Dear Fatty (12 page)

Both my parents were out at work all day and my bro and I were latchkey kids. We literally used to reach inside the letter box and fumble around for a piece of string that had a key on it to open the door. How was that OK? Why weren’t we endlessly burgled? Why didn’t we just have a key each? Every single other kid on the camp whose mum worked did the same thing and we all knew. Were those times more innocent? Was the neighbourly community ethos stronger? Were people more nosy or watchful, or less criminal? Dunno, but it meant that after school there were a good couple of hours of parent-free home time in which to pretend it was actually our own house and we could behave any bloody way we wanted. We could be true renegades and put
chocolate
powder in our milk or even chuck our knives and forks carelessly in the sink instead of carefully putting them there, thereby making quite a clatter. We could leave the fridge door ajar and we could play Deep Purple records at volume 6 and everything. So we did. Other kids would come round and sit about untidily, putting their feet up on the sofas
with
their shoes on and taking dangerous single sips of Amontillado sherry from a six-year-old bottle Lil had left. It tasted like vinegar, because by then it actually was, but it didn’t matter, it was alcohol of sorts, and in a virtually teetotal household, that was precious. It was during these crazy, wild escapades that you and I eventually made contact. I was praying that you would fall under my bewitching spell when I caught your eye and gave you my well-practised come-hither head toss, the like of which I had seen working for Marilyn Monroe in films. I actually tried it on you about a dozen times before the bewitchingness of it started to work. Bear in mind, I was a novice and some of my sexy self-lip-moistening may well have appeared to be uncontrollable dribble. I’m not sure how you held back for so long, but eventually you stopped kissing every single
other
girl available and gave in to my utterly resistible siren techniques. I lured you onto the rocks called Dawn with my eyelash-fluttering and doe-eyed prowess. I
think
that’s what did it. Of course it could have been my enormous baps, but I prefer to think differently.

Do you remember the joy of sitting on that couch and doing industrial-strength kissing? Sometimes for an hour and 20 minutes without a break? The sudden revelation for me was that you can move your face about while in the throes of a delicious snog … And
breathe
… and make little snuffly, grunty noises of
pleasure
. You can even sing along to Deep Purple or Creedence Clearwater Revival, but that is less successful mid-clinch. The thousand ways of using your lips with someone else’s lips – the nips and the sucks and the different pressures were a sensual wonderland – but the mother of all epiphanies was the power of the tongue. I don’t know why, but no one had
ever
told me this was probable or possible or pleasurable. I can’t imagine being thrilled at the prospect, even if anyone
had
told me. The thought of someone else’s tongue anywhere near mine would have sent me into spasms of retching at that age, but the first time it actually happened was with you. When you tentatively and tenderly crept that hot powerful muscle into my mouth, I nearly swooned with ecstasy. Nobody had ever been inside me before, it was the most intimate and carnal congress I had known, and I loved it. I was giddy with delight, and instantly became obsessed with you, with the potency of kissing you. I wanted to do it forever. Sometimes we kissed until my lips were bruised, and I even remember actually nodding off during one particularly gentle session. We were limpets stuck to the rock faces of each other. Every time we were forced to part, I practically died of heartache. I didn’t know that my heart could physically hurt, that it could feel so sore. You may, of course, have been blissfully unaware of all that. I, however, am for ever indebted to you for showing me the ropes kiss-wise. You were a generous, accomplished instructor and it has been a struggle to find a match of your elan ever since. Perhaps we never can recapture the unique thrill of first love with its heady, exciting blood rush. Perhaps we’re not supposed to. Perhaps other, later relationships have to be built on stronger foundations, more durable than pure kissing genius
alone
. A good kisser is hard to beat though, and hard to find; and believe me, I’ve tried!

It seems to have fallen to me to continue the quest for ever. Or at least as long as I can get away with it. I have never passed up the opportunity to lock on to the face of a willing party, male or female, in the pursuit of that rare beast, the talented kisser. In this particular hunt, I am bold and unshakeoffable. Sometimes I see people on the street, total strangers, I’d like to kiss. I fancy I can judge a contender from simple observation. Noticing how they speak, or eat or laugh. I feel like an inspector, duty-bound to forage out an elite crack team of lip meisters. Equally, I feel that it falls to me to expose those who purport to have skills, but who are, in actuality, hopeless in the frontal face-sucking department. There are more of these charlatans than you would imagine. A tip: beware of anyone who regularly pouts. Pouting is the enemy of kissing, as the pouter has risked the perils of overdeveloped pouting muscles, often too toned to deliver a simple home-made soft smooch. I refer you to exhibit A – Sylvester Stallone. I have not visited that particular mush, but there again, I wouldn’t want to, for that very reason. Nor his mother. Imagine. Oh dear me, no.

In my desire to test-drive as many lips as possible before I am too ancient and repulse my accomplices (I’m aware that, sadly, I may well have passed this point of no return), I really have endeavoured to plant one on as many cooperative others as possible. To that end I have been unfeasibly lucky. For an early Comic Relief, I decided to wangle a kiss from Hugh Grant by involving him in an elaborate ruse where I pretended to be a swollen version of his then beloved, Liz Hurley, wearing a giant version of ‘that dress’ she wore so effectively, with the safety pins down the side. I wore it with
considerably
less panache but with quadruple the comedy, I felt. Jen and I wrote the sketch with the sole intention of landing his lips on mine, and may I say, ‘HOWZAT!’ We raised a million quid, and carried on kissing throughout the break for the news, only stopping for toilet breaks and occasional refreshments. It was reminiscent of all those delicious Michael Le Pellier moments in the infants. Except it was Hugh Bloody Hell Grant! Very quickly I realised that if the reason was funny enough, I could elicit these smackers at a prodigious rate. Thus I have proceeded to claim quite a few impressive trophies along the way, and none of the participants have seemed in the slightest bit offended. Lucky me.

Just thought I might make a little list of some of the more memorable liptastic moments I’ve had in case you’re interested. Try not to be too jealous.

So, you see, it’s been quite a journey, liply speaking, and believe me, my work is not yet done. As long as I’m allowed to keep doing it, I’m going to persevere with my research. I have you to thank though, David Eccles, for starting me up, and keeping me revved. I intend to tick over until I stall, and I hope my final breath is on someone else’s lips, doing this kissing thing you are so darn good at. Mwah mwah.

PERHAPS I SHOULD
finally, belatedly, apologise to you for writing rude notes for you to find in every drawer in your bedroom when you came home for the holidays from boarding school. My feeble excuse is that I had Mum and Dad entirely to myself when you were away and I was on the receiving end of some fabulous tip-top quality spoiling which was their displacement activity for missing you, I think. Still, that’s no excuse for writing notes like ‘Nobody here likes you – true’ or ‘Go back to Nam’! I didn’t really know what ‘Nam’ was. I just knew it was bad and so it’d suit me for you to go there. Yes, I
should
apologise for that but then I also remember quite a lot of torture coming my way too. Besides the barrage of pinches and punches and Chinese burns, I was regularly pinned to the floor by you, as you clambered on top of me, your knees on my shoulders, while you waited the thousand years it took for saliva to gather in your open mouth and dribble slowly on to my writhing face from a height of two foot. That was pretty disgusting, wouldn’t you say? So, yeah, actually, ‘Go back to Nam’, whydoncha!

Eventually, after a year at Caistor Grammar, I began the big boarding school experience myself. I think Mum and Dad knew that it was time for me to be at the same school for longer than a year if there was any hope of some O levels. Like you, I went to board in Plymouth so’s we could be a stone’s throw from the wider family and, like you, the RAF paid the bill, which meant both of
us
were in schools with people who were well out of our social and economic class. I think boys are crueller about all that stuff and I suspect you had a harder time than me, although both of us seemed to keep friends from schooldays for years afterwards, so we must have forged
some
loving and lasting links along the way.

Thanks, by the way, for bringing home a variety of different chums in the holidays from Plymouth College. I appreciated these offerings. Most of them were of great interest to me! You must have been longing for me to get to ‘big’ school so I could reciprocate with my friends. You seemed to date most of them at one time or another. The stripey blazers and hideous school hats didn’t seem to put off you or your mates, so didn’t we all have a rare ol’ time getting to know each other’s friends far too well? I remember one incident where a boy from your school took me to a party in his car on a Saturday night and, forgetting that you were present, started boasting to his friends back in school on Monday morning about the many wild exploits we had been up to in the back of his small, dull car. All lies, of course, and according to your friends who related this to me later, you ‘sorted him out’. I think that was my one and only date with that particular lying damn fool. Ta for that. I remember when you did something similar in Cyprus when some boys were trying to pull my gym pants down for a look when I was about six. Ta for that too. You have always been protective towards me and I do appreciate that, especially in later years when we have sometimes needed to look out for each other as the road to adultville has become evermore twisty and turny. Underneath your good humoured, easy going exterior Gary, I know you are made of strong stuff and I have been glad of it on lots of occasions.