Drifting with the Current

In Rememberance (2021)

“I’m not doing that for half a crown! It’s sixpence extra.”

Have you ever watched yourself making love?

Why am I even asking? This is… 2021, is it? You’ve probably filmed yourself with your telephone, and used an internet to let other people watch you. But imagine you’re living in the ’40s. The 1940s, not the 2040s; you don’t want to imagine living in the 2040s. If you make it to the ’40s, remember things will get better. Someone told me 2047 was the turning point. Hang on until then if you can.

Sorry, I wandered. That’s how I live now, wandering from one year to another, one thought to another. I was going to tell you about the war. Things were different. There weren’t any internets, so if you wanted to watch people make love you needed to be a peeping Tom, and to argue with someone in another country you had to actually go there. Some of our young men did that in ’39. They went to the continent, my husband among them. Many of those boys made it back in little boats; Frank wasn’t among them. We had rationing, bombs, poverty, fear, and loneliness. Mostly loneliness for me, with a little poverty and one life-changing bomb.

The bomb fell in 1942, the year the Americans arrived. The Yanks had chocolate, and confidence, and Hollywood accents, and I’m making excuses: they had money, is what they had. So much money, and not enough to spend it on. They were lonely too.

I didn’t know I was going to prostitute myself until May that year. The blitz had ended but there were still occasional air raids. One night a close one shook my Anderson shelter. I thought I was a goner but when the dust settled, I settled with it. The all clear came half an hour later, and I went back into the house to discover I was already there, in my bedroom, on my bed, with a young man between my legs, his hairy bum going like the clappers.

I had my eyes closed, luckily. Not me, mine were wide open, but the me lying on the bed had her eyes closed. She didn’t see me staring at her.

It’s not pretty, is it? Sex, I mean. It’s hardly the ballet. Why would you watch anyone doing that, let alone yourself? Pornography doesn’t become properly beautiful until the ’80s…

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