“That’s the one Meghan Markle starred in, right?”
“Correct. I’m afraid binge-watching box sets is my guilty pleasure.”
“Ooh, mine too! We should do that together some time.”
Maybe a throwaway remark, like when old acquaintances tenuously suggest getting together for a coffee, but it prompts a fuzzy glow.
Question five arrives and Kayla confirms the answer before I finish reading the options.
We press on, and between us we breeze through the next seven questions. As we close in on the cash prize, Kayla becomes increasingly excited, and tactile. By the time question thirteen pops up, her arm is locked around my waist.
“We can’t blow it now,” she chirps.
Unfortunately, question thirteen relates to football; an area where my knowledge is limited. We’re offered the names of four players and have to identify which one of them has only ever played for one club.
“Do you know it?” I ask.
“Not a clue.”
The thirty-second timer ticks down as we both frown at the screen.
“My gut feeling is Frank Lampard,” Kayla suggests.
“Didn’t he play for a team in America?”
“Um, did he?”
“I think it’s Tony Adams.”
“You think?”
“I might be wrong but I’m sure I read an article about him suffering depression, and … shit, I can’t recall.”
“Ten seconds. We need to make a decision.”
With insufficient time to check Tony Adam’s Wikipedia page, I’m still dredging my memory when Kayla takes it upon herself to select my guess as our final answer. After a brief pause, the machine sounds a cheesy fanfare.
“Yes!” she shrieks before throwing her arms around me. “Well done, you.”
I’m reluctant to let go but question fourteen arrives to drag Kayla’s attention back to the machine. She does, however, keep her arm around my waist although this time it’s tantalisingly close to my buttocks. A definite step in the right direction.
I wouldn’t consider myself a lucky man but this evening the gods appear to be smiling down upon me. Question fourteen is right up my street: which of the following acronyms is NOT a code commonly used to construct websites?
We’re given the choice of HTML, FTP, CSS, or PHP.
“It’s FTP,” I declare confidently.
“You sure?”
“Positive. It stands for ‘file transfer protocol’.”
“Wow, you’re a bigger tech nerd than me.”
I select the answer and the fanfare sounds again. Kayla’s hand then slips further south; coming to a rest on my left buttock. Either I’m misreading the signals or she’s definitely into me.
The final question arrives: which one word features in the title of UK top-40 chart singles by Dire Straits, ABBA, and Prince?
We’re offered a choice of walk, chance, money, or street.
“Shit,” Kayla groans. “I’ve got no idea. Not sure I’d even been born when that lot were in the charts.”
As a fellow member of the download generation, my knowledge of music would typically end with anything published before the millennium, and I’m sure all three artists fall into that category. However, my dad is a vinyl junkie and forced his hobby on me throughout my childhood. He became insufferable when vinyl made a comeback a few years ago.
“I know Dire Straits had tracks called Walk of Life, and Money for Nothing.”
“Great. That narrows it down but what about the other two?”
“Um, not sure. I know Prince is dead but I only know two or three of his songs.”
“Fifteen seconds. What about ABBA?”
I desperately try to recollect every ABBA song I’ve ever heard but only succeed in setting Dancing Queen to play in my head on a continuous loop.
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “But my gut instinct would be money.”
With nothing else to go on and only a few seconds remaining, Kayla follows my gut and makes a selection. The pause feels eternal until suddenly the screen lights up with a display of digital fireworks. I might have fluked it, but the answer is correct.
“Get in!” Kayla screams. “We did it!”
As the machine begins coughing out pound coins, she turns to face me.
“I think someone deserves a kiss.”
There is no check for consent as Kayla pulls me close. I barely have time to draw breath before her lips meet mine.
I’ve had about two-dozen first kisses in my time and they’re usually slow, lingering, and gentle — three words I wouldn’t use to describe my first kiss with Kayla. In fact, there’s only one word to describe it: intense. With no concern for modesty, Kayla attempts to eat my lower jaw while digging her nails into my back. This goes on for about thirty seconds too long.
Mercifully, she breaks for air and looks up at me.
“Walk me home?”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Have I done something wrong?”
“Quite the opposite. Come on.”
I'm dragged back across the bar and out onto the street. There, more hard-core kissing ensues before Kayla clasps my hand and sets off along the pavement.
“Err, where do you live?” I ask.
“Not far.”
As she lives with her parents, I’m guessing Kayla’s mission — which she appears eager to complete — isn’t likely to end in the bedroom. Maybe she’s super-keen to introduce me to a new box set. It would be sensible to ask.
“If you don’t mind me asking: why the hurry?”
“Shh.”
“Um …”
“There’s no need to talk, Toby. All will be revealed.”
I allow myself to be guided through the town centre towards the outlying residential streets. I’m on the verge of asking how far it is when we veer down an alleyway.
“Nearly there,” she purrs.
The path splits left and right at the end of the alleyway and we head right. Forty yards further on, in near darkness, Kayla comes to a stop.
“This way,” she orders.
The next leg of our route march appears to be through a gap in a hedge.
“Where does that lead?”
“Into the park,” she replies with a grin.
“Oh.”
Why do I get the feeling we’re not about to feed the ducks?
5.
Void of colour, our local park is usually a miserable sight in January. The view isn’t a concern tonight on account I can’t see more than a dozen feet ahead of me. The limited visibility doesn’t deter Kayla though, and we continue our trek across the grass towards God-knows where. If the cold and the dark isn’t enough to contend with, we appear to be heading up a steep incline. I’m sure we’re on a grassy hillock which leads to the rear of the park. I remember because it’s the sledging venue of choice for the local kids whenever a centimetre of snow falls.
Calf muscles burning, we reach the top and Kayla stops.
“We’re here,” she announces.
Our destination appears to be a wooden gazebo; used by the old and the intoxicated to sit and enjoy the shitty view of the park below.
“Are we?”
“Oh, yes.”
I’m lead up the three concrete steps to the gazebo where Kayla leans up against the balustrade and stares out.
“Nice view, isn’t it?”
The park itself is cloaked in darkness but from our elevated position the lights of the town sprawl off into the distance.
“How many homes do you think we can see from here?” Kayla asks.
“Not sure. Hundreds.”
“All those boring people climbing into their beds after another boring day at their boring jobs.”
I’m thinking I should be one of them.
“I wonder,” she continues. “How many of them are having sex right this minute?”
“I, err, no idea.”
“Very few I’d bet. And if they are, i
t’s probably dull, dutiful sex with the lights off.”
I squint into the darkness but can’t see my parents’ house. At least they have a sex life, which is more than can be said for me.
I’m still squinting when Kayla moves in for another bout of aggressive kissing; accompanied by some light groans and much buttock groping. I don’t complain as she seems to be enjoying herself.
The kissing ends but the groping does not.
“I’m so wet,” she then whispers in my ear.
There is no obvious response to such a statement; at least not verbal. Kayla is quick to notice the bulge in my jeans and makes light work of unbuckling the belt. She then slips a hand beyond the waistband of my shorts. I gasp at the shock of cold fingers seizing my manhood. Kayla takes it as encouragement and sets about administering an enthusiastic hand job.
“Do you want to know why we’re here?” she asks, without missing a beat.
I did, but now I’m not so sure. I split the difference and nod.
“Do you want me to tell you … or show you?”
I’ve never been asked questions mid-wank before; other than the one time Gemma asked what I fancied for dinner. I should have realised her need to discuss the weekly shop might have been a sign of boredom.
“Shall I show you?” Kayla suggests.
I try to reply but her tightening grip steals my breath. I resort to another nod.
She stops wrestling with my manhood and takes two steps back. Maintaining eye contact, she then shakes her coat off and lays it across the balustrade. Her shoes are kicked off before she wriggles out of her tights and underwear.
Excitement and dread arrive on the scene.
She then turns around and leans up against the balustrade again, gazing back out across the town. There she remains until the reason we’re here is finally revealed.
“I’ve always wanted to be fucked up here.”
There are three very good reasons why I should deny her wish and tuck my chap away. It feels wrong to sully our wonderful first date by ending it with sixty seconds of unfulfilling sex. Secondly, I’m not in the least bit comfortable having sex with a woman whose middle name I don’t yet know. The most pressing reason is that we’re in the very definition of a public space. Deserted or otherwise, I’m no exhibitionist.
Noting my hesitancy, Kayla frowns and asks: “You’re not one of them, are you?”
“Them?”
“The boring ones.”
“Me? God, no.”
I have a decision to make; not least because I’m stood in the park with an exposed erection. I really like Kayla, but do I like her enough to indulge her fantasy? I wonder: what would Danny do? Stupid question — I know exactly what Danny would do. I know he’d also tell me I can only improve my lot in life by taking a few chances. Added to that, Kayla has made her feelings clear so it now boils down to taking a risk or losing the chance of a relationship with a girl who — besides her fetish for alfresco sex — is near perfect.
Man up, Tobias.
Heeding my own advice, and with little head leading big head, I step forward until I’m right behind Kayla. She responds by leaning forward and hitching up her dress. I wish it wasn’t so dark. The moonlit outline of her pert backside is tantalising, but I’d love to see it in the warm, well-lit confines of a bedroom. If this goes well, I’m sure that opportunity will come soon enough.
I shuffle forward and, with surprising ease, park the car in the garage. Kayla emits a low moan which I take as a positive sign.
I’m no Casanova but I like to think my humping technique is on point, and I begin with slow thrusts. Kayla’s moans become more pronounced and my smile returns when I consider the reality of the situation. After a shitty start to what I assumed would be another shitty year, here I am, having filthy outdoor sex with a gorgeous girl who could well turn out to be my Miss Right.
“Faster,” she urges.
I oblige and up the tempo as my jeans and shorts slip closer to my ankles with every thrust. The cold soon becomes a non-issue; my staying power of greater concern. I gaze off into the distance and try to identify local landmarks as a distraction method. Alas, even counting the floors of the multi-storey car park can’t distract from Kayla’s enthusiastic commentary.
“Yes! Yes! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
Her words are interspersed with banshee-like squeals and high-pitched howls so perhaps I’m better off out here than back in my flat with its paper-thin walls and echo chamber hallways. The Stratfield House Residents Association would be up in arms.
I press on.
A glance at my iWatch provides another distraction — my heart rate is in the high eighties and I’m closing in on my step target for the day. I up the intensity of my thrusts to see if I can hit the cardio zone. Kayla reacts by upping the volume.
“Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!”
It seems her happy moment is fast approaching. That thought does not help my cause.
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
The wolves are not so much at the door but taking measurements to see if their sofa fits. I have one remaining tactic to keep them at bay and begin reciting the national anthem in my head. Shamefully, I also picture the unamused face of our Queen. She’s sporting a headscarf, and a deep scowl — something Prince Philip has said or done, no doubt.
“I’m coooming!”
Praise the fucking Lord.
I’m about to formally invite the wolves in when another, altogether unexpected, distraction arrives. Did I imagine it, or did something cold and wet just brush my arse cheek?
“Tiberius!” a voice bellows.
It’s not Kayla’s voice.
Spooked, I glance over my shoulder to identify the source. I don’t immediately spot the owner of the voice, but I do learn who, or what Tiberius is — a fucking huge German Shepherd with an unhealthy interest in my arse.
“Kayla,” I hiss. “We’ve got company.”
“Talk about bad timing,” she huffs, whilst removing herself from my fast-deflating manhood.
As Kayla reinstates her underwear I bend down to pull up my jeans. Tiberius is less than pleased with my sudden movement and issues a warning bark.
“Don’t move!”
I turn to my right and out of the darkness two figures approach. They make their way up to the gazebo steps and come to an abrupt halt when they realise I’m naked from the waist down. Both the wrong side of sixty, the woman shakes her head repeatedly, while the man waves a walking stick in my direction.
“What the hell is going on here?” he rages.
I reach for my jeans again and Tiberius responds with another warning growl.
“Nothing is going on,” I reply. “And can you call your dog away?”
“I’ll do no such thing until I receive an explanation.”
“I … we … we were just leaving.”
The man turns to Kayla.
“Are you okay young lady?”
“Err, yeah.”
“We could hear screams from across the park. It sounded like a cry for help.”
“I can assure you nobody required help,” I confirm. “But I would like to pull my jeans up, so if you don’t mind …”
Two more figures burst up the gazebo steps.
“We called the police,” the woman sneers.
Oh, shit.
The two officers enter the fray. Quite what they make of our foursome, and my still-exposed genitalia, is anyone’s guess.
“Sir, can you cover yourself up,” the nearest officer orders — a sour-faced woman with slits for eyes.
I glare at the dog. The old guy snaps his fingers and Tiberius retreats to his master’s side as I tug my jeans up. We’re then asked our names, and the officers confirm theirs: the female officer being Sergeant Jerome and her male colleague, PC Challinor.
“Care to explain what’s going on here?” Sergeant Jerome asks.
“We were just having fun,” Kayla states matter-of-factly. “Until these two
busybodies rolled up.”
Riled, the old guy adds to Kayla’s statement.
“They were having intercourse, and I want them arrested. We’re sick and tired of our park being used by all manner of ne'er-do-wells. If it’s not drink it’s drugs, and if it’s not drugs, it’s fornication. This has got to stop.”
“Sir, we usually deal with these matters by way of a caution.”
“Unacceptable, officer.”
“Okay, I understand your annoyance, Mr …”
“Clifford. Councillor Clifford.”
Double shit.
“Wait,” I interject, turning to the ruddy-faced councillor. “We just got a bit carried away and I’m genuinely sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before and it won’t happen again.”
Sergeant Jerome then eyes Kayla.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
Kayla just shrugs. The officer retreats to the edge of the gazebo and mumbles something into her radio. After a brief pause, a scratchy voice replies and Sergeant Jerome returns.
“I thought your face looked familiar,” she continues. “This is the fourth time you’ve been caught in the act, isn’t it, Miss Flanagan?”
Another shrug.
“Eh, what?” I splutter, glaring at Kayla. “You said you’ve always wanted to do it up here. I didn’t realise you were working your way around the park.”
“It’s not like that.”
“What is it like then?”
“I told you: I don’t do boring, and I didn’t hear you complain.”
Sergeant Jerome approaches Councillor Clifford.
“Are you both willing to make a statement?”
“Too right we are.”
“In which case, Toby Grant and Kayla Flanagan: I’m arresting you on suspicion of outraging public decency contrary to common law.”
I have the right to remain silent but I choose to defend my position.
“This is ridiculous. We weren’t doing any harm.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” PC Challinor replies as we’re led from the gazebo.
“You only arrested us because the old git is a councillor. It’s a conspiracy.”
PC Challinor ignores my protestations all the way to the park gates where we’re bundled into the back of a police car. I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know how this plays out — it’s a miscarriage of justice.
Tuned Out Page 4
