The One - No one said it would be easy

by Goldsmith, J. F.

  OH NO! SHIT!! The nasty clown that had invented the game of love apparently had another joker up his sleeve and he played it now: it was called “bad timing”. What exactly was I supposed to do now? On spec, I pretended to be pleased. I couldn’t very well turn around and go, ha-ha, too bad, we’re history. I was trapped. Back home the full extent of the debacle became ever clearer. Ha-ha, very funny. Whoever wrote the script for this story must have been a proper prankster, because while my heart was hitting Arctic temperatures, Number Nineteen’s heart was starting to glow with red-hot fervor. Now it was Number Nineteen who was writing the lovey-dovey emails and texts, and I was the one who didn’t reply. I just sat and stared at them numbly, he was writing really sweet and lovely things, but they just didn’t touch me at all. I was a block of ice. Not-in-love personified. And no idea how to get out of it.

  Number Nineteen was away for a few days and somehow his imagination seemed to have become unhinged. He suddenly started to write very crude emails, of which I remember a sentence that went something like this: “I want to pour myself all over you and cover you with my sperm from top to bottom.” Well. That was exactly what I’d been waiting for – my get-out-of-jail-free card! I made him wait for a few days, then sent my reply, an all-out assault: I staged a huge ruckus, acted disgusted and outraged, how could he write such gross things, I was shaken to the core, that was the worst repellent crap I’d ever had the misfortune to hear from any guy, he sounded like a slobbering sex maniac, and now he had wrecked everything and so on and so forth. Pow wham crash wallop, left hook, right hook and a fist driven into the stomach for good measure. Of course I’d pulled a face when I first read his email but, well, it wasn’t exactly devastating. He, on the other hand, was completely destroyed by my attack. He must have wanted the earth to open up and swallow him, he was so ashamed for the wet dream he’d shared with me. He called me, sent me a zillion emails, apologized a thousand times. When he got back, we met to talk things over and clarify matters. For the first time ever, he invited me to his home, huge proof of how serious he was about me.

  But it was too late. Since I kind of liked him, though, I forgave him for his bizarre email and suddenly I had the courage and decency to tell him the truth. I confessed that, sadly, I wasn’t in love with him, that I’d tried everything to make it so but that the fire I’d kindled myself at the beginning just would not keep burning. He, on the other hand, confessed that he loved me, and that he was utterly wretched with it all, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Well done, Clown of Love! You really surpassed yourself here! Our parting was a tearful one because I really regretted that there wasn’t any chance of us being a couple. I cried buckets also because I felt so sorry for him, and for me, and because I was so damn angry and sad and frustrated and disappointed about the entire shit-assed bloody love thing in general. Sob-sob, sniff-sniff.

  Number Nineteen and I didn’t keep in touch. My girl friend told me that he really went through the mill after our break-up and was quite out of it for ages. Having managed to turn a grown man of forty into a jibbering wreck was something I put down to experience, but it didn’t make me feel good.

  Number Twenty: Making love with a skater boy

  Aah. Sigh. Purr. Smile. Grin. Whenever I remember Number Twenty, I get a nice warm feeling in my belly. Number Twenty was only a tiny, brief and harmless interlude during my it’s-fun-to-be-single phase. Short and sweet. With Number Twenty, it was definitely sweet. Number Twenty was like a bar of chocolate, just right for munching and enjoying, and when it’s gone, it’s gone – doesn’t matter, it was yummy, sweet and wonderful and I wasn’t expecting anything else.

  It’s kind of funny but, even though Number Twenty and I only had sex three times and it was always entirely clear that we would never be a couple, I felt really warm, deep and unconditional affection towards him. I wasn’t in love with him, not at all, but somehow I had really taken him into my heart. Just like that – for no reason. Number Twenty was a real sweetie pie. He was totally cute, a little poppet, always in a good mood and yet, at the same time, really sexy in his own sweet way. Number Twenty was a skater boy. Hello cliché, you got me again – I’d always had a thing for skater boys, who hadn’t? Wouldn’t any woman love to try, just once in her life, one of those sweet lanky skater boys with a mop of curly hair, who drag their feet when they walk, wear baseball caps and hide their round crunchy butts beneath those baggy jeans? Come on girls, admit it! Number Twenty was exactly that. And one of the very sweetest sweeties around. He wasn’t one of those who tried hard to be super-cool and inapproachable, he was really lovely and nice, someone you can’t help but like because his boyish charm is to die for.

  Number Twenty popped up on my oh-hello-you-gorgeous-boy radar during a film shooting abroad that lasted for several weeks. He was a member of the film crew, as was I. We didn’t know each other but it seemed as though, from the moment we first set eyes on each other, his heart anchored itself on me. To start with, he didn’t really register with me, he was just some other guy with grubby cargo pants, baseball cap and his hands full of cables. But whenever we ran into each other on set, he beamed at me and didn’t even try to hide his pleasure at seeing me. When he saw me, he immediately stopped whatever he was doing and presented me with yet another sweet little surprise: a self-picked bunch of little daisies (MELT! How sweet is that?!) or a song in front of the entire crew: “You are my heart’s delight…” (I blushed like crazy, wanted to die of embarrassment and hug him all at the same time) or a bar of chocolate that he shoved into the back pocket of my jeans with the comment “sweets for my sweet” or sometimes he just softly sang my name.

  The unwritten rules of flirting dictate that you try your utmost to ensure that no one notices when you adore someone, and that includes the adored person. The reason being that it is just too dangerous, since, if you are rebuked, the resulting likelihood of being made a complete fool of in front of all and sundry is extremely high and very scary. Which is why you’d rather devote in private, even if that makes you double up with your suppressed desire to let it all out. Number Twenty didn’t care a hoot about these rules, knowing full well that his sweet antics were being played out before an audience. The entire crew enormously enjoyed his courtship ritual and my bashful-princess attitude. The only one to be in a horribly pissy mood about it was the production manager who was gay and was hankering after my sweet skater boy himself. To start with, I didn’t react to Number Twenty’s courting other than by blushing and smiling. I had no intention of confirming the cliché of screwing on set, which isn’t exactly a rarity in the film industry.

  However. Little strokes fell big oaks – and Number Twenty’s little strokes, his persistent sweet charm offensive, eventually afforded him temporary admittance to my heart and bed. He practically melted me away with his innocence and his carefree attitude, his openness and his obvious admiration of me, which he didn’t even attempt to conceal. In short: he outmaneuvered me with his genuine display of affection – check mate. More evidence to support the theory that winning someone’s heart doesn’t have to involve mind games. Affection creates affection – that’s how simple life can be! But however delighted I was, I wasn’t going to make it that easy for him. We came closer and closer, spent quite a few free moments together on set, did a lot of talking and being silly, but I wouldn’t allow for anything else to happen. I kept him hanging on for more until the evening of our very last day of working together – the project was finished and I didn’t have to worry about being the subject of on-set gossip anymore, it no longer mattered since everyone was leaving in the morning. The entire team would be scattered to the four winds and on-set gossip and tittle-tattle wouldn’t be of the remotest interest to anybody anymore.

  The famous last night of a movie production: the entire crew hanging out together in someone’s hotel room at a late hour, alcohol flowing freely, chased by endless supplies of cigarettes and spliffs. You’re relaxed and happy because of a job well done, but also a little
sad because it’s over. Eventually the crowd dissipates into different rooms, and I ended up all of a sudden with half a film crew in my room, which included Number Twenty. Since everybody was fairly exhausted by then and there obviously wouldn’t be any spectacular partying anymore, people kind of dwindled back out of my room again, one by one. The fewer the people, the more Number Twenty got comfortable on my bed. Then suddenly there was only the two of us left, and he got up, all startled, mumbled an embarrassed “erm, I think I’d better go too,” and walked towards the door, scratching his head. We said good-bye, he briefly held my hand and wished me a good night. I thought it unbelievably cute that now, when I was, so to speak, within easy reach, he’d suddenly gone all bashful. I knew that, if we wanted to, this was it. There wouldn’t be another chance like this. But I didn’t want to take the initiative this time, this was his show – he’d started it, so I expected him to do whatever he had to do to win his princess now. And if he couldn’t – well, then it wouldn’t happen. As it looked, he couldn’t and it wouldn’t. Number Twenty left. Pity, I thought, but I wasn’t sad or disappointed.

  I went to lie down on my hotel room bed and was about to get comfy when there was a knock on the door. I opened, and there he was again. He was completely embarrassed and said, he didn’t really want to go at all, he’d much rather stay with me. As he stood there in my open door, scraping up every last ounce of courage, my heart melted again. “Well then you’d better come in and get comfortable,” I said cheekily. I nudged him onto my bed, so there wouldn’t be any possibility of awkward moments, and lay down right next to him. He sighed blissfully and just took me in his arms, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Which I guess it was, and it was absolutely lovely to lie there, cuddled into him. It was just a matter of minutes before the cuddle-huddle turned into a kissing-huddle. His kisses were wonderful. Everything he did, he did with the utmost deliberate care and gentleness, as though I was an unimaginably precious jewel. His gentleness was so sincere and tender that I melted even more. He asked me again and again whether everything was OK and whether I really didn’t mind him doing what he was doing to me.

  Usually there’s only one word for talk of the “and how is it for you, how are you, what are you feeling” variety during sex: irritating. Besides, does anyone really talk that much about sex as they would have you believe? Yesyes we’re all very sophisticated and ever so open and not at all shy. But, hand on heart: discussing your sexlife, for example with your girl friends, is one thing, that’s super easy. But what about your partner? How bloody difficult is it – let’s be honest here! – to talk with your partner about sex? “Darling, I’d like it from the back today, and can you get your act together with all this erratic licking and fiddling about, it’s bloody annoying!” That sounds really horrible and frankly, who’d want to say stuff like that? Obviously, the moment you tell someone what you’d like them to do, you’re implying that whatever it was they did before wasn’t any good or that they still hadn’t managed to find your most secret lust buttons. And then they’re going to be all hurt and disappointed and upset and miffed. And then you’ll have to comfort them. And you can kiss good-bye to any chance of a relaxed sexlife, because from now on in, you’re going to be under close scrutiny, because your partner will want to know whether he’s finally doing it right. I certainly think it’s really nice when the other one tries to ensure that you’re completely happy and satisfied, but a constant “Like this? Is that OK? Tell me how you want it!” is simply a pain. Sometimes you’d just like to be surprised and see where things lead. As for me, I don’t have one specific all-time favorite super technique. Well, unless I’m doing it myself, then I know exactly what buttons to push for maximum results within a few seconds. But it doesn’t work like that when you’re with someone else. And I don’t like the same stuff day in, day out. Which I don’t know beforehand. Sometimes the appetite comes with the eating. And every hand, every tongue is different, so it’s entirely normal that the same technique, when applied by one person, may feel like nothing at all, whereas, when another person does exactly the same thing, you explode with orgasmic fireworks.

  But with Number Twenty it wasn’t like that at all, it was just lovely. I undressed him and what appeared was the body of a boy: thin, lanky, wiry, almost no body hair, really soft skin and, naturally, chequered boxer shorts. He looked on in amazement as I undressed him, like he couldn’t believe his eyes. There he was, my pretty little skater boy, lying almost naked on my hotel room bed, and I thought he was drop-dead gorgeous and cute. I moved my hands over his beautiful body with the same tenderness he’d used on mine, and took my sweet time doing it. He whispered my name over and over again and it was unbelievably romantic. He helped me shed my clothes and there we were, lying intertwined, kept separate only by his chequered boxer shorts and my red cotton string. I was so keen on sleeping with this sweet guy! I whispered a “sleep with me” into his ear and he responded with a “oh God that would be wonderful, I would like that so much!” and clung to me for dear life. This guy just bowled me over with his lovableness and his need for affection. All of him practically screamed “love me!” and you couldn’t help responding, you just had to love him and give him what he needed. This had nothing to do with power games or manipulation, not at all, but the little skater boy had something about him, something that you couldn’t escape from, something – watch out: kitsch alarm! – “magical”.

  I got us both completely naked and at that point didn’t care a hoot what his equipment was like, I just wanted to grant him his wish of sleeping with me. He had a cock that suited him, a cute one that was built like the body it dangled from. Then we got going, with me underneath and him on top. He remained gentle and tender and although I was usually the one who liked it nice and slow, this time I grabbed his utterly yummy butt and took charge. I determined speed and strategy and he just let it happen. He kept kissing me, holding my head, stroking my hair away from my face. It was lovely, just absolutely lovely. Neither of us had to pretend anything, we each just did whatever we needed and wanted. The young man felt so good inside of me that I came pretty quickly and intensely.

  He seemed surprised that I’d come so soon and watched me with fascination and awe. “Wow,” he whispered reverently. “I’ve never had the privilege of experiencing a woman’s orgasm before.” Then he thanked me and could barely calm himself, he was so euphoric about my orgasm. Do you suppose all skater boys are this delightful? Then I let him do his thing, not without holding and grabbing and kissing him. He came quite quickly, too. He sank down on me, exhausted, and whispered: “That was so wonderful, I’ve never had such beautiful sex, thank you thank you thank you!” I melted all over again. The guy just killed me, he was so sweet. None of this macho “whoa great fuck, you’re the hottest broad in the world” crap, he really spoke from the heart, and “beautiful sex” was just what it was. Sex with Number Twenty was beautiful. Not wildly horny or anything like that – it was beautiful. We cuddled up and Number Twenty told me that he’d spent a long time with a girl who’d been subjected to terrible things by some shit-asshole, as a result of which she could hardly ever have sex. And the few times she permitted it, she didn’t really enjoy it. This would explain his exceedingly caring gentleness, and at that moment I found him even more lovely.

  We fell asleep arm in arm and when dawn broke he sneaked out of my room and into his, so that there wouldn’t be any potential embarrassment in the hotel corridors later on. When we met at breakfast, he beamed at me again and my heart gave a little gasp of delight. He sat next to me and although we were entirely cool above tabletop level, below tabletop level his hand found mine and we had breakfast holding hands. It was truly romantic. Parting time approached, he was headed for a different part of Britishy, far away from me. We hugged, like crewmembers do after a shoot, and I had a lump in my throat. Sitting with some crewmembers in the going-home-bus, a tear rolled down my cheek, I couldn’t help it. But, strangely enough, it wasn’t actually
terrible because, despite the sadness, I had a nice warm feeling in my belly and I had to smile. That we’d spent last night together remained our secret, neither he nor I liked the idea of being gossiped about.

  We exchanged a few text messages and talked on the phone, he was still an absolute sweetie. I even managed to visit him twice, although on neither occasion did I have much time and so we reconvened visiting hours to his bed without further ado. Each of those times, the sex was just as beautiful and sincere as before. Because he was so incredibly sweet, the shared flat he lived in was – amazingly – not that hard to block out. Which was no mean feat, seeing as his living conditions were a complete disaster. Everything was grubby and the absolute opposite of “House Beautiful” – but hey, that’s not much to put up with for beautiful sex! At some stage, our contact kind of ceased, just like that, without any drama, and that was perfectly OK. We had no expectations of each other, we knew that we didn’t really fit together in real life and all we did was give each other some beautiful moments, like a lovely gift. We just wanted a sweet little nibble. Nothing more. All that’s left of Number Twenty is a sweet memory. Whenever I think of him, I smile.