It was only the fact that Nick and I had wholeheartedly thrown ourselves into our vow to drink all the wine that stopped me leaping into the car and driving straight back down to rescue him. Instead I had to make do with some frantic Googling of bus timetables so that I could assure both him and us that medical attention was in his near future. And then the hospital was dealing with some kind of environmental crisis that meant he was told there would be an eight-hour wait to be seen. So he went back to his flat and FaceTimed Nick, who with the aid of a bottle of ketchup, a supply of bandages and my thumb as a prop, proceeded to talk him through patching himself up.
The only positive thing about the entire, stressful experience is that he was chopping an onion in the first place, therefore slightly reducing my fear of him surviving on boil-in-the-bag rice and cereal alone.
Then Scarlet decided that the stench coming from the collapsed septic tank was making her feel nauseous and that the remedy included me giving her twenty quid to go to the cinema with Petra. And then Benji had an argument with Logan and it took several hours of emotional and in-depth analysis (which naturally, he waited to have until I was tucking him into bed) for him to realise that a disagreement about the strengths and weaknesses of various Pokémon was not a reason to lose a best friend. By which point Nick was asleep on the sofa and my white wine had lost all of its chill.
A bit like me.
It’s been over a week since I received the email about Sex Con and resolved to throw myself into my reinvention as a Sex Goddess, while also injecting huge amounts of carnal pleasure and hilarity into Book Two (still untitled), yet my progress has been painfully slow. It’s not that I haven’t been trying – it’s just that Dylan going to university has really changed the dynamic in the house and I feel bereft and slightly pointless. I’d talk to Nick about it but I feel like he’s avoiding me, and it isn’t exactly aiding my efforts to become more sexy when he won’t even look at me.
However, by Thursday afternoon, after I’ve spent quite a long time on research because it’s obviously important to ensure that my work is factually correct, I think I’m finally ready to get down to some proper writing. I’ve made the executive decision to stop worrying about the humourous aspect of my writing for the time being and concentrate on one thing at a time. Which for now is making sure that my writing is erotic. Which means getting in a sensual state of mind.
It’s not easy though, being here in my own kitchen, which is not a location where I’m particularly inclined to feel raunchy.
I put the kettle on and pace, trying to conjure up a racy vibe.
‘Ooh, sex,’ I murmur to myself, walking past the huge pile of laundry that’s waiting to be put in the washing machine. ‘I am so, so sexy right now – oh shit!’
I’ve reached the end of the room where the big family calendar is attached to the wall and I’ve just seen that I was supposed to be at a PTA meeting ten minutes ago. I spin towards the door but then stop. I could dash over there now with my profuse apologies but then I won’t ever get the chance to solve my sex problem. This is one of those times where I’m going to have to come first and the consequences can be damned. Swallowing hard and steeling my inner resolve, I start to pace the room again, forcing my head back into the game.
‘Sexy, sexy, sexy,’ I say, marching past the sink where last night’s washing-up is still stacked up in a basin of cold and now-greasy water. Not only have I still not managed to book an appointment with the dishwasher repair company, I have also spectacularly failed at creating a washing-up rota, meaning that unless I want to serve tonight’s supper on paper plates then I’m going to have to deal with the situation at some point very soon.
I keep walking and trying to convince myself that I’m feeling seductive and alluring but it’s no good. I know other writers of erotica manage to just switch it on like a vacuum cleaner but I don’t even know how to start. Grabbing a mug, I pour hot water onto a teabag and stare out of the window. It’s exactly as I feared. I’m a forty-four-year-old woman who has spent so long dealing with kids and work and house stuff and the general mundanity of life that I’ve lost it and I didn’t even notice it was going.
I’ve lost my sensuality and I have no idea how to get it back because, unlike Benji’s homework, it is unlikely to be down the back of the bloody sofa.
Sighing deeply, I finish making my cup of tea and sit back down at my laptop. It’s hopeless even trying to write so I let my fingers roam across the keyboard and allow myself to sink into the world of social media for a few minutes. I scroll down the screen, reading the various status updates on Facebook and scowling at the picture-perfect lives that are presented like works of art for the rest of us to admire. I don’t know why I even bother to come on here because it only ever makes me cross. It’s all fakery and pretence and designed to make everyone feel insecure about their existence.
I exit the screen and read my emails, hoping for some distraction there. I have two unread messages. One is from Binky, reminding me that she’d like to read the first few chapters of Book Two ‘in the very near future’, just to ensure that I’m on the ‘right path’ and please can I get back to her as soon as possible? I groan and take a sip of tea. I am not on the right path. I’m not even going in the right direction.
The other message is a reminder from Rob, asking me to pay the invoice for our connection to mains drainage. I’ve been delaying slightly, hoping that Nick’s new contract will get confirmed but time is clearly up. The already-groaning credit card is just going to have to take a deep breath and suck up yet more debt.
Admitting defeat and giving up isn’t even an option anymore. I can’t tell Binky that I can’t write another book and I don’t want to have to tell myself that the reason for my failure is that I can’t do sexy. Because there’s a lot riding on this, not just writing Book Two. I need to stop feeling so damn sorry for myself. There are people in the world with real problems and I am not one of them. I need to figure out how to fake it until I make it and I know exactly how to do that.
Sitting up straight, I shove my shoulders back and flex my fingers.
Hannah Thompson is bringing sexy back the only way she knows how.
Through the power of Google.
Working quickly, my fingers fly across the keys. There are many ultimate questions in life, including Who Am I? and Why Am I Here? But none are as ultimate as the words that I am typing into my laptop: how can I get into a sexy state of mind? I press enter and sit back as Google presents me with 94,700,000 answers in 0.69 seconds and then I smile because really, with odds like that, how can I possibly go wrong? I read the first article, my brain whirring as if I’m studying for an exam and then I stand, pushing any doubts to one side. I need to do this and I can’t do it sitting at my kitchen table.
Heading into the hall, I check that the front door is locked. The last thing I need right now is Scarlet coming home early from school and finding me in a compromising position. It would scar her for life and I don’t need the grief. Then I walk upstairs and into my bedroom, running through the suggestions that the World Wide Web had to offer.
The first one sounded easy enough so I head over to the wooden chest on my side of the room and open up my underwear drawer. Well, I call it the underwear drawer. In theory, that is what it’s supposed to be. In reality, it’s the drawer where I shove everything that I haven’t got another home for. But now isn’t the time to be worrying about my clothing organization so I push aside the ugly one-piece swimming costume that I bought after Benji was born and the sparkly bikini that I haven’t worn in the last nineteen years but that I can’t quite bring myself to believe will never fit me again. I rummage amongst the winter tights and the pop socks and the strapless bra that has only been worn once because it turns out that straps are what actually make a bra work and without them you might as well be slapping a lettuce leaf on your breasts and asking it to do the impossible.
I forage in between odd socks and belts and a suspender belt that is
circa 1996 and was a bad idea even then. I toss aside many, many pairs of what Scarlet unkindly refers to as fug knickers and I call my big girl pants and will only throw away when the one remaining strand of elastic finally breathes its last breath because there are certain times in the month when only big girl pants will do. And finally, after a strenuous archeological dig, I find what I am looking for.
My one and only thong.
Yanking off my jeans and current fuggish underwear, I pick it up and step inside, pulling the delicate fabric up my legs. Nick bought me this several years ago on our wedding anniversary and while I appreciated the gesture (and while obviously recognising that this was a gift for him, not me), in all honesty I’d have preferred a multipack of cotton briefs. I’d have definitely got more wear out of them, that’s for sure.
But Google has assured me that if I want to feel sexy then I need to dress the part. There was a whole article on embracing womanhood and treating your body like the precious thing that it is and apparently, wearing knickers that droop at the back is not particularly sensual.
I pull my jeans back on and wriggle a bit, trying to get the thong part into a slightly more comfortable position. My brain conjures up an image of a cheese-wire and I shake it away. I need to push through the discomfort and the sensation that my butt cheeks are being dissected and release the inner Sex Goddess that lies within.
Even if the article did neglect to mention that I would be releasing her through my arse.
Wincing slightly, I walk over to the mirror on the wall and try to remember what I’m supposed to do for step two. I know that the article suggested that I make friends with the mirror by starting every single day voicing aloud one thing that I love about myself, so I strike a pose and stare at my reflection.
‘Hello, you,’ I say, feeling a tiny bit self-conscious. ‘You’re looking super-hot today.’
It’s a lie. I am not looking super-hot. My hair needs a wash and I just flung on the first clothes that I could find this morning, which happens to be an old cardigan and my reliable mum-jeans. But I’m wearing provocative underwear and I can’t lie – the sensation of my bare skin rubbing against the denim is not unpleasant. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that it’s making me feel kind of racy.
‘So.’ I give myself a shy smile. ‘I just wanted to say that one thing I really, really love about you is your—’
The doorbell rings and I jolt backwards, feeling exposed.
It rings a second time and there’s a hammering sound.
‘Coming!’ I yell, running down the stairs. ‘Just hang on a minute!’
I unlock the front door and wrench it open, hyper-aware that my sexy thong doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination and that underneath my jeans, I am practically naked.
‘Morning, love,’ says the postman. ‘I’ve got a parcel that needs signing for.’
‘Ooh, how exciting,’ I say, reaching over and scrawling my finger across the device that he is holding out. ‘I hope it’s for me!’
‘The parcel isn’t for you,’ purrs the postman and when I look up he is gazing at me through lowered eyelashes. ‘But I’ve got something else here that you might like.’
‘Is it a special delivery?’ I ask, slightly breathlessly. ‘I haven’t had one of those in a while.’
He puts his post satchel on the ground and beckons me to step closer.
‘I’ll let you be the judge of that,’ he says, putting his hands on my waist. ‘But I haven’t had any complaints about the standard of service yet.’
I close my eyes and wait for his lips to land on mine. As a woman of the world I have had many experiences but being ravished on my doorstep has not been one of them.
He leans closer and my thighs clench in anticipation as the smell of his aftershave wafts towards me.
‘This is why I love the Royal Male,’ I whisper, just as he—
‘It’s not for you,’ the postman says, lifting the parcel off the ground. ‘It’s for your husband. And from the size of it he’s been ordering more parts for that beaten up old Land Rover of his.’
What in the name of fuck was that? I blink rapidly, feeling like I’ve just emerged from some kind of sex bubble. Please, for the love of god, tell me that those sighs of pleasure stayed in my head and that I did not inadvertently sex-groan in the poor postman’s face? I glance over at him but he remains impassive, which tells me nothing. Maybe he’s accustomed to middle-aged women having sexual fantasies about him on their doorsteps? Maybe this happens to him all the time and it’s no big deal?
He passes me a box and I stagger under the weight.
‘Thanks very much,’ I say brightly, kicking the door closed behind me and dumping the box on the hall floor where hopefully Nick will trip over it and break his stupid neck when he arrives home. If I have just accidently caused a sex scandal then it’s all Nick’s fault for bringing the postman to the door in the first place. And I know that we’ve had a conversation about not buying anything else this month unless it is a complete necessity and, as he drove off to work in Betty this morning, whatever is inside this box can’t be that vital. Not vital enough to risk me getting a conviction for sexual harassment, that’s for sure.
I walk back into the kitchen and sit down at the table before my legs give out beneath me. Bloody hell fire. I know that I was trying to become Twinky Malone but I didn’t think she’d emerge that quickly. And now that my heart rate has calmed down I’m starting to feel quite proud of myself. If that is what happens when all I’ve done is put on a thong then the possibilities are endless. I feel like a woman who has just discovered that she has witchy powers. I decide here and now that I will do whatever it takes to learn how to harness my gifts and I will only ever utilise them for the forces of good.
And for becoming as sexy as I damn well can. Obviously.
I lean back and take another look at my laptop screen. I’ve sorted the underwear situation and made a start on my friendship with the mirror. Now I need to surround myself with delicious scents and wrap myself in luxury fabrics. How tricky can that be? If I’d had any idea about how easy it was going to be to unleash my inner Sex Goddess then I’d have done this ages ago.
Glancing at the clock, I see that I need to get a move on if I’m going to get any writing done before it’s time to collect Scarlet and Benji but that’s okay because I’ve got the next two aspects on my ‘sexy state of mind’ list covered. The delicious scent is dealt with by locating the highly expensive candle that Cassie gave me for my last birthday and there’s a very soft blanket hanging over the back of the kitchen sofa. It might technically belong to Dogger but beggars can’t be choosers and I can already feel my sensual side surging forth.
Well, I will just as soon as I get this torturous thong off because I have come to the evidence-based conclusion that, while it may have helped me channel some of my inner depths, it is also delving into one abyss that I wish to remain unexplored.
I deal with the underwear situation. Then, pausing only to slap on a bit of hand cream and therefore achieving both step five (indulge in some pampering) and also helping to ease the pain of my poor, chapped hands which are suffering after days of having to actually do the arsing washing-up, I sit down at my laptop, take a deep breath and channel my inner Sex Goddess.
Bella Rose stared out of the penthouse window, at the impressive Tulsa skyline. She couldn’t see all 186.8 square miles of it, obviously but what she could see, she approved of.
‘That’s business taken care of for today.’
At the sound of his deep, masculine voice reverberating around the room, Bella Rose span round and took in the sight before her. Like the Tulsa skyline, it was impressive. The front of his trousers struggled to hide the package that lay beneath and Bella Rose knew that if she were to take a closer look then it would absolutely have her name emblazoned along the side (author’s note: check this. It is meant to be a subtle reference to both the address on a parcel and also a tattoo but I am not actually sure that it
is possible to tattoo that particular part of the male anatomy. It certainly doesn’t seem like a sensible idea).
‘Was everything okay?’ asked Bella Rose, taking a sip from her glass of wine. ‘Has your great-uncle left everything in good order?’
Daxx shrugged, the movement highlighting his delectable muscle tone. Bella Rose gulped as she observed the tiger tattoo on his arm quivering slightly, as if it were about to launch itself into the air and pin her to the ground.
‘It’s oil,’ he told her, his eyes hooded with desire. ‘And I’m now an oil billionaire. There are people who can deal with the day-to-day stuff. All we need to do is each other.’
Bella Rose watched as he pulled off his trousers, smiling when he remembered to fold them neatly and then take them into the bedroom to put them away. Billionaire or not, she was unprepared to clean up after him. And anyway, he might not be retaining his billionaire status once she’d arranged the meeting with the accountant. There would be no tax-dodging or shady shenanigans while Daxx was with Bella Rose, she’d make sure of that.
Joining the Billionaire Club was not going to turn him into a twat, not if she could help it.
Daxx came back into the room, giving Bella Rose one of his legendary, trademark grins. The work clothes were all gone now and he was clearly feeling warm because there wasn’t a stitch on him. He stared intently at her, as if he could read her mind – which Bella Rose knew was extremely unlikely because she’d been trying to direct him towards her G-spot for months now using only telepathy so as to spare his feelings, but the message still wasn’t getting through. She was seriously considering taking things to the next level and writing him some instructions, although as Daxx was more of a visual learner it would probably be prudent to include a labeled diagram too.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he growled, prowling across the carpet. ‘I think we should have sex.’
At the mention of the word sex, Daxx’s brain sent nerve signals to his muscles, telling them to relax. This allowed his blood to fill the tissue around his Johnson pecker penis – which had the fortuitous byproduct of causing it to stiffen (author’s note: research other ways to describe an erection. There must be a way to make it sound sensual and not merely functional and utilitarian although god only knows how).
Faking It: The most hilarious and laugh out loud page turner you’ll read this year! Page 11
