A writing experiment in preparation for a longer piece –

In 1996, aged too-old-to-be-a-virgin (says who?), I slept with Pandrew “surely you’re old enough” Bobertson in my creaking metal-frame, single bed in the Florey Building, down St Clements. The Florey is an architectural marvel. An “iconic” building designed by James Stirling clad in red tiles on the outside and lined with cork tiles on the inside. I could hip-bust any room door open. The walls were seventies-coloured orange and green. The cleaners, or scouts, as we called them, barged in and whirled dry mops across our tiny floors, thrusting violently between furniture legs. Mine especially loved it when I was in bed, alone or otherwise. The dreaming spires of Oxford were maybe visible from our floor-to-ceiling windows obscured by broken floor-to-ceiling grey metal blinds but I can’t be sure. There was no wifi.

There was no love. Pandrew was back from taking some time off due to having caught glandular fever. From me, apparently. Because of the two of us, I was obviously the whore. Poor Pandrew. He ended up taking a whole year out. He’s been morose ever since, or perhaps he was morose before we lost our virginity to each other.

What exactly did I lose? Innocence? Pandrew said that all my male friends were trying to get into my pants. Men and women can’t be friends. Obviously.

Pandrew was surprised when I bled. Obviously.