Man of the Month Club

by Jackie Clune

  So why did the resolution ring so hollow?

  . 3 .

  Amy woke grumpy and hot on a sultry Saturday morning in mid- August. She staggered to the bathroom and stared gloomily at herself in the mirror as she peed. “Didn’t you used to be Amy Stokes?” she inquired politely. It was an old line she remembered hearing in a chat show anecdote. It felt too resonant now. She hadn’t been herself at all, and it felt as though it was time to get the glad rags on and emerge from the flames. Even if she didn’t feel like it, perhaps the act of going out and having a good time would work its way inside her soul. If you fake it well, you end up believing you’re having fun.

  “Bollocks to this. I am not this mopey, sad bitch with no life and no interests beyond babies and cot trimmings. I am Amy Stokes—hear me roar.” She let out a feeble growl. Maybe the girls would be free for a bit of partying tonight? If she rang Soph, Ang, and Jules now, they might be able to hook up later. Except that of course they would all be on bloody mineral water. Or maybe not. Maybe Ang would be back on the odd bottle of Bacardi Breezer now that she was no longer . . . Amy felt a pang of guilt at the realization that she might have a drinking partner after all. Well, at least she could help Ang drown her sorrows. She’d go wherever they wanted, which, if it was up to Ang, would probably be some kind of awful McPub with doubles for two quid and dreadful young men in cheap aftershave. But it would at least be fun. They could get kebabs on the way home and it would be like old times. Except not.

  Sod it, though, she needed a good old-fashioned night out. Anything to take her mind off the baby issue—and Joe.

  “Bollocks to it all!” she cried, and leapt up to get the phone.

  “Ang—can Dave babysit tonight?” she said, full of purpose.

  “Erm, oh, hello, Amy, sorry, we were just—” Ang sounded flustered and embarrassed.

  “Oh my God, you weren’t doing it, were you?” Amy felt sick. Not her best friend!

  “Sorry,” Ang giggled.

  “Well, right now I bet you could get him to agree to anything. Get your glad rags on and meet me in town at seven,” ordered Amy.

  “What for? Where?”

  “For a laugh. Remember that? We used to have one occasionally in another lifetime.”

  “OK, fine. Can we go to that pub in Leicester Square?” Ang always liked it there because she felt it was “real London” (i.e., touristy and overpriced), but the chain pub was at least huge enough to offer seats, and cheap drinks were its specialty—always a consideration for Ang.

  “God, I suppose so,” sighed Amy. “See you there at seven.”

  One down, two to go.

  “Jules? Amy. Moon Over Water. Tonight. Seven p.m.”

  “Christ, what are we now, World War Two spies? The Fox flees by dusk under a heavy sky.”

  “What?”

  “Code. Forget it. What’s the deal?”

  “I just want to have some fun. Can you manage that?”

  “As long as they’ve got seats and I can be near a toilet.”

  “Rock on, baby,” sighed Amy. “See you there.”

  This last one would be the hardest. Soph would probably be doing antenatal yoga round the clock and would have to be pried kicking and screaming from her battered mat.

  “Soph? Fancy a night out tonight?” she ventured, full-on now.

  “Erm, well . . .”

  “Don’t tell me—you’ve got to rub vitamin E cream in all night.”

  “No! Honestly, I’m not that bad! I’m just a bit tired. Oh, hang on, Greg’s saying something. . . . He’s got a gig tonight.”

  “Wonders will never cease.”

  “Stop it. He’s doing really well. Got loads of new material on babies, going down a storm apparently. So he says why don’t I go out and have some fun rather than stay in alone again.”

  “Well? What do you say? There’s a whole world out there!”

  “OK. But I’m not dressing up.”

  “Come in a bin bag if you want. Just be at The Moon in Leicester Square at seven.”

  “Great!”

  “And Soph?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The bin bag thing—I wasn’t being literal.”

  “Piss off.”

  So that was it. The girls’ night out was planned. Amy spent the day in retro heaven, doing all the things she used to do in her twenties when a big night was in the offing. She had a long bath, slathered herself in twenty different back-of-the-bathroom-cabinet lotions and potions, waxed her legs, plucked her eyebrows (and one or two stray top-lip horrors—the joy of aging), and even used the toe separators to paint her toenails. Her soundtrack was from her corny “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” CDs—the crass collections of pseudo-empowering “women’s songs” she could never resist at service stations, and she treated herself to a constant picnic of whatever was in the fridge. Sushi, rice pudding straight from the tin, artichoke hearts in olive oil, and strawberry Pop-Tarts. It felt good. It had been ages since she’d been this indulgent. By five she was ready to go, dressed in a slash-neck eighties black top and tight jeans topped off with her killer “Don’t Fuck with Me” ankle boots. Looking in the mirror now was like meeting an old friend.

  “Damn, girl, you look good—and where you been all this time?” said Amy out loud to her reflection. It had been too long since she had done this—got togged up for a night out that had nothing to do with men, babies, or peeing on plastic sticks. She noted with a little irony that in fact she was right in the middle of an ovulation window. But bugger that tonight. Tonight was about her, Amy, trying to recapture a bit of the old.

  “I’m back!” she shouted. “Time for a little celebratory drinkie.”

  If a girl couldn’t open herself a bottle of bubbly now and again, what could she do? Amy necked the first glass pretty much down in one. Was it just excitement that was making her stomach churn? Not quite. It was like excitement, but when she stopped to examine the feeling, she realized with a little shock that she felt nervous. “Maybe I’ve lost it,” she thought, suddenly deflated. “Maybe I’ve turned into a middle-aged woman with all this baby stuff and all this bloody falling in love with Mr. Wrong.” Pouring her second glass of champagne in as many minutes, she wondered just whose sorrows she was planning on drowning tonight. But enough. She had to shake herself out of this mood. She was going out to have a good time, and that was what was going to happen, come what may. It was a point of principle now.

  The pub was packed. Only seven p.m., and it was bursting at the seams. A fog of smoke hung above the crowd, and it took Amy a few moments to register that something was odd. It was packed, but there was no loud male braying or joshing, and when she gently pushed her way through to the bar, the crowd just as gently yielded and let her pass. It was packed—with women. Shrieks of near-hysterical laughter filled the air, and groups of women stood around dressed in their best going-out gear. Fat women, skinny women, young girls in their late teens, middle-aged mums of three with chubby arms and ill-advised hairdos, women near retirement age who looked as though they hadn’t been out in a decade and were intent on making up for it in one night. Several groups seemed to be on hen nights, judging by the L plates, mock-bridal-veils, and devil’s horns on display, as well as the borderline pornographic phallic objects adorning a few deely-bopper Alice bands. What on earth was going on?

  “Yes, love?” said the barman.

  “A bottle of your bubbly and four glasses, please.”

  “Celebrating, are we? Wedding anniversary?” he said with a wink. Was he flirting?

  “God no, not married.”

  “So what’s the big occasion then?”

  “Just being here, I guess,” said Amy, flashing him a grin. He was very cute, but there was no way she was going to let a boy get in the way of her good time tonight.

  “That’s nice. Well, you have fun, love,” said the barman, pressing her change into her palm with another wink.

  “Thanks. I’ll try. Oh, what’s all this about tonight? What
are all these women doing here? Is it ladies’ night or something?”

  “Ladies’ night? That ages you! We don’t do that anymore!” laughed the barman. “No, it’s the show across the road—disgusting, I call it!” said the barman with a laugh, before dashing off to throw the same charm at the next gaggle of girlies. He was clearly in his element.

  Amy headed for the ladies’ toilet. She was sure she’d find her gang as near to the lavs as humanly possible, what with their latter-day propensity for vomiting and urinating.

  “Amy!” shouted Ang, already flushed and overexcited. “Over here!”

  “Hiya, girls!” said Amy, plonking the champagne down in front of them. “Who’s ready to rumble?”

  Soph and Jules allowed themselves a weak smile and sipped at their orange juice wanly.

  “Oh, come on! You can do better than that!”

  “Amy, darling, much as this bloody pregnancy sobriety is starting to pall, I’m afraid I’m too vain to allow myself to have a child with fetal alcohol syndrome, so if you don’t mind, I’m staying off the grog ’til it’s born,” said Jules.

  “Don’t forget there’s breast-feeding, too—about five percent of the alcohol crosses the breast milk,” added Soph.

  “Breast-feeding? You don’t think for one minute I’ll be doing that, do you?”

  “Yeah, wise up, Soph, Jules thinks ‘breast is best’ is something to do with a Sunday roast,” said Amy, pouring for herself and Ang. “Well, cheers anyway, you miserable bitches. Here’s to us!”

  “Chinky cheers!” said Ang, necking her bubbly fast.

  “So what’s happening tonight? What’s the plan, ladies? A few here and then on to a club? Are you allowed dancing? Good for the pelvic-floor muscles!” said Amy. She could tell that this evening was going to be an uphill struggle.

  “Oh, Amy, guess what? That show’s on over the road—you know, it was on The Big Breakfast—Puppetry of the—you know . . . !” said Ang, giddy with possibility.

  “Puppetry of the Penis? How horrible,” shuddered Soph.

  “It’s meant to be great—a right laugh,” said Ang, trying not to show her hurt.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing that, as it happens,” said Jules. “I could do with a good cackle at a cock. Haven’t seen Justin’s since last month.”

  “What do they actually do?” asked Amy. “Do they have puppets, or is it really their penises?”

  “There’s no strings and no puppets, it’s just two Ozzie blokes kicking off their pants and doing dick tricks,” said Jules, who prided herself on having her finger on the pulse of every cultural event be it low- or high-brow.

  “Shall we go? Oh, go on—it’ll be a laugh!” said Ang, jumping up and down in her seat. She was wearing a puff-sleeved gypsy blouse and her old charm bracelet. She clearly hadn’t been out in ages, either, and was as up for anything as Amy.

  “Oh, God, do we have to?” moaned Soph. “My feet are killing me just from walking from the tube.”

  “They’ve got seats, comfy plush theater seats,” cooed Amy, quite interested in the show herself now. Why not follow the crowd of good-time girls and hope to become one of them, laughing in unison at male genitalia? She could think of worse Saturday nights.

  “Tell me more,” said Jules, wanting to be persuaded.

  “We can sit in the dark near some toilets and eat ice cream. . . .” added Ang.

  “Sold to the woman with the puffy ankles,” said Soph. “Anything to get out of this smoke.”

  “Really? Are we going?” Ang clapped.

  “Why not? Drink up, ladies, let’s go and find us some dick,” said Amy, topping up her glass.

  The foyer was mobbed. The atmosphere was thick with female energy, and there was a distinctive whiff of progesterone in the air. After some careful manipulation of the box-office assistant, Jules managed to get four seats together on an aisle five rows from the front—perfectly situated for the toilets and the exit, should the spectacle bring on any vapors. The girls nestled in their seats with laps full of pick ’n’ mix, any reluctance now gone. The sense of expectation was immense. It was like a massive netball rally, or school prize day at an all-girl comprehensive. Dotted around the auditorium were a few sheepish-looking men, who clearly had no idea why they had thought it would be a good idea to come. One or two clutched raincoats to their knees. The crowd was beginning to grow impatient now, and Amy, in a fit of teenage rebellion, started a slow handclap. Pretty soon nearly everyone in the theater was clapping along, until some other joker decided a chorus of “Why are we waiting?” would be a good idea. Then, as if in response to the growing restlessness, the lights slowly dimmed and a drumroll reverberated around the auditorium. A great wave of overexcited ooohs accompanied the buildup.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Puppetry of the Penis!” boomed a disembodied voice from behind the curtain.

  More ridiculously infectious screaming. Amy was already crying with laughter, and Ang looked as though she was about to faint with anticipation. Even Soph and Jules were smiling.

  “But before we start, there are a couple of rules. . . . There should be no photography of any kind during the show.”

  A chorus of pantomime cries of disappointment from the crowd.

  “You came to see our penises, not take them home with you! And secondly, now would be a very good time to switch all pagers and mobile phones . . . to vibrate!”

  Whoops of joy.

  “Now, would you please go wild, go crazy for . . . Puppetry of the Penis!”

  To screams of The Bay City Rollers circa 1974 proportions, two cloaked Australian men swaggered onto the stage oozing charm. A souped-up version of Rolf Harris’s “Two Little Boys” blasted out in surround sound.

  “They’d better not have two little toys,” shouted Jules.

  “G’day!” shouted the two Aussies in unison.

  “Now before we get started, ladies and gents, we just want to make sure that you’ve all got the right show,” said the taller and more muscular of the two.

  “That’s right, we had a couple of pensioners in last night who’d come to see Little Orphan Annie,” said the one with the long hair.

  “You should all be expecting full-frontal male nudity!”

  A huge scream of affirmation filled the room. This was already more fun than Amy had had in ages. She hurriedly pushed a random image of a naked Joe out of her mind.

  Within seconds the cloaks were off and eight hundred women shrieked their appreciation.

  “We’re going to start with a few warm-ups, then get down to the serious art of genital origami.”

  And with that, the two men launched into an hour of pulling, tugging, stretching, and yanking, the likes of which Amy had never seen. The Eiffel Tower, the Hamburger, the Roller Skate—Amy felt sure that if she were a man, her eyes would be watering. The tricks were projected onto a huge screen, so that every last testicular detail was writ large. It was oddly and intoxicatingly liberating to be in such close, blown-up proximity to not one but two penises without any hint of sexual expectation, but it had to be said that the magnification of the scrotum, the testes, and the penis did nothing to improve their aesthetic appeal. Amy wondered how babies ever got made, given the hideousness of the equipment. On and on the chirpy Aussies went—the Slow Emerging Mollusk, the Wrist Watch, the Windsurfer. In an hour of good-natured banter, the guys never once stopped fiddling with their bits, but after ten minutes the crowd became blasé with the nudity, so much so that when a volunteer was requested for the finale a sea of hands shot up—among them Ang’s. By this point, Ang had consumed the four alcopops she had concealed in her handbag and was obviously pretty merry. Before the other women had a chance, she was out of her seat and skipping up to the stage.

  “Hello there, sister—you’re pretty keen! Give her a big hand, ladies!”

  The guys went to shake Ang by the hand and she comically recoiled.

  “I’m not touching them—I know where they’ve been!” she scr
eamed into the mic. Amy roared her approval.

  “Go Ang!”

  Soph and Jules grinned behind their hands.

  “My friend Friendy here is going to help you out—you’re going to help us with a little installation called the Fruit Bat! Ready?”

  “Ready, Horse,” said Friendy, positioning Ang center stage and standing behind her. Ang grinned idiotically and made a grab for Friendy’s lovely bottom.

  “Hey, lady, don’t touch what you can’t afford,” he mock-chided. They were clearly used to drunken women groping them. On any other night, Amy would be mortified by implication, but not tonight. This was fun.

  Horse took a running jump and ended up in a handstand facing out, his legs gripped firmly at the ankle by a surprised Ang, whose head was now positioned between his upturned legs. The view must have been astonishing.

  “Don’t look down!” ordered Friendy, supporting Ang from behind. The girl on the video link in the front row shot up and took a Polaroid, handing it to Ang as she was escorted off the stage. Her face was aglow with pleasure as she ran back to her seat, self-consciously holding on to her bosoms all the way up the aisle.

  “Well done,” managed Sophie.