The Comfort of Strangers

Sensitive Content; There is the potential of a sexual attack.

The Comfort of Strangers

I can see how you would look back to when Buddy and I first met and get the wrong idea. After all, I did, at first. Without knowing the details of our relationship, it is only natural to jump to conclusions. What I want to do today is lay out the particulars, to set up my stall before you and explain, maybe that will bring matters to a close.

It was a dark, grey Monday afternoon in mid-November and I was doing exactly what we tell our school pupils not to do; I was taking the short cut across the park on my way home. Western Park is notorious for muggings, drug taking and general misrule, it being spread out like a shadow at the back of the Western Heights estate there, the town’s own friendly den of inequity. Western Park really does cut off about ten minutes from my journey though and I like to pride myself that I don’t get nervous about walking anywhere on my own. If I do happen to pass gangs of youths, huddled like rocks on a shoreline, it usually turns out I’ve taught one or two of them in the past, there are sometimes even jovial shouts of “Hiya Miss!” as I walk past, their armour of intimidation momentarily lifted a crack.

Besides, four-thirty on a Monday afternoon, is such an ordinary sort of time, one doesn’t imagine anything awful happening when one’s habit of a cup of tea and a biscuit kicks in like clockwork.

I was just coming through one of the park’s unofficial entrances, the gap in the hedge where it crosses a path and falls into a dip, the grass made a sheep’s trail by years of tramping footfall, and I was suddenly aware of footsteps, quick and heavy, coming up behind me. My heart leapt in my chest and proceeded to beat uncomfortably loud and heavy. I went to swing around to see who it was, but it was then I heard an urgent hiss in my ear–

“Don’t look behind you.”

My heartbeat went wild, my breathing ragged. I picked up my pace so as to get out of the enclosed area of the hedges, to break out into the open ground of the street beyond and thus shake my would-be pursuer, but to my surprise and shock, two powerful arms shot out from behind me and locked themselves around my waist, at the same time, they were heaving me sideways, my feet scrabbled in the sandy soil trying to find purchase on the ground. The effect of being clasped so tightly to another body was so staggering that it threw me into some sort of hypnotic trance, I was afraid but at the same time, numb and quite disconnected from the fear. I could feel the hard press of his chest on my back and looking down I saw the iron grip of his arms round me, his large hands holding onto my forearms in their own smaller mirror of the embrace.

“Please–” I started, my voice breathless, a combination of excitement and constriction, in response, the forearms gripped tighter. We were off the main path now and screened by overgrown shrubs and trees to any passers-by, it was dark but to me it lent a slightly romantic air, the backdrop to a lover’s tryst, the shrubs made a kind of glade... I shook this ridiculous image from my mind and whipped back to the alarming present, it was being held so close to someone which had sent me into a dream. “Please,” I said again, “take my purse or my bag, there’s not much in there but–” I edged my head round very slightly, almost instinctively, to try and make eye contact. Despite the clamp of fear around my stomach, I wanted to look at him.

“Don’t!” He hissed, his grip around me got firmer but I had the impression that he didn’t quite know what to do next, his plan had been to grab me but then hadn’t got any further. “I don’t want money.” He said, pressing the words through clenched teeth, but then I felt him relax ever so slightly, a tiny expulsion of the rigid tension which held him as tightly as he held me, his fingers twitched.

“What do you want?” I asked, quite calmly now, my hammering heart gradually slowing to a dull thud which, I thought, he must be feeling through his forearms.

“I need–touch.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, and his breath was hot on the back of my neck, it warmed my woollen scarf and spread through to my nape. I inwardly trembled, my insides were alight, a flame of excitement licking from the soles of my feet, flickering out to the tips of my fingers, rolling to a boil in the pits of my stomach. I’ve been a teacher for the last twenty-three years and I can tell when there’s a crack in defences, the tiniest of whimpers betrays a submission and I knew, without doubt, that this man wouldn’t hurt me.

“It’s alright.” I whispered.

The steely hold on me loosened, his fingers spread out, and eased down to the cuffs of my coat, they stretched themselves and found the sliver of bare wrist there. I heard an involuntary gasp escape, he brought his face closer to the back of my neck, suddenly took a long inhalation through his nose, smelling me. A violent shiver of pleasure ran the length of my body.

“What do you want?” I whispered again breathlessly, he didn’t answer but only made a slight moan into my neck. It was a sound like which a contented animal might make, cosied up somewhere warm, somewhere safe, just about to slip into sleep. We stood there, him holding me for many minutes in the dying light of a winter afternoon, the cold air nipping, the darkness enclosing. I stroked his blunt, rough fingers which were pale with sproutings of fragile dark hairs. I told him my name and asked him his; he mumbled something indistinct, but I caught that it began with a B. He had a strong accent, and I guessed that his English wasn’t great. Since then, I’ve discovered it matters less than you’d think. Ours is not a relationship of words. “I shall call you Buddy.” I said, “do you know that word?” In truth I don’t particularly care for it, another awful Americanism, but it fitted him, and now it fits us. A buddy, a friend, as simple as we make it.

And then, just as abruptly as he had appeared, Buddy released his grip on me and walked away, his figure quickly smuggled up into the now complete darkness, the winter’s day at its end.

“I won’t say anything.” I called after him. I walked home, shaken and electrified, in the ensuing days, all I could think about was his arms around me, his breath hot at my nape.

And that was the beginning of Buddy and me. I would deduce he is in his mid-thirties, so younger than I am, possibly Eastern European. I’ve no idea of what he does for a living, or if he even works at all. He always wears the same maroon windcheater and a Nike baseball cap, apart from that, I’m not entirely sure what he looks like; he is about my height, maybe an inch or two taller, and that he has powerful arms and hands, a strong stocky torso. I couldn’t tell you with certainty what colour his eyes are, or how big his nose is, even what his hair looks like underneath the cap, but I do know what he sounds like when he cries, I know how his chest draws up a huge shudder when his arms are wrapped around me, and like me, he can’t hold enough of another body against his, we both stand, our arms and hands constantly shifting and pressing each part of the other, a slow, languorous frisking.

Let me explain. When one lives alone, human contact falls away gradually, like a skin very gently shedding. One fully forgets what it’s like to be touched at all until accidentally nudged by a stranger, or by an usher quietly pressing a hand to the small of your back. Then it is a jolt of electricity, the heart thumps wildly and perspiration breaks out all over, it is extremely disarming and, at the same time, thrilling.

Ironically, I am surrounded daily by swarms of jostling, bumping bodies; secondary school teenagers, in pupa, bursting to get out of their pre-pubescent cocoons and apparently into each other’s; their constant touching, these ones never stop. The briefest of absences is apparently half a lifetime; returning to school after half term, the corridors and classrooms are filled with the high-pitched squealing of reunited pupils, clamouring at each other for superficial hugs. At Parent’s Evening, I am mystified by the incessant petting of the child by their mother and father. Possibly the parents will have read how they themselves were starved of physical affection as children, and so they launch their own crusade to make sure their own offspring do not suffer the same fate. From a young age their children have been showered with cuddles and kisses, raspberries blown on their bellies, the constant stroking of hair. They are told that they are loved every night, and in case they are still in any doubt, the child is regularly lashed with praise and regaled with just how proud Mum and Dad are. They are (to quote a phrase) Believed In.

I watch the pupils at lunchtime on the playing field, limbs soft and malleable as baby giraffes, they sit around in heaps surrounded by daisies. Hands enfolded with another’s, heads on shoulders, palms on bare legs–trite though it is, things were never like this in my day, I don’t ever recall my skin being that smooth or brown (I wasn’t one for the sun as a child) and I don’t ever remember touching my peers in the way that this generation does.

Consequently, this generation is one of self-confidence, of staggering openness. They speak with such self-assuredness of their feelings, like little psychologists they discuss their ‘anxieties’, their ‘overstimulation’, their ‘social awkwardness’ that it sets me reeling. They seem to know, instinctively, what to do with an upset friend, hands rest assuredly on backs, shoulders are hugged, hair tucked away from eyes. I stalk past them, rolling my eyes and muttering “Must you cling on to each other the whole time?”

So you can see how things went. As I’ve gotten older and the years fall away, like a crumbling cliff top into the sea, I’ve yearned so much to be touched. I can’t remember the last time someone clasped me to them, held me against their skin. Apparently it calms one, have you heard that? To have another human touch us is like a natural tranquiliser. It slows the heartbeat. I heard the terms ‘skin hungry’ and ‘touch starved’ recently and I thought of just how famished I have been.

I used to snack regular doctor appointments; my made-up chest complaints would constitute a stethoscope to the chest and lots of finger tapping, a good, splayed hand to the back, it was enough to set me glowing for a few hours. This proved to be empty calories though, it didn’t sustain, the sessions were too short, and besides, I could tell I was being labelled as a hypochondriac by the surgery. I wasn’t going to be one who provoked eye-rolling in secretaries and doctors alike (I remember those from my father’s practice) and so I didn’t make any more appointments. Months went by and I found myself getting on the Underground at rush hour and as the carriage filled up, I was pressed up against strangers, my wrist brushing their shoulder as it held the bar to their side, my cheekbone to their chest, close enough (in any other situation) to warrant me being their partner. I could smell their laundry powder, remnants of perfume, what they’d had for lunch. I absorbed their scent, their heat, the firm pressure of their limbs, and pretend that they are mine. The circle line takes me round and round in my fantasies for hours.

How I wish I was one of those people who could simply ‘reach out’ as they say, to bring friends in for a motherly embrace, to even be one who ‘gives good hugs.’ But I am simply not cut from the cuddly cloth. I was not brought up among hands which touched and soothed, my father’s hands were finely tuned implements, smooth and dry and kept busy with other people’s ailments. For him, the human body was a machine to be fixed, a puzzle to be solved through textbooks and expertise, not held and admired as a living, breathing person.

Just before I met Buddy, I had taken one of my holidays, a rare occurrence as I do not wholly see the point of them, but I had broken out in a bad case of hives which told me that really, I could do with a break. Essentially, I think it was a break from myself that I needed; to take a holiday in someone else’s life for a while, instead, I looked up last minute deals to Rome.

I hadn’t flown anywhere for years and had forgotten that it used to be the highlight of my trips away. I dug out my special airport skirt and shoes. At security I played the naïve and oblivious traveller, setting the metal detector off when I forget to dispense of my rings. Little do they know there’s also coins sewn into the hem of my skirt and metal plates in my shoe heels. While all the confusion is being sorted, I dutifully raise my arms for the security guard. Her touch is assured, determined, as she momentarily clasps each part of my arms and legs, it’s over in seconds but I cannot describe to you what depths of pleasure this brings, my skin sings and I walk off on air, off to Departures.

I’m telling you these things so you can see the lengths I went to, simply to be touched by another person and Buddy’s the same; almost attacking people for the want of it, it’s hard to understand I know.

I never know where Buddy and I will meet next, or when. Unusually for me, I’ve come to love the spontaneity. I’ve got to assume that most of the time he’s following me, I imagine that’s frightening for some, but it’s given me comfort, reassurance.

I occasionally go to the cinema in town, if a film catches my eye. I enjoy the anonymity. When the lights go down, no one is aware of who you are with–or not–one can be acceptably alone in the dark in public. A week or so after Buddy and I met, I’d taken myself off to a showing of The Heat of the Night on a Sunday afternoon, one of my mother’s favourites. I was sitting in my usual spot, five rows back, twelve seats in, the usual suspects nodding to me as I arrived. Halfway through the film, I felt someone sit down heavily in the chair next to me. I caught my breath as I was aware of a leg leaning against the whole length of mine, body heat seeping through. I was about to move away but then a sidelong glance told me it was Buddy, I recognised the maroon windcheater, the pale, gentle hands. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye, I don’t ever want to get used to what he looks like, I don’t need to be familiar with his face. We simply sat rigidly forward, facing the screen. When I shifted in my seat and adjusted my position, Buddy put his hand out and reached for mine, knitting our fingers together and tightening; our hands settled down into a contented knot on my lap. They stayed there for the entirety of the film, though five minutes before the end, Buddy gave my hand an extra lovely squeeze, got up and walked silently out of the auditorium, his seat making a soft thump as it folded up on itself.

Buddy appears on the bus when I’m on my way home from work and sits next to me, he slips an arm round my waist and pulls me close, I nestle into his neck, he smells of outdoors and the rain. Then he gets off a few stops afterwards, God knows what the other passengers must think, but I do not care.

He follows me home from the supermarket and as I set my shopping down on the step, to find my door key, I know he’s there, only a few feet away. I never worry that he’ll try to come inside the house, so I simply stand patiently, waiting for those strong, warm arms to encircle me from behind.

So I hope you understand that what was reported by my neighbour, Mr Dennis, is wrong, he was mistaken in what he thought he saw, it’s nothing like that.

My colleagues have commented on how well I look recently, that there’s something about me which has changed, have I done my hair differently? “You look positively radiant!” they say, could it possibly be that I’ve met someone? I just shrug and smile, a little coquettishly, “Maybe,” is all I say “Just maybe.”