The List

by Joanna Bolouri

‘Behave yourself. Whatever would Pedra think?’ I asked, rubbing my blue lips on a napkin.

  ‘I dunno. I’m not seeing her any more.’

  ‘Oh, there’s a surprise. What happened? Did you buy her an armpit cocktail too?’

  ‘Nah, she asked me to meet her parents. Why the fuck would I want to do that? I don’t even want to see my own parents.’

  ‘Your parents are lovely. Normal. I think you were adopted, or a huge mistake at the very least. I pity them.’

  ‘Ouch. What’s your excuse then? Your parents left the country to avoid you.’

  ‘A girl’s abandonment issues are her own business. I’m going to get a proper drink.’

  Three gins later I’d finally summoned up the courage to tell him the real reason I’d asked to meet up. ‘So … you know my resolution idea to change one thing? Don’t look at me blankly – I told you after New Year. Anyway, I’ve decided what it is.’

  ‘I do remember, and it’d better not be taking up Zumba or some fitness shit again.’

  ‘No, I’ve decided I’m going to improve my sex life.’

  ‘OK. That sounds like a very good plan, but how exactly? Are you going to take classes or something?’

  ‘No. I’ve made a list of everything I’ve always wanted to try. And I’m going to work through it. Simple, eh?’

  ‘A list?’ he asked, suddenly becoming interested. ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘Just … stuff.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘No.’

  There was no way I was telling him until he agreed to help me. Otherwise he’d never stop asking me if I’d taken it up the arse yet.

  ‘Fine, but knowing you, it’s probably having sex with the lights off or kissing with your mouth open or not showering first—’

  ‘You make me sound fucking frigid. I’ll have you know it’s quite dirty.’

  ‘Doubtful.’ He laughed. ‘I pity the poor chap who’s going to have to endure this. Who’s your new fella then?’

  I looked back at him and smiled.

  He smiled back and raised his glass to his mouth. Two seconds later the penny had dropped. He put his pint down, never taking his eyes off me. ‘Wait. You want me to help you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With sex stuff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The man you claim not to fancy.’

  ‘Well, um—’

  ‘But that means that we’d have to—’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stared at the table and I sat there, wishing I were dead. After what seemed like an eternity he spoke:

  ‘Fuck, Phoebe! I wasn’t expecting this. Jesus, it’s a big ask. Do you realize exactly what it would mean? I’m actually upset that you’d think this was appropriate. Quite frankly, I feel used.’

  ‘What? Shit! I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I just …’

  Then I noticed the smirk on his face.

  ‘You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So you’ll help me?’

  ‘Course I will, stupid. Another drink?’

  And Bingo was his fucking name-o! The hunt is over and I have secured my very first shag partner, my friend Oliver. My best friend. Is this really a good idea? Oh fucking hell.

  ‘I’ll come over tomorrow night,’ he said as he got into his taxi. ‘We’ll see how we get on and you can tell me what the fuck is on this list of yours.’

  Get on? That means sex, doesn’t it? Oh God, now I feel sick. On the way home from the pub I panicked: the girls he usually screws are gorgeous. I look like I’ve been drawn with an Etch A Sketch, but he must find me sexually attractive in some way – surely? Or is it the NSA sex that’s the attractive part? In theory it’s ideal – no wondering if he’ll call the next day, no game playing, no distracting butterflies in my stomach to turn me into a blabbering wreck – just sex. But I’m also very aware that no one has seen me naked since Alex. When you’re in a relationship, little things like stretch marks or spots on your bottom don’t matter, but when you’re just shagging, do they make a difference? Will one look at my cellulite be cause for reconsideration? Will he decide sex is out of the question when I lie down and my boobs flop sideways and disappear into my armpits?

  I called Lucy.

  ‘He agreed? Bloody hell, good for you! Thank God for that. For a moment I thought I was going to have to strap on and help out. You’re a lucky cow – I demand to know everything afterwards.’

  ‘I’m nervous. You’ve seen the kind of women he dates – they have no extra body fat.’

  ‘Oh shut up. If those women were so perfect, he’d still be sleeping with them. Don’t be nervous about that; be nervous that he’ll be rubbish in bed and then you’ll have to reject him, thus ruining your friendship and any mental images I have of him. And I have a lot. In my head he’s quite the thruster.’

  ‘You’re going to hell.’

  Friday January 21st

  5 p.m. Took a half-day at work and I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time preparing for this; John Hurt probably spent less time in make-up while filming The Elephant Man. There was skin to be scrubbed, eyebrows to be plucked, toenails to be painted and of course legs to be shaved; no one wants to fuck a yeti.

  7.00 p.m. I’m ready and I’m nervous. Been trying to distract myself by flirting with some man called @granted77 on Twitter. I love how the internet is always ready with random men to take my mind off reality.

  7.45 p.m. I have a voice in my head, telling me, ‘Relax, it’s just a shag,’ like the trailer from The Last House on the Left, where you’re told, ‘To avoid fainting, keep telling yourself it’s only a movie!’ It’s not working. I want to vomit. There’s a part of me wishing he’d get hit by a car on the way over, or something less painful, and fatal.

  Saturday January 22nd

  Last night Oliver arrived at 8.30 and pounced on me. Literally. It took me by surprise, as I was ready to make coffee and discuss our imminent shag in a sensible, adult fashion, but before I knew it my lipstick was smudged and my hair messed up. He had me up against the wall, on the hall floor and then finally on the bed where I think I dislocated my hip. But in a good way. My neurotic body-image crisis was pointless as he couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. For once I didn’t care how many folds my belly had or that my hair was sticking straight up, and the weirdest thing was: it wasn’t weird. Well, maybe a tad odd at the beginning, because I automatically compared his penis to Alex’s, and although Oliver isn’t huge in length, the girth is extremely impressive, to the point where I feared my mouth would resemble a victim from The Ring after I’d given him a blow job. He also took time with me and didn’t just grab my tits and call it foreplay, one of Alex’s favourite tricks – honestly he might as well have made honking noises; it was ridiculous.

  Oliver is also very vocal, which I love. I like noisy sex, and despite not being particularly ‘verbal’, I’m pretty loud, and it’s nice to hear some sort of agreement instead of wondering whether he’s lost in the moment or has nodded off. Afterwards we sat in bed and managed to have a mostly grown-up chat about the list and all the things I want to try, and he didn’t have a problem with any of them; he even elaborated on a couple.

  ‘This wasn’t what I was expecting. You’re rather filthy. The role play – I definitely want to try some domination. Nothing too weird, but I’m never submissive. Might be interesting …’

  ‘This stuff doesn’t faze you at all, does it?’

  ‘Nah, why should it? It’s only sex.’

  ‘I have no idea if I’ll actually have the nerve to do all of this. Sleeping with you was nerve-racking enough! Let’s promise that things won’t get weird between us, OK?’

  ‘It’ll be fine, Phoebe. Stop worrying. Don’t over-think it. Oh, and I have no problem with watching you with someone else. A girl would be preferable. Just saying …’

  ‘You’ll have me running a bisexual dungeon by the end of this. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ he s
aid, running his hand down my thigh, ‘we’re doing that again.’

  He left sharpish after the second round and it was then I fully realized that this was definitely just a friendly arrangement for him; he kissed me on the cheek, just as he always does. There was no lingering kiss goodbye, no hand-holding, just a peck on the cheek and some joke about me needing a shave. The passion had gone, and we were back to being mates. This is something I’ll have to get my head around, as I’ll admit it brought me back down to earth with a thud.

  Sunday January 23rd

  Oliver and I had sex again this evening. I’ve gone from having no sex at all to having ALL THE SEX in a very short space of time. I’m ace. I cannot wait until we actually start my list.

  The first time we shagged in my bed, which was polite and sweet really. Then I walked out of my room, naked, to get some water and he followed me in to the kitchen where we did it over the worktops. I was unsettled for a second when I found myself face down in toast crumbs, but then he started whispering delicious obscenities in my ear. I tried to return the favour, but failed miserably: ‘Fucking prick.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Erm, nothing. Carry on.’

  How embarrassing. I need some help with this. Perhaps now is a good time to embrace my first challenge: talking dirty.

  Monday January 24th

  Hazel and Grace were shopping in town today so I met them at lunchtime for a quick bite, which for me was half a cheese toastie and a large glass of wine.

  ‘What are you up to tonight?’ Hazel asked, giving Grace a crust to gnaw on.

  ‘Bugger all. I’ll probably end up having a bath and watching EastEnders.’

  ‘Oh good. Then you can come to the gym with me instead.’

  I stared at Hazel for a second and then laughed. ‘Piss off; you know how much I hate the gym and I got my period this morning. My cramp says no.’

  ‘But we used to have fun when we went.’

  ‘No, you used to have fun; I was always on the verge of having a stroke.’

  ‘But I’m carrying a lot of baby weight—’

  ‘Put her down then! Ha, look! INSTANTLY ten pounds lighter! You look exactly the same as you’ve always done, and sometimes this makes it difficult for me to like you.’

  ‘Fine then, but if you change your mind, there’s a yoga class on at eight.’

  ‘Yoga? Don’t you remember what happened when I took that yoga class last year?’

  She was already laughing. ‘That poor woman who farted, she must have been mortified.’

  I was now mildly hysterical. ‘It wasn’t just the fart, it was the length of it. It was like a trombone solo.’

  ‘I think you might be the first person to be thrown out of a yoga class for laughing.’

  I tried to compose myself. ‘This is the very reason I won’t go back. Even the thought of it makes me wet myself. I wouldn’t last two minutes before they forcibly removed me from the sports centre.’

  Hazel pulled Grace’s jacket on and started packing away her things. ‘Fine, I’ll go myself, but please be aware that you are a terrible friend for making me do this alone.’

  ‘You’ll have the last laugh when you’re all fit and toned and I’m so fat I’m being airlifted out of my flat for some Channel 5 documentary. Shit, is that the time? I’d better run.’

  I kissed them both goodbye and ran in my heels back to the office like a champ. Who needs the gym?

  Tuesday January 25th

  ‘Pillow talk’ has always conjured up images of Doris Day wearing a nightdress up to her eyebrows waiting to be prodded by her gay male co-star. Like so many things in life, it’s something I briefly considered becoming a world champion at, but the crippling fear of making a complete fool of myself stopped me. Mostly, I just moan louder to compensate, throwing in a couple of oh yeahs for effect, and generally keep my mouth shut.

  I think talking dirty requires a certain amount of sexual confidence, which in the past I’ve been seriously lacking in, as I’ve never considered myself particularly sexy. When I stop to analyse my shags with Alex I find myself dissecting everything I’ve said or done and it makes me cringe. I don’t have long flowing locks of gorgeous hair to flick over my shoulder or hold up while I’m on top like some Playboy bimbo; I have thick, straight hair which tends to fall in front of my face, making me look like something from a Japanese horror film that’s about to crawl out of the television. I even tried out my ‘sex face’ in front of the mirror, but found I looked more like someone who’d just been asked to do some complex long division than a viable sexual prospect. Shit. Combine that with my inability to comfortably express my desires and forcefully demand to have my ass smacked, and I feel rather deflated. It doesn’t help that dirty talk always seems so contrived to me, like a God-awful porn film with some slap bass ready to kick in when a zipper gets pulled down. When I try to imitate it I find myself hurling abuse in the throes of passion, as if I have porn Tourette’s. I have to get more comfortable with this. I discussed it with Lucy at lunchtime.

  ‘The trick is not to make it sound forced. There’s no point shouting, “OH GOD, YES, YOU DIRTY BASTARD!” when he’s kissing you gently or brushing the hair from your face. You’ll just startle him.’ I looked around, aware of how loudly she’d said that, and saw the canteen staff laughing. ‘You just have to get used to saying the words to another person. You can’t expect it to come naturally straight away if you’re not used to it. It’s like learning a foreign language. A really dirty one. Like French. Do you want to practise on me?’

  ‘I’d rather die.’

  ‘What about chat rooms then?’ said Lucy. ‘You should go online and cyber some fellas. That would be good practice.’

  It sounds like a good idea, but I’m scared I’ll only find a dongle-charged world full of socially retarded lonely losers, all looking for other equally lonely losers to masturbate with, or husbands crying out that their wife doesn’t understand them and they need some sort of escapism. Normal, happy people don’t go online. Do they?

  Wednesday January 26th

  My boss Frank is obsessed with his new piece of ‘art’, which he hung in pride of place in his office this morning. It looks like someone painted it for a dare. He’d been going on about what an important piece of work it is and how expensive it was, so when he went for lunch Stuart nipped into his office and turned it upside down. Frank left at half five and still hadn’t noticed. Genius. We then all took bets on how long it would stay like that. I also noticed Stuart’s bottom for the first time today. How slow of me but, my word, it’s quite perfect. Unfortunately he caught me noticing too. I blame my hormones. Not just for this.

  This evening I began my first challenge by joining a site called ‘Highland Flings’, armed with a false name, fake picture and a 36DD imaginary chest. I can’t believe I’ve sunk this low already.

  I’m trying to be discerning in my choices, but it’s tricky. The majority of profiles are from people who obviously didn’t win any grammar competitions at school, and I can’t bear the thought of having to read sentences with badly placed apostrophes all glaring at me, just waiting to be corrected. The messages come through surprisingly quickly. So far, some have tried the whole ‘getting to know you’ shit, while others just get straight to the point and begin conversations with: ‘How big are your tits?’ or the obligatory: ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘I AM WEARING SOME CLOTHES, YOU CUNT! MAKE THE FUCKING EFFORT!’ I didn’t say that, obviously. I don’t know if I can do this.

  Luckily a call from Mum distracted me from throwing my laptop out of the window.

  ‘Hello, Phoebe, how are you?’

  ‘Good, Mum. How are you and Dad?’

  My parents used to call every week when they lived in Glasgow. When my dad sold off his chain of hippy tearooms and they emigrated to Canada, the calls became less frequent and were replaced by random gifts of utter shite and postcards from their latest holiday destination.

  ‘We’re going on sa
fari, darling. Last-minute deal to Kenya. Heading off in about an hour so just thought I’d call before we’re in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘You can use your mobile in Kenya, Mum. It isn’t the moon.’

  ‘Your father’s decided we’re not taking phones. He also decided we’re not taking gin, but I vetoed that immediately. Everything OK with you?’

  ‘Yeah, everything’s great … nothing new here … same old. Have fun! Tell Dad I said hi, and don’t get mauled by anything!’

  ‘Only your father, dear. Oh, don’t make that groaning sound, Phoebe – your father and I didn’t conceive you by holding hands. Lighten up. Anyway, we’re off. Take care!’

  ‘Bye, Mum. Speak soon.’

  It doesn’t matter how old I get, knowing my parents had sex in order to conceive me will never get any less distressing. If I wasn’t an only child, I’d swear they’ve done it more than once.

  Thursday January 27th

  Frank wasn’t in the office so I got to use his parking space today. Hurrah! No public transport for me. I got stuck on the motorway for forty-five minutes on the way home, but totally worth it as I got to sing along loudly to the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack without fear of being heard. Tim Curry dressed as Frank-N-Furter gives me the horn.

  I made pasta for dinner and opened a bottle of red wine before logging back on to Highland Flings. I tried to ignore my initial ‘What the hell am I doing?’ thoughts and repress the overwhelming urge to send back an array of jokey, sarcastic responses and instead focus on why I’m doing this. I know I’ll have to try it on Oliver at some point and it has to at least be smirk-free and somewhat believable. So far it’s only been brief email/messenger flirting, but I’m getting more confident and I’m finally managing not to turn everything into a great big joke.

  I told Oliver about my training regime and he thought it was hysterical.

  ‘You can’t do this! You’re too nice!’

  ‘No, I’m not. I can be filthy, GODDAMMIT!’

  ‘Phoebe, you called me a fucker while we were shagging and then texted me on the way home to make sure I knew you didn’t really mean it. You’re the kind of girl who might be able to tell me you want to suck my cock, but not how you’d actually do it.’