I remember
Erewhon. I remember the crenelated
turrets, towers and spires overshadowing a city of unheralded bends and
unexpected
corners and alleyways. I remember the cobbled streets, the gaslit
esplanades,
the flint-studded churches, the winding river, and the expansive city
square. I
also remember the soaring modern edifices that truly scraped the sky
and which
reflected one on another; the multi-lane highways—sometimes slow and
congested,
occasionally empty and open, and most often dense with speeding sports
cars—that radiated outwards in ever-widening rings from the city’s hub
alongside
elegant apartments, decrepit slums, shadowy lanes illuminated by
brightly-lit curtained
windows, and towards endless rows of suburban streets dotted with
bus-stops,
corner shops and red post boxes.
And weaving
about
the city, snaking beside the roads, diving through the tall buildings,
above
crossroads and emerging from and disappearing into mysterious dark
tunnels of
promise and dread, were railway lines on which chuffed steam trains and
sped
electric trains, diesel trains and trains levitated by the magic of
magnetism
several centimetres above the rails. This spaghetti of railway track
transported
me and everyone else who chose to board the train past advertisement
hoardings,
above dark sinister streets, beside monotonous rows of semi-detached
and
mock-Tudor suburban houses, beneath rivers and through ornate, wooded
and
open-lawn parkland that were as integral to Erewhon’s enchanted appeal
as
anything on the streets. And it is to the parks—as much as to the
shopping
malls, the cavernous railways stations, the motorway intersections and
the
overarching concrete bridges—that my thoughts so often return.
When I was a
young boy, racing about with my red toy balloon, blue rucksack and
silver
sneakers, it was Erewhon’s parks that were most important to me. Only
the zoo,
the museum and the red-and-yellow fast food outlets offered competition
to the attraction
of the varied and always spacious parks that were never far from the
perambulations of a boy whose greatest source of pleasure was to climb
the
steps and then descend the metal slope of the park’s slides. But
roundabouts, swings
and see-saws were only a few of the distractions on offer at Erewhon’s
extensive
parkland. There were hedges, paths, fences and fields stretching in
every
direction: from the imposing gates that threatened to close at some
mysterious
mythical hour to the bandstands that sometimes presented the .latest
pop
sensation to a remarkably small audience and onwards to statues of
commanding
and impressive figures of authority of which the most disturbing
feature was
that none of the men these statues represented, in a sense barely
understood at
all by me, were any longer living: in fact they were in a state of
incomprehensible
non-being known as death.
And amongst
these statues—some with a noble gaze set to a far distant horizon, some
abstract in form and at all times both pregnant with and absent of
meaning—there were statues of women startlingly different from
real-life women.
These statues were of women who were not the pink, brown or black
skinned women
with handbags, open-toed sandals and a ready supply of tissues that a
young boy
might otherwise encounter in Erewhon. Nor were they like girls who
differed
only from boys in that they played with dolls, didn’t watch the same
cartoons on
TV and never tired of reminding you whenever you did something wrong.
The women
represented by these statues were clearly not real people because they
were all
marble-white and almost never wore clothes.
This last
observation
was of little significance to me during my early visits to the city of
Erewhon,
which in those days was a magical place in which a train ride towards
playing
fields and swings and zoos and museums was the chief attraction. But as
the
years went by, these statues that were at first barely glimpsed became
increasingly centre-stage. The idea of what a woman might be became
steadily more
important to me and the mysteriously austere and classical vision of
nudity
represented by these statues that made them seem so distant and
unobtainable
became increasingly irrelevant. Instead, a more lurid, fleshly,
Technicolor
vision had become more prominent. Indeed, everything about women was
now
something altogether different. There was no longer a divide between
those
girls that were much the same age as me and therefore inherently
uninteresting,
and those older than me whose main purpose in life was to provide
sweets,
medicaments and lunch-boxes. There was a new species of woman that I
was becoming
aware of and, like everything else that was important to me, this woman
also inhabited
Erewhon.
Her name was
Ydobon. And, of course, she’d always been there in Erewhon: I’d just
not
noticed her. She was the girl or the woman (probably either and
possibly both) I
had always glimpsed from the corner of my eye. She was like the naked
women
statues because she displayed what the other sex might offer, but
different from
them insofar as her skin was pink, brown or black; her hair was in many
colours
and shades and styled in many different ways; and she had a way of
smiling that
unlike the girls and women I’d known before had an impact not between
the ears
or even in the beating heart but more fundamentally and more
significantly
below the belt and above the knees.
I don’t
remember the time when I first spoke to Ydobon. And I don’t remember
where. It
might have been on the sixty-fourth floor of the tall buildings that I
so often
visited simply to stare at the vertiginous view below. It might have
been in
the oddly rural crinkly orange wheat fields that interspersed Erewhon’s
cobbled
streets and tarmac highways. It might have been on the ferry that
crossed the broad
rivers of Erewhon so quickly traversed by underground train but so
difficult to
cross by other means. And I’m sure that my first remarks were
stumbling,
boastful and embarrassingly juvenile. I’d probably attempted to
interest her in
Star Wars paraphernalia. Maybe I’d discussed the intricacies of Premier
League Football.
Perhaps I thought she’d be as interested as I was in the latest Marvel
Superheroes movie. After all, what girl wouldn’t be interested in
Ironman or
the Mighty Thor?
Curiously,
Ydobon was always interested in, even fascinated by, me and our early
encounters
very often climaxed in a warm kiss or a tentative grope that left me
with an
acrid-smelling damp patch between my legs that disturbed me when I
first became
aware of it between sheets that otherwise had the odour of conditioner
and
fart. As time went on, these relatively innocent encounters became more
adventurous, but never proceeded far beyond the bounds of my ignorance.
There were
opportunities for nudity and even an early fumbling between the legs,
but these
were always short-lived and curtailed by the increasingly frequent
release of
warm dampness on soft linen that so swiftly became crinkled and stiff.
I would meet
Ydobon in so many strange places. At first, they were in my more
familiar
haunts, such as parks and playgrounds and woodland paths, but with
fresh
interests came new and seemingly more exciting rendezvous points. These
might
be shops in the mall: as often as likely to be a computer games shop or
comic
book store as a clothes shop or department store (but never, these
days, in a
toy shop or other such childish venues). Sometimes I was with friends
who would
mysteriously fade into the background whenever Ydobon came into view.
Just as
often, we would meet in train compartments, multi-storey car parks,
public
squares (beside imposing statues of lions, dragons or horses) and all
the other
places one could meet by chance rather than by design.
Sometimes,
Ydobon recognised me. Sometimes it was as if it was for the first time.
Sometimes we’d been close friends since time immemorial. Sometimes it
was a
brief kiss and tell. And Ydobon changed so often. Her hair changed
colour and
style, as also did, but less frequently, her skin-colour, plumpness and
height.
Her clothes I barely remember except where they best allowed vantage of
an
ankle, a knee, a shoulder or even (and this was guaranteed to dampen
the
sheets) a belly-button or the heave of her bosom.
But it was also
I who was changing. My voice first cracked and then deepened. My
awareness of
details such as a girl’s choice of clothes, shoes and hair-style was
growing at
the same pace as I became conscious of my own choice of shirt,
trousers, shoes and
jacket. Ydobon became less generic and more concrete. She had a
definite
twinkle in her eyes. A memorable dimple in her cheeks. A slender wrist
and long
fingers with bracelets that clattered as she brushed a hand through
hair that
was brunette or blonde (and no longer merely brown or fair). An ankle
that was
pleasingly slender and a knee that was impressed on my memory as firmly
as if
it were impressed on my groin.
And the time
came when Ydobon changed no more. Or only by increments. Her
hair-colour; her
complexion; her small pursed lips; her wide-open eyes; her signature
phrases:
these remained more or less the same. She was a more constant companion
on my
frequent visits to Erewhon, whose absence would be a matter for
comment. And,
bit-by-bit, little-by-little, my focus of attention shifted from her
nose to
her lips, from her blouse to her bra and then to her breasts, from her
knees
past the thighs to her crotch, and then, divesting each onion shell of
feminine
vestment to pure, simple nakedness. And never before (and never since)
had
sheer nudity been so exciting, so enticing and so desirable.
And I couldn’t
get enough of it.
It didn’t
matter where we were in Erewhon. We could be on a busy pavement jostled
by
hurrying commuters, high above the city streets on the top floor of a
tall
building or, most often, in an open field of wheat under a blue sky and
our
skin baking under a yellow sun. But wherever we were, there was
nakedness;
accompanied often by fumbling and thrusting and, more often than not,
premature
release.
But these
golden days of sunshine and simple sexual craving and satisfaction
couldn’t
last forever. Just when it seemed that my life with Ydobon would stay
the same
until the end of eternity, all changed. Ydobon became more harshly
delineated;
she became less compliant and more argumentative; our encounters became
as
likely to end in conflict and tears as in tender moments of prenuptial
bliss:
until such a time they were never anything other than occasion for
anger and
sorrow and regret.
And then Ydobon
as had I known her at that time vanished.
But Erewhon
didn’t
vanish with her. It was still there: a city of turrets and towers and
cobbled
streets, of highways and byways and railway sidings, of malls and night
clubs
and coffee shops and pubs. More often than it used to, the weather
would change
from the constant sunshine of my childhood and my happiest early days
with
Ydobon to overcast and drizzly and the city became more gritty,
neon-lit and
sometimes forbiddingly ominous.
It was
inevitable that Ydobon would return. But her return was hesitant and
sputtering. And her new look was more diverse than it had ever been
before. Her
lips were pursed or full, with large square teeth bursting forth or a
pencil-line of barely glimpsed enamel. Her flesh became sometimes
opulent,
sometimes emaciated, sometimes dark, sometimes white tinged with blue.
Her eyes
were set under eyelids that fluttered or barely moved, with irises from
blue to
brown to a scary black. And her body was sometimes easy to take
(perhaps far
too much so) or otherwise unobtainable and therefore the more
mysterious and
desirable. Her bosom rose and fell. Her wrists and the arms to which
they
belonged swelled and withered. Ydobon was a woman who pursued me in
many guises
as Erewhon’s landscape steadily mutated to provide space for university
halls
of residence, night clubs and concert halls, cafeterias and pubs.
Sometimes she
would be glimpsed through the shadows of the night or brightly
illuminated by
the lights of the night club (only to be obscured as the lights
swivelled and their
attention swerved elsewhere).
In those days,
there was a chaotic fragmentary dissonance associated with Erewhon that
spilt
over into my encounters with Ydobon. Shapes were brighter and more
clearly
delineated like a painting by Gustav Klimt or a sculpture by Jeff
Koons. Or
they were scattered into shards like a Cubist painting. Occasionally,
shapes
and sounds were as abstract and unfocussed as a Jackson Pollock or Mark
Rothko canvas
soundtracked by Peter Brötzman on saxophone and Cecil Taylor on piano.
But just
as often, the city of Erewhon reasserted itself in strong primary
colours that
Roy Lichtenstein might favour and accompanied by the bright and bouncy
rhythms of
Tiësto and David Guetta. And where there was chaos in Erewhon, so too
there was
in the many and varied apparitions of Ydobon: who somehow managed to
move from
the Pre-Raphaelite beauty of her earlier years to something more like
the
subject of an Egon Schiele painting. She was now a woman of flesh and
pungent
perfume: armpits, crotch and chipped toe-nails. My penetrations into
Ydobon
were now characterised by sweat and struggle. I might focus on the
metal stud
through her tongue or the similarly metallic taste of her fillings. I
might
dive again and again into a pussy that mewed rather than purred. I
might
renounce the front entrance altogether and sometimes come to regret my
decision, even in Erewhon, where the damp warm spot that was once my
close
friend and companion became sullied with other less pleasurable
associations.
However,
Erewhon was a city that continued to give. The wide avenues and narrow
streets,
the towering modern buildings and the ancient mediaeval relics, the
railway
lines that threaded through tower blocks, tunnels and open fields: they
still
provided plenty of opportunities for nocturnal secretion.
Ydobon became
steadily less mutable and more reliable. Her hair colour became more
solidly
brunette and had a definite curl to it. Her eyes took on the steady
green-brown
they’ve remained ever since. Her skin settled on a slightly olive pink.
Her voice
became as memorable a part of her as every other feature and in a sense
less
prone to shift and vary. Compared to the Ydobon I’d once known or the
many
versions of her that I’d got to know as I’d frequented the night clubs
of
Erewhon, she was perhaps less exhilarating. These days, Ydobon was not
the kind
of girl (or even the kind of woman) who would shriek in triumphant
recognition
as a tune by the Swedish House Mafia or Avicii stormed across the dance
floor
and pushed aside all the other contenders for my attention. She wasn’t
the kind
of girl who’d start the evening with a line of coke, follow by a tab of
E and
finish with a potent mix of skank and whiskey. She wasn’t the kind of
girl who,
even when we met in Erewhon, would tear off her clothes literally in
wild
abandon, grab my erect penis between her teeth and pummel me into total
and
absolute submission. She was no longer as intoxicating as strong
liquor, as electrifying
as a DJ’s break or as numbing as a legal high.
But on the
other hand, however relatively unexciting Ydobon might now be, however
much
even in Erewhon she would now no longer let herself loose, she was a
steady
reliable anchor which moored me to a less chaotic version of Erewhon.
There were
fewer streets I chose to roam in the city now. I steered clear of the
dark
alleyways, the lurid lights of the night club, and the sticky table
surfaces of
the city pubs. I favoured a different kind of shopping experience in
the city’s
malls. I discovered clothes shops in Erewhon I’d never known existed
before. I
took more pleasure at sitting by Ydobon on a bench on the station
platform where
we’d watch the trains go by but most of all talk with the woman who I
now
recognised more as a wife than as a girlfriend or a brief encounter.
And it was
about that time that Erewhon began to fade. I still visit it on
occasion, of
course, but I am more likely now to visit other places that are less
thrilling
for a younger man and more suited to someone with children, a mortgage
and a
steady but secure job. And the Ydobon I’ve got to know so well is now
no longer
a nobody in any sense of the word and no longer to be seen in Erewhon
and
probably was never meant to even visit. She is more likely to be found
in other
places that my younger self could never imagine visiting (even in my
dreams).
These are places that are child-friendly, provide healthy options and
may even
offer family discounts.
But Erewhon is
still there. It is always waiting for me to return should I ever feel
the need.
And, of course, no one can be sure what the future may bring.
But if I should
ever visit Erewhon as often as I once did, the city would be a
different place.
It would be less magical, less fantastical, more mundane and much more
slow-paced. It might be a place for chance encounter as it once used to
be. It
might be a place for adventure and wonder and exploration. But it would
be full
of women who (like the ones I meet on my relatively infrequent visits)
are
older, wiser, less excitable and whose voices are more prominent than
their physical
features. And Ydobon would now be a very different creature to the
Ydobon I
once knew. She would be scarred by life’s experiences. She would be
wise in her
ways and understandably wary of chance and fortune.
But as I roll
over under the sheets and gaze lovingly at my wife as she breathes
softly
beside me, I hope that I need never again have to get to know the
Erewhon I still
remember so well.
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