How Do You Like Me Now?

by Holly Bourne

  It’s making me horny as hell.

  Tom and I watch in silence as the ex-boyfriend grabs her out of the chair and starts having sex with her against the wall. Her hands are still tied behind her back. I feel my body stirring. Pinpricks of arousal pulsate up my legs. My vagina involuntarily throbs. Just once. Like it’s a smooth lake and someone has chucked a giant pebble in.

  ‘Oo-err,’ Tom jokes, trying to diffuse the sexual tension radiating out of our widescreen television. But I can tell it’s stirring something in him too. His hand tightens on my back, his breath is suddenly more ragged. The frustration that’s been building inside me for six months wells up and swirls over like water bursting through a dam.

  I want to have sex.

  I want to have sex like the sex the woman is having on the TV. Angry and hard and so full of lust you can taste it in the air.

  I want to have sex with Tom.

  Do I make a move?

  I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand it if he rejects me. Not when I’m this desperate to be touched. This is ridiculous! He’s your boyfriend, Tori. You can have sex with him. That is the general point of boyfriends.

  Tom’s grip is still tight on my back. He must be horny too. The actor has now bent the strong female lead over a desk and slams into her as she grunts in appreciation.

  I twist in his arms and smile at Tom. ‘Hey Tor,’ he says with a playful smile.

  I cover his smile with my mouth. I turn completely, placing a bent knee either side of his pelvis, straddling him. Pushing my body against him. I kiss him hard with anger and lust. Please don’t end this kiss, please don’t break off this kiss.

  He doesn’t.

  Tom’s hands wrap around my back and pull me closer. Our faces mash into each other and his tongue plunges into my mouth. We’re half biting each other and oh God, we’ve not kissed like this in years. Why did we ever stop kissing like this? I forgot how good he is at kissing. I forgot what his mouth even tastes like. His hands stroke up and down my back, getting quicker and more frantic. It feels so good to finally be touched, I cannot even tell you. The relief. The relief at finally being touched. It releases another grenade of lust. I feel my nipples harden through my bra. My body throbbing in desperate desire. I unbutton Tom’s shirt and he clumsily pulls my top over my head. His bare skin sends another wave of arousal crashing through me. I start kissing his chest. Licking it. Biting it. I want my mouth on his skin. All of his skin. I kiss down and down, showering his pot belly with my kisses. But I don’t even care that it’s there right now – even though it shouldn’t be (and it’s only there because he keeps ordering takeaway). I just care that he’s letting me do this to him and we’re finally going to have sex. Hot sex! Right here on the sofa! Like happy, healthy couples do.

  I bring my face up to his and kiss him again. His tongue lunges out of his mouth, missing mine. He licks my cheek, dousing it with the tang of his saliva. His eyes are closed. His hands paw at my skirt, pull it up, tug my knickers down. I kiss his chest again while unbuckling his belt and undoing his jeans. I tease him with kisses as I pull down his boxers and unleash his erection. It springs out into my face, almost poking me in the eye. It stands straight, pointing to the ceiling in proof that I am still attractive to Tom. I cannot even tell you how validating an erection can be sometimes. I look up playfully as I kiss down the trail of pubic hair leading to his penis. Tom’s eyes are closed, his head thrown back. Oh, I was hoping for sexy eye-contact. And I’m just recovering from that disappointment when he quietly, assertively, forces my mouth down onto his penis …

  OK then, I can give him a blow job. I mean, I’m his girlfriend. That’s what girlfriends do. I’ll give him head for a while to make sure he’s hard enough for sex, because we’ve had trouble sometimes when it comes to keeping him hard. Then I can climb on top and finally feel my boyfriend’s body inside mine, finally feel like we’re lovers again and not just stale housemates. Oh God, I’m so frustrated. I don’t know how long I can do this for. But I suck obligingly and do that thing with his balls that Cosmo told me to do when I was seventeen. I try to go as deep as I can without gagging, twisting my head so his penis lands in the pouch of my cheek rather than hitting my tonsils. I forgot how exhausting these things are. I bob up and down and try not to roll my eyes now. I’m wondering how many minutes I can get away with before turning this into actual sex rather than just oral sex. I can feel he’s close. Six years and I know all his tells – Tom’s orgasms are like a paint-by-numbers. And I’m just about to stop when Tom, sensing it, puts his hand on the back of my head. He wraps my hair around his hand, tugging it hard like a crazed puppeteer, and now he’s … he’s … forcing my head up and down like I’m a porn star. I can hardly breathe. He conducts my head urgently, pushing me so hard I have no time to recover from each thrust driven down my throat. Ouch. His penis hits my gag reflex and my body jolts accordingly. I convulse, but his hand is still tangled in my hair and he shoves me down for another go. I blink madly up at him to signal this is not OK. He doesn’t see me. His eyes are still closed in bliss. He is chasing his orgasm and I am not, apparently, a part of that. Just my throat is. I don’t know if I should hit him to make him stop. I’m not sure what’s happening though. This has not happened before. I’m too shocked and confused so I just let him. Let him use me as his puppet and try to breathe through my nose. He’s pushing and groaning and thrusting. His entire pelvis lifts up and he yanks my hair as he lets himself go into my mouth. I swallow half of it by accident. The other half dribbles down my chin, drips onto my chest.

  This is when Tom releases my head.

  He flops backwards, grinning like a stoned Cheshire Cat. Every limb of his body relaxes. I run to the bathroom and stumble on the way to the sink. I spit everything out and grip the sides of the basin for a moment, staring at my haunted reflection.

  Did that just happen?

  It did just happen. That wasn’t OK. I know it wasn’t OK. But … well … I don’t know. Maybe he got carried away. I mean, he had his eyes closed, he couldn’t see I was uncomfortable. And I didn’t say stop. I never said stop …

  I stare again at myself and take a long breath in and a long breath out. Then I inhale all the uncomfortable emotions and I push push push them down down down because we’ve had a nice evening and I’m sure he didn’t mean it. That’s just how sex is sometimes. Don’t you dare pretend you’ve not been here too.

  I bend over and wash my mouth out from the tap because otherwise Tom won’t kiss me afterwards. He doesn’t like to taste himself on me. He once called it ‘gay’.

  When I get back to the living room, the programme has finished and the TV screen glows blue. Tom has pulled on his trousers and buttoned up his shirt. He doesn’t look at me while I make my way back to him, my bottom half totally naked. He offers up one arm though, with his eyes still closed, and I snuggle into him. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t comment on what happened at all. I mean, he’s put his trousers back on so I guess that means we’re not going to have sex any more.

  ‘Was that … was it … OK?’ I find myself asking. I want him to be pleased. I want him to have enjoyed himself. I feel insecure that maybe it wasn’t good enough.

  He lets out a low purr and pats my head like I’m a dog who has fetched him his slippers. I assume that means yes. I do not think it fair that I needed to ask. He could have said ‘thank you’. I put my knickers back on and nestle further into the crook of his arm.

  I don’t know how I feel: horny, sexually frustrated, used and violated, angry and resentful, worried that the blow job wasn’t good enough? I know not to talk about it though. That is what Google has told me, over and over, while I’ve lain next to his sleeping body after yet another night of sexual rejection, desperately searching the internet for answers.

  ‘My boyfriend doesn’t want to have sex with me.’

  ‘We never have sex.’

  ‘We’ve not had sex in six months.’

  ‘Is it normal to stop hav
ing sex?’

  ‘How often should you have sex?’

  ‘Does my boyfriend have clinical depression or is he just not that into me?’

  You never hear about it this way round. Men are the sexual ones. Women are the ones who need to sometimes lie back and think of England. My friends in long-term relationships drink too much wine and whinge to me about how their husbands always ‘pester’ them. I nod and smile and drink my wine and say, ‘Oh yes, men!’ and roll my eyes. But really I’m thinking, Why does my boyfriend not want to have sex with me? Don’t you realise how lucky you are? I’d give anything to be ‘pestered’.

  Just as I’m on the cusp of crying – my throat catching, my eyes producing a thin veil of moisture to be released as tears – Tom opens his eyes. He turns towards me, reaches out, and gently cups my face. ‘Hello gorgeous,’ he murmurs, leaning down to kiss me on the lips. I dissolve into the kiss, pushing into it. I need this kiss. Oh how I need it. But then Tom makes that ‘mwah’ noise again to signal that the kiss has ended. He leans back, smiling at me mischievously, like he didn’t just do that. Then he holds up his hands and says, ‘So, I guess you’ll be wanting me to do something to you now, won’t you?’

  Before I can compute, he’s shoved his hand between my legs and is half-heartedly tapping at my vagina. He’s a full two centimetres away from my clitoris. I look up at him but he’s not making eye contact any more. In fact he’s … he’s … he’s sort of staring out of the window through the gap between the curtains. He looks bored.

  Is it possible to give someone an orgasm passive-aggressively?

  Because that is definitely what this feels like.

  I close my eyes, so I can at least try to focus on the sensations. Google said you should ‘build on small positive sexual experiences’ and that is what I need to do. If I tell Tom I’m no longer in the mood, or even move his hand to the right place, then that might damage his confidence. So I wiggle into his hand and moan, and it feels good to be touched. Even passive-aggressively. Tom interprets my moan as a direction to get rougher. He inserts two fingers into my dry body. He jabs them back and forth with bored aggression. Oww, it’s really quite hurting. What do I do? I can’t tell him it’s hurting. He’ll never touch me again, but oww. I wince. Oh why can’t sex be like it is on the TV? Where the men know how to touch you and you have one of those vaginas that’s angled in a way that means you can orgasm through penetration? My whole body flinches and I grab Tom’s hand instinctively to stop him. Then I smile up at him, looking grateful. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, kissing the offending hand.

  He doesn’t seem to be wondering why I stopped him. In fact, he looks proud of himself. He pulls me into his armpit again and kisses the top of my head. ‘Horny thing, aren’t you?’ he comments. And now, on top of everything, I’m trying to figure out what the hell that’s supposed to mean.

  I can’t cry though. Because if I cry that will make this a negative experience and you need to build on positive experiences. Maybe now we’ve had this positive encounter, Tom will make the next move? Maybe I’ll come home from a talk and he’ll surprise me by kissing me the moment I walk in the door and go down on me while I’m pushed against the wall. Maybe we’ll have sex in the shower again. We’ve not done that for at least four years. I soothe myself with these fantasies as Tom strokes my hair again.

  Some programme about gap years comes on and we watch it in a daze, making comments about how much we hate all the young people in it. Dee hasn’t replied to my message about the honeymoon photos – probably too busy having sex with Nigel. Well, screw you, Dee. I’ve had sex too! Not actual, penetrative sex, but Google says we’re too focused on penetrative sex. Just touching each other counts as sex, Google says. Try not to get het up about how many times you have sex and just enjoy exploring each other’s bodies, Google says. And Tom and I did just that. I don’t have to worry that we’re one of those couples who never has sex. I’ve reset the worrying-about-it clock. I can relax for at least a month.

  Cat jumps onto my lap, rotating a few times before she slumps herself down. I stroke her head and let her purrs quieten my mind. I try to bathe in the afterglow. Because there is an air of sex that hangs heavily around us.

  Tom suddenly hugs me out of the blue. So tight I almost cannot breathe. I squeal in his arms, feeling the pressure of him pushing on my ribs. Then he lets go and looks right into my eyes.

  ‘What was that for?’ I ask, delighted.

  ‘I love you Tor,’ he replies, before returning his attention to the television.

  And I’ve forgotten how messed up I feel about the blow job by the time the adverts roll around again.

  Month Three

  Amy Price has posted an image:

  *

  Olivia Jessen has posted an image:

  Comments:

  Andrea Simmons: Everything OK, hon?

  Olivia Jessen: Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. Things are just a bit tough atm

  *

  Tori’s WhoTheF*ckAmI? Official Fan Page:

  OK, so I’ve got something to say about f*cking advice. Advice is good, advice is great, advice is well-meaning. But whoever takes it? Who has ever seen an inspirational quote posted on a beautiful background of Paris and suddenly been cured of all their problems?

  Here’s the thing: we all know when something is wrong. Your gut tells you. But sometimes you’re not ready to listen to your gut. Or maybe life won’t ‘allow’ you to listen to your gut? We have rent to pay and reality to face. If everyone spent every day following their gut and inspirational advice posted in pretty font, the world would cease to function. So, while you’re waiting for your life to catch up with your gut, here is some actual life advice. Things you can actually do today to make life easier or better.

  Ready for my #ActualF*ckingLifeAdvice?

  • Do not try to drive anywhere on a Friday afternoon if you can possibly f*cking help it

  • Wear a f*cking skirt when you go for your smear test

  • Add some f*cking mustard to scrambled egg

  • Own-brand painkillers work just as f*cking well as the expensive ones

  • If you like drinking Merlot, always buy bottles from Chile or the f*cking South of France

  What’s your #ActualF*ckingLifeAdvice? Please do post below.

  Love you,

  Tori xx

  *

  My sister’s house is only a five-minute walk from my parents’ house where I’m staying over later. A nice quiet walk, with hardly any traffic, pavement on both sides of the road, and even punctuated with bird song. It’s steaming hot and everyone is out in their gardens.

  I ring the doorbell at Lizzie’s semi-detached three-bed-with-two-bathrooms (and an adjoining garage you could build into an extension). I hear childish shrieks and her telling Georgia to ‘calm down’. Then the door opens and Georgia shoots through the bottom like a greased pig.

  ‘AUNTIE TORTOR, AUNTIE TORTOR!’

  I bend down and she wraps her tiny arms around my neck. I smell her hair, and feel at peace. Love oozes out from every pore of my skin as this little person clings to me like a clam to a ship. Lizzie laughs behind her.

  ‘She’s been excited all morning. Georgie, darling, let Auntie TorTor breathe.’

  Georgia reluctantly withdraws and I stand up and kiss Lizzie on the cheek hello. ‘Hey you,’ I say, then put my hands right on the convex curvature of her stomach. It’s popped since the last time I saw her. ‘How’s the parasite?’

  ‘Honestly! Tor!’ But Lizzie’s laughing and letting me in.

  Georgia skids around our ankles, demanding I read her a book, demanding I come and see her new stickers, demanding I play with the ball. Lizzie makes us tea but Georgia doesn’t let us drink it. The moment I even try to take a sip, she’s shoving That’s Not My Badger into my hand or lifting up her dress and showing me her tummy and insisting we show her ours.

  ‘Mummy’s tummy is the biggest,’ she declares after we obligingly reveal our stomachs. I ca
nnot look away from my sister’s bump. It’s weird and grotesque when it’s not covered with floaty clothes – blue veins decorating it like piped icing, her belly button engorged like it’s sniffed loads of poppers.

  ‘That’s because mummy is growing a baby,’ I say. ‘You’re going to be a big sister, isn’t that exciting?’

  Georgia smiles but you can tell by the blank expression that she has no grasp of the concept. ‘Can I watch Peppa Pig?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ Lizzie bends down and kisses her on both cheeks. Georgia giggles and blooms under the love. It takes a while to get the remote working and to get the TV onto the proper channel. ‘Jake’s always messing about with it so he can play his games’ but eventually Peppa Pig squeals from the screen. The transformation in Georgia is instant. She sits as close as she can, her mouth hanging open. Lizzie shoots me a fake-guilty look and she refills the kettle for a second attempt at tea.

  ‘I feel bad,’ she says. ‘They’re not supposed to watch too much TV, it messes with their development or something.’ She flicks the switch on and the water starts gurgling slowly. ‘But I literally wouldn’t have a chance to wash otherwise. You have no idea, Tor. No idea. I tried to have a shower the other day and Georgia screamed outside and tried to bang down the door. I eventually had to let her in.’