Latex girl

The little hill town was full of excitement. My friend Joseph was in a local election competing with three others and I was over to watch the fun and lend him moral support. The journey over had taken its toll on me, as travelling often can, but it was great to finally be in this town that I had heard so much about.

Years ago we were colleagues, until Joseph’s family ties had grown so stretched that he felt compelled to return home to this old town where his ancestors had always lived for as long as anyone could remember. My own work had grown significantly when he left because we had been so close that it was easier for me to pick it up than to get someone else to do it. It was, in any event, a real pleasure to step into his shoes in many ways. There were no loose ends. No one that he had dealt with was surprised when I stepped into the frame and everything was well organized and easy to pick up.

We had worked together on a daily basis for ten years or more, and when he left we remained in daily contact for a while, reducing to weekly after a couple of months. The intervals between conversations lengthened as we grew further apart. While we both continued to live life to the full, the proportion of shared experiences and mutually developed views reduced. I had been sceptical about making this visit as both of us had changed so much in the intervening years. I needn’t have worried, though. Joseph was as disarmingly receptive as ever, taking great interest in every aspect of my life, and my family.

The thing that conjures the strongest memories and images of our partnership was the music we used to listen to together, constantly introducing each other to things we had rooted out from record shops, radio programs and internet sites. At first, he was very sceptical about downloading and sharing music in this way, it being illegal. Not that the law actually held any significance for either of us; it was really a question of morality. But we soon realized that our activities led us to purchase far more music than we would otherwise have done, because we were getting to know so much new stuff. So, despite the law , we had no qualms on moral grounds.

Yesterday I had arrived with a clutch of new CDs and Joseph had bought a load since last we met. We had been up half the night swapping discoveries and drinking his wine. Between our forays into each other’s musical adventures Joseph related to me his tales of how had become assimilated into this little town. It turned out that quite a few people either remembered his recent ancestors living here, and quite a few others were new arrivals in the town. Some were retiring from their own rat races to an idyllically peaceful existence; some were summer residents only; some were long-distance commuters, having to live here simply because they’d been so captivated by the place when first visiting. Not that long ago, houses here had been extraordinarily cheap. As the town had picked itself up, so prices began to escalate.

Joseph had endeared himself to so many people over the last couple of years that when the election for town mayor arose, he was persuaded to put himself forward. I had met a number of his friends and supporters already, as we visited a few of the key watering holes last night. I had also met his rivals, and they all seemed much more the part than he for town mayor; but I didn’t say so.

They were a rum bunch, and wonderfully sociable. Perhaps living in an isolated little town made them hungry for new faces. We drank and laughed and swore and sang, and generally had a raucous and wonderful time together. One very strange conversation I had was with a curious old man who had once been some kind of university professor somewhere. He told me that Hippocrates, whom he regarded as the founder of modern medicine, was interested in the four humours: blood, black bile, yellow bile and phlegm. What interested this old professor was the colours of these humours, black, red, green and yellow (or gold). This combination of colours crops up all over the place; for example the Jamaican flag, and he was trying to work out which came first, the cultural predilection for these colours, or Hippocrates’ ideas about humours. I had to admit that I could not help him in his strange quest. I wasn’t entirely sure if he was just making fun, and mistaking my fatigue for seriousness, trying perhaps to lighten me up. But the noise of the drinkers in the tavern carried me along. I enjoyed the rowdiness all the more for the absence of background music.

We drank late into the night, again, but breakfast the next morning with Joseph was still early as we had an election to attend. I was pretty exhausted now that the day had arrived. The contest was between four candidates and I was having to work hard even to remember the other candidates’ names. I had met a lot of people during my visit already, and was doing quite well remembering most of them. But, by now, I was confused about who the candidates were, I had no idea what they were standing for, and, frankly, I no longer cared. This was not my town, country or language. As long as my friend was happy, that was all that mattered. Right now, he was in the thick of things with the local people, and I was temporarily on the sidelines and happy to let it all wash over me as I blended anonymously with the locals. Towards the end of the day, having seen very little of Joseph while he attended to his voters, I was sitting in a crowd of strangers awaiting the results that would be available in a few more hours. People were wandering around, highly animated and very voluble, and I was soaking up the ambience, enjoying the odd kind of solitude that can arise in a crowd. I was sitting on some makeshift benching, as I recall, a few rows deep. I was buried in concentration, when I noticed a young woman two rows in front of me, a few places to the right, looking in my direction.

The girl had short black hair and was wearing sombre but warm colours, various shades of dark reds and blacks. I had not paid any attention to the comings and goings of the seething crowd, so I don’t know how long she had been there. I became aware of her youthful upturned face only gradually. I had an initial feeling as I noticed her that it seemed sort of natural for a young female to focus her gaze on me, but it was exactly that feeling of familiarity, that awful poignant memory of an emotion, that pulled me up with such a start. It was not typical and had not happened for a long time. I was suddenly and painfully aware of the void that had spread, over the last few years, like bacteria into my marriage. Familiarity had grown into disinterest and a mutually comfortable distance; more like friends than lovers. The shock was not having noticed, until now, how arid my relationship with my wife had become. What was it about this stranger’s glance that had brought this intense feeling, seemingly from nowhere? The girl’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated with desire, and that troubled me, more because of how long it had been since anyone had looked at me like that, than anything to do with her.

Actually, she wasn’t looking at me at all. She was looking longingly at a point just behind my left shoulder. In the corner behind me, a man was washing latex gloves, and hanging them up to dry. Amongst all the excitement of the evening I had simply not noticed this bizarre activity. And it was bizarre, more strange than anything to with the election that was going on around us. People were running into the square carrying little ballot boxes from more remote parts of the community, noisy old buses had been filled with diesel to ferry people between home and town, and the carnival atmosphere was augmented by the traders, restaurants and bars staying open, an all day market, and stalls and street performers of every kind. No one wanted to miss the fun and the chance to earn an extra crust. Amidst all of this hubbub, a man was washing latex gloves, and a young girl, a woman, was gazing longingly at him. She saw me looking at him and moved closer to me, climbing over one bench to sit on the bench in front of me. She looked mischievously at me, young eyes sparkling, and said, “It is a long time since anyone touched me with Latex gloves”. She seemed to shiver a little, as she said it.

I was startled; this was a long way from what I was expecting her to say. I don’t remember ever having encountered a latex fetishist before. She made it sound such a normal thing. Looking back, I suppose now that her longing for the feel of latex must have resonated with my longing for physical female company. I saw my own marriage for what it was; dry, familiar, well-worn and unchallenging. Here was something entirely unexpected. This young woman couldn’t have been more than 25; half my age, yet I felt an instant rapport with her. The look in her eyes combined with her upturned face made me want immediately to help slake her thirst. The driest of the gloves had already been lined with a layer of talc. I leaned over to the glove man and asked if I could borrow a glove. He was unconcerned and shrugged a “help yourself” to me. Before I knew what I was up to, I was stroking the back of her neck with a latex glove on my hand, and then stroking her cheek gently. She gasped with pleasure and arched her back, trembling slightly, but profoundly enjoying this moment. It seemed to me that the depth of her enjoyment placed her in an emotional and psychological space that would be forever denied to me. I could understand her immense pleasure, even help to bring it about, but I could never share it or be a part of it. I felt even more of a celibate than I had felt when I first thought she was looking at me.

The noise in the square was growing. I could see my friend on the podium with his three competitors and a large number of officials clucking about. The result must be getting close, judging by the increasing activity. But I wanted to know more about this girl whose gentle neck I was massaging with one latexed hand. I asked her how it was feeling and she purred very satisfyingly. It was far too noisy to talk, so I gestured to her to leave with me. She glanced at the wedding ring on my left hand and shouted, “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting to hear the result of this election all day. That’s my Dad up there”, indicating one of my friend’s competitors. I felt that it really was not the place for me and told her so, adding, “OK, cheerio, then. Enjoy the party”, and made my way back to my car, tossing the latex glove back to the strange glove-washing man as I passed him.

I made my way back to the car park, wondering where to head for. I felt awkward and out of place. I got in the car and sat for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet after the noise of the square. After somewhere between half and one hour, I was still puzzling over the evening’s events, and my own as well as everyone else’s bizarre behaviour. Eventually I started the engine. As I moved off slowly and turned towards the car park entrance, I saw her again in the rear view mirror. She was looking straight at me as she jumped into a red mini car. I was at the entrance now, about to turn into the busy road that headed out of town. I couldn’t believe the speed of the traffic flow that I was trying to join. The cars were racing along, approaching from a blind corner only a few seconds from this narrow entrance. The red mini had not yet arrived behind me, but I saw a break in the traffic and took my chance, spinning the wheels and throwing up gravel as I spun out on to the road, almost out of control gunning the engine and pushing every ounce of acceleration from the car to avoid a rear-end shunt.

I drove as fast as I could to keep up with the traffic flow. They were mad drivers around here. No matter how fast I drove, there was someone tailgating me with headlights glaring in my mirrors. I slowed as a straight section came up, to let yet another tailgater pass me, and this one was pipping the hooter at me. As she passed I realised it was the latex girl again, giving me a cheery wave! She pulled in front, then matched her speed to mine and, after a mile or so, turned off to the left, with me following, wondering if this was normal behaviour for me, or quite simply the most stupid thing I had ever done in my life.

We parked up and got out simultaneously. There was no one around, although the traffic noise was nearby and it didn’t feel particularly secluded. It wasn’t that dark, either, and I could see quite well the area that we were in. The girl had parked next to some rubbish bags. She opened the passenger door of her car and asked me to help her throw them on to the back seat. Her car was a mess inside, the back seat strewn with bits of hay, straw and twigs. I was deeply puzzled and told her so. Her explanation was disarming. She had all her garden waste and recycling in her car ready to take it to the dump, when she remembered that today was the day of the election. She came straight here and still had the stuff with her when she had been approaching town this morning to watch the election and support her dad, but she didn’t want to drive into town and park up for the day with all this rubbish in the car, so she had temporarily dumped it here for the day and was just returning to collect it and take it to its destination. Although I was thinking this was weird, I supposed that, after the latex episode, anything was possible from this girl. I helped her with the bulky bags, and she thanked me. We talked a little about the election and the temporary transformation of the little town, but we had little common ground upon which to build much of a conversation. She told me the result of the voting; neither her father nor my friend had got many votes. Last year’s man was re-elected convincingly. She told me that it was time for her to go, and gave me a peck on my cheek, and off she went, quick as a flash, before I could think or say anything more. Celebratory fireworks lit up the sky for a while, and part of me made a mental note that I would be able to tell my vanquished friend that I had watched the display. I stood on that hill on the outskirts of town for hours, as the sun came up. My mind was in turmoil. When I finally began to feel hungry, I headed back to town to get breakfast and find my disappointed friend. What a tale I would have to tell him, once we had finished talking about the election and his part in it.

I often think back to that crazy day and mad girl. I sometimes wonder about going back for another visit, but it was such a strange time of my life that I would really rather not.