Whether by design or not, this had the effect of making me feel rather cocky. I had come on impact once or twice myself, but only when I couldn’t be bothered not to. I would have readjusted my anxiety chart, only I was unable for the moment to think of anything to fill the DeForest’s-prick-size slot.
‘Have you ever had an orgasm?’ I asked, as we got off the bus.
‘Never,’ said Rachel.
‘Just you wait.’
But I soon came up with something. Of course: I had never used a sheath before. With those girls who weren’t self-contracepting I had practised coitus interruptus, practising it all over their stomachs or in between the sheet and their bums, depending on locale and whether or not I liked them. (There was no definite rule here, yet you were always prompted to go one way or the other.) I was conversant with Durex lore, however, having naturally peed and wanked into them a good deal as a youngster, and Geoffrey once took me along to score a pack. Further, I had read widely in prophylactic literature. The great things were to squeeze the air out of the tip, lest they burst, and not to put them on inside-out, because then they catapulted off and you opened yourself up to ridicule scrabbling about after them in the dark.
The chemist’s was like a chunk of America, a neon labyrinth of bristle and cellophane, ranks and display pyramids of things to minimize your smells, things to soften your hair, bully your spots, reclaim your feet, flush out your ears. We stood in the doorway, shy latecomers to a formal party. The activity and splendour made me feel drunk and empty-stomached. Store detectives, housewives and dotards cruised the aisles. At the far end a quartet of junkies awaited the return of their forged prescriptions.
‘Whereabouts?’ I said from the corner of my mouth. Rachel put her hands in her pockets, looping my arm. We moved forward. Only nail-polish remover and badminton rackets seemed to be on sale. Feeling our merriment ebb, I pointed out a not all that unlikely-looking counter. A liberal middle-aged man was in charge of it. What would it really sell? Scabies ointment. Baby powder. Cock-enlarger cream. Dildoes.
‘Do you want to come or do you want to wait?’
‘I’ll come,’ she said.
A kooky smile seemed in order.
As a matter of routine, the moment I committed myself to approaching the counter the enlightened-looking man disappeared beneath it, in favour of a woman with silver hair and a glacial uniform. Oh, come come, I wanted to say, you must of course see that this is too much like low-brow American fiction.
‘Can I help you, young man?’ She smiled on cue to reveal oppressively false teeth, dull dying white, the colour of newspapers three weeks old.
‘I hope so. May I have a packet of contraceptives, please?’
She glanced at Rachel. ‘Certainly, sir. Lura, or Penex?’
‘The Penex, please, if I may.’
Twenty-five or thirty pence?’
‘Oh, I think the thirty, please, if possible.’
As she turned away I felt Rachel’s hand slide through my jacket vents. A fingernail poked my vertebra, making me jerk. Rachel stifled a snort of laughter. The assistant looked up. I met her eye. And my voice was husky when I spoke :
‘Better make that a two-pack, lady.’
‘I beg your pardon ?’
‘I’m so sorry. May I have two packets, please?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
On the way back I entertained Rachel and kept things going with an account of my own sexual history. Now I had had ten girls. I considered doubling, even squaring, this figure. I ended up halving it. AH five, I stressed, had been important and serious relationships. I was sorry, but I had no time for the other kind. Excuse me, but I wasn’t interested in purely sexual encounters, thank you, although it was true – one hated to say it – that most of the boys I knew were interested … in precious little else – no, perhaps that wasn’t fair. Of course I had tried it, more out of curiosity than anything, I supposed. It was odd, but – I don’t know – it seemed that a girl’s body was … empty unless you liked its owner. Sure, the incredibly beautiful girls in these experimental liaisons had got in a bit of a state – what with being so incredibly sexed up at the time. Understandable. (One or two, I didn’t mind telling her, had got pretty violent, pretty ugly, about the whole thing.) But I had had just to explain myself, as tactfully as possible. No – hell – they could keep their money; a boy can’t fake it.