my pants while SN reads it then asks, accusingly.

We're at the Sixth Form Disco. I've come as Wonder Woman. All tinsel and crepe paper. Black rubber swimming-trunks I wear to play water-polo have been hitch up over a pair of red-tights. Not becoming. Not on the make. Just a laugh. A silly way to look when someone wants to make a fool of you.

'Have you got it yet then ?' She said.

Some tickle. Some itch. I rub a slippery fluid between my fingers.

'When did you see her ?'

Would I tell her that I'd met VL months ago ? That she'd been round to Appleby ? That I had every desire, every intention to follow it up, to pursue her ? No.

It's nothing. I wrote that ages ago. I'd forgotten about it. I said.

So why have you still got it if you don't want to go out with her ?

It was a statement. A warning. A fact. 'Keep of,' she was saying.

Silly SN She knows what it is. Had I got VL's address by now ? Had I followed it through ? Was I seeing her ? Questions she didn't ask. Questions which were on her mind. I could see them throbbing on her forehead like fresh spots.

You meet one person you can meet another. I was on the look out for the next best thing. I was fed up with what the photo had to offer, and more importantly the rut of a relationship with SN. Each year you trade down. As they get older. Age faster. They race ahead.

VL. SJV's age. Not on the pill, not serious, no interest. She had spunk. Like a vixen on heat. I felt it. She'd come at me earlier on. When I'd been hidden behind the coats re-hitching my tights. Like a small girl showing off her party dress. Being noticed. Wanted to be noticed. Showing herself to me. Cavorting. Alone. She gave me a twirl. Would I be hers for the night ? Would I break away ? Would I ? Would I ! She was alluring. Could she do it ? Temptress. Fluttering her wings. Spreading her scent. Detaching and attaching. This is the boxing ring of teenage discos and the RGS Christmas Disco is the ultimate contest. VL boasted about her dress, like a small girl showing off her party frock to aunts and uncles. But my night was sorted. I didn't want to spoil the classroom shag SN and I had planned . VL could wait. VL would wait. I put her down on the reserve list. For a later date. When it was time to move on. When she was old enough.

SN finds my note. She would wouldn't she. She isn't the kind to snoop. Not the kind to seek out jealousies. Not like I am. Fate took her fingers and placed them in my wallet. I was lending her a fiver. I'd forgotten about the note. SN and I had things sussed, with both her parents working going back to her place after school had become a habit. SN reminds me of VL, draws my feelings to he surface, gives it life, gives it opportunity. She tells me to look her up in the telephone book under Laing; they live in Wylam, Northumberland. Out of town..

Here it is in writing. I'm plotting to get out of our relationship. Have it planned . It's a teenage crime. And SN is condoning it. I feel crushed by her forthright attitude. Like an earwig caught under her shoe. I wriggle away from the dilemma, feeling guilty, feeling grown up, feeling that losing my virginity had never made me adult, but two timing had. The heady mix of good and bad is toxic. Toxic waste. The hurt I give SN increases my ardour for VL. Now I know how Dad feels as he skips through one wife then another - his life has been spent triple timing. Risk taking. Thrill seeking. Looking for his mother.

SN is the victim. Her finding the note makes me feel better. It's as if it's self-inflicted. She didn't need to ask me about it. She could have slipped it back into my wallet. She could have screwed it up and thrown it away. The rigours of teenage life. Trial and error. Doing the rounds. Playing the field. For an hour we revelled and revealed amongst a mess of teenage fancy dress. Wit and big headedness, shy costumes, nosy costumes, the formal and the scruffy. Couples grappled and fought, jealousies and passions came to a head. SN and I found a classroom and made love behind Mr Mitchell's desk. I got a spelk in my bum as we shuffled like an amoeba on the verge of division. I deserved it. My body was on the job, my mind was on VL.

When Had I met her ? When had I written that note ? How long had I been carrying it around with me ? Was I going to do anything about it ? Why hadn't I done anything about it ?

I can hide how I'm thinking for now, I don't want to. I can keep SN 7 in the saddle 'til I know I have somewhere to go. The curse of youth. The curse of choice. The curse of lust. And want. and love, and black and white ...

It isn't something I want to hide. I'm in lust with VL. SN asks me as we pull on our coats to go home.

"Why do you want to get VL's address ?"

The immediacy of my response shows that a reply was on my lips, that VL had been on my mind all night. It's obvious what I've been up to. Why not keep it a secret ? Unspoken ? Unexpressed ?

She asks. I tell her. I tell her that VL's parents have a cottage in Dufton, in the Lake District. That she'll be over there in the summer and that we'd planned to meet up. I tried to make it sound matter of fact, as if VL were a bloke, that I couldn't come to anything, but it would, inevitably.

I have holidays to consider. SN doesn't. I have time on my hands. SN doesn't.

SN found the note. She reminded me of what my intentions had been. She initiated her demise. I unbuckled her belt. Slammed on the brakes and sent her through the windscreen, figuratively speaking. Sal could have read the diary and found out more, but she didn't. That would have displayed paranoia and that paranoia would have killed off anything we had left together.

That note, tucked away in my wallet where I could find it, like a knot in a handkerchief or a biro-scribbled not on the back of my hand. It showed that it had mattered. It showed that I intended to do something about it. It declared my intent to be unfaithful, showed that I was biding my time. Having been unfaithful, showed that I'd turn around to SN and ditch her. It showed that I was dwelling on it, that I was planning moves behind her back, that I was already being unfaithful, that I'd been sleeping with her while my mind was already inside VL that I was no longer making love with her, but with someone else. In this tiny revelation it made SN realise that during the last 6 months of our relationship she had been a blindfolded participant in a game of Twister. Though I hadn't cheated she could see that I had out manoeuvred her and it would be Checkmate in 6 moves.

Our promise of being together long had always been false, hadn't it ? We'd said "I love you," because it was expected of us, but we didn't, did we ? She'd known that hadn't she ?

A couple of 17 year olds can't say they love each other then expect to be bonded for life ? I had the deepest respect for SN. We were like partners in a tennis tournament, the best mixed couple. Closer than that, like players in a rugby match, in the scrum. In a mixed rugby match. We were team mates. We learnt and rehearsed the best moves together. Our relationship had guts, it was athletic. We tried everything out together. We played sex like a sport.