Let me step forward with a gutsy confession. I am a confirmed virgin. To make matters worse, factor in my age. I am a 31 year old virgin. Am I worried? Not excessively. Virginity in these precarious times has become a somewhat scarce and precious commodity. Am I anxious to take the plunge? I'd lie if said I wasn't. It is not family or peer pressure that's pushing me to the edge. It has been over two years now since I set my sight on a certain gal I'd love to break my vow of chastity with. I have been sticking around ever since, playing an annoying game of unintended botched advances, goofy pick-up lines and inevitable turndowns. She is Mrs. Robinson incarnate, cutting an intoxicating dash of morbid fascination and intellectual intimidation. Mind you, she is no beauty pageant queen, more like a vision straight out of a Fields of the Nephilim video with a beautifully weathered appearance of someone with first hand experience of all things human. I want it all. I am longing to debrief Camden and expect her to return the favour.
As much as I consider myself to be of incorrigibly amorous disposition, I could never pass for being obnoxious or even overtly forward in my heart conquests. I like to play a know-your-enemy-first game. I will Google around looking for virtual leads left by my unsuspecting victim; I will use my networking skills to grill my contacts for intimate details all in an effort to be en courant with the object of my desire without ever having a verbal exchange with them. In this respect, Camden has proved to be a tough cookie. The information at hand is hardly exhaustive and scattershot at best. Online research yields scads of predictable and clichéd titbits that by the time you finish reading this sentence will have lost their relevance. The landscape that emerges is dominated by scores of adventurously coiffed punks and pitch black Goth brigades competing for "lucrative" photo opportunities from exotica starved tourists, frail-bodied aspiring artists jam-packed in their artsy garrets mapping out their uncertain future successes, and a not totally undeserved reputation as London's most creative shopping hotspot. So far, so predictable. We are talking guide book fodder here.
Friends and acquaintances I asked for the opinion whether me and Camden were made for each other couldn't have been more opaque in their advice either. Some were absolutely thrilled that I'd finally warmed to the idea of courting Camden. They gushed over a panoply of unforgettable experiences that I was about to savour: wild nights at Koko and the Electric Ballroom witnessing the possible rise of, say, a new Diamanda Galas, rummaging the streets for the ever more elusive cheese steaks and ale cakes, having my limbs pierced and tattooed on, not to mention other more drastic body modifications. Sounds like fun to me, albeit in a slightly unwholesome way.
In the opposite corner, I have a gang of naysayers, who having experienced Camden charms to varying degrees of bravado, went up in a tizzy at the very thought of the two of us hooking up. It is disconcerting to be deaf to their implorations that C is way past her prime, stale to the bone and shamelessly thriving on the excesses of a more colourful yesterday. In their books, Camden is no different than all those picture pretty London landmarks trivialised by throngs of pushy tourists on their quest to tick off the city's places and moments of past glory.
It is a tough call then. Binning the stereotypes and dispelling the myths are order of the day. I think I know what to expect but I am openly gagging to be surprised. Hormones are shifting into top gear. Apprehension reigns supreme. When a passing acquaintance gets elevated to the next level of intimacy, there are fears whether this intimacy will be a lasting one. I hope the consummation will come as a natural progression rather than an impulse; no Brokeback Mountain re-enactments here. I want this to be a conscious process, where we end up emotionally connected with neither of us being numb to the experience. Whether the mutual exploration for each other's limitations turns out to be a disappointment or an eye-popping experience is a question I fear most and I'd rather never have to answer. I'd like to envision the first enlightening brush with Camden as a kind of foreplay leading onto a white knuckle ride of raw emotions that will culminate in a Goth romanticised memory of innocence maturely lost.
First published 12 January 2006
As much as I consider myself to be of incorrigibly amorous disposition, I could never pass for being obnoxious or even overtly forward in my heart conquests. I like to play a know-your-enemy-first game. I will Google around looking for virtual leads left by my unsuspecting victim; I will use my networking skills to grill my contacts for intimate details all in an effort to be en courant with the object of my desire without ever having a verbal exchange with them. In this respect, Camden has proved to be a tough cookie. The information at hand is hardly exhaustive and scattershot at best. Online research yields scads of predictable and clichéd titbits that by the time you finish reading this sentence will have lost their relevance. The landscape that emerges is dominated by scores of adventurously coiffed punks and pitch black Goth brigades competing for "lucrative" photo opportunities from exotica starved tourists, frail-bodied aspiring artists jam-packed in their artsy garrets mapping out their uncertain future successes, and a not totally undeserved reputation as London's most creative shopping hotspot. So far, so predictable. We are talking guide book fodder here.
Friends and acquaintances I asked for the opinion whether me and Camden were made for each other couldn't have been more opaque in their advice either. Some were absolutely thrilled that I'd finally warmed to the idea of courting Camden. They gushed over a panoply of unforgettable experiences that I was about to savour: wild nights at Koko and the Electric Ballroom witnessing the possible rise of, say, a new Diamanda Galas, rummaging the streets for the ever more elusive cheese steaks and ale cakes, having my limbs pierced and tattooed on, not to mention other more drastic body modifications. Sounds like fun to me, albeit in a slightly unwholesome way.
In the opposite corner, I have a gang of naysayers, who having experienced Camden charms to varying degrees of bravado, went up in a tizzy at the very thought of the two of us hooking up. It is disconcerting to be deaf to their implorations that C is way past her prime, stale to the bone and shamelessly thriving on the excesses of a more colourful yesterday. In their books, Camden is no different than all those picture pretty London landmarks trivialised by throngs of pushy tourists on their quest to tick off the city's places and moments of past glory.
It is a tough call then. Binning the stereotypes and dispelling the myths are order of the day. I think I know what to expect but I am openly gagging to be surprised. Hormones are shifting into top gear. Apprehension reigns supreme. When a passing acquaintance gets elevated to the next level of intimacy, there are fears whether this intimacy will be a lasting one. I hope the consummation will come as a natural progression rather than an impulse; no Brokeback Mountain re-enactments here. I want this to be a conscious process, where we end up emotionally connected with neither of us being numb to the experience. Whether the mutual exploration for each other's limitations turns out to be a disappointment or an eye-popping experience is a question I fear most and I'd rather never have to answer. I'd like to envision the first enlightening brush with Camden as a kind of foreplay leading onto a white knuckle ride of raw emotions that will culminate in a Goth romanticised memory of innocence maturely lost.
First published 12 January 2006
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