And that was it – another story.
‘When are we going to do this for real?’ I asked.
‘Very soon I would imagine. How are you holding out? Did you like the hotel room story I sent you? Send me one about fucking me in the woods. Sophie x.’
I stared at those few words with confusion, frustration and mounting annoyance scrambling my brain, then went outside and smoked two fags in ten minutes.
What was this? Was she just stringing me along for laughs or something or did she actually want to meet up? Talking dirty to someone is a lot of fun, especially when you’re swapping graphic descriptions of what you’re going to do to each other, but it can only get a man so far. Okay, you’ve hooked me, I’m ready, let’s do it. Let’s cut the chat and get to the real stuff. That was what I was interested in. I mean, didn’t she think I read enough fucking porn stories all day long as it was? Just because these ones had my name in them, that didn’t make them any different. It had, at first, but only because I’d thought they were a prelude to actual sex. On their own, they were nothing more than extra work.
When she went to a restaurant did she just read the menu for three hours?
I went back inside and replied to her.
‘Dear Sophie, do you have any idea how much I want to have sex with you? I’m literally at bursting point and I want to meet up with you right now. My schedule is clear for the rest of my life. I can bunk any day, meet you anywhere and anytime. All you have to do is say the word and I’ll be there. We need to do some of this stuff for real. God x.’
Her response came back within the hour.
‘Dear God, what an absolutely wicked thought. I’m wet just thinking about it. Next time I’m in London I’ll be sure to take you up on the offer. We could stay in one of those sleazy hotels where all the prostitutes go. I could dress as a hooker if you wanted and you could pick me off the street. Write me a story about that. Sophie x.’
This made me fucking furious.
‘Fuck the stories, I don’t want to read any more of your fucking stories. I want to fuck you for real, what is it you don’t understand about this? Your stories are boring the fucking plums off me.’
I was so tempted to write this and send it back to her but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I suddenly realised that I’d been led up the garden path good and proper. She was never going to shag me any more than... well, any other bird I knew at that moment in time. All she wanted was a pen pal to have computer sex with. Devilishly naughty, if you’re a bored old housewife, but ultimately very safe.
This wasn’t what I was after.
I mean, Jesus Christ, I hadn’t had it in so long, this was the last fucking thing I needed.
I took a few deep breaths (through a cigarette) and composed an email.
‘Sophie, no more stories. I’m afraid they’ve lost any sort of appeal for me. I only started writing them because I thought they were going to lead somewhere but now I realise they’re not. I can’t honestly see us ever getting together and this is just frustrating me. I’m sorry to be like this but I read porn stories all day. It’s what I do for a living. And unless we actually get together, that’s all they’ll ever be. Just stories. I don’t think this is going to happen so I’m going to stop torturing myself. All the best, God.’
I clicked SEND then reluctantly got on with some work. Her reply came back later that day.
‘Well, you certainly seem to know it all. How do you know we won’t ever get together? Do you have a clairvoyant’s ball? Who says I wasn’t getting ready to come down for the weekend? I don’t presume to read your mind, why do you presume to read mine? Sophie x.’
What was I, some sort of fucking mug or something?
‘Dear Sophie, I’m not reading your mind. All I’m saying is that I don’t think you’re ever going to shag me. If I’m wrong, then that’s great, but you’re going to have to prove it.’
‘I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. If you don’t want me to fuck your brains out then that’s your loss. Personally, I was rather looking forward to...’ then she went into a 500 word description of what she reckoned she was going to do to me and ended it with, ‘but I guess that doesn’t appeal to you, does it? Sophie.’
‘That does appeal to me, very much. But doing it, not reading about it. I mean, why not just send pictures of buns to Aid for Africa while you’re at it? If you want to have sex with me then let’s get together this week. I’ll come up to Birmingham and you meet me at the hotel. Agreed?’
‘I’m sorry, but if you’re going to be like that, I don’t think I want to meet up with you. Sophie.’
‘See, that’s what I’m talking about. This is never going to happen. Look, let’s just drop the pretence and level with each other. I want to have sex with you, for real. Are you going to have sex with me, for real? It’s as simple as that.’
‘But it’s not that simple. I want to have sex with you, I really do. Sometimes I get so horny just thinking about you but I’m married and I love my husband. It’s not easy for me you know. Please, try to understand that I was serious, I really do want to fuck you, I really really do, but it’s just not possible. The intention was there, just not the timing. Where were you twenty years ago? Sophie x.’
And there it was, finally the truth.
I think this whole episode had started when I’d tried to demonstrate a point and show her that her stories were a little threadbare as far as their plots went and that women simply didn’t behave the way she’d been portraying them. Like I said in my first email, ‘If I was to tell you to come down here and suck me off, you wouldn’t, would you?’
She was the one that had responded, ‘Who says I wouldn’t?’ starting this whole sorry saga off.
Well, this finally proved my point. She wouldn’t come down and suck me off because she couldn’t and didn’t, although I think this was still a little lost on her.
And who says you wouldn’t, Sophie? I say you wouldn’t and I should know. I’m not much at anything but I’ll tell you this, I’m a fucking expert on the things women won’t do.
14. Sexploitation
It was some 72 hours later and I was still pissed off about drawing yet another blank. I was angry, frustrated, upset and disconsolate, so it was with rapidly evaporating patience that I found myself standing in a posh night club night, listening to some boring rugby cock announcing to everyone within earshot that, ‘This bloke’s got the best job in the world’.
I hadn’t told him. I wasn’t in the mood. I’d come to the party with Paddy and Matt and word had just got out. I’d been cornered, bombarded with the same old questions and had been unable to escape. I’d only been here an hour and was ready to go home already.
Brian was his name and he just kept on saying, over and over again, ‘Oh, I fucking tell you man, what a laugh! What a fucking laugh!’
He was Australian to boot and therefore naturally given to over-enthusiasm for just about everything, so my job had him creaming in his pants. He’d bent my ear for more than half an hour before I’d been able to give him the slip, only for him to materialise next to me again five minutes later.