It's Been a Pleasure, Noni Blake

by Claire Christian

  ‘It’s a great tragedy,’ says a young, lanky, bright-smiling man in an Australian accent. He’s sitting a few seats up from me with a beer and a notebook in front of him, and a pen in hand.

  At first I don’t think he’s talking to me, but he’s looking right at me.

  ‘What’s that?’ I say.

  ‘A beautiful woman in a bar, on her own.’

  ‘How do you know I’m on my own?’ I say, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I don’t. I’m hoping you are though.’ He stops himself and smiles. He has nice teeth. ‘Sorry. I thought I’d try a pick-up line, but I think that was entirely terrible. I’m so sorry.’

  I start to laugh. ‘It was pretty bad.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I had this idea that I could go against my very character and be super smooth, but I have proven that to be desperately incorrect. Sorry for wasting your time.’ He stands up as if to leave.

  ‘It was bold, that’s commendable.’ He stops. I add, ‘I thought people didn’t know how to talk to each other in real life anymore, so it was refreshing.’

  ‘Oh, it was very tactical. I saw you were on Tinder before I sat down. So not bold at all, just working the odds.’

  ‘Oh, so you thought you’d prop yourself in front of me with your notebook, looking pensive and pretending you’re writing a masterpiece?’

  He laughs. ‘Exactly.’ He sits back down and drinks a mouthful of beer from his glass.

  ‘Is that even your notebook?’ I ask.

  ‘The notebook is real. Yes. Everything else, a bold-faced lie.’ He has curls that bounce, and a slight frame hidden by an oversized long-sleeve shirt.

  ‘Good to know. What are you writing in your notebook?’

  ‘Poetry.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ I smirk.

  He laughs loudly. ‘I am. I’m actually a poet.’

  ‘You are not.’ I shake my head, sipping from my glass.

  ‘I am.’ He opens the notebook, flicks to a page and slides it over to me. There are words underlined and sentences scrawled.

  I read aloud. ‘Her pixie cut cuts deep, beware of girls with magic in their hair.’ I smile. ‘Me?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He shrugs with a grin, then leans over and takes the notebook back, placing a rubber band tight around its centre like he’s locking his thoughts away. I drink the last from my glass. ‘I’m Gideon,’ he says, looking at me through his curls.

  ‘I’m Noni. Can I buy you a drink?’ I ask and he nods.

  We talk easily. He is not confident but he’s self-assured, weird and sweet and he asks a lot of questions. I think he must be in his mid-twenties. He’s been travelling for over a year. He tells me funny stories about living in London, about weird warehouse parties and Contiki tours.

  ‘Good to know that nothing has changed since I was your age.’ I’m tipsy. We’ve been going round for round for a while now.

  ‘You mean your friends got so wasted on space cakes and kept watching The Matrix on repeat so you had to leave your hostel tonight too?’

  ‘See, that’s the age difference, because there comes a point in your thirties where you don’t ever need to sleep in a hostel again if you can help it.’

  ‘You mean I’ve got another decade of hostels to bear? Shit.’

  My ears prick. ‘A decade? How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty,’ he says and I scoff loudly. ‘What?’ He looks at me and the bizarre face I must be pulling. Noni, he’s twenty. You are not having sex with this young, young, young man.

  ‘I thought you were older than that,’ I say.

  ‘I get that a lot,’ he says.

  We continue to chat easily, and then I decide it’s time to go, because if I drink another prosecco I will have sex with this young, young, young man.

  ‘I’m gonna go.’

  He nods. ‘So am I, but let me walk you home.’

  ‘Okay,’ I tell him.

  As we stroll along the canals, I tell him about the pleasure quest, which he loves, and he tells me what he’s learned being away from home. He’s articulate and smart, a lovely guy, and it feels easy being with him.

  ‘I think I’m starting to realise that the things I thought were super shit about me a couple of years ago, are actually not shit at all,’ he says.

  ‘I get that feeling. Only you’re having it a lot earlier than I did.’

  ‘I am not solely responsible for this revelation, I have a ridiculously self-assured sister, and a great therapist. Like, I don’t want to lead you astray here, Noni, this isn’t all me at all.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how you’ve come to it, it’s good that you have. You’ve got a full sixteen-year head start on me. Imagine what you’ll be like when you’re my age,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh, I’ll probably be a complete megalomaniac asshole.’ We both laugh. ‘Don’t worry, the world will do something to knock me down a few pegs between now and then, it always does.’

  ‘That’s a depressing thought,’ I say.

  ‘No, that’s life,’ he says.

  How is this young man so articulate and considerate at his age? ‘How do you not have a girlfriend?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, Noni, I ask myself that question every day.’ He smiles and I laugh more. ‘I’m really enjoying dating. Plus, there’s a girl back home.’ He raises his eyebrows and nudges me with his shoulder, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

  ‘There always is.’

  ‘Yeah. She’s meant to be coming here at some point this year. We talk all the time. But who knows. To be completely honest, I’m really enjoying meeting as many amazing people as possible. It’s really fucking cool.’

  ‘Yeah, I feel that way too.’

  ‘I don’t know if you can tell, but I was a big dork in school.’

  ‘No,’ I say, sarcastic.

  ‘I know right? So me and girls weren’t really…a thing.’ He blushes a little but leans into it, showing me his rosy cheeks like he’s proud of them. He’s so cute.

  ‘And now?’ I ask.

  ‘Now, you could say, I’m making up for lost time.’

  I nod. ‘Me too.’ I point to the entrance of my unit, stopping and standing in front of him.

  ‘This list of yours…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s a twenty-year-old poet on it, isn’t there?’ he says. I think he’s joking, but also testing the water. Noni, he’s twenty! But this feels good. It feels right.

  ‘There wasn’t.’ I grin.

  He raises his eyebrows expectantly. ‘But?’

  ‘But there is now.’

  ‘Good, ’cause I really want to kiss you, but I don’t know if that’s something that you would be—’

  I kiss him. It’s slow. Sweet. I grin and he chuckles slightly, then he grabs my face with both his hands and kisses me, tongue in my mouth, teeth biting my bottom lip. His hand runs up my chest and gently holds my whole neck. He looks at me for a moment, biting the corner of his bottom lip before he kisses me again, quick and clumsy, but not awkward at all. We laugh and kiss and he runs his hand slowly back down my chest, pulling back, watching his hand dip between my cleavage and running his fingertips across my nipple.

  ‘Fuuuuck,’ is all he says, which makes me laugh. I kiss him again, we push into each other, desperate, hot. My hand slips under his jacket and shirt at the back, until I touch skin, tracing my fingers around his belt line and running my thumb over his hip bone. ‘Fuuuck!’ he says again, shaking his head in disbelief.

  I giggle. ‘Do you want to come up?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah,’ he says, smirking. ‘What gave you that impression?’ He kisses me, quick pecks, over and over, saying, ‘Yes,’ between each one.

  I unlock the door, flick on the lamp, push play on some music, and look at him sitting on the small couch, watching me. I’m curious about what he’ll do next, whether he’ll wait for me to make the next move or not. He doesn’t. The moment I sit down he leans over and kisses me, and we make out like teenagers. Pressing into each other, moaning in pleasur
e and longing, changing tempo, fast, teeth clashing, then slow and deliberate exploration. He lies on top of me and slowly, one by one, he unbuttons my shirt, then he sits back on his haunches between my legs, his hands on my knees, looking at me, taking me in.

  ‘What?’ I ask, feeling sexy and insecure all at once.

  ‘You’re fucking hot.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I feel it. He is totally in the moment with me, right now.

  He takes his time kissing my entire torso. Slowly. Intentionally. Purposely. I reach back and unclip my own bra because I can’t stand this pace any longer. He takes this as a cue to take his shirt off. I want him. I want to indulge myself in this sweet man.

  ‘Tell me anything you want and I’ll do it, Noni,’ he says.

  So I do. I tell him exactly what I want. Exactly what I like. I’ve never vocalised so specifically what turns me on before, but when I do he loves it, loves getting it right, loves pleasing me, loves watching me orgasm, and his eyes on me, grinning, proud, turn me on more. I love everything about it.

  ‘What do you like?’ I ask him, kissing his chest, lightly biting his nipple, and he moans softly.

  ‘You know,’ he says in a low voice, ‘I’ve never tried doggy style. Could we maybe do that?’ I giggle loudly and kiss his chest and he blushes again, grabbing my shoulders. ‘What? Is that not cool? Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because you’re fucking adorable,’ I say. ‘We can absolutely do that,’ I tell him and he raises his eyebrows, pleased.

  In the morning I wake up and Gideon is gone. There’s a ripped notebook page on the pillow. The page with the pixie cut line on it. He’s added another line. ‘Beware of girls,’ he’s written, but then he’s crossed that out, and rewritten it. ‘Beware of women with pleasure in their tongues, they’ll lick lavish spells over your torso, changing you forever.’ I hold it in my hands and I laugh out loud, stretching out in the middle of the bed and smiling with my whole body.

  22

  I want to buy lingerie. Real lingerie. Hot lingerie. I want to be the kind of woman who owns and wears really hot lingerie.

  The woman in the shop has black, braided hair piled into a beautiful crown on top of her head. Red silky straps shoot across her chest in intricate patterns out of the tip of her dress, crossing at her neck. The crystals on the straps catch the light of the giant chandelier above my head and I feel entirely unsexy in my thermals and polar fleece.

  ‘How hot do you want to feel?’ she asks, her accent thick.

  ‘Like on a scale?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, on a scale of don’t touch me to Beyoncé “Partition” fucking in a limousine, how do you want to feel?’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ I consider the scale. ‘Like I’ve just fucked in a limousine and the memory is fresh while I swan about in public all hot and bothered, flushed and sexy with a secret.’

  ‘Great. Go in there.’ She points to a dressing room curtained with thick purple velvet. ‘I’ve got just the thing.’

  I get undressed in front of the mirror and make a point of watching myself. It’s something new I’m trying. My usual process would be to avoid all reflective surfaces as a way of avoiding the barrage of shit things my mind has to say about my body. But lately I’m trying to look and point out things I love. Just one new thing every day. The asshole voice doesn’t go away, it’s still there, but this new voice, this voice that sounds suspiciously like Lindell, is at least competing. You have long legs. Good legs. Strong legs, the voice tells me today.

  Beaded black hangers push through the break in the curtain. They look like fancy plastic anal beads, and a flash of Niko writhing into my honey-covered stomach pummels my mind’s eye. I laugh when I see what she has picked. There are straps and clasps and an entirely epic two-piece operation of black and emerald green lace and exposed skin. I exhale. Let’s do this. The bra is longline and covers the squidgy bits that sit under my boobs, skimming the top of my waist. The cups aren’t full, rather a single piece of black fabric runs from the bottom of the cup and stops halfway, exposing the bottom of my nipple like a sexy runway. The top of the cup is an emerald green satin that sits high across my chest, flowing into thick straps. The colours look good on my pale skin. The underwear sits high on my stomach, like proper granny panties but in a sexy way, something I didn’t think was possible. They are black on the sides, with green sheer fabric across the front, covered with intricate black lace that grows like ivy from my crotch. A triangle peep-hole with a glistening gold circle charm sits above my belly button, exposing it like a beautiful frame.

  A hand comes through the curtain, handing me four thin clasp straps. ‘You can attach these to turn the bottoms into suspenders and then clasp them to these.’ A pair of sheer black thigh-high tights appear. I try it all on and gasp a little. I look positively vampy.

  ‘So? How’d I do?’ the shop assistant says from outside the curtain.

  I can’t stop staring at myself. I spin and turn, examining myself in the mirror from every angle. I look like a vixen. ‘This is next level,’ I tell her.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I feel like a fucking goddess.’

  She laughs. ‘Good.’

  ‘I don’t care how much it costs, I want it all.’

  My phone buzzes and I glance down. It’s Beau.

  Look what I just did.

  An illustration of an eighteenth-century woman’s face adorned in pearls stares back at me. It’s beautiful. Beau and I have been messaging on and off since I left Edinburgh. He’d sent me a photo of himself as a teenager with his Peter Andre–inspired plaits, with the text, In case Amsterdam wasn’t sexy enough for you, and it made me laugh out loud. The Viking is funny. He gets my jokes and responds with answers that make my brain swoon. Hot and smart and funny.

  ‘What are you up to?’ he sends.

  My heart quickens. Should I send him a photo? I feel weird about a mirror selfie. I sit on the plush pink velvet ottoman in the change room and flip the camera. Leaning my shoulder forward, I snap a photo of one boob. That’s weird, isn’t it? No face. Just a random boob in lingerie. I take another. My face is in this one, looking down. Maybe with a filter? I look at the photo and just see arm rolls and double chins and lace. You have great legs, the voice says again. So I sit my thighs together and shoot from high above, suspendered legs, a touch of lace. That’s better.

  I’m deciding if I should buy these, I type and hit send, making a weird throaty embarrassed noise.

  ‘You okay?’ the sales assistant asks from outside the curtain.

  ‘Yup,’ I mutter.

  ‘Just give us a yell if you need anything, alright, chick?’ the girl says and I hear her heels click away on the wooden floor.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Beau’s wide-eyed face, his mouth slightly agape, doing a thumbs up.

  She’s beautiful, by the way. I hit send. The tattoo, I mean.

  She IS beautiful, he replies, quickly followed by a second message. You, I mean.

  I swoon hard. I quickly take a bunch of high-angled selfies, turned away face, mostly boob in the amazing bra. Another buzz. This time it’s Lil from the retreat.

  Noni! I’m back in Edinburgh later this week. Shall we drink?

  Brilliant. A reason to go back to Scotland that isn’t just sex with a Viking. Thank you very much, Lil. I flick through the selfies and pick the one that I like the most. I crop out even more of my face so it’s just all boob and a tiny bit of neck and pouty lip and hit send. And I know I’ve fucked up the second I’ve done it. The horror is instant. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I sent that to Lil. Not Beau. I sent the fucking famous boudoir photographer a shit selfie of me in a bra in a change room. You idiot, Noni.

  I’ll take that as a yes? she replies.

  My fingers can’t type quick enough as I send a tirade of messages.

  HOLY SHIT LIL.

  I’M SO SORRY.

  THAT WAS FOR SOMEONE ELSE.

  I’M DOING FOUR THINGS AT ONCE.

  Oh my god. I’m ho
rrified.

  She replies. I am not. Noni, I’m laughing.

  Yes. To drinks. Of course. I’m so sorry, I send.

  You look amazing. I’m glad we’re catching up, I want to hear all about who this was actually meant for.

  I’m in the change room right now. I haven’t bought it yet.

  Buy it. Have you sent it to the right person yet?

  I think I will. AND NO. Just you. I don’t think I will send it to him now. Too traumatised.

  Haahahaha. Give me two minutes, she replies.

  I get dressed. It feels weird when I see myself in my clothes again and not in the intricate design of silk, lace and perfectly placed strips of fabric. My phone buzzes again. Lil has taken the photo I sent her, made it black and white and whacked some filters on it. It looks amazing.

  Send him this.

  I do. I send it straight away. Then I write back to Lil.

  Holy shit, Lil. I look hot.

  Let me take actual photos of you in it? Please? she sends.

  I flick the curtain open and head to the counter, plopping the lingerie down. The cost-to-fabric ratio on this purchase is extortionate, but I don’t care. I look at my phone. A message from Beau.

  The other artists in the shop are giving me shit for blushing. Thanks for that.

  ‘Have a good time, darling.’ The woman behind the counter smiles at me.

  ‘Oh, I will.’ I take the beautifully wrapped package as my phone buzzes again.

  Can I see all of this in real life? Beau asks.

  I smile wide and reply to both him and Lil.

  Yes. Absolutely.

  ‘He sounds lovely,’ Lil says. We are halfway through our second bottle of wine and if you were looking at us from across the room you would assume we had been friends our whole lives. ‘And he doesn’t know you’re back in Edinburgh yet?’