“Yorkshire,” I said. “And your good self?”
“Michigan.”
Charming. But the crowd grew restless, and we moved on to the venue. Unfortunately, T- and her date were sitting three tables from us. Dining at a table of mostly couples, I found myself seated next to the wife of a mutual acquaintance. She drunkenly looked me and N over. When he turned to talk to someone, she said, “So how long have you two been back together, then?”
“Er, ah, we’re just seeing what happens. Only friends, you know.”
“Of course you are.” She gave me a sly wink to indicate that she didn’t believe a word of it. This indictment might have carried more of a sting if she didn’t simultaneously spill red wine down her dress.
The speeches were the highlight of the evening. A multiply medaled Paralympian with a seemingly endless supply of sex jokes, followed by a sport personality, followed by a paunchy silver-haired man. The quality of the speakers was such that even I, a rank amateur at anything smacking of nonsexual exertion, could pretend to be interested for twenty minutes.
Then it all broke down for the disco. I danced, I drank, I danced some more. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed N on the sidelines bending T-’s ear. Good lad, I thought. After she went off to dance with her date, I sought him out.
“You sly dog. So did you get her number?”
“Actually, she was more interested in you.”
“Really?” I looked back at the dance floor, where she was being spun round and round by three men. Probably an experiment in centrifugal force and its effect on fabric strain. So far as I could see, the dress was still refusing to budge-whether due to magic or double-sided tape, I don’t know.
“Yeah, I think I ruined your chances though.”
“How’s that?”
“I said you’d only do it with her if I came along.”
“You complete twat!” I punched his shoulder, probably hurting my fist more than anything else.
He kissed the top of my head. “Just saving you from yourself, dear.”
SEX: A SPOTTER’S GUIDE
• Sex Shop: not normally known to sell sex as such. Lexical equivalent of calling a specialist vegetarian grocer a butcher.
• Hot Sex: reproduces, as nearly as possible, the visual effect of pornography. See also: Phone-In Sex.
• Good Sex: in which you get everything you want.
• Bad Sex: in which someone else gets everything he wants.
• Sex Kitten: a woman of reasonable charm, though often reliant on cantilevering lingerie.
• Sexuaclass="underline" usually related to the mating rituals of animal species or the burgeoning hormonal urges of youth. Word never used in an actual sexual episode without a lot of giggling. Exception that proves the rule, various Marvin Gaye songs.
• Sex Education: the interface between a banana and a condom. Not generally known to impart useful information.
• Sex Bomb: a weapon of mass destruction. mardi, le 6 janvier
I rang the bell of the building; no answer from the speaker-he buzzed me straight up. He opened the door of the flat and disappeared into the kitchen for a drink. Inside, it was clean, almost sterile. Smoky glass mirrors everywhere-I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being in a restaurant. Rather incredible digs for someone the manager said was a student. Postgraduate scholarships probably extend far enough for a few pissups each term, but I doubt they cover having a lady of the night in for a session.
He: “Don’t be so nervous.”
Me (startled): “I am relaxed. So what is it you study?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
He told me his name. “Really?” I said. It’s an odd, old-fashioned moniker. “My boyfriend is also called that.” Ex, I scolded myself. Stop thinking about him in the present tense. We discussed the client’s desire to move-to North London, which apparently has “the highest density of psychotherapists in the world.” Knowing a few people round that way, I understand why perfectly.
He: “You’re an odd one, I can’t quite figure you out.”
Me: “I’m fairly straightforward.”
“An open book, right?”
“Something like that.”
(later)
Me: “What is it you do again?”
He: “Psychoanalysis.”
Which made us comrades, if not exactly colleagues. The conversation strayed to evolutionary biology and the role of pheromones in attraction. How well you like someone’s smell is, apparently, related to the likelihood of producing children together with as few congenital defects as possible. Not the usual overture to incite romance, but it works well enough on me. He liked the sex intense, sensual, tongue-centric. I liked the mirrors. He held me open and took me anally, slithering in and out. After he came, I went to clean up and noticed a copy of Richard Dawkins’s latest book in the bathroom.
Me (dressing): “I enjoyed that. And, you smell nice.”
He: “Excellent, that means we can have children.”
We both laughed. “Not quite yet.” I dressed and left.
There were still shops open and I wanted to spend the money in my bag. Heels clattering, I walked through an underground subway. At the end of one tiled passage were boxes-homeless people. I am never sure whether to hold their gaze or not; swing wide of where they’re sat or not. What is it about them that makes us so uncomfortable? Do the homeless have some kind of sympathetic magic that might rub off, and we will be rendered penniless if we dare get too close?
The men were young, talking. I caught the gaze of one. Broad Northern accents. I was aware of both the sound of my shoes echoing toward them and the weight of the money on my person. A kind person would just heave the notes in their direction, wouldn’t she, I thought.
Rubbish, another part of my mind chimed in. They’d only use it on drugs.
Ooh, get you, high and mighty. Who just had sex for money.
Yes, well. At least I have a job. I’m not selling out. I’m not getting paid for something I wouldn’t do for free anyway.
They might just be backpackers. Who would appreciate the cash.
They might just be rapists.
The corridor turned sharp right just past their makeshift camp. The two young men-quite good-looking, actually-looked up as I came near. “Out late?” one asked.
I smiled. Could tell them the truth. Won’t. “Party,” I said.
“Cool,” the bearded one said. They went back to their conversation. Neither slowing nor swerving, I continued on out of sight. mercredi, le 7 janvier
He: “White wine, I presume.”
Me: “Why, how very thoughtful.” (he presents a glass, we toast and sip) “Rather drier than usual.”
“Thought I’d give it a try.”
As a regular becomes more regular, rules slip a tiny bit. They’re not supposed to be under the influence during an appointment-and neither are we-though a little alcohol isn’t expressly forbidden. Having seen this particular man several times, I know that he must indulge in a spliff before he sees me. I can smell it, and am surprised it doesn’t affect his performance.
Last night I arrived a few minutes early-Monday nights, light traffic-and caught him in the act.
Another habit he indulges in are inhalants during my visits. Now, I realize these aren’t illegal (at least, I don’t think they are), and am not opposed to drug-taking as such. Live and let live, victimless crime, and all that. I only rarely take anything stronger than a stiff drink-though those who knew me at uni would probably attest to the contrary.
Last night on his bedroom floor, I was sitting astride him. He, eyes closed, reached for the familiar small brown bottle and took a direct sniff. And then he offered it to me. What’s the harm? I thought, and sniffed, and did so again when he picked it up ten minutes later.
And what a rush it was. I felt my scalp, face, and ears pounding, like when you blush but more so. Every sound seemed intensified, a little tinny. My fingertips felt like paws, a foot wide.
Thank goodness it only lasted a minute or so.
The inhalant, that is. The sex was rather longer. jeudi, le 8 janvier