We hit the shoes first. Same size, same taste; she cleaned three shops out of strappy sandals in spring green and blue; I did the same, with versions in camel and black. Handbags, suits, knickers: all fell before the might of our campaign of terror. She must have bought at least three outfits to wear to the wedding, as well as enough holiday gear to clothe an army of Mum-clones. I had to forcibly restrain her from beaded, flower-printed twinsets while she advised me my ankles “look chubby” in vintage-style shoes.
Such is the power of unconditional love. Only a mother can shriek “VPL!” to her daughter at a volume loud enough to rock the foundations of the building and live to tell the tale. (And for the record, my panty line was, indeed, visible. I hate when she’s right.)
She: “Honey, you looked so adorable in the green! Are you not getting that?”
Me: “I don’t know, it makes me look too busty.”
(thrusting her own ample chest to the fore) “There’s no such thing as looking too busty. What, you want to look like an adolescent?” And she threw the garment back on my pile.
I quiver in the shadow of a superior intellect.
Mars
O-P
O is for Oil
Never acceptable as lube. If you don’t know about the unfortunate interaction of oil with latex, I refer you to any and all HIV-related literature of the last two decades.
Aside from degrading barrier protection, it’s a rubbish lubricant in general. A man once suggested (whipping out a tub of Vaseline as he did so) attempting to fist me with a petrolatum-based aid. Are you joking? That stuff traps heat and makes it feel like someone’s deep-frying your labia.
It’s not a bad idea to carry a small bottle of massage oil, though, for the odd massage. Men like that, and often tip after. More often than they do for the actual sex. Weird creatures.
P is for Plastic
Tits, not credit cards. Do men prefer perfection or the real thing? Are all the other girls in the agency that naturally buoyant, or is there surreptitious cantilevering at work? Should you save your profits for an upgrade? Even the most down-to-earth girl will start to wonder if her career wouldn’t enjoy the boost pumping up the volume might bring. If you wouldn’t do it in real life, though, I can’t say I’d recommend doing it at all.
P is also (obviously) for Porn
There’s a fair amount of snobbery from those who buy tastefully hot, hardbound picture books on Neolithic erotic cave paintings against those who appear in hard-core porn. Believe me, honey, the snobbery goes both ways. African tribal sculpture of a man with an erection does not a libertine make.
Basically, if there isn’t the possibility of come staining something in the process of its creation, it’s class-B porn. Sorry to burst your bubble. Jenna Jameson, massage parlor attendants, and the guy who mops the booth at the peep show work in sex. People who wear pink baby-doll tees and stand behind a counter selling organic recycled nonphallic vibrators don’t. Saucy art-house films set in France during the 1960s student protests are not porn. Double fist penetration while blowing a dog is. Rule of thumb: the more likely couples are to view a sex product as a relationship-strengthening tool, the less hard-core it is. lundi, le 1 ^er mars
Am still up North, sleeping on a sofa of one of the As, looking for a good massage therapist locally and drinking too many tequila-based concoctions. There is this cat, whenever she sees me she makes for my lap and rattles her purrbox like a rusty motor. Extremely cozy and warm-fluffy at the mo, and vaguely toying with the notion of never going back to London.
Kidding! I’ll be home in a day or two. Wearing my brand-new gossamer pastel blue underwear, to boot. mardi, le 2 mars
It is probably the lot of everyone to fear old age. When you are young, it does not seem possible that someday you will be as ancient as your relatives, and similarly impossible that they were even, in their turn, young.
It’s when you leave the first flush of youth that the fear starts to creep in. The eyes of old people on the street-people whom you did not even notice, not so long ago-seem to bore straight into you. You will be here soon, they seem to say.
Only recently I saw my own future. Or to be more precise, heard it.
I was at home. My mother and grandmother were talking in the kitchen, unaware that I, checking my e-mail in a room around the corner, could hear every word.
But I paid them no attention until my ears seized on one phrase. Pubic hair.
Specifically, my mother saying to her mother, “I feel old. Why, only the other day I noticed my pubic hair is now almost completely gray.”
To which my grandmother replied, “You think that’s bad? Wait until they start falling out.”
I think I had better kill myself now, before it’s too late. mercredi, le 3 mars
Of the four As there’s only one of them I haven’t slept with. This would be A3. When we first met, there was immediate, overpowering chemistry. We snogged a bit but didn’t go any further.
He lived in a neighboring city, and when he went home, I was lonely. You know the feeling where all the pent-up energy goes straight to your legs, and you just want to run and run until you jump off a cliff? I confided in A2 and told him what had happened. I’d fallen hard and had to see the man.
We devised a plan: I would turn up at A3’s door at the weekend as a surprise and see what happened. Meanwhile I had four days to plan and fret. So I did what any girl would do.
I slept with A2. Confused yet?
No? How about this, then-I was seeing A4 at the time. We were on the outs, but still an item, just. Jumping ship was high on the agenda, and this looked like a good opportunity.
So, A4 is out of town on a conference, I’m sleeping with our mutual friend A2 and planning to throw myself at the feet of A3. When the weekend comes, I turn up at A3’s door.
He had a girlfriend. I had no idea. Until she answered the door. Her confused smile said she had no idea what was going on, and I felt exactly as low as I was acting. I made like Paula Radcliffe on speed.
A4 and I split properly; A2 and I made a brief go of things and it didn’t work out. But it’s water under the bridge now: they’re all friends with each other. Most people who meet us reckon A4 is my husband, A2 my brother, and A1 our uncle-not because he looks old, we assure him, he just oozes manly authority. But there is the slight lingering problem of A3. After all these years, he’s still seeing that girl. And sometimes on a night out he gets a bit pissed and overly friendly with me.
Too little, darling. Years too late.
We were at a restaurant a few nights ago. A2 introduced me to a colleague of his. As if he had to point him out at all. I noticed the man as soon as he came in the door.
“Nice,” I whispered to A2.
“I thought he was just your type,” he said, smiling.
He was. Neatly dressed, fit body, hands I could imagine all over me. Smart, polite, gorgeous mouth. “So where’s he from?”
“South coast, originally.”
“Mmm. Where’ve you been hiding this one?”
“He lives in San Diego.”
“Ugh. Why?”
A2 shrugged. “Job.”
I frowned. I didn’t want a repeat of First Date. A seven-thousand-mile long-distance affair is out of the question unless handsomely remunerated for travel expenses. I’ve crossed the ocean for a heart of gold before, only to find it not worth the effort. But in the interest of social lubrication I flirted with him and the other boys over the meal. Afterward A2 was feeling tired and went home, leaving Dr. California in the capable hands of me, A3, and A4.