“Joan Armatrading,” she said “do you like Joan Armatrading?”
“Yeah she’s ok” I lied. I’d only heard one song, Me Myself I, which I did not like at all.
“And you always wear those trainers,” rhetorical question.
“Mmmph” I was always getting grief about the trainers.
“And a motorbike”.
“You’re a lesbian” she says, kindly but matter of fact.
My body jerks back, eyes like saucers, annoyed “I am not a fucking LESbian!”.
“That woman you’re with,” we both look across the canteen at the same person “do you
sleep with her, have sex with her?”
“Yeah” I said, all casual, like it was normal to be asked.
A year of it actually. Sex. In every little orifice all over the county. In the woods, in cars,
round the back of the pub/disco/youth club/swimming pool, in her mum’s bed in my mum’s
bed in her auntie’s caravan crazy mad rip your clothes off snog so long your face is sore sex.
“Yeah,” I repeated “but I am not a fucking LESBIAN!”.
A smile, amused, suppressed.
“Have you ever met any lesbians?”
“Come to my party” she said, “I think you’ll enjoy it”.
I did. I did.
And I found the rest of Joan.