I am with my friend, Sam, in the park. We are strolling, drifting, talking, laughing. We are doing what everyone should do with their life, every day. A sparse canopy teases us from above: Shade, sun, shade, sun, shade again. We pass an open field, with uninterrupted exposure to the sun, and opt to bask in it. It is a joyous scene; there is beer, smiles and women in bikinis. It is peaceful, mildly windy; the sort of wind that caresses you.
“This is lovely”, says Sam. It is.
The calm is broken by the sound of thumping feet and screaming. I turn my head. A group of teenagers have descended on the green and are interrupting a family’s football game. Poor family.
I look closer. Oh no.
“Sam, the 14 year old is with that group of kids over there”.
“Ha-ha! Do you want to move?”
“Yes. I’ll walk in front of you. Shield me.”
“I’d quite like to meet he-”
We stand up casually and begin walking. We are approaching the edge of the green. We are almost off the green. We are off the green. We are on the path. We have turned left. We are out of sight. Phew.
No, someone is screaming my name. Lots of people are screaming my name, adding a ‘y’ at the end, as they do. Sam and I pick up the pace. A public toilet is located about 100 meters ahead of us; shelter, safety. We are on the cusp of running. In fact, we may be running. The screams are running too. My jeans are falling down. Sam is sweating. We are sprinting. We are ridiculous, flapping, flailing in our flip flops. We skid into the toilets and pack into a cubicle. Breathless. We can hear the herd approaching, thudding, and screeching.
“Do you think they saw us turn into the toilets?”
The mob have stopped. We can hear them speaking:
“OH MY GOD where did they go? I SWEAR they were running away from us”.
Sam and I are now sweating profusely, panting ludicrously. And it stinks, as toilets do. We wait in sweltering silence for a few minutes. Our breathing patterns return to normal. We open the cubical door. We creep out, tentatively. Sam goes to the entrance and looks out onto the path.
“It’s clear”, he says, and, as he does, a pack of 14 year old girls pile past him, screaming, into the toilets. For a moment, Sam is lost in the stampede. I cannot see him. They circle me, chanting my name, prodding me. I look for Sam again, I still cannot see him. He has escaped. They are saying things to me, all at once. The heat is overwhelming and I begin panting again. I feel dizzy. I am suffocating in a frenzied pissy steam room of 14 year old girls. I am Justin fucking Bieber.
I fight my way out, into the light. I emerge, the girls trailing me. Passers-by stare, in horror. I scan the scene for Sam. I call his name. He emerges, hands in pockets. They circle again.
“Calm down, calm down!” I plead, and relative quiet ensues. “Hello, how are you? And who are your friends?” I ask the 14 year old.
She introduces her friends. I introduce Sam, who looks petrified.
“Right. It was lovely to meet you all. We are walking that way, so have a lovely day”.
“We are walking that way too”, they respond in unison.
For the next ten minutes of our walk we are flanked by this throng of teens, all of whom appear to be high, or on a sugar rush, or just mad.
“Have you got a girlfriend?” They ask Sam.
“Is she fit?”
“Has she got big tits?”
And before Sam can answer, a barrage of sexual questions…
“Have you done a 69er?”
“How often do you have sex?”
“Once a day is good for your heart”.
“No just once an anniversary is enough”.
“Have you done anal?”
“Have you got a big dick?”
I spot a boy in the group and I worry he is not being included, so I ask him his name.
“Hershy, and she’s my ex”, he says, pointing to one of the girls.
“Ex? What happened?” I ask.
They look at each other and he says:
“She was too frigid”, and the girl nods. A bizarre moment, so bizarre it is able to stand out in this utterly peculiar episode.
Eventually, they agree to leave us alone. Their screams gradually disappear into the ether. Sam and I walk in silence for a few minutes. He looks shell shocked. His t-shirt is soaked, sticking to him.
“I told you: Madness. That’s what I have to put up with”, I say.
“One of them asked me if I’d ever put my finger up my arse”, he replies.
The Male Nanny