It’s only when I pop to the loo that I am reminded of the results of my waxing. I look like a plucked chicken down there. It’s a good job I’m not going to be having sex any time soon. I rather resemble a twelve-year-old boy in the sausage department, right now. This is not a sexy look for anyone who wishes to remain on the right side of the law.
But, of course, thinking about sex automatically makes me think of Samantha.
I wonder what she would make of my freshly bald bits and pieces, as I walk to my desk, and this drops me back into my pit of depression almost instantly.
Suffice to say, the beauty treatment did not do for me what it did for Monica Blake.
Nor did it convince me that attempting the suggestions sent in from our readers is the right way to go about following up on ‘Dumped Actually’.
After all . . . who the hell really wants to read about me getting a manzilian, anyway?
CHAPTER FIVE
EYES OF A DISAPPROVING DOE
EVERYBODY.
That’s who.
Oh, my good grief.
This is insane.
My second ‘Dumped Actually’ feature was even more popular than the first.
In the two weeks since I published the damn thing, it’s been viewed over four hundred thousand times.
Nearly half a million people have enjoyed rootling, the wee smidgies and my supernova butthole.
You know how I thought Laughlin McPurty might be a bit upset when he read my truthful account of my visit to his salon?
Not in the bloody slightest.
He loved the article.
‘But I don’t understand it!’ I say to Erica as she reads Laughlin’s excited email. ‘I basically slagged his business off!’
Erica shakes her head. ‘Not really, Ollie. The way the story reads, you make it sound like it’s your fault you didn’t have much of a good time.’
I blink a couple of times. ‘Do I?’
‘Yep. You come across as awkward and out of your depth. Any criticism you may have of Mr McPurty’s treatment methods gets swallowed up in your own sense of inadequacy.’
‘Oh. Okay . . . good . . . I guess?’
‘Oh, damn right,’ Erica replies, slamming the lid of her laptop closed. ‘Great work again. If you carry on like this, we’ll have to give you a raise!’
‘Really?’ I say hopefully.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be silly, Ollie. Benedict is still only one step away from getting us shit-canned, even with “Dumped Actually” doing so well.’
‘Oh.’
‘So . . . what are you going to try next, then?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well, the trip to the salon went very well. We need to get you off on another little adventure – as suggested by one of our loyal readers.’
‘Went very well?’ I say in a stunned voice. ‘I’ve been through two tubes of E45, and my arsehole has only just stopped itching.’
‘Yes, Ollie. And over four hundred thousand people loved it. So, I say again . . . what’s next? How about the camping one? That sounds like it might be lots of fun!’
‘I . . . But . . . You . . . I can’t . . . I . . .’ I purse my lips together for a second. ‘I’ll go take a look at my emails,’ I eventually say with resignation, and trudge out of Erica’s office with my head down.
Look, I’m not going all the way up to the bloody Cairngorms.
It’s miles away, and after what happened to me with Laughlin McPurty, I want to be nowhere near anything Scottish for quite some time.
The New Forest will just have to do the job.
And I’m not doing it for a month.
I can just about manage two nights in a tent, and that’s only under extreme duress.
And then there’s the problem of finding a couple of friends to go with me. As I said before, I’ve never been good at keeping my friendships with other men going when I’m with a woman. It’s a character trait I’m not particularly proud of, but it’s just something that tends to happen. Yes, I can still maintain casual friendships, but nothing deeper than that. When I’m putting so much of my energy into a romantic relationship, I can respond to the odd, impromptu invite along to the pub with a mate, but organising anything more than that tends to go by the wayside.
Which creates something of a problem if I’m going to take Wolf Moresby’s advice.
I would ask my dad to come along, but he and Mum are off on another cruise at the moment. This leaves Wimsy as just about my only option.
My only option, that is, until he turns my invitation down flat.
‘I don’t do tenting,’ he tells me over the phone. ‘It’s uncomfortable, cold and boring. And with my luck, I’ll be living in a tent soon, anyway, so I’d rather avoid doing it by choice, thanks.’
And that’s the end of that. I may have persuaded Wimsy to remain on this earth, but he’s still not exactly what you’d call in a good place mentally.
So that leaves me on my own, unfortunately.
What a sorry state of affairs.
Still, maybe a little self-reflection on my own would be a good thing, to be honest. It might give me the chance to get a few things straight in my head. And if I get lonely, I can always talk to a passing badger.
Also, this little adventure should give me more than enough material for ‘Dumped Actually’ volume three, so I’m going to go through with it . . . even though I will be on my lonesome.
Hell, I pretty much feel on my own all the time at the moment, anyway, with Samantha not around. I might as well do it physically, as well as metaphorically.
I manage to convince a local camping supplies shop to let me borrow the equipment I need for free, promising I’ll mention them in the story. Writing an increasingly popular article for a website should come with some perks, after all.
Then it’s just the matter of driving down to the forest and finding somewhere appropriate to pitch my tent.
Trying to recreate Wolf Moresby’s off-the-grid trip to the remote Cairngorms as much as possible, I elect to ignore all of the formal campsites dotted around, and take myself off somewhere nice, quiet and remote.
I get as far as about a quarter of a mile off the road, before deciding that remote is a relative term, and as long as I can’t hear a motorway, then that should be fine. The woodland glade I stumble upon seems perfectly acceptable to me, as the ground is nice and level, and the grass is quite short. It’s pretty much the ideal spot to make a pitch.
You’re not going to read a hilarious account of one man’s bungled attempts to put up a tent at this point. These modern tents are dead easy to erect (more’s the pity for anyone looking for some comedy value here), and within half an hour I have a nice little campsite all set up and ready to go.
There’s the tent, a fold-out chair, a portable heater and a small stove – all laid out in the small clearing I found in the middle of a group of ancient-looking conifers. I am ready to rock and roll.
And by rock and roll, I mean sit quietly and wait for the boredom to render me unconscious.
Camping – as Wimsy pointed out – is boring.
There’s no Wi-Fi, for starters.
And crapping in a bush may sound like a way to be at one with nature, but give me porcelain and a double-flush any day of the week.
Besides, there’s probably poison ivy out there somewhere, and my poor bottom has only just recovered from being red-raw and itchy. I don’t need a repeat performance.
But I will put up with it for a couple of days, because there are probably worse ways to spend a weekend – given that the weather is quite nice, the forest is very pretty and I have about three or four books I’ve been wanting to read for weeks now.
I have entertainment, a nice peaceful environment and several cans of gin and tonic to get through. All should be well.
And indeed, the first evening goes fine. Okay, I burn the sausage casserole on the stove a little bit, and the first book I’ve brought with me – a right old potboiler
of a thriller from a first-time author – ends up being crap, but other than that, it is an extremely relaxing way to spend your time.
I can almost see what Wolf Moresby was on about. Being here in nature is a very therapeutic way to spend your time. It is when it’s summer and the weather is on your side, anyway. Sitting on a chair long into the evening with a small heater keeping you warm as you make your way through the latest Neil Gaiman is a very soothing experience.
I even feel quite comfortable as I turn in for the night. Instead of sleeping on the floor, I have a rather nifty inflatable mattress, which isn’t far off the same comfort level as my bed at home. I drift off in no time, and actually get the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.
That’s the first evening.
By the time the second rolls around, I’m so bored I can hear my neatly manicured toenails growing.
I haven’t looked at Twitter or YouTube in twenty-four hours now. I’ve already finished the Neil Gaiman book, and the remaining two – another couple of potboilers by authors I don’t know – don’t seem appealing in the slightest.
You can only spend so long cooking on a small camping stove before it becomes tedious, and the complete lack of human interaction is really starting to get to me.
At six thirty that evening, I am slouched in my camping chair, staring at a squirrel who is mucking about in the tree opposite without an apparent care in the world.
It’s not that I’m particularly enamoured with the squirrel’s doings, it’s just that there’s quite literally nothing else to look at that is in any way interesting.
Enjoying your natural surroundings is good for a couple of hours, but there’s only so much stimulation you can get from a bunch of conifers and a few sparrows before you start to yearn for a bit of Sky News.
The squirrel gives me a look that seems to suggest that I am an ungrateful bastard, before scrabbling his way up the tree and out of my sight.
Sigh.
What the hell do I do now?
Sigh.
Go for an evening walk? Nah. I might get lost.
Sigh.
Get an early night? Doubtful. I haven’t gone to sleep at seven thirty since I was five.
Sigh.
Get the laptop out and do some writing? Ugh. I don’t think so. Besides, the battery life is terrible on the damn thing these days. I’d probably get into a nice little flow, and the bloody thing would conk out.
Sigh.
. . .
. . . . . .
How about I send Samantha a text message to see how she’s doing?
My heart rate immediately speeds up at the prospect of doing such a thing. My phone has no Wi-Fi signal, but I can still send a text . . . or even make a call, should I wish to.
To Samantha.
Just to see how she is, you understand.
Nothing more than that. Nothing at all.
Would she answer? That’s the question.
I’ve hoped and longed for her to call me these past few weeks (as pretty much everyone does when they get dumped – we all just want them to come back, don’t we?) but it hasn’t happened, of course.
So, why would she answer a call from me, if she hasn’t tried to get in touch herself?
And even if she did pick up her phone, what would that mean?
I sit up in the camping chair, with suddenly sweaty palms.
This is the first time I’ve contemplated doing something like this. After the horror of Thorn Manor, the idea of getting in contact with Samantha again has made me feel physically sick. The embarrassment, humiliation and downright unfairness of it all is just too overwhelming.
And yet, here I am, thinking about getting in touch with her again for the first time since the break-up.
Aaaargh!
I should never have come out here!
This crazy notion wouldn’t have popped into my head if I had enough other stuff to distract me.
But here in the forest, all on my own, with nothing better to think about, my brain has decided to throw up this most horrendous of options, and now I’m sat here on tenterhooks, considering it . . .
I pick up my phone.
I put my phone down again.
I pick it up once more.
I throw it down on to the ground, like it’s done something wrong.
I pick it back up and actually open the iMessage app. I’d deleted all of my previous messages to Samantha through teary eyes a couple of days after the break-up, but I still have her number saved. Couldn’t go that far, you see.
I start to write a message. I just ask her how she is, what she’s been up to and how she’s feeling. I keep it light, breezy and in no way representative of my actual feelings.
My thumb hovers over the send button, and the entire universe holds its breath.
Then I remember the horrified expression on her face as she said no. And that long, drawn-out note on the trombone that signalled my descent into misery.
No!
No!
NO!
I literally throw the phone across the glade in which I’m sat, watching it plummet into a thicket of tall grass.
My heart continues to race for a few more minutes.
I was this close.
This. Bloody. Close.
This close to making what would have been a huge mistake. What Samantha did to me was absolutely awful. She’s the last person I should speak to.
Gah.
Loving and hating someone at the same time can really take it out of you.
It’s a good half an hour before I’ve calmed back down completely – after I’ve given myself a good talking to. It would have been nice to have a friend out here with me to do this, but sometimes I feel like my own subconscious is another person, anyway, and has no problem berating me for any stupid decisions I make . . . or nearly make, in this case.
With that taken care of, another full hour goes by before I inevitably become bored again.
I deliberately don’t look over at where I’d thrown the phone. Not even once. That way definitely lies madness.
. . . more madness, I mean.
But what the hell do I do with myself instead?
If I just sit here any longer, the temptation to go pick that bloody phone up might come over me, and that must be avoided under all circumstances.
I have to think of something to occupy myself with.
. . .
. . . . . .
I could, you know, have a wank.
I contemplate this idea for a moment, as I stare back up at the trees – and resolutely not at that tall thicket of grass with the mobile phone in it.
I am alone, after all. There’s nobody around to see me. And if I go into the tent, I will have privacy, anyway, even if somebody did blunder past.
And there’s nothing else to do, is there? Nothing else to occupy my mind sufficiently to prevent disastrous text message sending.
Wolf Moresby went out into the wilds for some constructive self-reflection. I’m damn sure I’m not going to achieve anything like that, but a little self-abuse probably wouldn’t go amiss in its place.
Sod it.
Why not?
With my mind made up, I surreptitiously get out of the chair and turn back to the tent. Quite why I’m being surreptitious is beyond me. There’s no bugger about to see what I’m doing, with the possible exception of the squirrel – and I doubt he’d cast much judgement on me having a quick shufty. After all, he does spend a great deal of his time playing with his own nuts.
I climb back into the tent and lie down on the inflatable mattress, cramming the sleeping bag behind my head to prop myself up a bit.
Then I divest myself of my jeans and boxers, looking down upon my penis after I have done so.
Here we reach something of a problem . . .
Because my laptop battery is knackered, and because there’s no Wi-Fi, I’m not going to be able to find any pornography to assist me. That leaves me with just my imagination.
&
nbsp; Now, ordinarily, this would not be an issue. I am the type of person who has no trouble conjuring up convincing daydreams in my head (I’m a writer, after all), and could certainly create a nice scenario that would help me.
The problem I have is that whenever I think about sex these days, I invariably think about the sex I had with Samantha. She liked to wear black lingerie. I can still hear the whisper of it as she crossed her legs.
Now, Mr Penis has no trouble with these memories whatsoever. The rest of Ollie Sweet isn’t quite so happy about them, though. The last thing I want to do is think about Samantha any more than I already have this evening. That phone isn’t all that far away, after all . . .
But Mr Penis cares nothing for such things.
He is indifferent to my heartache and mental pain. All he knows is that if I think long and hard about the sexiest times I spent with Samantha, it’s infinitely preferable to any pornography that I could watch. Personal experience trumps other people getting down to it every time. And Samantha and I did have some truly epic sex, whether she was in lingerie or not. I’ve never felt as sexually compatible with anyone before. Not even Yukio, whose seemingly encyclopaedic knowledge of carnal pursuits was never-ending – and quite exhausting.
It’s a cliché, but being 100 per cent in love with someone does make the sex better. And if that person has a kinky side that is not averse to wearing sexy black lingerie a lot, then all the better.
Sigh.
With a picture of Samantha in her finest lingerie unwillingly fixed in my mind, I begin to massage some life into Mr Penis. This doesn’t take long, and before a minute has elapsed, I am standing proud.
Then something occurs to me. Samantha always liked to make love with a musical accompaniment. Something sexy, with a steady rhythmic beat. If I’m going to imagine being with her again for this, I might as well go the whole hog and recreate the experience as much as I can.
Leaving Mr Penis to twitch to himself for a moment, I reach into my rucksack, and pull out my MP3 player and earphones. Popping them into my ears, I select some Massive Attack to listen to. The hard, pulsating rhythm of their music is always good to have on in the background while you’re getting naughty – even if you have to ignore some of the lyrics. I stick on Mezzanine, as it’s still their best album, and return my attention to the task at hand.
Dumped, Actually Page 10
