Pretty Vacant
By annefullam
- 258 reads
PRETTY VACANT
As a child she was a plain girl. Plain as her one syllable name, Jane.
Plain Jane. She longed to be attached to some other name, one that
conjured up the image of a Goddess or wild Queen. One whose vowels sang
and consonants were harmonious. One that made others inquisitive about
its possessor. One that spelt power and sure success. Aphrodite, Venus,
Boadicea, Emerald, Scarlet, Saffron, Sandrine, Alexandra. But no, she
was stuck with Jane. Even though she was the only child of educated
parents, Jane was the best they could come up with. Busy lives didn't
allow them the privilege of stretching the imagination. She asked her
mother one chilly February morning why they had chosen Jane, hoping to
discover some romantic tale behind her naming. But the simple truth was
that her parents thought Jane to be a good, solid name, one that would
never be out of fashion. Jane thought and never in.
At school Jane wondered whether she was invisible. Her class-mates
were indifferent to her. No-one taunted or jeered at her like they did
at the fat boy and the girl with the N.H.S glasses and an eye-patch.
Jane longed for the attention bestowed on the class freaks. She
attempted to befriend them, but even these children, maybe due to lack
of trust, treated Jane as if she were not there. The teachers paid no
notice to her either. She worked quietly and carefully in class, never
producing anything that was not mediocre. Her school reports were dull,
average grades for everything, comments that meant nothing, the
teachers not quite sure who they were writing about.
Jane's parents, Mr and Mrs Smith, only got round to having the one
child. It was not a conscious decision, there was just no time for sex,
or anything else for that matter, except work. Both were lawyers,
worked in the city, their clients all on legal aid. They rose at six to
ensure they caught the seven o'clock train to Waterloo. Reading notes
on his present case study, Mr Smith would prepare breakfast for himself
and his wife. Hurriedly snatching bites of honey smeared toast and
gulping mouthfuls of coffee, Mrs Smith would glance at yesterday's
Guardian. Pulling on the same black jacket she wore each day, Mrs Smith
called for Jane to get out of bed. Jane ate toast and marmalade for
breakfast, with a milky cup of tea. The radio blared in the corner.
Jane would hum along to the top ten whilst preparing a packed lunch for
herself.
Jane left at eight-fifteen and returned at four thirty. On arriving
home she would first attend to her homework then watch TV or read a
book. Mrs Smith would walk through the front door at seven thirty, kiss
Jane on the forehead then prepare dinner. Sometimes, Jane would tell
her mother about her day, or show her a pot she had made in class or a
painting she had done. The response was always the same, no matter
what. Mrs Smith would say 'Terrific sweetheart,' and turn away, never
having seen what Jane had presented her with. Mr Smith was usually home
around nine. He and Mrs Smith discussed their day. Jane sat in front of
the T.V., putting herself to bed whenever she felt like it.
As a teenager Jane rebelled. She had seen the frightening visages of
punks on television, on the news, and had heard how the country feared
this new phenomenon spreading amongst the youth. Jane liked the way the
punks looked, especially the girls, not all squeaky clean in pink, but
tough looking, wild. She told her mother she wanted to get a punk
haircut, cut off her mousy tresses, dye them purple and green, and
stick them up with soap. Mrs Smith said 'terrific sweetheart,' and
turned away. Jane bought some make-up and created her mask. She smeared
her face with snow white foundation, darkened her eyelids up to her
brows with black eye shadow, lined her sockets with a shiny green
pencil, streaked red across her lips and blushed her cheeks with
shocking pink. Then she tore holes in the fishnet tights she had
purchased in town, put on an old kilt that was too short, sprayed her
shoes green, and ripped up her yellow mohair jumper. Looking in the
long mirror that hung on her bedroom wall, Jane saw herself for the
first time. And now she didn't look so plain. She looked
startling.
Mr and Mrs Smith, being liberal parents didn't make a fuss. Mrs Smith,
who, despite herself, couldn't help but notice the change in Jane's
appearance, blinked, waited a few seconds, composed herself, and said
'terrific sweetheart.' Mr Smith agreed, only he appeared to wince as he
said so. Out of earshot, Mr Smith asked his wife what she thought had
got into their daughter;
'Youth dear, just youth, remember.'
'You're right, it's just a phase.'
That evening the Smiths reminisced, whilst upstairs, their baby Jane
played 'Never Mind the Bollocks' loudly in her room, over and over
again. Mr and Mrs Smith laughed at their hideous taste in clothes.
Salivated over free love. Sang their favourite Bob Dylan and Joan Baez
songs. Amazed each other with tales of trips to Nirvana and back.
Sighed at their na?vet?. How simplistic it all was. How they thought
they could change the world. And now history was repeating itself, only
this time in the angry guise of punk.
Jane was the talk of the sixth form. Her peers marvelled at the new
girl with purple hair. Her teachers demanded she return to normal. But
the school rules allowed sixth formers to dress as they pleased, so
Jane did just that. And she changed her name to Jaded Jane. And began
to frequent the local punk clubs and pogo at gigs. Boys noticed Jaded
Jane too. Punk boys, boys with black spiky hair and green mohicans,
boys wearing bondage trousers, leather jackets and DM's, boys with
safety pins pushed through their cheeks and tattoos on their arms.
Jane's body had begun to make its transformation from girl to woman;
round breasts could be glimpsed through the shreds of her T-shirt,
studded belts wrapped her curved hips, her legs lengthened as her
skirts shortened.
Unused to this attention, Jaded Jane didn't know quite how to react.
So she remained cool and aloof, afraid to be anything else. And the
boys loved this all the more. Jaded Jane became the most sought after
girl in the local punk scene. Her make-up, clothes and hair became more
and more extreme, and as they did so her popularity increased. Then,
one night, Kev Kill kissed Jaded Jane. He took her by surprise. They
had been discussing the artistic merits of the latest X-Ray Specs LP,
when suddenly he put his lips to hers and forced his tongue into her
mouth. What surprised Jane more than this, was that she enjoyed it, and
found herself kissing Kev back. Jaded Jane and Kev Kill became an item.
Spat at bands together and shouted obscenities at horrified passers by.
Poured strong lager down their throats until they vomited and snorted
speed furiously,(increasing their capacity to pogo).
Kev Kill was eighteen and had his own place. A bedsit on the bad side
of town. He invited Jaded Jane over for a night of nihilism. Lager in
one hand, a cheap cigarette in the other, the two sat side by side on
Kev's bed listening to the Stranglers. Neither spoke. Both stared
blankly ahead. Jane was impressed by the decor of the bedsit: the crude
graffiti of primary colours that littered the off-white walls; fuck the
world, 'no future, life is bollocks and then you die; the defaced
poster of the Queen (moustache, beard, rotting teeth) that hung
tentatively above the bed, the grey army blanket swung across the
window, the ripped and torn Union Jack that doubled as a bedspread, the
carpet, the blue swirling pattern of which was strewn with scrunched
lager cans, cigarette ash and coffee stains. There were just two items
of furniture in the room, the mattress that was Kev's bed and an oak
rocking chair in perfect condition despite its obvious antiquity.
'My gran gave that to me, I loved my gran.'
Kev Kill said little else all night. Both Kev and Jane downed their
lager still staring at the wall. Feeling drowsy and slightly nauseous
from the alcohol, Jaded Jane changed her position so that she now lay
on her back, her head resting on Kev Kill's lap. Looking down at her,
Kev could now see Jane's nipples poking through two strategically
placed tears in her T-shirt. Immediately he felt his penis harden and
push against his jeans. Kev Kill reached across and stroked a nipple.
The cold caress of his fingers pleased Jaded Jane who smiled up at him.
Kev didn't see her smile, his eyes fascinated by the sight of Jane's
nipple reacting to his touch, the way it grew and became erect like his
penis. Jane had long awaited this moment, she wanted to experience sex,
the two minute squelch her hero, Johnny Rotten, had described. Sitting
upright Jane tore off her top exposing her breasts. Kev Kill held them
in his hands, squeezing and experiencing the weight of them. For Jane
the moment was long and protracted, a memory that stayed with her
always, the innocent look on Kev Kill's face, the wonder as he stared
at her breasts. It was then that she realized her tough, revolutionary,
couldn't give a shit boyfriend, was a virgin. Just like her. She was
disappointed.
Once Kev Kill had overcome the initial shock of Jaded Jane's
forwardness he rose to the occasion. Within five minutes it was all
over. Kev had found the condom he had kept in his drawer, just in case.
Now it was Jane's turn to stare as Kev fumbled with his penis, nervous
with excitement. She took in the form of the erect penis as opposed to
the flaccid dangling members she had seen in biology books, the tension
between it and the elongated testicles, the taut foreskin emphasizing
its proud stance. All too soon the squelching began and ended. Kev Kill
and Jaded Jane lay beside each other on the Union Jack, both gasping
short, sour, alcoholic breaths, Kev's jeans pulled down to his grey
skinned knees, Jane's kilt pushed up onto her stomach, fishnets at her
ankles, legs akimbo. They lay like this for several minutes, then did
it again.
Jaded Jane and Kev Kill split up two weeks later. Kev now believed he
had mastered sex and wished to spread his seed between other thighs.
Jaded Jane wanted to find a more interesting boyfriend. Since having
sex, all Kev wanted to do was fuck. Although Jane enjoyed it, she
longed to return to the good old days of going to gigs, drinking lager,
and swearing at passers by. But boyfriend after boyfriend turned out to
be like Kev Kill.
Disillusioned Jane gave up boys, except for the odd one night stand
that left her feeling empty. She took to hanging out on benches down
the Kings Road, earning a fiver a photo from tourists looking for
authentic London. She befriended some other girl punks she met on the
bench. They were older than her, and had a tough macho image that Jaded
Jane admired; cropped spiky hair, baggy black trousers, Destroy
T-shirts, studded dog-collars round their necks. They called themselves
the Vile Sisters. Jane asked if she could join. They said that they
were anarchists and she could do whatever she wanted. The Vile sisters
had matching tattoos. Each had a lime green frog wearing a dog-collar
etched into her skin. Jane got hers that very afternoon from a fat man
who didn't ask her age,(being seventeen Jaded Jane was too young by law
to be tattooed).
That tattoo changed Jaded Jane's life, or so she believed. Years
later, when Jane,(who had dropped both the Jaded and the Jane and
become Jade), no longer dressed as a punk or swore at people she didn't
know just for fun, she still loved her tattoo. Strangers admired it and
thought her brave, especially men. So she got some more. Mr and Mrs
Smith were worried about their daughter's latest phase; the damage
would be permanent this time, not like crazy colour, which could be
washed away, but she was now twenty one and there was nothing they
could do. All her spare cash, left over from her wages as a clerk,
after paying the rent and buying food, went on tattoos. Two years
passed and Jade acquired a full bodysuit of colourful designs; dragons
and tigers, roses and rainbows, skulls and scrolls.
All the tattoos were completed by different tattooists. Jade travelled
the length and breadth of Britain collecting work. Each individual
tattoo was tiny, because Jade's time was limited, she had to get back
to her job. Sometimes she would travel six hours just to get a half
hour tattoo. Holidays were spent acquiring tattoos from artists
concentrated in one area. It took a week to get work done by all those
in Glasgow and two days from artists in Birmingham. Once she had done
Britain, she went to France, and Spain, and Germany, and Italy, and the
Netherlands, until the only bare skin she had left was that of her
neck, face, hands and feet.
The bodysuit complete, Jade went to a tattoo convention to show off
her skin. Beneath a long overcoat, Jade wore a bikini like the one in a
pop song, 'itsy bitsy teeny weeny', only it wasn't a covered in yellow
polka dots, but was shiny and black. On her feet she had a pair of
pointy toed ankle boots with high heels.
Outside the entrance to the convention, Hells Angels straddled huge
bikes thrusting forward their bare chests that hung over their flabby
bellies, photo-realistic tattoos of motorbikes on their backs,
hackneyed cartoons of naked women with huge breasts on their arms.
Hordes of large framed men sporting garish tattoos paraded around the
hall, haughty blonde women in fluffy clothes accompanying them. Dotted
here and there were tattooed punks, skin-heads and hippies, male and
female. A few other women had large pieces of work but none had as many
as Jade.
Hiding beneath her coat, Jade wandered around the exhibition hall
taking in the sights and sounds. The entrance was lined with stalls
selling tacky merchandise; T-shirts, posters, bondage gear, soft-porn
magazines masquerading as intelligent publications about bikes and
tattoos, when in reality they were about tits, drug paraphernalia,
gothic jewellery, skulls cast in plaster, plastic and bronze for
decorative purposes, skull candlesticks, stick-on tattoos - hearts,
roses, daggers and more skulls. To the left was the bar, beer was being
served in plastic glasses. The body of the hall was buzzing with tattoo
guns. Tattooists from around the world worked on pink flesh in tiny
open booths. Jade recognised most of the artists, but not one
recollected her. Not until she removed her coat.
When Jade cast aside her coat, the convention hushed for a very long,
yet very brief moment in time. She had been spoken about amongst those
in the scene for quite some time. Her existence was thought to be
mythical, but now she stood before them, naked bar her shiny black
bikini. Yet, Jade could never be truly naked, only her face, hands and
feet were not shrouded by coloured inks. Cameras clicked as soon as she
unveiled. Before Jade had drawn breath, the journalists and
photographers were upon her. Before she could say no, her image had
been captured by a hundred lenses.
'How much have you spent on tattoos Jade?'
'How does it feel to be the world' most tattooed woman?'
'What do they mean?'
Not knowing what to say or do, Jade continued to wander around the
hall. Cameras pursued and continued to pursue. More banal questions
were asked, a few were answered. It took some time, (about one hour),
before Jade began to enjoy her celebrity status. A man, with the face
of Elvis tattooed on his thick thigh, asked her to marry him. Laughing
Jade declined, but secretly she was flattered. Men who respected her
stamina, (being tattooed themselves they knew the pain she must have
gone through), bought Jade drinks from the bar. To them, she was one of
the lads. They didn't ask questions but slapped on the back and stared
with admiration.
Drunk and weary, Jade left the convention. She went to a near by
hotel, took a room and within seconds of lying down, fell asleep. The
following day Jade returned to watch the tattoo competitions. Again she
wore her coat, but this time did not remove it. Not a soul recognised
her. The competitions amused Jade. There were several different
categories; best biker tattoo, best male large work, best female large
work, best male small work, best female small work. The tattooed people
strutted and paraded across the stage flexing the relevant part of
their anatomy. Little was worn, just cheeky grins, g-strings and bras.
Jade was reminded of a perverted Miss World pageant. Only, rather than
working with the obligatory children and animals, she imagined these
contestants would happily spend their lives swilling beer and eating
junk food. And Jade realized this was not where she wanted to be, or
what she wished to do.
Every week for the following months magazines and newspapers carried
photos of Jade. Photographers rang constantly asking to take her
picture. Initially Jade obliged. Then she got bored. And she also got
wise.
Jade was invited to a May Ball, a celebrity guest. She hired a pink
satin dress, with long sleeves and a hem that skimmed the floor. Jade
felt like a Princess. She clasped a necklace of fake diamonds around
her neck and tied a silk ribbon in her hair, paid a woman to do her
make-up.
The waiters were pouring champagne down tiers of glasses when Jade
arrived, fashionably late. She was handed a glass and took a sip.
Jackson, a photographer she had worked with a few months ago, asked her
to dance. Taking his hand, Jackson lead Jade onto the dance floor. As
they danced she remembered being with him in his studio. How she had
wished a handsome man such as he could be hers. And how, as she lay
naked before him, Jackson told her that her body was beautiful,
extraordinary.
Jackson, his hand firm in the small of her back, guided Jade into the
garden. Inside the band continued to play. The moon lit their way as
they waltzed together, Ginger and Fred, along a path gilded by roses.
Under the stars, Jade believed Jackson was an angel, her angel who was
to take her to Paradise. The music faded and their lips met. His kiss
was tender and passionate. He pushed her dress from her shoulder, Jade
waited for his caress, but she waited in vain.
'Jade?'
The confusion in his eyes told Jade that Jackson hadn't recognised her.
He had shot a hundred pictures of her, but he had no idea who she was,
he must have thought he was dancing with a stranger. It was then that
it struck her. She was a tattoo. She was skin.
Fleeing the ball, Jade leant against a wall and cried. Inside her head
cameras and questions flashed; does it hurt? how much did it cost? how
many tattoo artists have worked on you? No one asked about Jade. No-one
ever spoke to her about anything but her skin. Everyone wanted access
to her body but no-one gave a fuck about her mind. She was back to
where she was with Kev Kill and the other boys. Visible yet
invisible.
Jade locked herself away in her one-bedroomed flat high in the sky.
She didn't show for work. She took a bath, pouring all the salt she had
into the water. And scrubbed. Jade scrubbed and scrubbed with a loofah,
until her skin bled and beyond. She was still scrubbing days later
when, alerted by a neighbour whose kitchen ceiling dripped red drops,
the police found Jade sat in her bath, the taps running, the water
tinted with blood overflowing. Her arms raw to the bone, they lifted
her from the water and took her away.
Copyright Angel Morgan 2000
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Pretty Vacant
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