It was a time for love and teenage discovery. Phil Collins was dominating the radio waves when he collaborated with Howard Jones to rework No One Is To Blame. She suddenly tapped on my back and said, “Stop. Turn it up. This is him. This is the new one I was telling you about.”
Stop what, you ask?
Sex. We were in the middle of doing it.
And she?
Nina DeJong. High school friend, part-time girlfriend and full-time Howard Jones devotee.
Car sex. That’s what we were doing most nights of 1986. We had little choice. We still lived with our parents. If we wanted some private time together, we had to use my car to get it. We’d find a secret place, park in a dark spot, turn off the headlights, listen to our music, steam up the windows and giggle about our near-perfect love. We had everything we needed but a house and a bed of our own.
Yes, if you really want to know, I was buried deep inside her pussy when she asked me to stop and take notice of her new favourite song. “This one?” I replied, propping up my body with my hands on either side of her head, reaching backwards to turn up the volume on the radio.
In 1986, Howard Jones was her crush. He had a minor hit years earlier but it was his hairstyle that left a bigger impression on me than any of his songs did.
“Yes. Listen. You’ll love his words. They’re just bee-yoo-ti-full.”
She whispered each lyric of the song as Jones’s words came out of the stereo speakers. I listened to them with curiosity. They started out with hope and then that hope was broken by the end of each phrase.
You can look at the menu, but you just can’t eat
You can feel the cushions, but you can’t have a seat
“Very clever I said.”
“Shh! Listen… and stop moving. I’m trying to hear him sing.”
My legs had tired. “Sorry.”
At seventeen, I never had a problem maintaining erections, not even when being asked to stop and wait awhile. I was rock hard, all the time — but I still had to hover above her and that damn reclined car seat. Let me tell you, bucket seats aren’t made for passion. There’s never enough room for two — or for a set of legs to go underneath a car’s dashboard. It’s clumsy for the girl too — her legs have to find a spot somewhere between a gear lever and a steering wheel, and against a car door or out its window. There are real challenges to it. Somebody has to move at some point to get comfortable.
She didn’t mind an unexpected thrust anyway. That’s why we went parking in the first place. We teased each other into a sexual frenzy at every chance we had. On occasions like these, we’d stop mid-coitus to fall back to kissing or chatting about something we heard on the radio. I’d remain buried deep in her warm, wet world and pulsate against its sides while our lips did other things above it. Occasionally, she’d twitch and I’d reply with a secret twitch of my own. We made magic, not just love.
You can dip your foot in the pool, but you can’t have a swim
You can feel the punishment, but you can’t commit the sin
And you want her, and she wants you
We want everyone
And you want her and she wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame
There was something oddly familiar about the song but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t Jones’s voice but, instead, a recognisable chord progression. No, it wasn’t that at all. It was the tone… or perhaps the tempo. No, on both counts. But something about it felt satisfying — and terribly disappointing. Its hope-destroying lines burrowed into my soul like a woodworm chewing out a tree from the inside. And then there was the hideous word blame that accompanied the chorus. Blame was a foreign element inside our perfect world. We didn’t need blame, not at all.
“Don’t you just love it?”
“Sure.” I agreed but I don’t know why. She liked the artist and, I suppose, it was important to me to be supportive.
“Listen to this next part. It gets even better,” she said while continuing to mouth the words beside my ear.
You can build a mansion, but you just can’t live in it
You’re the fastest runner but you’re not allowed to win
Some break the rules, and let you count the cost
The insecurity is the thing that won’t get lost
It finally struck me. Drums! I knew those drums! There’s only one person in this world who plays the drums like that!
“Is that Phil Collins?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Phil Collins is on a Howard Jones song?”
She nodded and smiled. “Uh-huh. Now be quiet… and stop moving please.”
I couldn’t believe it. Our favourite musicians combined their talents into one song. In a way, their union somehow amplified our own. I felt it to be a good sign of things to come because, back then, our music was a part of our identity. Then again, it also sounded like a story about an unachievable love. Why would I like such a theme? I had my love. She was right there with me.
You can see the summit but you can’t reach it
It’s the last piece of the puzzle but you just can’t make it fit
Doctor says you’re cured but you still feel the pain
Aspirations in the clouds but your hopes go down the drain
And you want her, and she wants you
We want everyone
And you want her and she wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame
No one ever is to blame
No one ever is to blame
The song ended and she asked, “So, what do you think? And please continue that, kind sir.”
She tapped on my back again, kissed me and pulled me closer. I got the message. I withdrew my hips a little and then pushed slowly inside her again. “I like it. I just can’t believe Phil Collins is actually drumming on it.” I felt her innards twitch as I reached the top. “I thought it sounded great!”
She moaned, closed her eyes and then opened them again. “I know it’s perfect, isn’t it? It’s like they were made for each other, like us, right?”
Like us? Yes, I suppose she was right. With today’s hindsight, I guess she was perfectly correct about us and Howard Jones. His song was such a big hit in ’86 that radio stations dropped it soon after. The audience tired of it quickly and didn’t want it around anymore.
Her prophecy extended to our relationship. It was the Spring of ’87 and I should’ve seen the end coming but I was distracted. I was in love and didn’t see the signs until it was long over. Car sex didn’t appeal to her anymore. Small talk during coitus fell away. It was about getting business done. She didn’t even bother to get undressed anymore.
Do you want to know how the end happened?
Okay, you’ve twisted my arm.
We’d had a particularly long and vigorous session one Sunday afternoon when she suddenly broke the news. My penis was finishing inside her when she looked into my eyes and said those terrible words, “My darling, I have to tell you, it’s over.”
Oh yes, that’s exactly how it happened. The timing was impeccable. I was still panting and puffing when she chose to act. Talk about finding ways to give a guy an instant soft-on. I have no doubt in my mind that she had it all planned before she lifted her skirt and pulled me on top of her. She wanted to fuck and then fuck off. She slithered out from beneath my body, pulled down her skirt and made a ridiculous offer while wriggling back into her knickers. “If we’re alone and not doing anything in ten years, why not look each other up?”
I guess it was her way of softening the blow. I didn’t see it soften anything but my dick. Beyond a breaking heart and an overexposed netherregion, I found her suggestion to be totally absurd.
I pleaded with her to stay but she wasn’t interested. She picked up her bag, slung its strap over her shoulder, opened the door, adjusted the elastic in her underpants, walked outside and then closed the door behind her. She never took my calls, and never responded to my letters. Two years had come to a grinding halt in an instant. I’m sure she’d deny my version of the story but that’s how it happened. She stood in sodden panties while making stupid offers. Either way, her message was delivered loud and clear — and I never forgot it.
As my marriage to Samantha continues to sour, those ancient words that were absurd back then aren’t so absurd now. It’s been longer than ten years and I’m so terribly alone now. My side of the criteria has been met and I’m ready to take Nina up on her offer. I made some calls last week and, through a few back channels, I found out that she is alone too. I’m keen to rekindle the thing we once had. I don’t want forever after, I just want 1986. I’m constantly dreaming of a sex-fuelled night inside a parked car, complete with music on the radio, steamed-up windows and an uncomfortable set of bucket seats to navigate.
She left a door ajar. I want to walk through it.
Calling her could be the best or worst decision I’ll ever make. I’m certain that I received a positive sign about it earlier today. Just as I picked up my phone, the radio in the kitchen started playing that song. It’s funny, I hadn’t heard it in years. I’m thinking about calling Nina, and No One Is To Blame arrives at the same time. It’s an omen, a good one, I think.
Will you follow me down into my rabbit hole?
No one will be to blame for what happens. I promise.
Five women’s bodies are discovered after the nights of thunderstorms. Their spouses are suspected of the crimes, but it becomes clear that someone else is responsible. There’s no blood and few clues. A storm photographer who specialises in taking pictures of lightning may be the only witness.
Free For a Limited Time
Quite the story. Sounds like she wanted maximum dumping impact. Well, I hope things work out and glad my Phil Collins post enhanced your shagging story.
Those pingbacks are helpful, aren’t they?
Yes, it’s a reworked piece from the book mentioned at the end of the post. It’s set in 1986 and your post aligned well with the music mentioned in it. Thanks.
She did the dumping in a cold, callous way. (And they say guys are cruel!) It then sets up an opportunity for the couple to meet again at some point in the future to resolve the 1986 indiscretion.
Thanks for reading and writing your bit today!
-Michael