Calamity Jane #2 - Second Circle of Hell (Lust)

I would not say I am particularly prudish, nor am I outlandish and flagrant about my sexual conquests, but in the house of God Bless anything goes and is for all to hear; well as much as one can hear patois in all its free flowing glory. Sadly, my subtle Ghanaian/Milton Keynes/London range does not extend to the patois dialect and I am left smiling and nodding emphatically attempting to convey understanding whilst eagerly hoping to avoid being drawn into conversation.

For all my English cynicism (a colonial heritage passed down from generation to generation) it’s strangely liberating being surrounded by people who are so sexually uninhibited and see nothing demeaning about expressing their lust and its varied manifestations free from fear of reprisal. Indeed I think they derived a sordid pleasure in recounting their tales in as public a forum as the salon offered.

My favourite tale and believe me there are many to chose from, followed the arrival of the ‘gang’ and their copious children one particular Saturday afternoon. There was:

The woman who sells the plastic jewellery, which is often pretty from a distance but up close each rhinestone has an unintentional mist and the string holding the beads together is weathered and unable to stand the duration of an evening sat in a restaurant let alone raving.

The woman who supplies stolen clothesto every salon within the south east London corridor. Occasionally the tags are ripped out, but it is clear as day that they descend from the aisles of Topshop, River Island or whichever high street store she’s just jacked.

The man selling food (£5 for a portion of rice and jerk chicken; curry goat; fried rice and some bean concoction) which I always look forward to after an eight hour stint in the salon.

The woman who is just always there, I guess the salon is a social networking hub, so why not be there?

Precious (one of the two hair dressers, working alongside Keesha) is having man troubles. There is the ‘African man’, (never specific about country) who is a bit of a bug-a-boo, but pays the bills so has his uses. There is the Jamaican man with the fancy sports car that pulls up occasionally and goes in to the very popular God Bless Caribbean restaurant next door (yes ladies, ‘God Bless’ is a bigger brand than you know), but I’m not sure if he’s giving her any play as he barely ordains us with his presence and gives a fleeting nod of the head on route to the pressing priority of food. Then there is the young English (black British) boy she’s in to. I should add, Precious is in her mid thirties, I can’t imagine any of the men she’s discussed so far have quite made it to thirty yet…. Girl likes to be in control! In and amongst all of these men there is also the baby father, who is rarely discussed and seems a distant memory whose only success was spawning the child and now brings nothing but grievance.

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When Precious asked me if I liked English boys I was a little flummoxed. I’d never given nationality much thought, only really race. Time seemed to move at a glacial pace as I sweat thinking of a witty yet vague quip; I’m rarely asked a direct question and as I wanted to be accepted by the gang, I’m mindful that my answer needed to be good. The moment passed and I realised it was a rhetorical question and I was resigned to the role of mute observer, listening to a barrage of tales of sex IN the city, interspersed with dancing (children and mothers sharing the floor) and demonstrations of the some of their best moves in the bedroom.

Raucous does not describe the scene that ensued. As my relaxer began to fizzle and my pores screamed out in pain, Precious sprayed some oil sheen on my tender scalp, as though it were ample substitute for washing the damn thing off. I sat in God Bless, chomping on some crisps (awaiting the rice and peas which would serve as lunch and dinner) amongst virtual strangers listening to tales of lust, love and all the stuff in-between.

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