Is This Really Me? by Brian Doswell (best memoirs of all time .TXT) 📖

Sometimes you travel
Sometimes you arrive
without knowing exactly where you are.

I try not to blink as the camera flashes in front of me but the incandescence sears my brain and behind involuntarily closed eyelids, a series of images appear.
In the first image, I am standing in front of my dressing room mirror; my hands smooth the taut skin of my naked body, rising over hips, unblemished by stretch marks, and upwards to my breasts, still firm and cherry-pink-tipped. At thirty-seven, I’m proud of my body and quietly smug about the comparison with my contemporary friends, most of whom are married with children, a combination which seems destined to ruin one’s face and figure in equal measure. I let my finger-tips wander over my nipples, occasionally tweaking the buds that I like so much.
I remember being thirteen with a chest like my grand-mother’s washboard, all skin and ribs. I remember being fourteen and buying my first bra although I barely had anything to put in it. I remember being fifteen and the string of boys who would give whatever I asked to see what lay inside those straining satin cups.
Summer sunlight streams through my bedroom window reflecting off the various ‘highly recommended’ preparations on my dressing table. A zephyr breeze from the open window moves the net curtain and sends cool fingers around my body. It’s Saturday morning, maybe ten or eleven o’clock, I don’t know or care, Saturday is my down day, I please myself on Saturdays. My mind wanders.
As you might imagine, at my age, I’ve enjoyed a succession of Mr. Rights.

§§§§§

Mr. Edwin Jones taught science in the fifth form. He always seemed so sophisticated, so worldly wise. He used to correct my homework by changing the marks at the end of the page in accordance with the amount of cleavage I allowed him to gaze into when we handed our books in. A single extra open button was worth a B and two buttons were usually a B+. I once asked him what I should do to get an A. He smiled at me and whispered, “Perhaps you might loose the bra.”
Mr. Jones was the most unlikely science teacher. He was tall, broad shouldered and athletic. He was always tanned, summer and winter. He wore his sideburns long and his blonde hair curled at the nape of his neck. I remember running my fingers through those curls on the single occasion I scored an A+ for my description of a sub-atomic particle. I should point out that did not happen in the classroom although it might well have done because every one of the girls in my form knew about the likes and dislikes of Mr. Jones. But, I was the only one who really loved him, in the way that teenage girls do. It all started as a tease, a dare among the girls. I deliberately waited to open my school bag until I was close enough for him to see a scrunched up bra stuffed between some books, while I passed him my homework folder. It was a spare bra but I wanted him to think . . . well, the obvious I suppose.
It worked. His voice still echoes in my head, “Come to the Staff Common Room at the end of the afternoon.”
No please or thank you, just do it. My knees trembled. I knew at once that I’d overdone it. On the other hand, what could happen in the Staff Common Room during school time?
At four o’clock I stood outside the door waiting for someone to pass the word that I was there. I often wondered why we couldn’t just knock on the door or even just go in and find whoever we wanted, but that’s how things were done at St. Martins, stand and wait, just stand and wait.
At five past four, he came out and smiled down at me from his six foot high vantage point.
“I’m glad you’re here. You know that straight A’s require special coaching, don’t you?”
I nodded, not really quite sure where this was going.
“We could go back to the class room now or you could meet me at my flat tomorrow after school, or we can forget all about it. Up to you?”
I can still hear my voice asking, “Where do you live?”
Heston Avenue was a tree lined road of old Victorian houses, most of which had seen better days and now were divided up into bed-sits. Paint peeled from rotting sash windows and previously smartly tiled doorways, now awash with abandoned litter, sported an array of doorbells with faded names beside them. I pressed the one marked Jones, and the electronic door lock clicked open.
The hallway was tidier but anonymous, a common area that no one owned. A familiar voice called out from above. “Come on Up.”
On the second floor landing there were three doors, one lay open.
The flat was actually one big room with a desk that filled the bay window. Two armchairs, sat either side of a miniature fireplace and an unmade bed all but filled the remaining space. Books and magazines were everywhere except for a wardrobe which hung open and bulged with sports gear, tennis rackets, skis, trainers and tracksuits, all of which gave the place a heavy sweaty odour reminiscent of the school gym.
Mr. Jones sat in a swivel chair at the desk and he swung it round towards me as I came through the door. He was wearing shorts and a tight T-shirt that displayed his muscular body, exactly as I had imagined it to be. My knees were trembling again.
“Straight A’s are hard to defend when it comes to assessing your course work. Tell me why I should put myself on the line for you.”
I don’t know what I had expected but I know that I had hardly slept during the previous night wondering. My imagination had ranged from one exotic seduction to the next without limits, but this scene was nowhere on my list of possibles. My arms hung loosely at my sides and my head dipped as I tried to form an answer. My school bag fell to the floor with a thud.
“I hoped you’d tell me.” I tried to buy time, suddenly feeling well out of my depth.
“What do you think you have to offer?”
Silence again - courage draining away faster than water from a leaky barrel.
My eye line lifted, but only as far as the bulge in his shorts. I knew what was causing the bulge but I had never seen it, in the flesh.
My mind urged me onwards. I loved Mr. Jones so much; he could do what ever he wanted with me. I was his to use. I adored him.
“You could get straight A’s without my help if you forgot all of this stuff and concentrated on the syllabus. Swot up on Boyle’s Law before the end of term and you will be home free. Trust me, I’m your teacher.”
This was not what I expected. This was not what I wanted. I had come here prepared to lose my virginity and I was going to go home with Boyle’s Law.
Mr. Jones had not moved from his chair. There was at least two clear yards space between us and I sort of knew it was entirely up to me to do something or nothing about it. For the first time since I had entered the room, I looked him straight in the eyes and unbuttoned my white school shirt. I closed the gap between us and slid onto his lap allowing my shirt to fall open. My right arm slid round his neck and my fingers twisted into those soft blonde curls. I lowered my head with mouth slightly open, lips moist and waiting for the first kiss.
That’s about when the odour of gymnasium overcame my desire. My chin grazed his unshaven stubble and it hurt. Our eyes met. My God, he was so much older than me, ten years at least. What on earth was I doing?
In seconds I found myself in the street clutching my school bag and trying to remember who the hell Boyle was.

§§§§§

Mist comes and goes in my mind and when it clears I’m standing in line at the university cafeteria. I’m wearing jeans and the worst ever cardigan, one that I‘ve found in a charity shop. It’s lime green with elaborate gold buttons. It’s two sizes to large and there’s a thread of wool unravelling at the cuff. I hate it. But as the mist continues to clear, I remember why I’m wearing it.
In front of me is Jerry Everett. Yes, the Jerry Everett, who everyone knows now as the host of countless TV Quiz shows, but in those days he was just another undergrad in my year. Well actually not just another one, more like my pick of the bunch. He was a serious student who spent most of his spare time in the library but I really liked him. He could have had me any time, I was always there if he wanted me, it’s just that he never did. The cardigan was my latest ploy to appear to be the sort of girl that he might invite to join him at his library table.
We filled our trays without him noticing me and I was forced to reach in front of him when we got to the bread rolls to get him to look round.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I thought . . . .”
He smiled and I knew this was going to be true love. He had perfect pale blue eyes with turned up corners and the merest crinkle on the side of his perfect aquiline nose. A veritable Greek statue, he would be an Adonis in the bedroom, or anywhere really.
“It’s OK. No harm done.” His smile lit the room.
We paid at adjacent tills and I followed him into the crowded seating area. There were no free tables but, as we headed into the space, two girls left from a high shelf on the side of the room.
“Standing room only.” I quipped as we both hit the same spot side by side.
“Be my guest.” He replied.
“Oh yes please”, I did not say out loud.
“Where on earth did you find that cardigan?” his eyes twinkled, letting me know that he was joking.
“It’s my sister’s, I packed it by mistake.” I lied and I could see that he knew I had.
“Oh.” he chewed on his sandwich.
We chewed in silence – together while I searched for something witty to say.
“Actually, I quite like green.” His voice soft and deep confirmed my undying love for him. I also recognised the simplicity of his comment as his way of finding something nice to say and I loved him even more for saying it.
“I think I’ll change the buttons.” I replied.
“No don’t change a thing, it’s perfect.”
“Do you think so?” I tweaked the collar