The List

by Joanna Bolouri

  He’s right. I hate it when he’s right.

  Friday January 28th

  Work today was a complete washout. I don’t want to be there at the best of times, and I am so distracted by my project. Several times I was close to shouting: ‘FUCK YOUR TARGETS, FRANK – TELL ME IF I’M USING TOO MANY ADJECTIVES WHILE PRETENDING TO GIVE YOU HEAD.’

  After work I made my way to see Pam Potter for our next session. She always looks dead pleased to see me and has a great big smile, like the Cheshire Cat. I keep expecting her to slowly vanish mid-conversation. For some reason it doesn’t seem right just calling her ‘Pam’; it sounds too normal, which she isn’t. Every mug in her office is animal-shaped, which isn’t surprising as her organic coffee smells like dung. I was in need of a session, given my emotional state after running into Alex last week.

  ‘Do you think it was seeing Alex that upset you, or the fact he was with his new girlfriend?’

  ‘Both. It was like a great big slap in the face and I felt so vulnerable. It was a reminder of everything I’ve been trying to forget.’

  ‘You have to remember that the part of your life with Alex is over, Phoebe, but accept that you will be reminded of it every now and again, and that’s OK. It’s difficult to move on until you’ve made peace with your past. Are you using your free time productively?’

  I could have told her about my list but I wasn’t ready for that conversation. Perhaps ironically, the one person who was being paid to hear my innermost secrets was the one person I wasn’t willing to tell. ‘Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I spend a lot of time with friends; I’m not sitting at home obsessing over Alex. Well, not as much as I used to. I don’t really have any hobbies. Is that what you’re talking about? Shit, should I have a hobby?!’

  She smiled. ‘Relax. Look at this time in your life as the beginning of your new chapter. You cannot rewrite what’s already been written but you can determine where the story goes from here and you can choose which characters to keep or kill off. Metaphorically speaking, of course.’

  I left her office feeling a bit like a character in a ‘Choose your own adventure’ book: ‘To allow yourself to forget Alex and begin to heal, turn to page 9 … To run Alex over with a tank, turn to page 12.’

  ‘To find a new therapist who also moonlights as a hitman, turn to page 87.’

  Later I got chatting to my first fella online. Bradley is a writer, twenty-six, with long hair, skinny and strangely attractive in an eccentric, Russell Brand kind of way. He approached me with a quirky ‘Let’s discuss philosophy and Leonard Cohen over imaginary champagne and truffles’, but pretty quickly his urge to appear interesting and cultured was overtaken by an even greater urge to discuss his fantasy of watching me have sex with another woman. Testosterone will always kick intellect’s ass when it comes down to it. All I had to do with this guy was describe how my faux lesbian action was turning me on:

  ‘I’m getting so hot thinking about this …’ (Wasn’t.)

  Then, ‘I’d lick her nipples slowly while you watched …’ (Really? Would I? WOULD I?)

  I couldn’t tell him that I was only blowing smoke up his ass and wasn’t genuinely getting turned on by any of this, and I realized how unconvincing it must have been claiming to be playing with all kinds of toys, in all kinds of positions, while dancing the flamenco during orgasm. What was I typing with? My feet? Second up for cybering was Bill, who got me to watch him masturbating on webcam while I typed in detail what I’d do to him. He was a good-looking guy – brown, messy hair, a nice face, yet another man who was wafer bloody thin – but from what I could make out, had an incredibly small cock. A few times he stood up in front of the webcam to proudly show me his erection, and I had to peer into the screen. It disappeared when he wrapped his hand around it, and he had pretty little girl’s hands so I couldn’t even put it down to his having big bear paws. I mean, I prefer a medium-sized cock to some ten-inch monster doing me damage, but this was the smallest penis I’d ever seen. I’m grateful I wasn’t in front of the camera; I’d have looked awkward, made an inappropriate joke and then blurted out an apology while he logged off.

  Saturday January 29th

  Oliver came over this afternoon and brought me lunch: a half-eaten pizza and a bottle of Irn-Bru.

  ‘Oh, that’s very sweet,’ I said, opening up the box. ‘Hmm, what’s on this pizza? It looks weird.’

  ‘Dunno, I found it in a bin.’

  ‘Oh fuck off. Now I don’t know if you’re kidding or not.’

  ‘Course I am. It’s ham and sweetcorn with sweet chilli peppers. It’s nice, but you’ll have to eat some too in order to cancel out my chilli-pepper breath.’

  I ate the rest, carefully studying his face in case it revealed that he did actually find it in a bin. I don’t trust boys.

  We sat on the couch and I put Arrested Development on. I had planned to have a lazy afternoon and send Oliver out for more pizza later, but he had other ideas. Halfway through the opening credits, he stood up and began to unbutton his black shirt. He’s very aware of how good he looks naked and I think he knows I enjoy watching him undress. He didn’t take his eyes off me as he stripped. ‘Horny?’ he asked.

  ‘I am now.’

  ‘How’s that dirty talk coming along?’ he asked, pulling me in close to him and making me feel how hard he was.

  ‘Um, good. I think. It’s interesting; you know … I’m feeling more confident,’ I bluffed as he pushed back my hair and whispered in my ear, ‘Go on then. Tell me what you’re going to do to me.’

  So much for confidence; I started to blush.

  ‘I’m going to suck your cock,’ I blurted out quickly.

  ‘OK … tell me more about that …’ He was now kissing my neck.

  ‘Erm, I’m going to lick it and then blow you.’

  I could feel him starting to laugh.

  ‘Blow me? Lick IT? Really? You do know there’s no actual blowing involved, don’t you? Have you done this before?’

  I started to laugh too. ‘Oh God, I’ve put you off now, haven’t I? You distracted me with the neck kissing!’

  He pulled down his trousers. ‘Does this look like you’ve put me off?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Don’t stress – some people just can’t talk dirty. Maybe this should just be something I do, and you stick to listening.’

  ‘You just say this shit to wind me up, don’t you?’

  ‘Normally, yes, but not in this case. I genuinely don’t think you can do it.’

  I felt determined to prove him wrong. After we had sex he showered while I made us a cup of tea. We sat on the couch and I watched him inhale a sandwich he found at the back of my refrigerator.

  ‘You’re either starving or in a hurry. Which is it?’ I asked as he pushed his crusts to the side of the plate like a four-year-old.

  ‘Both. I said I’d meet Dave for a pint, although I’d much rather take you back to bed.’

  ‘Tough,’ I gargled through a mouthful of tea. ‘I have things to do. I’ll text you later.’

  I ushered him out the door and poured myself a gin and tonic to steady my nerves for what I was about to do. I’d decided it was time for desperate measures. It was phone-sex time. The whole concept of phone sex is hilarious. Firstly, you call up and leave a message for the male callers: ‘Hi I’m [insert false name here] and I’m feeling lonely tonight.’ *hang up and place head in hands*

  If any guys are interested they will then send you a message in return. Usually along the lines of:

  ‘Hi, I’m [insert false macho name here] and I’m a really “genuine” but horny guy, looking for a horny lady.’ *hang up and put hand down trousers*

  All going well, you can connect and chat about the weather, football, crisis in the Middle East or engage in some dirty phone sex from the comfort of your own couch/car/shed.

  It took me seventeen attempts and a lot of wine before I finally plucked up the courage to speak to someone. Seventeen. Eventually I connected with some random guy from London, who
said he was just back from the gym (at 1.30 a.m. – do me a favour), all hot and sweaty and looking for a dirty chat. That’s exactly what he got. I was so determined to prove Oliver wrong, I turned into a sexy, panting filth monster. I eloquently described what I’d do to him and he fapped down the phone for at least ten minutes. When he came I did a victory wiggle like I’d just progressed to the next level on X Factor, then hung up. I’m happy to be the porn-speak Queen of Glasgow, but I’m calling time on this now. People are weird.

  Sunday January 30th

  This morning all I wanted to do was lie in bed and read the papers, but instead I agreed to meet Hazel for brunch because I am an awesome friend and also because it was her treat.

  She drove us to a little country pub which served giant pots of tea and the most amazing eggs Benedict I have ever had. I actually felt sad when I’d finished eating them.

  ‘Thanks for coming today; I just had to get out of the house for a bit. Don’t get me wrong – Kevin is brilliant with Grace, and when he’s on his own with her he copes like a pro, but when I’m there it’s like he forgets how to think for himself. She cries – he passes her to me; I’m in the shower – he appears two seconds later so she can watch Mummy. Then she sees me and wants a cuddle and I have to get out, dripping everywhere, and I JUST WANT TO HAVE A FUCKING SHOWER ALONE. PEOPLE NEED TO WASH THEIR HAIR!’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it?’ I asked, pouring her more tea and trying not to giggle at her outburst.

  ‘No. I don’t want him to think I’m a cow or that I feel he’s not pulling his weight or that, God forbid, I don’t want to spend time with my daughter. I love my kid; I just need ten minutes to wash my hair without an audience.’

  ‘Then say that to him. You’re the most diplomatic person I know; you’ll find the right words. Either that or just lock the bathroom door when you go in.’

  She looked at me like I’d just cured cancer. ‘GAH! Lock the door! Why didn’t I think of that?’

  Oliver came over straight from work this evening, and when he arrived he produced a bunch of flowers. Before I could say, ‘I appreciate the thought but we’re not dating so what the hell are you playing at?’ he laughed in my face and said, ‘Don’t panic; it’s not a romantic gesture. My boss was being a complete witch today so I nicked them off her desk on the way home. It’s more of an “up yours” to her than anything else.’ He collapsed on the couch. ‘You know, I was thinking about this dirty-talk thing. It doesn’t matter if you can’t do it; most women can’t anyway – don’t feel bad about it. I’m sure you’ll manage the other challenges.’

  I began to smile. ‘Take off your trousers,’ I demanded.

  Then I took off my skirt and tights, pulled my knickers to one side and slid down on him. Hard.

  I whispered in his ear, ‘I am going to fuck you slowly and take every inch of you, until you’re begging me to let you come. Can you feel how wet I am already?’

  He raised one eyebrow (man, I love it when he does that) and said, ‘Good God, Phoebe! Keep talking like that and I think I’ll keep you.’

  So I did.

  Monday January 31st

  I had the dentist at three this afternoon so I cheerfully left work early, only to have a giant needle shoved into my gum and my tooth drilled by a man who had unusually large nostrils. I’d rather have stayed in work.

  9.40 p.m. My mouth is now quite sore so I’ve taken to bed in a dramatic fashion and had enough co-codamol to knock out a horse.

  10.30 p.m. I have checked the front door is locked three times now. I have either developed OCD or those painkillers are way too strong and have caused short-term memory loss.

  11.00 p.m. I’m still wide awake but mentally exhausted. It’s been a busy month. I’ve successfully acquired a new friend with benefits and engaged in some outrageously filthy talk with complete strangers. Alex still hasn’t spontaneously combusted, which is perhaps the only downside, but on the upside, I’m now a lot more comfortable being obscene and Oliver loves the fact that this polite, professional girl with lovely manners can open her mouth and make sailors run screaming from a pub. I can happily tell Oliver exactly what I intend to do to him, even with something in my mouth. I have skills now. The talking-dirty challenge was excruciating at times, but I’m pretty happy with the outcome, and I’d say the list has got off to a good start.

  FEBRUARY

  Tuesday February 1st

  Oliver’s been coming over to my house more and more frequently and tonight he turned up without warning after football practice, covered in sweat. Without saying a word he went into my kitchen, drank a pint of water in one go, then turned on the shower and dragged me in.

  Sex in a shower cubicle is great – confined space and nothing but wall to lean against. Sex in a shower-over-bathtub setup, however, is something completely different. ‘I’ll buy you another shower curtain tomorrow, Phoebe. That one was mouldy anyway.’

  It was also the first time he’d seen me up close without my make-up on or hair done and I could see him staring at me for a second while I was drying off. If that doesn’t put him off me I’ll be surprised. My mum once said something that’s stayed with me forever: ‘I remember your dad telling me that the first time he saw me without make-up, he thought he’d woken up next to a man.’

  Christ, I bear more than a passing resemblance to my mother. I wonder if they offer airbrushing on the NHS?

  Wednesday February 2nd

  In the morning meeting Frank announced that Marion had given birth to a baby boy called Harry. who weighed 9 pounds 9 ounces, and both were doing well.

  ‘I don’t think she’ll come back,’ remarked Kelly. ‘She’s a nice woman but she hated it here and she never did any real work.’

  ‘Thanks for your input, Kelly.’ Frank scowled. ‘Now can we please make sure Lucy gets your call sheets by the end of the day? She has enough to do without chasing you lot for paperwork.’

  ‘I’d hardly call Lucy overworked—’ began Kelly, before Frank told her to ‘zip it’ and we were all sent back to our desks.

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of running people down, Kelly?’ I asked as she sat down at her desk. ‘Marion’s just given birth and you’re bitching about her. It’s not cool.’

  ‘I’m just speaking the truth,’ she said with a shrug. ‘If anyone has a problem with that – tough. I’m here to do my job, not make friends.’

  ‘Then be quiet and do your job, Kelly!’ Frank shouted across from his office. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’

  Kelly might be a bitch, but she’s right about Marion. There’s no way she’d choose to come back to this lunatic asylum. With some free time on my hands tonight, I started to think about the next challenge, which doesn’t require Oliver’s help, or anyone else’s for that matter: masturbation.

  The subject of masturbation is one I’ve always enthused about and I’ve never been one of those ‘Who? Me? Never. I don’t need to. Shut up …’ women who you know are either lying or desperately unhinged from sexual frustration. I guess it comes from being raised by parents who are very open about sex. For me it’s a given, but for some women it can be like having a poo; it’s common knowledge that we do it but we like to pretend we don’t. Like somehow the feminine mystique we’ve worked so hard to maintain would instantly disappear if the secret ever got out.

  We use our genitalia to insult people: he’s a dick, a pussy, a fanny, and so on, and we call each other ‘wankers’ to denote how idiotic we are. We’re also taught as children not to touch or play with ourselves, usually accompanied by a stern look which says, ‘If you do that, no one will like you’ – giving us a big healthy dose of shame and introducing the hellish fear of getting caught with our hands anywhere near our bottoms. But I’ve never subscribed to any of that crap.

  So now to think of something new I can do during masturbation. New sex toys perhaps?

  Thursday February 3rd

  I’ve been having increasingly odd dreams since my sex life returned, i
ncluding one last night involving a man made of wood. He was Dutch (as most wooden men are, obviously) and we went at it in a forest. Creepy but weirdly arousing. I would have looked it up in my dream book, but it’s pointless because my dream book interprets everything as death, even smiling kittens.

  I’ve decided that I’m going sex-toy shopping this weekend. In fact I’m going shopping for a wooden man. I’d ask Lucy and Hazel if they want to come along, except I know the answer to that already.

  Saturday February 5th

  Today I met the girls for some lunch at my favourite Japanese restaurant, Ichiban on Queen Street. Lucy was late as usual. Hazel met me inside and we ordered beers while glancing at the menu. ‘Where’s Grace today?’ I asked.

  ‘Kevin’s taking her to Hamleys so I have the whole afternoon free. Are we still going to Ann Summers?’

  ‘Yes, we’re going to the grown-up toy shop. Much more fun.’

  Lucy arrived as the waitress brought our drinks. She ordered some sake and sat down beside me on the long wooden bench.

  ‘God, I’m starving. Fuck the chopsticks; I’m going to eat like a man with ten hands. HAZEL! Did you get Botox?’

  ‘NO!’ Hazel said, frowning. Only her face didn’t move. We both stared at her. ‘Fine, I did. Spur-of-the-moment decision. It hurt like hell. Never again.’

  ‘You’re going to end up like that woman who’s had so much cosmetic surgery she looks like a lion.’ I grinned.

  ‘I am not!’ she laughed, pulling apart her chopsticks. ‘I’m turning forty next year. Call it part of my midlife crisis. Now let’s eat. I’m ageing rapidly as we speak.’

  After lunch we walked to Sauchiehall Street for a rather expensive jaunt around Ann Summers. I buy most of my sex toys on the internet rather than in Ms Summers’s shops because it’s usually cheaper, but as I feel like a walking hormone recently, there’s no way I could wait a week for delivery and then greet the postman, red-faced, hoping there was no mention of my purchase on the packaging. Thankfully, BigfakecocksforPhoebe.com are usually very discreet.