Living with
Swingers
by Cian Manning
A night at the
theatre in Cork; happily watered, fed and
entertained were the components of a good evening.
After a brief good bye to my uncle who was
returning to Waterford I strolled along Patrick
Street and Grande Parade surrounded by drunk
students in the throes of another maniac Monday.
As usual the student grants being well spent for
educational purposes like ‘How many Jager-bombs
can I do in an hour?’ or ‘Is Baileys
good on cornflakes?’ From my own experience
of the latter coco-pops or something chocolate-y
is best. Who knew Arts students would conduct so
many laboratory examinations? When passing five
lads and a girl urinating in the street I wish
they conducted these tests indoors. Ah...a night
at the theatre...in Cork...
Finally home,
the electric radiator switched on, sizzling in
the ice-box of a room I live in. One imagines the
room was used by an Inuit or Eskimo easing the
transition to Ireland. Even in the swelter of
summer the room manages to maintain a breeze. The
spiders in the room seem to maintain a stoic
stance to things. I swear I hear one whisper to
me to put him out of his misery. Then again his
voice was one of many that inhabit my head or it
could have been the whistling of that breeze.
While waiting for the room to heat up I head into
the living room where my housemate is viewing the
‘Sex Education Show’. Perfect viewing
for the start of the week, with many PRACTICAL
demonstrations which not only remained burned to
my innocent, naive little mind, its hard (possibly
a poor choice of words in the circumstances) to
get a conversation going without concerning the
topic on television.
Thank god the
set is seven years old, as I imagine the vantages
of HD and panoramic screens would have made me
feel like the carrot which was subjected to what
can only be termed as an extreme vegetarian
fetish in the programme. I’m all for having
your five a day, but in a far more palatable
manner. At least starting with the mouth rather
than another orifice, the UN should recognise
such crimes against root vegetables.
Battered and
bruised, I’m then subjected to the
educational guidance of my housemate, who I learn
is a swinger, who reveals my other housemate is
also a swinger. Not only was there film, but now
I had a tutor. One of her anecdotes is the
arranging of a rendezvous du ménage a trios (the
extent of my Leaving Cert French) which ended up
with her knowing both the guy (an old work
colleague) and the other woman (a former school-mate)
in question. Imagine, knowing the people you’re
about to have sex with! What kind of twenty-first
cyber erotic vegetable harming century are we
living in?
Over two hours
later, my ice-box room is now a sauna. After
viewing many swingers profiles (not my idea but
my tutor...I mean housemate) I want to wash my
eye balls. I’ve seen glass bottles where
glass bottles shouldn’t be. I’ve
witnessed Bosco with something other than a hand
controlling his strings and I certainly have
learnt more about the woman I’m living with,
in this seminar than over the previous five
months. However, it leaves me pondering one
question: if she’s a swinger and I a single
male, why was I never invited to wash the carrots?
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