Losing Faith In Words

Back in High School, throughout those years when boys’ bits are still more a topic for speculation than experience, friends and I developed what we thought was a fairly standard vocabulary to describe the things we’d done. If you willingly, happily, went down on your man, you were giving head. If he had to persuade or cajole you into doing it, he was taking it. If a girl offered sex, she was putting out. If a guy insisted, she was put upon.

Little differences, but they adhered to the linguistic rules that our English prof taught us, and I’d imagine I was not the only one among us who was a little disappointed when we learned, through wider exposure to the common tongue, that we were wrong. That the English language is not interested in such petty distinctions between a woman wanting to do something, and a man wanting her to do it. That we’re still giving even when it’s him who does all the taking. (And vice versa, of course, because I’m sure there’s some women out there who can be just as insistent and cajoling as men.)

Language, and the difficulties inherent in actually finding words that cannot be deliberately twisted or even innocently misinterpreted by somebody else, is one of the reasons why assault and rape cases are often so difficult to get to the bottom of. A lot of other legal conundrums, too. I’ve often wondered if that is why the notoriously paranoid Andy Warhol tape-recorded every conversation he had, so if something ever went awry, he’d have documentary evidence of everything that was said at the time. Except the tapes probably would not be admissible as evidence, and the case would still come down to semantics, and who could twist the other’s meaning the furthest.

Still, speech remains the most effective means that we have of communicating with one another, and the best thing any of us can do is ensure that our grasp of it is strong enough that we can make the points that we need to. Because if we can’t, or if the other person’s better at it, we could be in seriously trouble.

I believe that most men, when out on a date - particularly in the earliest stages of a relationship - enter into it with more-or-less noble intentions. He may hope that he will “get lucky,” he may hope she’ll “put out.” But it never crosses his mind as he selects the cleanest T-shirt off the floor, and flosses his teeth with a freshly-bitten fingernail that an innocent evening with the girl of his dreams (well, this week’s dreams, anyway) might end in anything other than mutual ecstasy.

The younger he and she are, of course, the more chance there is of something misfiring; of his intentions being misconstrued as insistence; his affections being taken as aggression. Teenaged boys are notoriously hopeless when it comes to making their point without making a fuss, and teenaged girls are usually weighed down by well-meaning advice and warnings about appearing “easy” (“he won’t respect you in the morning”) and the specter of unwanted pregnancy. Not the greatest combination in the world.

But older men, too, can slip into teenaged ways, and again I don’t believe it was ever his intention, when he was dressing himself for our “date,” that he’d be heading home in several shades of wounded furious, or that I’d end the evening browsing pepper-spray on the internet, determined that the next time I saw him, he’d get a can-full in the crotch.

Older. I was twenty-eight, he was forty-two. I was single, he was recently divorced. I was making up a foursome as a favor to a mutual friend. He was... okay, this is where we get into linguistic waters again. The last thing he said to me as he stormed off into the night was, “I was told that you were fun.”

Fun. A word that I would construe as meaning something along the lines of “she’s got a good sense of humor, likes dancing and tries not to take crap too seriously.” But which he apparently translated into “she’ll fuck your brains out the moment she meets you.” Or words to that effect.

The evening began well, a steak house for dinner, then we moved to the bar. He was attentive... not just to me, but to the friends that were with us as well. He told a few jokes, laughed at other people’s, insisted on paying for every round of drinks, and if his leg did spend a lot of the evening pressed up against mine, I blamed it on the size of the booth that we were seated in. I didn’t flinch when he touched my arm to make a point, I didn’t blush when he told a crude joke about librarians. (Probably because I’d heard it before). Then our friends left and I agreed to stay for a coffee before we said goodnight.

Which... silly me. “Staying for a coffee” is not, even in my most innuendo-laden imagination, the same as asking “would you like to come in for a coffee?” But the arm that went round my shoulders seemed to think it was; and again, the way the booth was set up made it hard for me to just duck out from beneath it. Although I tried and when he didn’t get the message, I gently took his hand to move it. At which point he squeezed my hand right back, and leaned in to try and kiss me.

Crowded bar, don’t make a fuss. I moved my head, avoided his lips and he seemed to concede defeat. We finished our coffees, he helped me on with my jacket, we stepped outside. He offered to drive me home; I said no, I’d catch a cab and indicated the lights of the depot on the strip a couple of hundred yards away. He said he’d walk with me; I demurred, but he insisted. Okay, then. As I said, it was only two hundred yards and, though the first half of that was overshadowed by a few darkened businesses...

You know what’s coming next.

The arm around my waist that slowed my intended walking pace down to match his dawdle. The abrupt halt by a doorway and a kind of shuffle, kind of shove, that put my back against the wall. A few well-rehearsed lines about how great it was to meet me, and he’d love to see me again. A polite smile and a thank you seemed the smart way of replying, and now his face was in my neck, scratchy kisses on my throat.

Okay, enough.