Stuck       On Him I had hoped the boys would be more mature at university than they had been at school... warning: includes use of stationery

I had hoped the boys would be more mature at university than they had been at school. At school they would gather in knots sniggering and sometimes pointing and making all of us really self-conscious, and the few who had the decency to treat a girl on the level would get poked and ribbed by their more underdeveloped classmates.

This sort of childishness simmered down considerably as the exams became more serious and some of the lads got holiday jobs and as, in general, the boys started realising that they weren’t far from growing into men, so that by the sixth form a few were mature enough to be considered as boyfriends, and others were at least capable of holding a conversation and acting civilly.

The discovery, therefore, at Uni where there were no teachers overseeing and where we were all away from parental vigilance, that about half of the “men” present dissolved into naughty boys again was quite a shock. The other half, unfortunately were too shy to be much good to anyone, and so us girls generally had to hang around together as we'd had to in school.

I’d hoped, being away from the folks, it would be easier to find a nice boy and do some gentle experimenting in growing up and having a mature relationship, but certainly during the first term, becoming oriented in the college and having digs in the girls’ halls of residence made proper exploration difficult, and most contact with boys was either superficial because of their shyness, or fraught with tacky chat-up lines or, worse, the attempts that some of them would make to grope or be lewd.

Jack Leane turned out to be the worst of the lot and he sat behind me in a business studies unit I was taking. I was studying Theatre Studies and had taken this course option as an add-on because I suspected it could be very useful in all sorts of ways. Jack was studying some building and surveying course, and was obliged to take the unit.

He was actually very good looking, which at first made me unconsciously look past some of his more annoying behaviours; I dismissed them as possible foibles in his personality, not knowing him any better. He was five feet five tall, and much shorter than most of the other boys, they really don’t deserve to be called men, but at five feet two myself, and often wearing sneakers for comfort and practicality, this didn’t really register much. Almost everyone was taller than me apart from Genny Foyle who was the same height, and Angela Bennington who was actually slightly shorter.

It was after knowing Jack for about a month that I started to see that he could get aggressive with the other boys, and tended to be over-amorous with us girls. By the end of two months I was getting very irritated with him, especially the way he would tug my hair during class to distract me. It was actually Genny who introduced the term Napoleon Complex into my mind with respect to him. And it was Genny he took a particular shine to.

Genny was a very gentle person, and hated hurting someone’s feelings. The fact that she had a very critical and insightful mind seemed, oddly, to add to this in that she saw someone’s weaknesses all too clearly and was even more careful not to upset them. Several of us told her she really had to be firm with Jack and draw the line very clearly, but she found herself unable to be firm enough. His inability to take a gentle “no” for an answer ought to have been enough for a very harsh “no” to follow, but Genny couldn’t do that.

It was not long after the beginning of the second term that Genny made us promise to tell no one, before she told us something that she seemed very agitated to tell. So myself and Angela and Catherine Glass, who was actually the tallest of the girls in our year and was often known as the Tall Cat, promised we wouldn’t repeat a word, but “for heaven’s sake tell us what you have to say”.

And Genny spilled the beans. Jack had tried to rape her. He’d failed because — and we were all shocked but pleased to hear — she had smashed an earthenware bedside lamp over his head.

This put Jack in a different light, but it was the Cat who said he had to be punished.

“He has quite a bump on his head”, Genny said. “Isn’t that punishment?”
“Do you think that will mean he will never try it again with anyone?” asked the Cat.
“Well, yes,” Genny had said, and I and Angela and the Cat looked at her uncertainly.

*** ***

She was wrong.

Having certainly got the message from Genny that she had reached the end of her niceness with him, Jack increased his attention on me, but to my surprise he stopped being annoying and instead turned on a charm I didn’t know he had. His big soft eyes, which nonetheless sparkled with a roguish mischief, his lips which were surprisingly expressive for a boy and his rounded cheeks which dimpled when he grinned, suddenly all seemed much more appealing as he practised expressions such as laughter and thoughtfulness more than he had previously seemed able to do.

I confessed to the other girls I was starting to find him attractive.

“Come on Penny,” said Cat, “he’s dangerous”.
“Well,” I said, “maybe Genny’s clout rearranged a few brain cells. He’s just not the same Jack, these days.”
“Well, he did have a few charming moments before, you know,” Genny told me. “Why do you think I got into such a difficult situation with him? He can be very nice … when he wants something.”

I thought about that. The last thing I wanted was to have to fight him off, and if I managed it didn’t want to have to admit I’d been the sort of fool that other people could say “we told you so” to.

I approached him with an air of scepticism the next day and he breezed up with a big smile, and tickets to see one of my favourite bands saying when he saw they were playing he couldn’t wait to see the look on my face if I knew I would be going. They were expensive, and I was bowled over.

His charm continued unabated for another month and a half, except for some tentative gropes sometimes at a disco when either no one could see, or else it was almost more noticeable to not be being groped. I stopped him, and he didn’t force it on each occasion. He only embarrassed me with it twice, once where he grabbed my bum as part of having his arm round my waist; but it was while we were at the Uni bar and in full view of anyone. I stormed off and he apologised profusely for two days before I relented. The other was at the end of the term, where he picked me up during the official college Christmas lunch, and carried me in a fireman’s lift to plant me under the mistletoe and kiss me hard. Utterly embarrassing and yet with the whole room cheering him on it was hard to think of it as other than brazenly romantic.

And I suppose by this time we were “an item”, as they used to say back then.

*** ***

And so the Spring term started and I was “spoken for” for the first time ever. It was sort of exciting, and I’d managed to coyly drop a hint to my parents about my boyfriend, and smiled to myself at their brooding worried glances and overprotective warnings of the dangers of men. I didn’t say, “but he’s only a boy”, but I thought it. I could handle Jack, I thought, he’s just a kid at heart.

We were three weeks into the term when it happened.

I think it was worse than what had happened to Genny, though Genny never really went into detail. We’d both got tipsy at a party, he’d kept sliding his hand up my rather short dress, and I was giggling because of the drink, but another part of me that wasn’t really in control anymore was getting more and more distressed. I think the giggles were partly because it was so embarrassing to be manhandled like that publicly, and partly because it tickled sometimes, and partly because I really was drunk.

Jack had lost all his inhibitions too and would rub my thigh possessively, which made me uneasy enough, but then unexpectedly run his hand all the way up my leg, bringing the otherwise elegant full-circle skating style skirt of the dress right up with his hand, exposing my underwear! I’d lunge at the hem and managed to quickly recover at least half my modesty, and then he’d move in for a kiss, or grope my breast.

A couple of the lads from the second and third years, and one man who I’m sure was a lecturer, were trying not to leer, but they were all getting a good surreptitious eyeful. Several others were openly ogling, and two louts were cheering.

I tried to struggle free and Jack held me down with a sort of “whatsa madda baby” patronising tone. Eventually I hit him in the face as hard as I could and stormed out of the room.

It was late and I wasn’t about to try to walk home at two in the morning, not in that city. So I went upstairs to the loo where, of course, there was a queue. Older guys chatted me up lasciviously on two occasions while I was queuing, but I eventually got inside and leaned on the sink and gazed into the mirror. Mascara smeared, lipstick gone a bra strap showing, and a run in my tights where my nail had caught fighting Jack’s hand down.

I remembered the other girls’ warning and in spite of feeling very woozy, I began to sober up. I straightened up as best I could, and shouted some swear words at the hammering on the door, as I tried to get my breath back. When I exited I gave a vicious look to the next girl in the queue, and then saw Jack on the landing.

“Oh, there you are babe”, he slurred.

I turned and headed for the stairs, but he grabbed me, and before I could even squirm he had somehow locked me into a kiss, and gently but firmly pinned my hands behind my back against the wall. With his face pressing hard into my nose as well as his kiss, I was starting to feel dizzy by the time he broke, and together with the alcohol, it disorientated me enough that he had managed to propel me through a bedroom door before I really got my breath back.

*** ***

I heard the lock click and he dangled the key in his hand before slipping it into his back pocket.

“Stop this at once, Jack, I want to go home.”
“Now, now, dear, don’t play hard to get,” he said.

What ensued can only be described as a fight, which he should have won easily, except that he was as drunk as me. He was not a strong lad. Short, as I’ve already said, and also quite a slight build; but not nearly as slight as me. Cat might have given him a run for his money, but my main weapon was ferocity and slipperiness, and when he eventually managed to get a hold of my wrists I knew I couldn’t hope to fight much longer.

He forced me onto the bed and I screamed out. He slapped me hard and said “Ah-ah,” like some admonishing parent. He then tried to pull my knickers down. He leaned back off me to gain purchase on them and I very nearly managed to make contact with his nose with my knee. He slapped my thigh really hard, and I struggled; he did it again, and so did I; and that went on for a few minutes until I was crying from the heat in my thigh and the hopelessness of fighting.

I went limp and he said “Betta,” in the same patronising voice. He pulled my knickers and tights down till they were tangled around my shoes and I sobbed. He unzipped his jeans and lifted my dress, and my sense of horror increased the depths of my sobs. And then there was a pause.

I felt a slight rocking on the bed and opened my eyes. At first I couldn’t focus, but then I blinked away some tears and moved my head up. He turned his head to face me with a look of drunkenly confused consternation and I looked down to see the cause of the rocking as he desperately plied his limp penis trying to get a response.

The relief was immense and he looked so pathetic, the tough guy, the big brute couldn’t get it up. I started laughing, which didn’t feel very different from crying, but there was a bitter satisfaction slowly replacing the fear. He slapped me hard again on the same thigh and the pain would have made me cry out with pain had I not been laughing, but it simply made my laugh more maniacal.

He stood up, confused and angry but still looking pathetic. His big patronising manner gone, he looked like a little boy who needed help at the toilet, and as I sat up his jeans slid unceremoniously down around his ankles.

He looked down, staggered, and with the constriction at his ankles collapsed in a heap against the wall. I was nearly bent double laughing now, and there was definitely malice and desperation in my laugh. I kicked off my shoes, as I rolled slightly in my drunken mirth, pulled off the tights and knickers, and slipped my shoes back on. Not ideal attire, but my still drunken mind was preparing for action, as I eyed the key which had fallen from his jeans, now the back pocket was no longer tightly stretched across his rump. He didn’t see it, but he realised he had lost the advantage and quickly scrambled to his feet, kicking his own shoes and jeans off in the process.

“Suck it”, he said.
“Ewww, no thanks,” I said.

And he lunged forward, grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to my knees in front of him.

“Suck or I’ll beat you up”.

I looked up at him and had no reason to doubt his threat. I was frightened again, and feeling more sober than before, the delirium having suddenly passed. I looked at his repulsive little penis, saw the door key on the floor behind him, now on it’s own away from where he’d kicked his jeans. I smelt an unpleasant smell come from him where he wanted me to suck.

“You wash it first,” I said, hoping for an escape, but all I got was a punch in the side of the face. I would have fallen, but he held me by the hair. I felt like a rag doll, and it was very painful, both in my face and my scalp.

I took his limp and smelly member in my mouth and nearly retched. I opened my mouth more, feeling sick from the smell, sick from pain and sick from humiliation.

“Oh yeah,” he said, and I felt the slimy worm twitch in my mouth. I opened my eyes in shock as it started to grow, and he transferred his grip in my hair to the back of my head so I couldn’t pry loose. I felt my hands on his knees trying to push away, but his strength was greater, nearly smothering me in his sweaty groin, and then I felt it grow more.

It was horrible. I could hardly think. The powerlessness, and the anger and the humiliation had almost rendered the physical pain numb, and then as I felt his growing penis reach the back of my tongue it was simply a reflex, not a decision or a choice.
I bit. As hard as I could.

*** ***

He screamed like a girl and pulled at my hair to pull me away, but I just clung on like a Doberman. When I tasted blood I ground my teeth side to side and then spat him out. He let me go, and jumped backwards howling and clutching his groin. I smiled as I saw blood and then, again without thinking, grabbed at an object lying against the wall. I swung it hard at his head, he turned and tied to duck, but the end of the weapon cracked hard above his ear and he collapsed in a heap.

I looked at my hand: the weapon was a T-square, quite an unusual object. I grabbed the key, found my handbag on the floor, went to the door, but then I turned.

Jack was out cold. I glanced around the room and saw other drawing implements, and besides the bed there was a sink a wardrobe, a desk and a drawing board in the corner.

I don’t know why I stayed, but something got hold of me. Confidently I strode over to the wardrobe. Inside were men’s clothes, all in black, not a piece of colour on the left hand side, but on the right hand side a complete change of style — a skirt, pink jeans, a denim dress. I took the dress out and held it up to me looking in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. It was about two sizes too big for me, but still quite short and sexy. Was I in the room of a transvestite? Or were they the clothes of a girlfriend? I held up a black jacket from the left hand side and it was much, much bigger. If he was that big a hunk, then the dress wasn’t his. Not a transvestite then.

My mind was wandering, something told me to get out and call a cab while I could, but my mind was possibly in shock, or maybe just still drunk. The word transvestite echoed in my head. I looked down at Jack.

*** ***

It wasn’t a plan. I didn’t decide in any conscious way, but I started mooching through drawers. Bathroom items stood on the shelf above the sink. In the desk drawers was an extensive range of stationery, pens, rulers, glue, tape…
I just set to work.

I stripped Jack naked and grabbed the superglue I’d found. I parted his legs wiped him down with a cleansing pad from my handbag, and when he’d dried glued his penis as far back as I could between his legs. I then started squashing his scrotum around, as symmetrically as I could, and smiled as I realised this might look a bit like a woman’s labiae by the time I had finished. It’s as if my subconscious mind already had a plan, but the conscious mind was being amused as it unfolded, as though the two weren’t both part of the same person, the same me.

Suddenly my eyebrows shot up in surprise as his testicles slipped off somewhere up inside him. I didn’t realise that could happen, but it was even better. Carefully avoiding getting any glue on my own fingers, I glued the scrotum tight and wondered if those testicles would ever reappear. I really didn’t care though.

When he seemed to be securely unmanned by the glue, I parted his legs a bit more and liberally dabbed more glue in places where a better joint could be secured. It was almost cute looking at the tip of his penis sticking out backwards near his anus.

I should mentioned there had been hardly any blood, a graze was all my teeth had really done, and I suppose some bruising, so there’d been no real mess or problem gluing.

I then picked up a razor and a can of shaving cream, I went over his face, then his legs, changing the blade on the razor after the left leg was complete and I’d managed to administer a couple of small nicks. Then I shaved off his eyebrows. Jake was blond. When he’d been shaved, there really wasn’t much to say he’d ever grown hair in the shaven area. And his head hair was actually quite long, a shaggy mop about shoulder length all the way round. It wouldn’t be fashionable in this day and age, but back then it wasn’t unusual for men to wear their hair that way.

I slipped my knickers onto him, and then decided that since he would have to sit to pee, I could afford to glue the front of the waistband into place, which I did. I slipped off the top of my dress, undid my bra and then put that on Jake. I glued the straps in place, stuffed my ruined tights into the cups and moved him round a little trying to get a good shape When I realised that the flesh on his chest could be kneaded into a cleavage. I slipped the lid off the glue again, turned him half on his side and got behind him, pushed my left arm under him and held his chest from either side, then glued the crease of chest fat I managed to form, firmly into place. I then glued the chest band of the bra all the way round, so as to reinforce this roll of chest fat.

After holding him for a few minutes, I let go and to my delight the glue held. I supposed that it would probably hurt quite a lot when he came round having his flesh held together like that when really it would want to spring back to it’s usual position, but somehow I felt a little pain would suit him well.

I grabbed the denim dress from the wardrobe and dropped it over his head, and by half rolling him, and half dragging him into a sitting position, got it onto him. After a rest, because I was starting to “glow” and breathing heavily from the exertion, I spotted a wide belt, I slipped it round his waist cinched it tight, and made sure the dress wasn’t bunched up, then putting my hand inside the dress at the top, glued around the waist. I then undid the belt, rolled the dress up, and put spots of glue around a swathe two inches wide around first the front his waist, and then rolling the dress down again and patting it into place, turned him over and did the back of his waist. I then reaffixed the belt carefully and glued the dress to the belt, and then the buckle of the belt I glued into its tightest position.

With him on his front I then zipped up the back of the dress, gluing the seams inside as I went, to his sides and shoulders, and then running a long bead of glue right along the length of the zip and around the neckline.

I rolled him back onto his back, pulling the skirt down as I rolled him, until there he was, his surprisingly nice legs exposed from the upper mid-thigh to his ankles.

I sat for a moment, mind blank, and then reached for a marker pen, a black one. I drew in two high, thin, smoothly arched eyebrows. I was pleased with the lines. They were thin, but not too thin. A bit Marlene, but not completely out of place for a modern woman. Out of place for Jack, but I was burying Jack.

I checked the pen and smiled: “waterproof”. I reached for a similar red pen. It was more difficult to do his lips because they were a bit dry and the pen caught a few times, but I managed to stay within the lines. I was about to pop the lid back on when I realised I could also do his nails. This was easier because of the smooth surface, and then I did his toenails.

I then rolled him onto his side, and tried to haul him into a sitting position against the wall. This was difficult. He was a dead weight, and it must have taken me about a minute of hard work to get him from the centre of the floor where he’d fallen. As I positioned his head I felt a nasty bump under my fingers and realised that the T-square must have caught him there, not far from his temple. I’d heard that could be dangerous, but he was still breathing — better than he deserved really.

I found a comb, no hairbrush, I never carried one myself when I used my small handbag, and a small pair of paper scissors. I combed his hair evenly all round, then cut a fringe into the front, just below the new eyebrows. I trimmed the ends all round, and though not as good a job as a hairdresser might have managed, he now had a passable, though lank, blonde bob.

I found a pair of dividers, so I decided to donate my earrings. I brutally pierced Jake’s ears, put my diamante danglers in, and glued the backs into place. Then I had an idea, and I noticed the process was becoming more conscious as I sobered up. This was conscious, a planned idea: I pulled out the black marker again and carefully stretched the edges of his eyelids and ran a nice black line around his top and bottom lids, but then I tapered it into an almost Egyptian style point at the outer corners, and turned the point slightly upwards.

I leaned back to admire my handiwork and was really taken aback by how attractive Jack was looking.

A quick mooch in the drawer again brought a clear liquid to hand. I looked at it and the bottle said it was an alcohol thinner, for use in washes, airbrushing, cleaning and diluting alcohol-based inks. Another idea came. I used a flannel from the sink, dabbed it in the thinner, and then rubbed the red marker across it. I then very lightly dabbed it on Jack’s cheeks. I almost overdid it, but just like it said on the bottle, I was able to dilute it back into a very light girlish blush. I could feel my face cracking up with a smile.

That was when Jack groaned and muttered something. I jumped a bit. I didn’t want to be here when he woke up. And then, maybe the last vestige of drunkenness, I almost forgot my danger and decided I didn’t like his voice. I couldn’t change it, of course, but I did place a pencil into his mouth, and then superglued his lips closed. When I realised what a nice glossy look it gave his lips, I carefully spread it all over the lips using the flannel, and then withdrew the pencil before it dried hopefully leaving a small hole he’d be able to insert a straw into until his lips were released in hospital.

I placed the items back in the drawer and on the sink, put the flannel in the bin and buried it under waste paper, and was about to close the wardrobe drawer when I saw some shoes, black strappy sandals. I looked at them, and at Jack’s feet, and then back. I had to try.

It turned out Jack had quite narrow feet, and though the shoes were about two sizes too small, with the open toes and the slingback heel, there was plenty of room to accommodate his feet. His heel hung over the back by about a quarter of an inch, which wouldn’t show much when he was standing up, and his toe didn’t leave the ideal amount of sole projecting at the front to protect it. But they didn’t look bad. I glued the sole of his right foot into the first shoe, glued all the straps on the top and back of his foot and then glued the strap shut. I was almost finished with his left foot as he began to stir.

“Mmm mmm?” he managed.

I quickly closed the shoe, dabbed glue across the strap, ran it round the couple of straps I’d not finished doing and decided that though it wasn’t perfect, it couldn’t be helped, and it was unlikely the shoe would come off — without medical assistance.

“Mmm … m,” came again.
I grabbed the key, grabbed my handbag, opened the door, stepped through to a much quieter party, I locked the door again, leaving the key partly turned in the lock so it couldn’t be poked through from the inside, and went downstairs to call a cab.

*** ***

Unfortunately, back then people didn’t have mobile phones with cameras. It was three in the morning and not much could be done, but as I waited for the cab I became more and more antsy about the possibilities.

I rang Cat. The phone rang and wasn’t answered, so I called again. The third time I rang the phone picked up and I heard her voice, shrieking expletives, invective and definitely not sounding happy.

“Cat!”
“Penny? What the…”
“Jack tried to rape me too.” I looked around, but no-one in the house was paying attention, most were too drunk and either leaving or looking for somewhere to kip.
“Uh. Are you okay? Oh my goodness, no.”
“It’s okay, it was horrible, but it’s okay. I knocked him out.”
“You did?” Strong surprise was indicated in her tone.
“Look, Cat, you’ve got a car and…”
“Oh yes, I’ll come and pick you up.”
“No, no. I’ve ordered a cab, but can I come to your place. You won’t believe what I did to him. I want… I want pictures.”
“Pictures?”
“Look, I know it’s awful late, but can I come round. I’ll tell you about it. Have you got some film? We gotta try and photograph him.”
“Phot… tonight?”
“Let me come and explain.”
“I’m a real sucker. I’ll put some coffee on.”
“Thanks, Cat.”

It took the best part of an hour, after arriving at Cat’s to explain what I’d done, persuade her it wasn’t a fantasy and that Jake was locked in a room glued into a sexy denim dress and high heels, with permanent marker for makeup. When she finally got it and was awake enough, she started to realise that although I had been hurt — a bruise on my cheek, some clumps where hair had been pulled out, a still tender thigh, and the shaken anger and shock that inevitably follows a rape attempt - that somehow it might be Jake who had come off worse.

Cat’s car was a Citroen Dyane: inconspicuous, economical and very cold. We had taken blankets, but we eventually both climbed in the back and huddled together.

I can only surmise that Jake must have slept through. It was about 9am when eventually there were stirrings in the house. We could see the upstairs window of the room I had been in with Jake. Cat was fast asleep when the first early morning party leavers came out. They looked bleary eyed and, as a group, wandered down the street.

“I’m going to have a look, Cat,” I said.
“Mmm?” She turned over.

*** ***

I got out of the car. It was still quite chilly, but not as cold as it had been. I was borrowing Cat’s duffle coat, which was big on me, and I had a pair of her jeans on, rolled up, and had borrowed a pair of her flats, which surprisingly were quite a reasonable fit. I went over to the front door and, as it had been all night at the party, it was still on the latch. I went in, and sneaked upstairs. The key was still in the bedroom door. I turned it gently, but didn’t unlock it. I pulled it out, looked around, and then quickly looked through the keyhole. The room beyond was murky, the curtains still drawn. But I could see Jake’s feet dangling from the end of the bed.

It seemed hardly possible that he could have got up, made his way to the bed and lain down without noticing the way he was dressed. Still looking through the keyhole, I gently knocked. No response.

Gingerly I put the key back in the lock and unlocked the door. I turned the handle, reasoning that if he tried to jump me, I had on comfy flats and he had on four-inch strappies, the like of which I presumed he’d never worn before. I gently opened the door. He didn’t move. He was facing the door, and was probably the only person in the house who would wake up with perfect makeup. He was fast asleep — or dead, though that didn’t occur to me at the time and, as it turned out, wasn’t the case — and he looked really pretty.

I turned and, as quietly as I could, scooted downstairs and out to Cat. She simply wouldn’t be roused, so I grabbed her camera, which was a small Minolta compact with auto everything and built in flash. She’d also brought her Nikon, but said the Minolta was always handy when there wasn’t time to do it properly. It also had a built in four times zoom, which was handy, while she would have to change lenses on the Nikon.
Back in the house I was half way up the stairs when I saw another partygoer. He was standing at the bedroom door. He turned and saw me.

“Hi,” he said nonchalantly.
“Hi,” I said and smiled.

He looked back at sleeping Jack and then walked to the bathroom and shut the door. I fired off three shots of Jack, full body, zoomed into his face, and then zoomed a bit more. Then I ventured closer, figuring the flash might need to be closer and took another full-face shot.
Jack groaned.

I turned and walked out the door just as the bathroom door was opening.

The same partygoer game me a quizzical look and looked back at the bedroom door.

I nearly hesitated, but then with a smoothness that surprised myself, I said, smiling: “Jackie asked us to pick her up this morning, but she’s not awake yet and she probably needs the sleep.”
“Jackie is it? I don’t remember her from last night. I’ll tell her you called for her. What’s your name.”
“Oh, tell her it was Penny. But she’s missed the lift, so she’ll have to make her own way home.”
“Oh, when I sober up a bit I’ll give her a lift if she wants,” said the partygoer.
“Oh that’s nice of you. She’ll love that, thanks,” And I thought: “oh to be a fly on the wall.”

I don’t really know what happened. We never saw Jack again. Questions to our tutors were answered very vaguely, suggesting that Jack had had some sort of illness. That was all we could find out. I can’t say we were unhappy, but it was a little unsatisfying not knowing more. The pictures came out quite well, though and they are really nice mementos. Several copies were made which, I think for myself in particular, but maybe for Genny too, have become something of a talisman of power. Let another boy ever mess with us, and see what he gets. But actually she has a really nice fiancé now, and I have a boyfriend I’ve been going steady with for 8 months who is considerate, charming, intelligent and only a little bit slobbish. I’m not sure I’ll tell him the story ever, it’s more of a girl’s sort of thing; I don’t think he’d appreciate it.

__________

Alice D - 24.04.08