by Gill James
strong black coffee
You see, it's all very well isn't it,
if you know who they are? When there's
every chance that they've done the same thing to dozens, hundreds, thousands of
others and that if you speak up those others will find the courage and join
you? It's different, isn't it, when all you know of them is that they're
capable of sustaining an erection? You can't say, can you, that it was that man
with a beard who drew those fantastic pictures? It wasn't the one who made
kids' dreams come true. Nor was it that famous film producer.
The ones I'm talking about are
anonymous blanks.
It was attempted rape. Even if it was
Freshers' week and he was drunk. He was wearing nothing but a white coat. I
assumed he was a medical student. Over the years I've wondered if he felt he
had to behave that way because he was such a small man with such thin arms and
such delicate fingers. Maybe he was so drunk that he has no recollection of it
now. Perhaps he is now a grandfather and would be mortified if he knew. But if
he was that drunk, how come his penis was throbbing and erect? And he'd had the
sense to put on a condom?
It wasn't all that late - maybe about
eleven and I'd just got back to my room in Randy Ranmoor. (So-called because it
was a mixed hall of residence. The first in the country, I believe.) As I
unlocked my door he came from nowhere. He charged into my room, pulling me
behind him. He was still holding me as he flung himself on to the bed. I was grateful
for the condom but I didn't want to lose my virginity that way even so. I
fought him. It wasn't easy despite his size or drunkenness. Then as suddenly as
he arrived, he upped and left.
I took a deep breath. It was nothing,
really, was it? I never told anybody about it until a few months ago.
Forty-eight years on I can still remember his face clearly. Should I even now
write and tell them? Could I still identify him now?
Then there were the hands at the football match. There was
always a crush on the way out. There was something crushing my groin too and
then fingers inside my knickers. I tied to pull them away. The harder I pulled,
though, the harder he dug in. It hurt for days afterwards. Andy, Benny, Mel and
Jaimo were in front so it definitely wasn't one of them. Sheila was at my side
but I couldn't tell her. We were here mainly to impress the lads. What would
they do if I called for help? I didn't want to look useless.
Then we were out of the gate and the
pressure dissolved. I turned. There was no one behind me.
It was best to carry on as normal.
The long walk home. Bragging about the results to my parents who already knew
them, in fact, because the walk home was very long. Talking football to my
dad.
I never went to the football match
again, though.
What was he thinking? That man on the bus. I hadn't even
reached puberty, let alone gone through it.
The only empty seat was next to him.
I took it. Why wouldn't I?
He just annoyed me at first. He
seemed to be taking up more than his fair share of the seat. His thigh rubbed
up against mine. Then his hand was on my thigh. I jumped. He squeezed. Then he
pulled me towards him. "Look," he whispered. He nodded towards his
lap.
I'd never seen a penis like that. Fat
and erect and oozing slightly. He was breathing heavily.My cheeks began to
burn.
I did know a little about penises.
I'd established very early on that Edward next door used to wee-wee through a
little pipe that came out of his trousers. Very convenient. It wasn't fair that
girls couldn't do the same. It was always such a rigmarole when you were taken
short as you were out and about.
Back then, though, I knew nothing
about sex, erections and ejaculation. Was there something wrong with this
man?
I know that this was wrong and that I
was too ashamed to tell anyone. Somehow I had made that man behave that way.
A woman got off at the next bus stop.
I moved seats.
There were also the German piss artists. I'd see one
practically every day on my walk from the tram to the house where I had a room
in Degerloch, Stuttgart. Some guy urinating with no discretion whatsoever. As
if he needed to show the world how great his penis was.
The first time I answered the phone after we moved to Holland
I explained in broken Dutch that I hadn't mastered the language yet and could
the caller speak very slowly. "Oh,
you're English," he said.
"I've got my thing out and I'd like you to talk me to come." I
put the phone down and then picked it up to check whether he'd gone. He was
still there. "Almost there. Say something dirty."
All brushed aside as unimportant. Life would go on. Life was
good. These were just anomalies. Except: why do I remember all of these
incidents so clearly? If only these men were famous I could pin them down.
About the author
Gill James is published by, amongst others, Tabby Cat Press,
The Red Telephone, Butterfly, The Professional and Higher Partnership and
Continuum. She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing at Salford University.
She has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in
Creative and Critical Writing 
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