‘Yeah, I’m fine; you want to have dinner tonight? Sushi?’
‘I can’t. I already have plans.’
‘New fella?’
‘Old fella. That guy I was seeing last year, the one with that yappy dog I hated.’
‘You said you’d never date anyone with dogs again. What changed?’
‘His dog died.’
I am 43% 97% sure that Lucy had nothing to do with that dog’s demise. Lucy, like Oliver, is a serial dater. When I first started at The Post she was dating two men at the same time and this seemed perfectly acceptable to her. She’s like the Pied Piper with men, they follow her wherever she goes and she has no intentions of becoming tied down any time soon.
‘The dating part is the fun part. After you start all that living-together nonsense it becomes a drag, so I prefer to keep things simple. I love the “getting to know you” part.’
I, on the other hand, have never been very good at dating, and the ‘getting to know you’ part scares the shit out of me. I’ve had five dates in my entire life, and all of them ended up in some sort of relationship. There was Chris – my first boyfriend at school, which lasted precisely six months, until he went to university in Manchester; Adam with the exceptionally large penis, whom I dated for five months before he decided he’d rather piss off and join the air force than be stuck in Glasgow with me; Joseph, who only lasted three months as he had issues with intimacy and being shite in bed; James, whom I dated for a year, but who was profoundly annoying and had a crippling phobia of baked beans; and finally Alex, who turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. Even though it’s been nearly a year since we split, the thought of having to find someone new continues to be frightening and I don’t see me rushing out to meet anyone anytime soon.
Thursday January 6th
Alex has been on my mind a lot today, but I’ve had her in my head too, with her bouncing curls and bouncing tits, held up by her giant pink bra. I imagine it’s never easy when you find out someone has cheated on you, but when you actually catch them shagging in your bed, it’s a tough image to erase from your mind. I could never figure out what he saw in her, but as always, Lucy’s on hand to offer some insight:
‘I’ll tell you what he saw in her!’ she bellowed down the phone. ‘He saw his bloody mother. It’s his Oedipus complex. His father’s dead, isn’t he? Says it all.’
‘His father’s very much alive, but excellent theory. Anyway, how was your dog-free date?’
‘Horrible. He talked about the dog, showed me pictures of the dog, and as his life is so empty he’s thinking of getting hamsters. What is he – an eight-year-old girl? I’ll be fucked if I’m dating a grown man who keeps rodents. Right, I must dash, but please try not to dwell on Alex too much. You’ll drive yourself mad.’
Three hours later and I’m still dwelling. I have so many unanswered questions, which I know I’ll never get answers to. Even if I confronted Alex, I doubt I’d be happy with, or even believe, a word that came out of his mouth. I still have feelings for him – that much is clear. I just don’t know whether it’s love or a need for closure. I think Oliver is wrong; I shouldn’t be trying to find ‘the old Phoebe’. Even I don’t recognize the old me any more. Perhaps Oliver still sees me as that seventeen-year-old who used to smoke grass in his bedroom and sneak into clubs with him at weekends. But I haven’t been that girl for a long time. I think instead I should be embracing the arrival of a ‘new Phoebe’. One who is successful and liberated and brave and who doesn’t refer to herself in the third person. Oliver texted me on his way home from work.
Tomorrow night: me, you, Jack Daniels and the Human League.
He’s either trying to cheer me up or he’s dumped his girlfriend.
Friday January 7th
Kelly, who works on the health-and-beauty section, is a strange fish. No one (except Frank, I guess) has any idea how old she is. She dresses like a woman in her twenties, but has the leathery face of someone twice that age who’s also spent the past twenty years asleep in a sunbed. She can be difficult to work with as she doesn’t bother hiding her contempt for the rest of us, choosing instead to express it through scowling, tantrums and passive-aggressive cuntery. This morning was no different.
‘If you’re going to borrow my pen, Brian, I’d appreciate it if you put it back exactly where you found it. How am I supposed to write down information when you’ve taken my fucking pen?’
Kelly hates Brian, and Brian feels the same about her. He works on the recruitment section and although he’s good at his job, he’s a mouthy, arrogant little shitbag, known throughout the office for his sexist views and love of large-breasted women. We seem to get on well enough, but I assume that’s partly because I have big tits. Brian looked at the nondescript biro in his hand. ‘You could buy another pen and then you’d have a spare. I’m sure these babies come in packs of ten.’
‘Not the point. The point is, keep your hands off my shit and get your own pen. Now, give me that one back.’
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he laughed.
‘Of course I am. Give me it back.’
He stood up, shaking his head. Then he got up, put the pen up his left nostril and left it hanging there as he approached Kelly’s desk.
‘I’m sorry I took your important pen, Kelly. Here. Take it.’
‘What a disgusting child you are!’ she exclaimed, and promptly slapped the pen out of his nose and on to the floor. I was still laughing as she stormed past my desk straight into Frank’s office. Shrugging, Brian picked up the pen and put it back on her desk. These people are not normal.
Oliver arrived a little after seven this evening with a huge holdall and a bottle of bourbon.
‘Moving in?’ I enquired, closing the door behind him.
‘No, I’m off to Edinburgh for work tomorrow afternoon, didn’t want to leave this in the car. I’m kipping on your couch tonight though. I intend to get wasted.’
He handed me the bottle and produced a Best of the 80s CD from his bag. ‘You pour, I’ll stick this on. If you’re not dancing by track six, we can no longer be friends.’
By track five (‘Kids in America’) I was pouring my second drink and shuffling on the kitchen tiles in my pink bedsocks. By the end of the CD we were both hammered and deep in conversation.
‘You’re like my brother.’
‘What the fuck? Don’t say that! That’s just weird.’
‘No, I mean, you’re like my family. You’re more than just my mate.’
‘Yeah, but your brother? You can’t fancy your brother.’
‘What? I don’t fancy you! You think everyone fancies you.’
‘That’s because they do. I’m awesome.’
‘No, I’m awesome. You’re just handsome.’
‘You are awesome and also handsome, Miss Henderson.’
‘Am I? Do you fancy me?’
‘Nope.’
‘Ha ha, fuck off.’
By 5 a.m. I’d gone to bed leaving awesome Oliver asleep on the couch. Maybe I do fancy him a teeny bit, but I’m not telling him that.
Saturday January 8th
I didn’t surface until four this afternoon, and Oliver had already left for Edinburgh. I thought about doing something productive, but decided that watching Dexter and eating teacakes was a far better way to waste an entire day. It’s now 11 p.m., I’m wide awake and I’m horny. Stupidly so. Hangover horns are brutal. I’m also still thinking about stupid bloody Alex and ways to get him out of my system. Maybe Oliver and Lucy have a point? I haven’t had sex since we broke up, and now I’m turning into some raging hormone who tweets her desires because she has no one to pounce on. When I think about it, my sex life has always been a bit hit and miss. People go on and bloody on about how fantastic sex is, and although I’ve enjoyed it, it’s like watching the second Matrix film – parts of it were good, but it didn’t exactly blow me away. But I’ve never had sex just for me; it’s always been about the other person. Maybe it’s time to s
tart taking care of me for once. If I focus on me, I won’t have time to think about that dickhead, will I? Maybe the best way to get over him is to get over my hang-ups. The old Phoebe, the one that loves Alex, is a timid, sexually inhibited doormat. If I get rid of her, there won’t be any need for him. That’s it! That’s what I’m going to change, what I’m going to do differently this year. That’s going to be my one resolution: I’m going to improve my sex life!
There are loads of things I’ve always wanted to try – I’m going to take matters into my own hands and find out what all the fuss is about.
Wednesday January 12th
My flat really needs some sort of makeover, but I have neither the funds nor the motivation to do anything about it. It’s a tiny one-bedroom shoebox, approximately one-eighth of the flat I shared with Alex. It has an open-plan kitchen/living room, which means everything I cook makes the entire flat smell for days, and walls made from tracing paper. I can hear the old lady upstairs coughing at night, so God knows what she’s heard me doing. There’s a small garden at the front where flowers go to die, and if I ever manage to move, I’ll be throwing a lit match behind me as I go.
Lucy came over after dinner tonight and promptly threw herself down on the couch face first.
‘Evening, Lucy. Um … why are you wearing cropped trousers in January? Has winter not arrived on your planet yet?’
‘Style knows no seasonal restraints,’ she said, her voice muffled by the faded blue cushions on my couch. ‘I’ve come to reclaim what is rightfully mine. Give me back my straighteners.’
‘They’re in my room. Feeling rough?’
There was a groaning sound, followed by another unidentified one which could have been a fart. ‘Ugh. Your neighbours were all hanging around outside, wearing velour and drinking. Why do you live in this dump?’
‘It’s all I can afford. Besides, I’m at work, I hardly see them.’
‘They’re probably wondering where you go during the day. Speaking of which, I don’t want to go back to work on Monday. Can you break both my legs, but do it in a way that won’t hurt?’
‘No,’ I replied, not looking up from my magazine, ‘I’d be bored without you there.’
‘This isn’t about you. What’s happening anyway?’
‘You need to help me with my sex life.’
She started to dry-hump the couch.
‘I’m serious! I haven’t had sex since Alex.’
‘What? I thought you said your sex life was fine? A WHOLE YEAR? What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing! I want to have sex, but I just can’t face another rubbish shag where I fake it and then have to pretend he’s just done something amazing. I want it to actually BE amazing! You can help me with this; how can I change things?’
Lucy wasn’t speaking now. Or humping. She turned over to face me, pushing her red hair out of her eyes.
‘I can’t believe you’re still faking it in your thirties! Are you secretly one of those women who’d prefer to eat an entire chocolate Easter egg than have sex?’
‘Ha ha, NO!’ I insisted. ‘I love sex – it’s just never been that great. I mean, I’m sure not every guy I’ve slept with has been awful—’
‘Joseph?’
‘Oh Christ, yeah, he was awful.’
‘But why the hell are you faking?’ she asked, looking genuinely confused.
‘I think that if I make sure the guy has a good time and make him think he’s brilliant in bed, he’ll keep seeing me and maybe it’ll get better. I mean, I’m not a prude – there’s a million things I’ve always wanted to try but I’ve never had the bottle to, or even a partner who’s been sexually adventurous enough. Alex wasn’t an adventurous person; he was the bloody missionary king. Jesus, I don’t even know where to begin. But I’ve been thinking about the one thing I want to change this year and that’s it: I want to change my sex life. I want to explore every sordid fantasy that comes into my head!’
I really wanted to tell her the other reason behind all this, but I knew she’d only sigh with frustration if she found out Alex had anything to do with it.
Lucy sprang into life. ‘You should make a list!’
‘A list of what? Ways to fill my time while I’m waiting for my virginity to grow back?’
‘You know, like those lists you get online of “Twenty Things You Should Do Before You Die” or “Ten Places to Visit Before You Have Kids and They Just Ruin It Completely”. Well, you should make your own list – a list of sex challenges. I’ll help you. Oh, this could be fun.’
So we threw on some music and the rest of this evening was spent drinking wine, creating my list and occasionally stopping to sing at each other as loudly as possible. Our Eminem-Dido duet was particularly impressive. There are some things that never made it on to the list, mainly because they were stupid, like shagging movie stars from the Nineties. Much as I fancy Christian Slater and Johnny Depp, I’m not risking a restraining order finding out if they’d be up for it now. In the end, this is what we came up with:
THE LIST
1. Talking dirty. I am rubbish at this.
2. Masturbation. I am BRILLIANT at this, but still, practise makes perfect and I’m very curious about female ejaculation.
3. Younger men. I say ‘men’, but one will do.
4. Anal. This could go horribly, HORRIBLY wrong.
5. Role play. I get to dress up.
6. Sex outside. I want to shag in the great outdoors. Or even a reasonably sized garden.
7. Group sex. Threesome and/or another couple. No bukkake – yucky.
8. Sex with a complete stranger. Like a one-night stand but without all the painful small talk beforehand, or afterwards.
9. Bondage. No furry handcuffs though.
10. Voyeurism. Consensual, obviously. I’m not going to peek in windows.
The main rule is ‘no bareback’, but I’ve also come up with a small list of things that are out of the question. Even though I consider myself an open-minded kind of gal, everyone has their limits and these are mine:
1. Anything to do with feet. I hate feet. They’re ugly, hard skin-covered monstrosities that should be kept away from my face at all times. I’d never dream of sticking my toe in someone’s mouth, but perhaps it’s because I have horrific little trotters.
2. Pissing/Shitting. WHY GOD WHY? Someone explain this to me. Waste is not sexy; not my own and certainly not someone else’s. I can honestly say that I would never piss on anyone, even if they were on fire or had been stung by a satanic jellyfish. I won’t even pee in the shower so this is never going to happen.
3. Fisting. Childbirth in reverse? I’m sure it has its own merits, but I don’t intend to find out. A particularly large cock can leave me feeling violated, so I’m sure some bloke’s fist would be the end of me.
4. Animals. As a teenager I saw a video clip of a woman giving a horse a blow job. I kept hoping it would kick her in the face. It didn’t.
5. Facials. I find the whole idea totally degrading but I understand it’s more for the guy than the girl (obviously). That said, I really don’t want the image of my face covered in spunk embedded in some bloke’s mind for all eternity. The only time I’ve ever come close is when I was seventeen and gave my boyfriend a hand job on his couch. It was just unfortunate aiming on his part and my eye caught the majority of it. Temporary blindness and a feeling of mortification followed, while he giggled and almost patted himself on the back with his own cock.
Lucy is far more forgiving when it comes to facials. ‘I think it’s a territorial thing. I’d prefer that to him pissing in the corner of the room.’ Fair enough. There are undoubtedly a million more things I won’t or can’t do, but until then my line has been drawn with a big black marker. ‘Right, I’m off,’ said Lucy, pulling on her coat, ‘but before I go there is one thing you should think about. Something we seem to have overlooked. A minor detail, but pretty crucial.’
‘What? What have we forgotten?’
‘So
meone for you to do these challenges with. Oh, and my straighteners.’
Thursday January 13th
Unfortunately a busy sales office is not what I need when all I can focus on is sex, or rather who I’m going to recruit to help me in my quest. Lucy arrived at half nine and got straight on the phone to me.
The List Page 2
