by Katrina Liss
My a la carte meal complete, I go into the living room and put my iPod in the speaker dock, selecting Tunnel Vision and pressing play. It's my favourite track of JT's. I can't stop playing it over and over. The unclean version. It's on and I turn it up nice and loud. Thankfully the lady in the flat below is certified deaf and we can get away with any amount of noise we like. I'm going to practise my new moves while I wait for Bath Boy to reappear.
I strip off my tight denim shorts and black vest top. It's damn hot in the flat in the afternoons, as it’s west facing it gets all the sun. I'm much more comfortable and cooler like this, in my underwear. I’m not supposed to do exercise after a piercing but I’m only doing some stretches. I slowly drop into the side splits, and then face forward, lying down on my elbows. I move into various poses on the floor, trying out a little of our new routine which is based in the times of Prohibition, Bonnie & Clyde, and done our particular style. I'm singing along, out of myself, and having a Justin Timberlake aural orgasm as I writhe around.
My phone suddenly blares to life with its Big Ben ring-tone and I get up and turn the iPod off to answer it.
“I was well into that... Turn it on again,” Mason shouts from the bathroom.
“Tough. You'll have to wait. I'm on the phone,” I shout back.
It's Cassandra, my best friend, and also an excellent hairdresser. “Hey Sand, how's things?” I answer.
“Okay, I guess. You coming out tonight?”
“Might as well. Not much else to do on my lonesome other than overdose on TV and drink myself to sleep. Mason's jumping Summer’s bones again tonight.”
“Oh…I thought she was past history,” she says in a highly disappointed tone of voice.
“Apparently not, although God knows why. He must have a stick insect fetish,” I say loudly.
“I heard that,” he shouts.
“Just a sec, Sand...” I say to her.
I put the phone under a cushion for a moment and walk up to the bathroom door to shout back at him.
“Mase, she's way too thin and you know it. Apart from the jugs or course, and they definitely aren't real.”
“Yes, they are. You're just jealous 'cos you don't have any.”
“I'm not discussing the size of my tits with you,” I shout indignantly.
“There's no size to discuss, is there?”
I'm starting to blow.
“Well I've got news for you, stud, your dick's on the small side of average.”
A blatant lie, but whatever.
“Oh yeah? Wanna come measure it now?”
I can't help but snort with laughter.
“No, thank you, I'd rather poke my eyes out than size up your dick.” But still, I imagine the situation in my head, and I get a heated flush.
“Your loss, Babycakes.”
I blow out slowly.
Ooooh… that guy…
I get back on the phone and continue my conversation with Sandy, more quietly this time.
“Sorry about that... so... shall we meet at the bar... at eightish?”
“Okay, and get dressed up, there's a party afterwards, if you fancy doing that?”
“You know me. Always up for that. Is ummm, he going?” I ask even more quietly.
She'll know who I mean by ‘he.’
Mason's best pal... the very hot, lickable Jackson.
Unfortunately Jackson's very off limits. I've got Mason's message loud and clear. But I'd like to ogle and chat with him. There's no harm in that, is there? Mason really should lighten up, because the way he's behaving has made his bestie the forbidden fruit. And we all know what happened to that, don't we?
“I'm not sure about Jackson, but Nathan and Grant, and some of Mason's other pals will be there. Oh, and a couple of Ella’s friends, some guys her new boyfriend knows...”
“Sounds cool. See you later then. If I can ever get in the bathroom and get myself ready, that is. Bath Boy's taking another long swim with his duck.”
She makes a strange little sound, like a strangled squeak, in my ear. “Oh please, don't set me off, my mind and body are swimming his way, Olympic speed...”
“I'd swim in the other direction, if I were you. He’ll eat you alive. Have you seen Jaws?” I snigger.
Cassandra is pretty hot for Mason. I’ve seen her catching fire in his presence. A swim might be a good idea. It would put out the flames.
But he's really cool with her, almost to the point of frozen. I know exactly why as well. It's because she's Sandy... and she's my best friend. Besties are not to be played with, either way. I'm sure if she wasn't, she'd be toast by now. She’s blonde and right up his street, being somewhat Barbie-esque.
“I'd better go, Bill's calling me. I've got a late customer,” she says.
“Okay, see you later then. Bye.”
I tap end call, toss my phone in my bag, and turn the music back on, at the beginning, for another, full on, writhe around.
I resume my erotic poses and stretches on the floor.
Finally exhausting my repertoire, I end up grabbing my mat and doing some yoga while I wait... and wait...
God, the guy can bathe for England.
The bathroom door finally swings opens, a good twenty odd minutes later, and out he strolls. I don't ask what the hell he's been up to in there. I really don't want to know. And he'd probably tell me in graphic detail.
He's surrounded by a cloud of steam and a blast of gorgeous male cologne that sends my senses crazy for a second or two.
His hips are wrapped in his “Eat Me” monogrammed black towel.
I have to admit it's kinda cute.
“Yum... I'm starving, where can I bite?” I joke, smacking my lips noisily.
He'd make a nice meal in his present state. Clean shaven, hair a bit sticky-up and fluffy where it's been towel dried in a mad frenzy, and his skin's a little pink from the superheated bath.
He gives me a pair of raised eyebrows as his eyes flick over me, sitting cross-legged on the yoga mat, in my bright red undies. His gaze finally comes to rest on my modest tits.
I guess he's noticing I'm a woman at the moment, even if I don't meet the Barbie standard.
“Just dive in whenever you like,” he says, in his slow characteristic drawl, his mouth turning into a wide grin.
We often indulge in chummy flirt sessions. Sometimes they're quite hilarious and at other times not. In fact, we regularly end up throwing things at each other.
“What's on the menu today?”
“Whatever you fancy.” His eyes flash wide in amusement and he refastens his towel with a quick re-wrap, a little lower and more loosely, I notice.
He's really flirty tonight. And enjoying it way too much.
I'll wipe that smug smile off his handsome face somehow.
“Mmm, something hot and spicy and big. Something to shut me up,” I suggest with a snigger. “Pepperoni pizza would be nice.”
“Pizza, eh, I'm all outta that. But if you need shutting up I've got something much more satisfying,” he chuckles.
“Hang on a sec. I need to get a plate and my knife and fork... and my ruler... Don't want to cut off more than I can chew, do I?” I joke. Getting to my feet I whip his towel from him with a quick swipe.
He laughs loudly, surprise showing on his face. Then, unconcerned he's in the buff, he grabs the towel back from me, and flicks me in the face with it.. He slings it over his shoulder and strolls off to his room to get tarted up and ready for a hot roll in the sack with Summer, the stickie.
I look at his retreating nakedness aesthetically for a few seconds. He's got a really beautiful slim and sculpted body. Perfectly proportioned with tight muscles that move fluidly under his skin. He is graceful, but at the same time, very masculine. Like a sleek male panther. His usual standard of unkempt and brooding dark looks only adds to his appeal, providing a little rough and tough to the beauty underneath. A kind of scruffy gloss on top.
But it’s his hot backside that really grabs my attention. He could win a p
rize with that ass.
I sigh loudly.
I know Mason very well. Both in the mental and physical sense.
Inside and out, and back to front. I spend a lot of time lying on various parts of him. And of course, I live with him. I guess if anyone's gonna know him really well, it's me.
But despite his obvious, physical attractions, which I'm constantly aware of, he's not my type.
For two important reasons.
One of those is me and the other is him.
I'm much more serious about life, and about my relationships, and very careful about the men I get involved with. I've been so badly hurt in the past, I hardly date anymore.
At twenty five, I know exactly what I want and need. I have a seven point checklist. Exclusivity, a real connection, the possibility of future permanence, love, passion, honesty and trust. It's a tall order, I know that. But these things are very important to me.
I'm not settling for anything less. That's what I tell myself, anyway. But who knows, I might have to lower my standards down the line, or I could become an old maid with a cat for company.
Mason's a born player and heart breaker. And, as I don't want to get my heart broken, I won't let him in mine, or even let him touch it with his fingertip, just in case it's extra fragile somehow.
I was tempted by him in the beginning. Because there's definitely a lot of chemistry between us.
On the stage it gives us an edge. It's almost an essential. The type of material we do needs a strong connection to make it work. A living pulse flowing between the leads. And we have that in spades. I'm high on him and he's high on me. We both admit we turn each other on. But when the music stops and we're alone, the heat dissipates and we're very hands off. Although we fool around a lot, like friends do, it's light hearted and purely for fun.
Mason put me straight on how things were going to go down between us, from the very beginning.
In one of our earliest, honest, getting to know you chats, he revealed that he doesn't intend to settle down and have a conventional family life, ever. Which I want to do, eventually. Of course, being honest, as we were, I told him that. He's adamant he won't change his mind, and neither will I. So, as far as this rather important life choice is concerned, we are incompatible.
He says his freedom is more important to him than love, which in his opinion is vastly overrated, and he's not at all interested in having kids. I think he's a fool and he'll be a lonely old man when he starts to age and his good looks fail to attract any more hot blondes. I told him this in no uncertain terms. As his friend and flatmate, I felt it was my duty to try and point him in the right direction.
But it only made him laugh. Which was a shame, because I meant it to be taken seriously. He's definitely not the serious type, though. He said he planned on getting his fill of life as a young man. Who the fuck cared what happened in his fifties and sixties. He'd worry about that then, if he lived that long.
He was clearly laying down our relationship ground rules. Making sure I knew the lie of the land and didn't initiate any unrequited emotional entanglement.
It did cross my mind that he might be warning me off because he was worried I'd sneak up on him somehow, marry him, and have his babies without him noticing. But in any case, I did appreciate his upfront honesty. It was thoughtful. He could have taken me for a ride, in between Barbies, and abused his friendly position a little, but he didn't. He has integrity and that's a big plus to his character.
So, we've now put each other firmly in the friend and flatmate category.
We really are good friends, despite our differences. And we need to get along, on a nice even keel, because we spend so much time together. It would be a painful and difficult existence otherwise.
I've told Sandy, more than once, in very simple terms, so there's no ambiguity in her mind.
'Don't even go there, he's a fricking nightmare...'
Unfortunately, this has only served to make him all the more appealing to her.
The fact that he's a bad boy, a dyed in the wool player, a Barbie junkie, and not looking for love or even a sixth date, turns her on like nothing else.
She literally swoons with lust and flushes all over at the mere mention of his name, like a cheerleader with a mad crush on the high school football star.
It's kinda sad really. Because she won’t be the one to change him. From what I've seen, I don't think anyone will.
3
There's twenty of us in his crew. We're progressive, urban, modern, traditional, fringe, and just about everything else.
We're CENSORED.
It's an apt name for our particular style and brand of dance. Because it's for adult eyes only. It's tasteful but rather erotic. We tell a story, in heated choreography. Love, raging passion, heartbreaking betrayal, simmering hatred... and all those key emotives. We set the scene in any era in time, from early stone-age caves to futuristic spaceships.
We're booked up for the next three months at the Adelphi, currently allotted Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings. Not the best of days, granted, but it's regular pay.
When we achieve the dizzy heights of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday stardom, I'll crack open the champagne and run around Trafalgar Square in a thong bikini yelling... “Yee-ha...We've made it...!”
But until then, I'll keep my inner joy, at our continuing steps up the success ladder, all to myself. Just in case I tempt fate and it all goes pear shaped.
Mason and I are partners, and the principal leads in the troupe. We know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Not that we have many of the latter.
Dancing with him is the love of my life. And I'm pretty sure it's a two way street.
Acting the part of lovers on the dance floor suits us both down to the ground. I get to roll all over a good looking man and he gets to roll all over me. It's not sex, but it feels pretty good at times. And tit size aside, he thinks I have the best body and the cutest ass ever.
Off the dance floor we're wicked buddies who straight talk to the point of rudeness with each other. It's irrelevant that we have X and Y chromosomes and different body parts.
I know that men and women don't generally have this kind of strong friendship successfully, because sex gets in the way. But we seem to manage it without too much effort. We're strictly compartmentalised, divided and controlled.
I’m sure we could sleep naked together and not be tempted at all.
Not that I plan on testing that out, just in case I'm wrong.
4
I'm getting ready for my big Friday night of fun. And, of course, the grand nose-stud unveiling.
Mason calls out, “Don't wait up, Babycakes,” and leaves with a slam of the door.
I wish he wouldn’t call me that. Babycakes.… it’s all about boob size with him.
I’m in the process of getting my dress on. I eye my modest cakes. Hopefully they don’t look too baby in this sweet little number. It’s black, of course. Short, tight, and sleeveless with a slash neck.
It's a squeeze, but I'm finally in there. And it's looking kinda slinky and cute, and hugging my ass tighter than Mason in a rapid uplift. My backside more than makes up for the lack of assets upside.
I put on my make-up, just a flutter of powder to dull the pinkness round my nose piercing. Straightening my long hair, I pin and arrange it in a sleek side do, sweeping across one shoulder. The ends get a few curls for a little more glamour.
“Mmmmm, not too bad at all,” I say out loud, looking at the finished result, and smiling to myself.
I’m not that beautiful but I scrub up really well, with plenty of slap and a few little tweaks here and there. I’m a good canvas, so Sandy says.
I smother myself liberally in Dior, to complete the knock-him-dead look.
Not that I know for sure if Jackson will be there or not. He tends to work evenings. He specialises in the technical side of showbiz; backstage lighting and audio stuff.
I know I really shouldn't do it, behind Mason's
back, but I send Jackson a sneaky little text.
Mason doesn't know we have each others numbers, purely for an emergency’s sake, we’ve reasoned. So far we've managed to avoid the temptation of texting for non emergencies.
- going to the bar, see you there maybe?
He replies instantly.
- K :) Got the weekend off work – hanging with the guys already
I smile such a big smile my nose throbs.
- Masons gone out - with Summer.
- he mentioned it. doesnt know I'm here. game on.
So…we're on the same page, it would appear.
- going to the party later?
- can do. how long will you be babe. drink?
- B there in five red wine :)
It's only half seven, Sandy's not there till eight, and I see a small window of opportunity opening in my love life. I shove my phone in my purse, grab my key, and shoot out of the flat and hurtle downstairs. I break into a very fast walk, almost running down the road in my haste to get him to myself for a short, but hopefully, wonderful half an hour.
I know I'm playing with fire. But I rarely get a chance like this. Mason's always around and on guard. At our place and when we're out. Keeping us separated and well away from each other.
He doesn't care for the look in our eyes.
The one which clearly says; we like each other. Lots. Let's go date and whatever.
Mason doesn't want us mixing too much, talking too much, or even standing remotely close to each other.
It's strange, and probably a bit deep for me to be thinking it, but I'm not completely sure who he's guarding from who. Me from Jackson, or Jackson from me, or just me from myself. I know he doesn't want me to get hurt, because he’s a good friend who knows everything about my past. But I also wonder if his intervention is more complicated than just guarding me.
Hell, maybe I’m thinking too deeply and he’s just anal about keeping his friends, friends.
For some odd reason, all involved play by his rules. Although being consenting adults, we can do the hell we like. But it seems none of us wants to rock the Mason boat too much.
