I’m a high-maintenance plot, but hire my own groundskeepers, as it were.
It has taken some time to conclude this is not what men are attracted to. They enjoy the chase, don’t they, the idea that a woman’s value is reflected in the effort you spend to win a smile or a kiss. Even if she turns out to be rubbish in bed, by the time you have pried her iron-banded thighs apart with weekend breaks in Sardinia and a shiny carbon chip on a ring, you’ll be so grateful to be there at all that it will not matter.
I reckon this means people would tend to be worse in bed than their ancestors, the need to win a mate with lingual talent being bred out of the population (N.B.: not scientifically proven). It might also mean that women with doe eyes, slightly turned-in toes, and a skill for simpering should predominate.
Film noir gave us a term for the low-maintenance cheap-date type of woman, as personified by Ingrid Bergman and the other cool blondes. They were, in the gruff parlance, Class Acts. A Class Act does not bombard you with whimpering phone calls to the effect of why are you out with your mates watching the footie when you could be choosing sisal floor mats with me? A Class Act does not take a split badly, or if she does, does so without so much as a peep. A Class Act is the silhouette disappearing into the night that you will no doubt remember-but will never talk to again.
A Class Act will spend a lot of time alone, drinking spirits. A Class Act will never emerge from a local church in a shower of petals. A Class Act will never be a mummy, yummy or otherwise.
A Class Act will never have a husband who visits prostitutes.
Forget I mentioned it. mercredi, le 24 mars
Last night when I checked e-mail, Hotmail offered a link to “Dating Tips from the Animal Kingdom.” Expecting the piece to delight and entertain was about as fruitful as reading the back of a shampoo bottle in search of fine literature, so I offer instead an alternative list of dating tips from the animal kingdom.
• Our good friends and coevolutionaries Canis familiaris (the domestic dog) show that when in doubt which hole to aim for, thrust wildly. You are bound to land in something good.
• Shrimps’ hearts are in their heads. Men have neither hearts nor heads.
• The tongue of a giraffe (Giraffa camelopardalis) is half a meter in length, long enough to clean its own ears. If you can do the same, there may be a career option you had not yet considered…
• Dolphins engage in group sex. If those squeaky gray-skinned fisheaters can do it, so can you.
• The females of the bonobo species (Pan paniscus), closely related to humans, are known to use sexual favors to gain status and food. A point to remember next time you’re short of change at the corner shop.
• Some ribbon worms will eat themselves if they can’t find food. Unfortunately, men unable to find sex are rarely so talented.
• The anal glands of cats, genus Felis, are used to mark their territory and identify themselves to other cats. Whether this explanation will convince the hotel not to charge you for excess laundering is questionable.
• The sailfish, the swordfish, and the mako shark can all swim at a speed of over fifty miles per hour. If you meet someone unpleasant at a club, it’s unlikely you’ll be able to escape as quickly.
• Lions have been known to mate over fifty times a day. This is probably the sole criterion to become King of the Jungle.
• A rhinoceros’s horn is made of hair. Men who are lacking in the horn department, on the other hand, are not advised to grow longer hair to compensate for the fact.
• Human birth control pills work on gorillas. If you have more success finding contraceptives and a female gorilla than a mate, something has gone horribly wrong.
• Time is limited and some opportunities may never repeat themselves. Take a tip from swallows of the genus Hirundo, who mate in midair, regardless of the number of people on the flight.
As an aside, whilst researching this list, I ran across a site devoted to dolphin dildos. By which I do not mean dildos shaped like dolphins. I mean dildos the size and shape of a dolphin’s member. Eep. jeudi, le 25 mars
N and I had breakfast at a greasy spoon (his: full fry-up and chips; hers: scrambled eggs on toast). He’s not been sleeping well and it shows, but can’t explain why. Maybe long hours at work, maybe family worries, maybe a belated sense that it should be spring but it is so cold and wet that the internal clock is still ticking over in winter time. Someone we know started a rumor last week that the clocks went forward before Mothering Sunday instead of this weekend, and it threw him off, and he’s not had a night’s rest since.
He’s heard things, things about me. Stories are getting around. Nothing earth-shattering, just a comment or two from a person or two coming back round to him. Have I mentioned N appears to be the secret hub of all knowledge in London? You know a name-he knows someone who knows someone. Is something you heard true? He can get the goods. He’s a dealer, and his drug is information.
There’s envy involved, usually the engine behind the worst, most damaging rumors. Other things. I hate this Sturm und Drang. Someone I slept with who asked me to keep it secret-I didn’t even write about it-turned around and told, oh, about half of the city. A few personal things. That I don’t mind. It’s the asking for privacy, then blatantly stripping it off, that I care about. Poor etiquette in a lover. “Maybe I should say something to him about it.”
“Not a good idea,” N advised. He pointed out that this man is young and a bit feckless, and I was more likely to give him a pat on the head and a coo of forgiveness than the slap he so clearly deserves. “The onus is on him now. He’s the one who’s going to feel uncomfortable when he sees either of us.”
“Maybe I should start rumors of my own.”
“Keep your own counsel. Better in the long run.”
“I feel my evil antennae twitching…” I said, waggling forefingers in the air.
“Don’t.”
“Ah, bollocks, that reminds me…”
“What?”
“On his way out the door, he asked me if it was true I’d had a threesome with you and someone else.”
“What did you say?”
“Yes.”
He cringed. “Well, I don’t care, and you obviously don’t, and I don’t think the other girl does either. But I wonder why he was interested? If I were him, I would have asked me and not you.”
“Yes. Or asked if I’d ever been in a threesome, in case angling me into one was a possibility.”
“Exactly. I wonder why he was so interested in a piece of trivia about my private life as he’s getting out of your bed?” N scratched at his stubble. “One too many one-night stands,” he said. “Be careful what you say about someone else’s sex life,” he advised.
I shrugged. I drank the very strong, very fresh coffee. He asked if I’d seen the car outside my house again. I have. He asked if I needed anything. I said I didn’t.
“Get out if you can,” he said.
“The business, the house, or the ex-boyfriend?” I asked.
“All three,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but whatever it is, have a spare rabbit hole.”
He pushed a crust of toast around the plate. The cafe that had been crowded when we sat down was almost empty of people. I bought a piece of carrot cake for later. He tipped the waitress and drove me home. His left hand rested on my knee the whole journey.
“Just be careful,” he said. I waved him off and went upstairs.
(Knickers today: transparent black with cream lace edging and a peephole in the back. These are currently topping the league table of favorites.) vendredi, le 26 mars
Am entertaining for the weekend and N is coming round to vacuum the flat. He volunteered. Wonder if I leave the washing up, will he volunteer for that as well?
I don’t run into the neighbors often, usually only on the way out the door. So they either think I lead an unutterably glamorous life of nonstop parties and premieres, or they know everything. Or they just think I like to dress up. Anyway, very little noise ever comes from those quarters. Until last night when I came home at 2 a.m. and was kept awake another hour by the distinct sound of books being thrown, one by one, against a wall.