High school. The bell goes, toilets flush, taps run.
A cacophony of sound bounces off the appropriate choice of chocolate brown tiles which completely cover the largest of the school lavs, then collectively vacates via the dense self-closing fire door marking the end of break.
Muffled shouts can be heard outside the entrance to the "Girls Toilets". I wince at the familiar sounds. No doubt some other poor kid is on the receiving end of an unsolicited exchange. I tear off a few pieces of the medicated tracing paper masquerading as toilet roll. Why would anyone in their right mind manufacture such torture? Uncomfortable, minimal absorption, my hand catches more of my pee than this stuff!
Desperate to clean up I sense it’s time to leave the safety of the cubicle. A typically shy teenager with a prerequisite to hygiene OCD on account of my acne laden exterior from the age of about ten, I press the flush handle with some more Izal and emerge tentatively. Like a Leopard and its spots scoping out the landscape, but it’s me evading capture. Hoping I’ve dodged the predatory stares and cruel jibes. Cries of "ZIT", "CRATER" and "PIZZA" face!
I suppose I should be grateful I wasn’t photographed and plastered all over social media. I count my blessings as a child of the 80’s that mobile phones were not a routine factor in adolescent life. Bullying is horrendous and debilitating. Nowadays it comes with an upgrade: A brutal, unrelenting technical advantage. I’ve been a recipient of brainless intimidation as a child and as an adult. Pack mentality at its most vile, regularly attributed to insensitivity, inexperience and lack of emotional maturity or empathy. In short, a narcissistic psycho’s initial calling card. Courting popularity by "looking ‘ard". The inhumanity of some humans. These worrying acts and their preventable, heart-breaking outcomes still make headlines…
"Teenager found dead by parents after being trolled online!"
I’m transported back again. I open the creaky door to my inner sanctum and there she stands. My salvation. Maybe not even realising the importance of her impact upon my young life in our brief encounters in this cack coloured swimming pool, devoid of chlorinated water but certainly not lacking in acute feelings. Sex on Legs! That phrase emerges in the most wonderful Yorkshire twang she uses to describe herself when checking out her reflection. The gravitas she exuded wielding that sometime misogynistic sentence, (I’d only heard it used by fella’s to lasses they wanted to shag), was a revelation to my ears. All the while making the most of her assets, touching up her war paint. Her appearance was "nowt special", she was a bit taller than me, same brunette hair, similar figure but more developed in the perky curves department. 'SEX ON LEGS’ she would proclaim before flashing that knowing smile, winking my way and heading back to class, leaving me to bask in that confident glow for a few fleeting seconds. Bold, fearless, cocky – but nice, no ego, she was kind … and REAL. We barely spoke, she was in her last year, one of the untouchables, but she had ACNE! Obviously, she used make-up to conceal it, she was a sixth former. Lippy on, tight shirt and an ultra-short skirt she’d probably get a bollocking for later and not bat an eye lid. What a force to be reckoned with, what a personality to go up against; teacher, parent or love interest. She had the same thing as ME! Did she recognise the naïve, ashamed look I gave off? Had her message come from a conscious place? Might she have said these things to anyone else? Possibly, but the fact that she imparted this to me made a vast difference to my state of mind. It gave me hope. It addressed a need…
The bullying continued, but I shrugged off the comments. That doesn’t mean it didn’t affect me, I just learned to cope better. Sex on Legs, or Nicky taught me that. Not to allow others power over you. Celebrate yourself, be proud of your own uniqueness and inspire others to do the same.