Exploits (16 page)

I told you he was spawned by the devil. I told you.

Right, so I have my housewarming that weekend. Gary and Alan move my stuff in for me, including my brand new bed, in the morning, and I'm finally free of my shackles by that afternoon. BUT. There is one thing I don't like about my new one-bedroomed hovel:
there is a mirror on the bedroom ceiling!

Right, so that makes masturbation out of the question. Freaky-freaky-freaky.

But, who cares right now? I'm delirious with freedom overload. All I want to do is
party
.

Oh right. Yeah, I forgot to tell you. My friends? My only friends? That would be the very nice crowd at work. And they're all the best people
ever.
They're all coming tonight.

I don't think my lounge suite will ever be the same. James makes it look like children's furniture. Julie and Frank are as bad as each other when it comes to flirting and
drinking. Shayne is the quietest man on the planet. Michelle can really drink for a nerd. (I think Shayne is perfect for her.)

Dianne has a really rubbish boyfriend, but they both pitched up. They like what I call, doof-doof music, the kind that gives you a headache without alcohol ingested. What I don't get is, she's fall-off-a-bridge-backwards gorgeous. Seriously, this girl makes supermodels look plain and gangly, she could have any man on the planet and she
chooses the guy with the cap, hunched shoulders, tattoos and appalling humour. (Check me calling the kettle black. If we were all saints we'd make better choices.)

I, like an idiot, did not eat anything. So, I am totally wasted by two-thirty in the morning, after playing coinage with sherry! (No, it's not a girl named Sherry, it's the fortified wine called sherry. Shakes head vigorously.
Learn from my mistakes please.)

Okay, right, so I've figured out what drunk really is.
This is the theory. Have you noticed how, the more you drink, the less gravity has an effect on you? And you feel all floaty? Well, that's why we start to feel sic
k
–
i
t's the zero gravity. They say that space travel is like that. That's why the zero gravity plane is affectionately referred to as ‘the vomit comet’. You see? I've figured it out.

Aw. James is so sweet. He regularly comes to put his arm around me and check that I'm feeling okay. So sweet. But let's be honest here. When are these people going home? I just want to sleep, now.

Selene leaves with Michelle. Then Shayne leaves, in what I would call a reluctant manner. How often is he ever going to see me this floaty? I think he saw opportunity knocking for thirty-two seconds. Anyway, to cut a long story short, everyone leaves except James. Now he wants to help me clean up
. Nooooooooooo.
Go away.

He's chucking the flirty hints at me so hard that I feel I'm playing paintball. (
Splat
.) I stare at his gigantic hands and feet and think he'd probably break my brand new be
d–
and m
e–
in the process.
I - don’t - think - so
. I like you, as a person, but I can't ever have a boyfriend as humungous as you. And I'm not into a pity fuck right now from you, either. I will never have sex again as long as the mirror is hovering above my bed! Very, very, very, bad feng shui, dude. Just too much Def Leppard in that mirror.

Three coffees later, at more or less 3:45 a.m, he finally leaves, and I have the relief of passing out, fully clothed, on my new bed draped in fresh, fabulous linen. I dig this. It's the best! For years I've lived a monochrome existence. Now I can have checks! Blue and white. I don't do girly, pink, shiny or frilly, (pretend vomit at the thought). I like the masculine look. I hate fuss, it irritates me. (Like those pathetic extra cushions everyone and her mama has on the sofa! I move them, hate them, wish someone would have a bonfire where I can lose them!)

I watch my world spiralling as I wait for sleep. I hate that mirror, it's stuck on askew.

(Yes, I am a perfectionist. Symmetry is everything.)

I'm on a fun-house ride that refuses to slow down. I'm feeling rather ill to be honest. Lesson learned. Sherry and I are arch enemies and I'll never throw my money at her again. Ever.

* * * * *

One week later, I get crazy. Do you realise that I'm free? FREE. So, now I'm ready: I'm ready for a shag-fest without guilt. I'm ready to go head-banging with Selene and James.
I'm ready to get my own chop (tattoo for the rest of you). And I'm ready to make real friends that Gary can't steal from me when he finds a replacement better than me. Every two months it seems.

Item number one on the agenda: Shag
shag
shag
. Sorry if you find this offensive but I'm a biological human being. However, things aren't looking so hot because my day's entertainment is Shayne. He's taking me home to show me his fish. (I mentioned I'm interested in marine fish tanks.)

Now, Shayne is a nice guy. He's not a lot taller than me. He's got floppy, flat, straight brown hair. He wears spectacles and dresses like a financial nerd. But, I don't judge people on the way that they look. When it comes to men, I don't do type. I have only two requirements. Confidence, and you have to be stronger than me, and preferably (but not essential), taller than me. Oh dear, there's a flaw here. Okay, I cannot date a man shorter than me either. Who's going to get things off the top shelf if he's shorter than me? Na uh. That doesn't turn me on.

Right, so we've spent the whole day together and I am bored out of my mind now. I cannot speak about fish any more. There is nothing left to say on the subject. So he comes home with me, and I make coffee and chuck on some decent music.
Aaaah
, now you see: even a nerd has merit. Shayne then introduces me to Toto. Wow. What a kick-ass band.

(Where have I been? In a cave? That I've never heard this band ever. Oh wait. Duh! I was stuck in the AC/DC time warp wasn't I? And there was no stepping in or stepping out of it either.)

Now we get that awkward moment where he slides his arm around my shoulders, all casual like. My relaxed happy moment evaporates in a heartbeat, completely.

Just what the hell do you think you're doing?

I arch my eyebrows, "Are you coming on to me?"

He grins shyly, "I was trying to, but you ruined it."

I can't explain this to you but I react so badly. I feel rage. I shudder at the whole, ‘I want to cosy up to yo
u–
which could take
hours'
thing.

"Shayne, if you want to fuck me just say so. The answer is either going to be yes, or no. I don't do the mating dance. I HATE IT."

Oooohkay
!
I think I just blew ‘ladylike’ right out of the stratosphere. Shit. What is wrong with me? Poor dude is stunned into silence.

"I want to fuck you."

I cringe. I honestly didn't mean it like that; it was a bad reaction. It sounds horrible when he says it. So degrading and
eeeewww.

I stand, staring at him lounging on the chair in my apartment, and think, Oh what the hell? I have to break the ice, get out of the Gary shackles. It may as well be with you.

BUT, after Mr Crabs, and ‘I shag the world’ Gary, I have this thing about personal hygiene now.

"Fine! Take a bath and I'll meet you in the bedroom."

Waaaaaahahahaha. I am
sooooo
peculiar: I can tell he's never had such a weird proposition in his life. Look out boys, here’s the sad strange ex with ‘odd’ issues. She'll shag you but you have to wash between your toes first.

I am blushing.

So, I strip off and pull Victoria on while my victim has his bath. My new place does not have a shower, which would have made life a lot easier.

Cutting to the chase. In twenty minutes I have a glowing squeaky clean Shayne lying on my bed, and it's ready to have its virginity popped with my first post-Gary shag.

So I'm working my magic ... doing my thing. You know what my thing is ... a tongue here, a kiss there, a lick, a caress, hair everywhere. Oh, and I have to tell you something. Who knew? This boy is built like an Olympic swimmer. He's beautiful without his clothes. Really!

What the hell am I doing wrong?

How can I have failure? I'm doing everything I can think of and the bazooka still looks like my lipstick tube. It hasn't changed one iota. So I start asking, probing, questions.

"Do you like this ...?”

"Hmmm."

"Does that feel good ...?”

"Yeah."

Eventually, I sit back and whine, "What am I doing wrong?"

He smiles, "Jesus, would you just sit on me already!"

I am no Jesus, but
sure,
if that will work.

So I slip over him and do my Asian number. He writhes and moans and … and ... and ... oh for FUCK’S sake. When will this guy get hard? I'm actually tired, which is saying something.

"Have you come?" I pry.

"Ages ago. You're like a machine!"

What! When? Where the hell was I?

I slip off and stare at the lipstick tube. No way.
No way.

This poor man. How can nature be so cruel? His cyclops is still eight years old.

He grins at me, obviously pleased with the show. (Show? What show? Where?)

And then!
Then
!
Then
! He says, "You're like a dude."

What? Grrrrooooowl.
What!

(I think my face conveys this, because, hey presto, he doesn't look so relaxed as he starts explaining.)

"You just want to do it. No fucking around. No kissing, or cuddling. Just get it on. I think I like that."

(Well, that's just great. But loverboy, this will never work. You're the size of my tampon.)

I grab a smoke and light it. Buying time. I never ever thought I'd be one of those shallow women who cared about size. I always thought size didn't matter, only how you used it. I am so shallow. But now I know, to a certain degree, size definitely matters.

I look at his hands, then his feet. So it's true. He's got hands smaller than mine, feet smaller than mine. That does it, I'm staying the hell away from James.

Sigh.

What have I done? I just shagged a boy from work. This is going to be awkward.

Chapter 22

What a Chop

Monday morning Shayne sidles up to me and fiddles with statements on my desk, "I don't want anyone to know. Just
keep it between us, okay?"

YAY!

"No problem."

Inside jiggy dance. What a relief. Although secretly I am
aching
to tell Selene; I know what a rabid sex-addict she is. She'd find Shayne's dilemma hilarious. To my credit, I never tell a living soul about him. (Until now that is).

So imagine the thunderous ‘Thor is angry’ glare I get from him, when James pops over to my desk, squeezes my shoulder
s
–
(
ouch!
)–
and sits his mammoth frame on my desk, folding his arms, to smile at me. He also wears spectacles by the way. (Gee, what's going on in my life?)

"Are you busy tonight?"

Where's this going?
"No. Why?"

Slap. Ow! My shoulder is cramping now.

"Great, I'll be over at seven. I'm making us dinner."

Weeee
l
l
now, how can I say no to that? Gary is
so
yesterday. Not to mention Neanderthal.

I smile, "Okay."

Shayne glowers at me but says nothing.

I stare back and want to telepathically yell, ‘Keep your wings on, angel! I'm not going to shag the whole office.’

At seven, James arrives, beaming. Why do men smile at me like that anyway? What does it mean? Is it a secret code for something?

He walks straight into my kitchen, whips out a chardonnay, uncorks it and pours us each a glass.

Clink

"Cheers. Now get out. Go and relax while I cook."

(This is so odd. Why cook here? Why not invite me to your place?)              

"Okay."

So I take my black-jeaned ass out of the kitchen and sit down on the couch, sipping wine and indulging in a new smoke. How come none of these men smoke? I thought non-smokers hated smokers?

Twenty minutes later, he produces a plate for me with a flourish, "Tah dah!"

I stare at the huge steak dwarfing the plate. Oh no. "Thanks. This looks fabulous, but I don't eat red meat."

(See? I'm the cheapest date ever. I feel guilty, because I certainly don't mind cooking it for other people. I just don't like it myself. It's like chewing on polystyrene.)