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"Cleavage
propped up,
hipsters pulled down,
micro-minis swathing
groins – the slags prowl.
Some are farm girls
tarted up for a night
in the big city, but
many are the academic
elite, the finest minds
and poshest accents
in the British Isles."
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Sally squirms in the man’s lap, go-go boots and bare flesh flashing.
Across the pub, her boyfriend looks on, bemused. Perhaps it’s not
quite the birthday present he had in mind, but still, such behaviour doesn’t
raise an eyebrow in Oxford, England.
The city of dreaming spires and scholars has a venerable reputation. The
Cotswold stone gold glows golden, the gothic turrets are beacons of solemnity
and learning. Underneath, in the beer-and pissed-soaked streets, the town
runs riot. Cleavage propped up, hipsters pulled down, micro-minis swathing
groins – the slags prowl. Some are farm girls tarted up for a night
in the big city, but many are the academic elite, the finest minds and
poshest accents in the British Isles.
Now, I fancy myself a woman of the world. I shouldn’t be shocked,
not after three years in libertine Seattle. My American university years
coincided with the PVC and piercing era, bathhouse orgies, bisexual chic.
Leashed gimps were paraded down the leafy streets of Capitol Hill. I sat,
sipping cappuccino, giving my urbane blessing to one and all. This was
civilisation – or the wacky fringe of it, at least.
So why do these Limey ladies disturb me, then? Perhaps it’s the Madonna-whore
transformation, effected by pints of warm beer or Red Bull vodka cocktails.
The most repressed and respectable of women straight-shot eight whiskies
and start table dancing. These aren’t stupid sluts: Go-go boot Sally,
for example, is finishing a chemistry Ph.D. at Cambridge right now. She’s
no mental lightweight, yet after a few drinks, her morals enter a Twilight
Zone I just can’t fathom. And – more worryingly – the Brits
seems to require this loosening, this alcoholic blossoming, to function
sexually at all. Most relationships are forged in the pub’s crucible
and rely heavily on its charms.
Our UK cousins are tragically poor at expressing emotions. Yet bolstered
by a few rounds of lager, they can’t get enough. Hugging, kissing,
stroking, they become, well, somewhat indiscriminate about who they cuddle.
Time and time again, I have ducked the beer-goggled advances of colleagues,
who know damn well that I am happily married. The wedding ring isn’t
a protective charm here. After all, they think, what’s a snog among
mates?
This never happened on the PC-shores of America’s Left Coast. Menaced
by lawsuits and women’s lib, men rarely try their luck with a partnered
co-worker. Oh, they might worship from afar, commiserate over coffee,
and play the Sensitive New Man, but assault with mistletoe? That died
a death along with girdled sex kittens and photocopier hanky-panky.
Not so in Oxford. Last Christmas, I watched, horrified, as Brits slobbered
and groped. They were a bit too much in the spirit – holiday and
alcoholic. As a cheeky 20-year-old tried to unzip a grandmother’s
Mrs Claus dress, my tolerance evaporated. I leant over, slapped his hand
and restored her modesty in one fluid, Puritanical gesture.
"You Yanks ruin all the fun," he complained.
"Absolutely," I agreed. "But that’s just not fun you
should be having."
Gosh, I sure spoiled that office party. Whenever the offending sprig appeared,
I launched into a neurotic spiel: "Be careful, I’m an American
feminist. If you try to kiss me, I might accidentally kick you in the
nuts. It wouldn’t be personal, just a reflex action, but for everyone’s
safety, please don’t touch the goods."
The poor Oxonians were baffled. How harsh, how anti-social, how very unfair
this edict was. One drunken woman even snarled, "You’re living
in our country now, you should play by our rules." But I couldn’t.
I simply was unable to pet a colleague’s chest hair, as requested,
or pucker for a smooch. God help me, I’ve turned into a prude.
Sure, it’s just culture shock, the old "two nation’s divided
by a common language" tension between old world and new. Four long
years I’ve watched boozed Brits transform, ripping off their clothes,
getting aggressive and breathing heavily like the Incredible hulk. And
slowly, gradually, I’m coming to grips with their national character.
You see, the poor Limeys need that libidinous release, the chance for
outrageous misbehaviour. Playing tongue-hockey with ten lads a night gives
vent to all that pent-up emotion. By days they are dainty tea-sippers
who don’t fuss, never rock the boat and always keep a stiff upper
lip. By night they are wild go-go-booted creature’s squirming in
a stranger’s lap.
And why not? Better this Jekyl and Hyde expression than none at all. A
more integrated sexuality might be healthier, but ever-so-much duller.
Imagine the scope of guilt, saucy misunderstandings, apologies and revelations
– the drama – that this lagered lifestyle provides. Plus, it
gets them out of the house, into the fresh air and playing with others
... what’s not to like?
As for this little Seattle innocent, I’m learning to relax, to flirt
casually, to permit door-holding and other courtly gestures. Hell, I’ve
even taken to short skirts and the occasional hint of cleavage.
I’ll never go the fully monty except with my husband, but there’s
still a lesson to be learned in Oxford.
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