T's

Ladies (and the occasional gentleman who joins us), here is the start of a new serial. It is, I confess, a little raunchy in parts so if you are easily offended, please scroll down to the more tasteful material posted elsewhere. If you're not easily offended, please enjoy xx.

I first met her when I went to University. In my Freshers’ Week I did all that a student should do. I went to every party I could find and drank far more than was good for me and met loads of people. I soaked up the atmosphere and revelled in it. Some weeks later, when all had calmed down, I struggled with my new-found freedom from authority and tried to get to grips with the work.

One Friday I was invited to a party. I had an essay to finish so I didn’t get to the flat where it was being held until about 11pm. I had no doubt it would still be in progress and as I walked up the institutionally carpeted stairs I could hear the sounds of music and chatter several floors before I got there. The room was a large common room, untidy and filled with a throng of people. In one corner was a group of girls who were listening rapt to a woman sitting in a chair. She was wearing a baggy, brown jumper and a sort of cap that belies description. Her leg was thrown over the chair’s arm and she lay back against the cushions with her hands conducting to the rhythm of her words.

‘All women should be lesbians. It’s not a choice, it’s a responsibility.’ That was a sentence I particularly remember. A girl touched my arm.

‘That,’ she said, ‘is T. She’s our resident radical feminist, take no notice. Come on, grab a drink.’

I thanked her. Her name was Sally and she was hosting the party.

‘What time do you call this?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I had an essay I wanted to finish.’ She nodded and wandered away, drawn into a conversation with another guest and I stood, watching the group around T.

‘Oh my God. Don’t you see? They, men, run the bloody world. And we let them.’ Her gaze fell on me. ‘Look, see what I mean? Look at that. She’s wearing a skirt. Skirts are specifically designed to keep women down. They are designed so men can see our legs, prevent us from doing jobs that involve climbing ladders, riding bikes. They are designed so they can get their hands on us. It’s fucking outrageous that any woman wears a skirt.’

I smiled at her. ‘Some of us wear them because we like them.’

‘No, you bloody don’t. You wear a skirt because convention says you should, for men!’ She looked around, disgusted. ‘Christ can nobody see? If women rebel against their dress code then we can fight on equal terms. Dressing for men, having sex with men is playing into their control. Sex without reproduction means sex between women is no different, emotionally, from sex with a man. Promiscuity is not just possible, not just acceptable but necessary!’

She was passionate, I had to admit that. She didn’t seem to care that she might upset me. I wasn’t upset, of course. This was part of why I had come to University, to find views and passionate concern. A girl was kneeling at T’s feet, gazing adoringly up at her, almost with worshipful respect, silly cow. I sat in a chair facing T and listened as she continued her diatribe.

‘Clothes define us.’

‘No.’

‘No, what?’

‘No, clothes don’t define us.’

‘Of course they do.’

‘OK, so what do my clothes tell you?’

‘Straight, single, looking for a man.’

‘Right on one count, wrong on two.’ I stood and wandered off to find another drink. I found a bottle of something that might, at one time, have been red wine and poured myself a glass. I joined Sally and her friend and we talked about this and that.

‘Who is T?’

Sally looked at me closely, ‘Her name is Tina but she hates all girl names, her own especially, so she decided to be T. She’s in her last year. Interested?’

‘Well, she’s interesting, certainly but a bit strident don’t you think?’ Sally looked over my shoulder and I turned to see T standing behind me.

‘Which count was I right about?’

‘Single.’

She smiled, ‘Sorry if I’m too strident.’ She stressed the word, mocking me.

‘Did I say too strident?’ I stressed the word ‘too.’

‘No, you didn’t. I just got the impression that was what you meant to say.’

‘I said what I meant to say.’

She put her hand on my shoulder in a strangely intimate way and brushed my long, chestnut hair back over it. I looked into her eyes and smiled.

‘So, not straight, let’s see.’ She fixed me intently with her grey eyes. ‘Second year, something arty, left a boyfriend in Guildford and toying with bisexuality. Oh, and called,’ a pause while she thought, ‘Lucy’

I laughed. ‘First year, in fact. Something arty is about right but I’m from Somerset and I left behind me a woman of 36 who made me leave home and see the world.’

‘You’re mother?’

‘My lover.’ I didn’t tell her that I was a slightly mature student at the age of 23 and that I’d been living with Mary since I finished school. It was Mary who had wanted me to come to University and who ended our relationship for my benefit. I knew she meant the best for me and accepted it after many tears and long hours of thought.

T raised her eyebrows. ‘Looks like I owe you an apology.’

‘Forget it.’ I was conscious of her hand resting on my shoulder. ‘I make mistakes too. Oh, and my name is Emma.’ She smiled and, to my astonishment, kissed me softly on the cheek. I sat talking to her for the rest of the night. She was bright and fun, amusing and it was daylight when I finally made my way back to my Hall.

I saw T the following evening. We met in the Union Bar. She wore a long black coat over jeans and a sweater and I had deliberately chosen to wear a skirt. Her hair was black and short, framing her face. Her grey eyes laughed as she saw me come into the bar. They travelled down to my legs and back to my own and her smile made me laugh. We drank wine and talked.

We slept together that night. She made love slowly, exploring me. I found under her drab clothes a body that moved like a cat and which had deliciously hard nipples which loved my mouth.

We slept together for many nights after that although she never promised to be anything but promiscuous. She left University in her final term with a good degree and promises that we’d keep in touch.