Thanks to Rosie and her feline frippery, today I'm reliving one of my furriest college sex adventures.
Now that I have you sitting uncomfortably, I'll begin.
I was renting a box room in Drumcondra in my second year at third level. It was a compressed, functional existence. I had a bed, a window, a wardrobe, a radiator, a special place for dirty socks that other people call 'the floor', while in the rest of the limited space I stored air for breathing purposes.
The bed was wedged in against the walls and the bottom of it went right up against the window sill at the end.
I quite liked my funny little room. I used to stretch happily and look out the window on my early morning starts at about 2.30 in the afternoon, and look at the neighbourhood cats prowling around the alleys and red-brick backyards below. I used often muse that the window on my world looked out on repeat showings of the opening titles for Coronation Street.
The cats would often sun themselves and doze on the flat roof right underneath my window, there were about two or three regulars I'd see all the time. I'm not a cat lover by any means but I tolerated them.
Anyway, one weekend I skipped back to Cavan to sponge off my folks and I left my window open to let some fresh air in, or maybe a stiff breeze to chase the smell of socks out and, who knows, perhaps even windsweep them into a neat little pile in the corner.
I arrived back on the Sunday night to a stilled and empty house, puffing and panting with my bag and distracted by an overdue assignment on Saint Augustines's Confessions which is a stupid fact about the evening that has stayed with me all this time.
As I placed a foot on the stairs, I was stopped in my tracks by a faint, double-miaowing sound coming from above. I paused to listen, somewhat puzzled. It was definitely a cat alright, alternately miaowing high and low like he was miaowing in time with his own breathing in and out. But hang on I thought, unless there's a musical cat upstairs attempting the scales acapella, it's most likely I'm hearing two cats.
I walked on up the stairs. It was definitely coming from my room. Still puzzled, I opened the door and went inside.
And what did I see before my thoroughly aghast eyes only two cats riding each other like the clappers of hell. On MY BED. The one doing the giving was delivering the low-pitched miaow on his stroke, the one receiving issuing the higher-pitched one as her partner did his business. There was rippling, sinewy fur everywhere I looked and I'm fairly sure there was even a horribly stylised, head-tossed-back shudder of pleasure moment as he picked up the pace. OhmysweetJesusChrist I thought, there's two cats riding each other on my bed. Cats. Sex. Frickin' catsex. In front of me. Right there. MY BED.
Like, I had to sleep there that night and the likelihood was these fuckers weren't going to change the sheets.
I was going to shout "Oi!" but immediately possessed by some sort of crazy self-consciousness indisputably because of the two cats in the throes of passion on MY BED, I decided something manly and bellowing was best but in the heat of the moment, I just whimpered a little. Pathetic I know, but they still heard me.
So they stopped shagging. And bucking Bronco McStud Muffin himself turns his head slowly towards me, stares blithely at me, licks his whiskers, turns away again, and get this! RECOMMENCES SHAGGING. AGAIN! THE FUCKERS CLEARLY HAD NO SHAME WHATSOEVER!
I couldn't have been more outraged if the moggy Romeo had been chewing tobacco and spat lazily at the ground in response to my open-mouthed, agape horror. Jesus, there was a cat seemingly trying to bore a hole in another cat, on MY BED, and he hadn't even the decency to get up and put his fucking jeans on when somebody walks in on him. Little bastard, and as for her, well she must have been a right little whore altogether because she never so much as blinked once and just crouched there waiting for whatever himself decided to do next. Hopefully me, she was probably thinking. Disgraceful altogether. It was an open and shut case of Cattus Interruptus and neither of them so much as had the decency to blush!
I mean for Chrissakes there were two cats, swinging, in my room, in a room you couldn't swing a fucking cat in. What the fuck?
Eventually, I managed to dispel my disbelief, rage and (bizarrely), my coy embarrassment, and took a run at them. They scattered fairly quickly out the open window but I'm sure they found a dark corner somewhere and finished their business.
In fact, I know they did because I heard them fighting a few minutes later. By which I mean, the she-cat had turned and scratched and spat at the tom cat because apparently, a male cat's penis ejects spikes into the walls of a female cat as he climaxes, to stimulate her to produce eggs for fertilisation. This hurts the female and, not having an appreciation of the finer points of her own biology, she turns and angrily bates the face of the tom cat for a few minutes. So next time you hear two cats squabbling, they're probably just finishing off some hot cat lovin'.
And as long as it's not in MY ROOM, in front of MY EYES, and hose me down because I feel all dirty again, on (whimper) MY BED, then I don't care.
The curse of automation
23 hours ago