Phil Collins dominated the radio waves. He collaborated with Howard Jones to rework Jones’ No One Is To Blame tune. Nina looked into my eyes, tapped on my back and said, “Stop. Turn it up. This is him. This is the one I was telling you about.”
It was a time for music, love and teenage discovery. All I had to do was stop what I was doing to discover something new on the radio.
Stop what, you ask?
Sex. We were in the middle of doing it.
And Nina? Who is she?
Nina DeJong. A fellow high school student, part-time girlfriend and full-time Howard Jones devotee.
Car sex. That’s what we were doing most nights of ’86. We had little choice but to do it there. We lived with our parents. If we wanted private time, we mostly had to use my car. We’d find a secret place, park in a dark spot, turn off the headlights, listen to our music, steam up the windows and dream of our near-perfect love. We had everything we needed, but a house and a proper bed.
Yes, I was buried deep inside her when she asked me to turn up her favourite song. “This one?” I replied, propping myself up with my hands on either side of her head, reaching back to the volume knob on my radio.
In 1986, Howard Jones was her idol. He had a minor hit years earlier, but it was No One is to Blame that made him. It was his hairstyle that left a bigger impression on me.
“Yes. Listen. You’ll love the words. They’re just bee-yoo-ti-full.”
She whispered each lyric of the song as Jones’s words came out of the speakers. I listened with curiosity. They started with hope, and then that hope was broken.
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 listen.”
My legs were tiring. “Sorry.”
I never had a problem when being asked to wait. At seventeen, I was hard without trying — but I still had to hover. My arms tired.
Let me tell you, reclined bucket seats and cars aren’t made for passion. There’s never enough room. It’s clumsy for the girl too — one leg has to find a spot somewhere between a gear lever and a steering wheel. Somebody has to move at some point to get comfortable.
On occasions like these, we’d sometimes pause mid-coitus to kiss or chat. I’d remain buried deep in her warm, wet world and pulsate against its sides while our mouths did other things far above it. Occasionally, she’d twitch, and I’d reply with a secret twitch of my own. We made magic, not just love. It was heaven.
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 felt satisfying — and morbidly disappointing. It dug into my soul like a woodworm chewing out a tree from the inside. And then there was the hideous word blame that accompanied each chorus. Blame was foreign to us. We didn’t need blame in our world. Our world was just perfect the way it was.
“Don’t you just love it?”
“Sure.” I agreed, but I didn’t know why.
“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 the sound of those drums!
“Is that Phil Collins?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Phil Collins is playing on a Howard Jones song?”
She nodded and smiled. She knew I’d be impressed. “Uh-huh. Now be quiet… and stop moving… please.”
I couldn’t believe it. Our favourite musicians had combined their talents. In a way, their union somehow amplified ours. I felt it to be a good sign of things to come. Back then, our music was a part of our identity.
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 with that performance, 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 thrusted 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. It’s as though they were made for each other, like us, right?”
Like us? She was right in more ways than one.
His song was such a massive hit in ’86 that it was offensive to play by the end of the year. The audience was tired of it. No one played it. Howard Jones’s music soon faded with it.
We ended too.
It was April ’87, and I should’ve seen it coming, but I was distracted. I was still in love and wasn’t expecting endings. Car sex didn’t seem to appeal to her anymore. Small talk during coitus fell away. It was about getting business done, not connecting. She didn’t even bother to get completely undressed.
Do you want to know how it ended?
Okay, I’ll tell you.
My parents were away for the weekend, and we’d had a particularly long and vigorous session in my bed. It was 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. Her timing was impeccable. I was still panting and puffing when she spoke. Talk about ruining a moment. I have no doubt in my mind that she had it all planned. She wanted to fuck one last time 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 me up?”
I guess it was a way of softening her exit. I didn’t see it soften anything but my dick. Besides a broken heart, I found her suggestion to be absurd. Only a nut-job would break up and set up a new date at the same time! The disappointment and confusion in my teenage brain were almost too much to bear.
I gathered up some words and pleaded with her to stay, but she wasn’t interested anymore. She picked up her bag, opened the door, adjusted her underpants, walked outside and then closed the door behind her. Initially, she refused my calls and never responded to my letters.
We met at a park a month later. I tried to win her back with promises of change. She listened for a while, but nothing I said made any difference. She said I was a loser who was heading down a path to Loser Town.
Her message was delivered loud and clear — and I never forgot a single word. Two years had come to an end because I wasn’t good enough for her. She went off and then dated my friend Peter for a while.
As my marriage to Samantha continues to sour today, Nina’s absurd words decades ago don’t sound so absurd now. It’s been much longer than ten years, and I’m so alone. My side of the criteria has been met, and I’m ready to find out about Nina’s life. I made some calls last week and found out that she is alone, too. I don’t want forever after, I just want 1986… again. I want to feel whole and happy like I was back then.
She left a door ajar. She did. I know that. I heard her say it. I want to walk proudly through that gap in the door.
Calling her could be the best decision I’ll ever make — and I’m certain I received a sign about it earlier today. Just as I picked up the phone to call her, the radio in the kitchen started playing that song. It’s funny, I hadn’t heard it in years. I was thinking about Nina, and No One Is To Blame arrived. It’s an omen, a good one, I think.
Will you follow me down into my rabbit hole to see where this goes?
No one will be to blame for what happens next. I promise.
–Michael (Dark fiction. Author of SEETHINGS (the first book), free for a limited time)
SEETHINGS promises a gripping psychological thriller that blends murder, passion, and secrets of a sexless marriage. Forman’s vivid prose draws readers into a world where lightning illuminates the skies and hidden truths. As the storm clouds gather, Mitchell’s journey promises to unravel more than just the mystery of the murders.
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