Everything Shaun the Spitter taught me about love?
Men and Me #2
In my last newsletter, I looked at how Leonardo DiCaprio was to twelve-year-old me, something of a God. This, I surmised, was how men treated women that they loved. They willingly sacrificed themselves to a cold and watery death so that the already privileged Rose could enjoy a nice spot of horse riding.
My eyes then had been opened to the wonders of the opposite sex. And, aged just thirteen, I too headed off into the yonder to find myself a Jack. I didn’t, I might add, go looking in the steerage cabins of the Titanic. That would have been weird. And anyway, I would absolutely have been in steerage myself. No, instead I hit up the… The Wesley nightclub.
The Wesley is something of a Hartlepool institution. Or at least, it was when I was growing up. It’s since been partly burned down in a possible arson attack, possible tax dodge type situation. But pre burning, it was quite a commanding presence in the centre of town. Though despite many, many pillars, I regret to inform you that it does not herald from the ancient Greek era.
RIP The Wesley.
Anyway, more appealing than its architectural majesty was the fact that every Monday night, between the hours of 6-8pm The Wesley hosted a club night for underage teenagers. And it was there, amidst the flashing lights and smog of Lynx Africa that I was so sure I would find my Jack. There were boys everywhere and it didn’t take long before I stumbled across a willing victim, partner.
Alas reader, I did not find a Jack. I did, however, find a Shaun.
Normally, when I write about real people, I’ll change their names. I…don’t think that’s quite necessary here. Shaun from Middlesbrough asked deep and meaningful questions like, ‘did I think that there were space robots on Mars?’ (er, no) and ‘why is one magpie unlucky?’ (no idea, mate). I rationalised that it didn’t matter that our hopes and dreams for the future weren’t aligned. I wanted to do anything that would take me as far away from Hartlepool as possible, he wanted to live in the caravan on his mum’s drive (or maybe join the army). That didn’t matter. Shaun needed only one thing to qualify as first kiss material. A mouth.
And so this is how, decked out in my finest new year’s eve dress, hair ironed to within an inch of its life, eyebrows so thin they were practically invisible to the naked eye, I approached what was sure to be a life altering moment.
By this point, I had seen many a romance movie and I am, by nature, a dramatic person. It is a definite personality flaw that I impose narrative arcs to my own life at all times. But 10 Things I Hate About You, She’s All That and Dirty Dancing all meant that I was primed, ready for the inevitable fireworks. The slow spin on the spot. If Shaun had deemed it necessary to hoist me above his head right there on the dancefloor of The Wesley, I would have been ready for it.
RIP Patrick Swayze also.
What I wasn’t quite ready for, was that mid kiss Shaun literally spat (and no small volume of saliva let me add) right into my mouth.
It was…confusing.
Leo and Kate had done the spitting over the side of the ship, but not into her mouth? This of course was a pre Google age (or as I like to refer to 1999, the Dark Ages mark 2) so I couldn’t even consult the internet. I just sort of stood there with my mouth open, wondering what I was meant to do now.
I’m not proud to admit this, but a quick precis of the situation told me that really my only option was to swallow it. I mean what else was I meant to do? Let it dribble out? Spit it back? So, in a worrying portent of things to come, I ignored this most enormous of red flags and swallowed his spit.
Shaun looked pleased, so pleased in fact that we went again. And again. I’m not sure how much saliva I’d essentially drank by the end of our two hours together, but it was not a small amount.
(And I know that this is incredibly gross to read. Trust me when I say that it was worse to live through.)
You might think that after this, the next time I saw Shaun that I would run in the opposite direction as fast as my little legs could carry me. Well, you would be wrong. He and I continued to meet for a couple more weeks when the teenage nights were on. I also let him grope what counted for my boob back then, another thing I didn’t want but just went along with. We stopped meeting up when he didn’t want to get the bus from Middlesbrough anymore. Which is fair enough since it takes a fucking eon.
But the really shocking thing is that despite not particularly liking him, despite actively disliking kissing him and despite recoiling in horror when he touched my boob, I was still devastated that he wouldn’t be at the Wesley the next Monday evening. Never has a cassette player hammered as much Bryan Adams as mine did that week. I was genuinely upset.
Possibly then, Shaun and all of his spit taught me sweet fuck all about actual, real love. I didn’t love him, and he certainly didn’t love me. But looking back, the whole thing did act as a blueprint for just how much I was willing to put up with in case he was ‘my one.’ I felt completely unequipped to communicate what I wanted (less spit next time my good friend) and even if I’d been able to say so, I honestly don’t think I would have done. And it’s something that I’ve never been able to shake. I have always, always, put the needs and wants of men above my own.
And to figure out why that’s the case, why I am the way I am, I probably need to go further back in time.
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Thank you so much for reading!
Becs x
Those last two lines floored me Becca. So invested and (not-so) secretly hoping that, when you figure it out, you'll fix me too 🖤
Well that made me choke on my (supermarket ready-mixed) mojito. Thanks for... the saliva. And reminding me of a boy called Mason, who snogged 13yo me after a KFC, inc a portion of baked beans. It was a beaney experience. On Monday at school, he told his mate Alan, who told me, that he fancied my mate more. Which was fine by me.