Mum used to spit every time we talked about sex. But we only talked about sex when she was drunk, so I never got to know whether it was the sex or drink that made her spit. The talk started when I was sixteen years old. At the time, for reasons I won’t go into at the moment, only the two of us were living together; Dad and my other siblings were miles away. Though I call it a talk, it was not exactly that, it was more of a refrain, the same every time. A quick one-sided conversation I couldn’t tell whether it was said in jest or seriousness.
Those days Mum used to be a big funky woman. She was quite obsessed with ‘being different’ and setting trends. So she threw out fashion and focused on creativity. The result was disastrous and I doubt whether she ever became a trendsetter. And it’s the same ‘being different’ idea she used to bring up her family. Whether intentionally or not she didn’t want to act as if she was responsible for any of us. You know the way a mother feels responsible and protective of her kids, she didn’t, at least from the impression of aloofness that she gave. Instead from a very young age, we were taught personal responsibility and the consequences of choice. She didn’t sit us down to lecture us on that, which would have come as a shocker in our family, rather she made the phrase “it’s your life” the equivalent of “I’ll beat you” other mothers repeated to their eight-year-olds. Yet “it’s your life” when said by Mum like gospel truth, sounded rhetorical when the sin committed didn’t affect any of us but the whole family. For instance, when I was 9 years old Mum bought a new set of glasses and placed them on the table for all of us to admire. Being as clumsy as I was I tripped the table and broke all the glasses. “It’s your life” is all she told me.
There were no particular days Mum had set aside to drink; she did it whenever she wanted. I can’t remember how the sex talk started, but it became the usual thing to say whenever she came to the house from her drinking and found me awake. Smiling and rolling her eyes she would say ” ….I know you are having sex. Do take care of yourself ahem. And remember nobody more than half your age”… She would then spit on the floor. The spitting and the lines sounded as if they had been lifted from a sitcom or movie. I opted to ignore and not argue with her.
“Nobody more than half your age”..didn’t make sense to me until many years and sexual experiences later. I now take it to be some sort of sex constant; that up to some age, the best sex for a woman will be with a man older by half her age. Above or below that the results are not so predictable.
I remembered all this last weekend when I had sex with a 78-year-old man; the oldest person I have ever slept with. A man of that age wouldn’t come driving to the Street, rather he sent a younger man, who was very candid. Immediately I got into his car he told me what to expect. I had a choice to accept or decline the offer. I accepted out of curiosity, and certainly because the money was relatively good. Very soon I will be seeing the man and thus at the moment I’m hesitant to go into details of what exactly transpired, maybe a little later. That said I can state that blue pill or not, a 78-year-old man is still a 78-year-old man.
As for Mum, she is a changed woman. If I told her what exactly I do for a living she wouldn’t say “It’s your life”, I fear she would blame herself for it until she breaks down mentally.
