Friday, May 1, 2009
And yea there was much celebration, and making of ceremonial bongs and Boomerang (elegant vodka-lemon-in-a-bucket concoction), and calling of friends to share the bounty. Nesh got naked; Adam got vomitty; Stark got thrown out. Sara and Lisa got high, an annual event; Danny 'M-Net' Scotsman got babooned (M-Net because with a Scottish accent and a prediliction for drink, after 7pm you needed a decoder to understand him.)
As a result, at 3am when there was a heart-stopping hammering of iron fist on digs door, we were mostly passed out and scattered far and wide through the digs, as was the weed. There was some in every room and everyone. But panic only spread truly through the ranks when Adam came belting through the house naked but for his tighty whities, wide-eyed and white-faced, banging on bedroom doors and whisper-shouting 'Pigs! Pigs! This is not a drill!"
I looked out over the balcony and I have never seen anything like it: ranks of Boere cops in riot gear and shotguns. Not one but TWO of those blerrie scary big yellow monster armoured vehicles - what were they called? Alsations on chains. High-octane torches. Guttural shouting and crackle of radios. Jissus. It's one thing having the cops knocking at your door; it's quite another having the full Soweto riot patrol.
Cue flat panic as we tried to rid ourselves of this monster haul of weed. David attempted to chuck a whole plastic bag full over the balcony onto the street, towards the cops (verily raining drugs down upon them) and then was rendered useless for the rest of the night by his horror at the thought of this near miss. We flushed and flushed. Ed - cool-headed in a time of chaos - was methodically chucking baggies into the back garden of the Graham, in the hope we could fetch it tomorrow. I was frantically flicking through Shakespeare - I had stashed my stash in something Shakespearian but as an English major, it was taking me some time to work out which play. Comedy? Tragedy?
It was a full half hour later that, terrified but standing firm and shoulder to shoulder, we finally answered the door to the torch-wielding, helmetted, flak-jacketted cops.
Lead cop: Does Dylan May live here?
Dylan (white and shaky, ready to bolt): Yes.
Lead cop: Mr May, can I ask you to identify this?
(Flourishes grayish rag in the air.)
Dylan (bemused and traumatised): Um, yes, those are my underpants.
Lead cop: And you recently reported a robbery at this address?
Dylan: Um, yes.
Lead cop: Did you sew this name tag in your underpants?
Dylan: Um, no, my Mom did.
Us, cops: Snigger.
Lead cop: Well, good for her, because we've been on a stolen goods raid in Rhini and we need you to provide evidence. Thanks for your time. Goodnight.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
I don’t have a hard-on at this moment, but at 18 I’d get one just brushing my teeth, folding my laundry, or most embarrassingly, during a crowded Dickens tutorial. Closing my eyes and thinking of Andrew Lloyd Webber usually sent it packing. The mere thought of sex drove me up the wall most waking moments in those years.
Frantically snogging like a bulldog eating porridge, stroking her hair with one hand, and feverishly trying (and failing) to unclasp the blasted bra with the other would have me weeping with frustration. I felt like an orangutan trying to play the violin.
The Bra is Your Enemy
Bra un-knotting was a proficiency badge they really should have had in Scouts when I was 15. After the the bra, dungarees were a sexual Gordian knot. Trying to peel off their rape-proof layers and countless buttons off Ilsa was like trying to ravish an onion. Laboriously un-lacing Doc Marten eight-ups was also almost as much of a passion-killer as feverishly trying to put on a condom.
i like my body when it is with your body
Undressing a girl for the first time, with trembling hands felt breathlessly sexy, scary, and heart thumpingly exhilarating as motorcycle speed. Seeing someone naked struck me dumb with wonder and tear-brimming gratitude.
"i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new"
- e.e. cummings
Things that Go Hump in the Night
Her: “If you love me you’ll wait”.
Me: “If you love me you won’t! Anyway, it isn’t premarital sex if we have no intention of getting married.”
“Sex is like kicking Death in the arse while singing.”
- Charles Bukowski
I was never much good at pillow talk. I usually ended sex with a slap on her buttock and saying "Well done! Now back to the village with you!” This met with mixed responses.
In the early ‘90s, AIDS too abstract a threat for us white-bread middle-class types. The thought of telling your and her parents that she was knocked up was teeth-grinding-insomnia-stare-at-the-ceiling-all-night terrifying. In a particularly hot and bothered moment, Nadja said “Whoah! Isn’t this how you get pregnant?" I sighed, rolled off her, stared at the ceiling, and with a flash of inspiration, replied “Hey! Your mouth can’t get pregnant.”
Monday, February 2, 2009
Alternative night was Tuesdays at the Vic, what passes for a nightclub in Grahamstown, though none of the clubs I’ve seen since would want the Vic dating their daughter.
Juggling Mix Tapes
We played everything from blistering hardcore punk to waving, shoe-gazing indie. Most of the music was only available on swapped tapes. This made cueing and mixing songs a plate-spinning nightmare.
The night drew a motley crowd of cliques, from Goths, Metalheads and indie kids, each with their own favourite songs, and idiosyncratic dances. Indie kids tried to look cool, head-bangers moshed in packs. Only the metalheads and punks danced like no one was watching.
Whiskey in the Jar. Only Not.
As all the denizens went in varieties of narcotic malaise, alcohol took a back seat. Kenny (Satan, Saddam Hussein horrible owner of the Vic) would complain “We sold four beers and given out over 200 glasses of water! What the fuck?"