This mini-event is mere daydream, raw material gathered by a sex-yearning sixteen-year-old and stirred about many decades later.
We were leaving Bradford Civic cinema where I saw many foreign movies in my youth. Was it Le Salaire de la Peur? Un Condamné à Mort S’est Echappé?
Whatever. Outside, on the pavement, G uttered an unmistakable sound of approval about the movie (Whooo! Sheesh!) turned and said. “C’mon, gi me a kiss.”
Strange. She’s G but I never knew her name. She was two or three years older – a woman, virtually adult, addressing a desperate adolescent. In real life I saw her only on the bus home, always on the upper deck, often appearing grubby, staring blankly ahead, alone. She got off before me at the scruffy end of the suburb.
Her hair was memorable. Golden but lifeless, clearly lengthy but piled up into a tall crown held in place by a net. Sometimes grubbiness pervaded her heavily made-up face.
Inexplicably, we’d seen some fancy-schmanzy thing and now she was commanding me. A tense beginner I kissed her lips too hard, imagining this might suggest the passion she was expecting. Or demanded. The excessive pressure rendered her lips as a car tyre. I was seismically aware of her full, possibly muscular body and carefully avoided contact.
Perhaps it was the grubbiness; people weren’t as obsessional about washing in the fifties. I liked her not caring about that and yet she did make-up. And yes I know what Freud says about dirt.
I used parts of G in a short story West Riding Strange, but thought she deserved this more explicit reference. Conventional teenage erotic? Perhaps. But what's conventional?