We read in silence. Rachel is an avid supporter of masturbation, especially on public transport, it appears.
‘I love her blog!’ exclaims Julia. I haven’t seen Julia so excited since she first used Touche Éclat.
‘Come on, it’s not that wonderful,’ I say. I’m trying to stop being jealous of Rachel Bird but I feel the same way I did after the school play when my dad went on and on about how brilliant she was. I have always been the Primark to Rachel Bird’s Prada. I know that Julia prefers Rachel’s blog to mine. I know that I am being childish but it hurts.
‘Can’t believe you both went to the same school. She’s so rude,’ mumbles Julia, eyes riveted to the page.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, offended.
‘Well, she’s obsessed with sex and you never have it.’
‘I’ve got a vibrator!’ I say indignantly.
‘Yeah, it’s still in its box!’
My phone starts ringing. I pull it out from the pocket of my waitressing apron. It is a mobile number that I don’t recognize. Please God, let it be Paul. ‘Please let it be Paul,’ I whisper to myself as I walk into the kitchen to take the call. I know I should have given up on him by now but there is a small chance that he had to go abroad for two weeks and left in such a rush that he forgot to take my contact details from under his pillow.
The Polish chefs are huddled around the dishwasher, sniggering at a dog-eared copy of Big Bottomed Babes.
‘Hello,’ I say into the phone.
‘Hi Sarah, it’s Louis.’
‘Who?’
‘Louis . . . We met at the football.’
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, hoping he can’t hear the disappointment in my voice. I’ve been asking God repeatedly for Paul to call me but what does God do? He gets the other one to call me.
‘How are you doing?’
‘Good, thanks, you?’
‘Great, yeah, nearly sorted for the move. I was wondering if you fancied meeting up for a drink later?’
The only plans that I had for this evening were red wine and X Factor. I could video X Factor and do that tomorrow. However, if I meet Louis it would be for sex. Do I want to meet a man for sex? Rachel Bird would. Rachel Bird would probably turn up in crotchless knickers with a strap-on willy in a knapsack.
‘OK. I did have something planned but I could move it,’ I say.
‘Great. Listen, why don’t you come to mine, my flatmate’s out. I’ll text you the address. About eight.’
‘Great.’
I am going to have sex tonight. From what I can remember of it I do like sex. However I feel scared. No one has visited my lady’s place for nearly a year. I had hoped that when it was to reopen to the public it would be in style. Perhaps at a Parisian hotel in the Latin Quarter after champagne and oysters on a big bed with a man I was falling in love with. I’m a bit disappointed he’s not offering me dinner first. It’s just a straight offer of a shag in his flat. Oh well, at least there’s no danger of me eating too much first and saying, ‘I’m so stuffed, bagsy you go on top.’
I emerge from the kitchen clutching my mobile. Julia is hunched over Rachel Bird’s blog, saying, ‘Oh my God’ repeatedly.
‘Sare, she’s just had a wank at The Ivy.’
‘I’m going to have sex tonight,’ I say nonchalantly, before wandering over to table 2 to take their order. Julia is salivating with anticipation when I return.
‘Oh my God! With who?’
‘You’ll have to read about it in my blog, Julia,’ I say cruelly.
‘Don’t be such a bitch. Tell me now!’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘You can read about it in my blog tomorrow.’
eleven
I’m wearing hold-ups. I don’t like wearing hold-ups. My thighs splurge out where the hold-ups stop. They look like blueberry muffin tops. There’s an FHM calendar on the wall of Louis’ dirty bathroom. The girl in the FHM April picture is mocking me. She’s wearing hold-ups, but her thighs look as though they’ve been sanded into the stocking. She has no sign of any muffin top. There is also no sign of any loo paper and this fact is upsetting me. If I was going to invite a man to my house with the sole purpose of having sex with him, out of respect I would make sure that I had loo paper. Louis supplied cheap wine, two bottles of it. He must therefore have been to the shops. Why didn’t he buy loo paper? I would also have cleaned my bathroom. Louis’ bathroom is filthier than Rachel Bird’s blog and I don’t say that lightly because this afternoon I read about her attempt to teach a non-English-speaking seventeen-year-old to have anal sex. Every surface in Louis’ bathroom seems to be caked in crusty bits of bodily-fluid residue. I had come in here to compose myself before we got down to it but I would actually like to give it a deep clean instead. There is no chance of me doing that, though, because there are no cleaning products in here at all. This means I will have to leave the bathroom and have sex with Louis. I don’t want to leave the bathroom and have sex with Louis. At the moment I would rather stay in here and court the risk of contracting MRSA.
It is not that I don’t like Louis. He is what men would call a ‘good bloke’ and what women would call a ‘typical bloke’. I have been with him for the duration of a bottle of wine and in all that time – apart from me doing a small amount of moaning about the Northern Line – we have spoken about Chelsea Football Club. Actually Louis has spoken about Chelsea Football Club, in particular someone called Frank Someone, and I have done some rather good listening acting. I used the word ‘really’ twelve times and ‘wow’ fifteen times.
I told my blog I was meeting Cherub Man from the football for a night of adult fun before he went to Australia. I explained that I was wearing hold-ups, matching bra and pants, fuck-me shoes and a wraparound dress so that all Louis had to do was untie a small bow and I would be undressed. I wanted people to be desperate to log on tomorrow to read what had happened. I wanted to be like Rachel Bird. Fearless. I’m not like Rachel Bird. I’m scared shitless. And I don’t feel sexy at all in a flat full of filth having spoken about Chelsea for an hour.
‘Have you fallen down the loo?’ asks Louis, banging on the door. I wince. What a horrible thought.
‘I’m just coming,’ I say. I look at myself in the mirror. I remind myself that I’m an actress. I can play the role of a seductress. It’s not my usual casting, admittedly. I’m more comedy maids and mad people, but tonight I’m going to be a seductress. I take a huge breath and as I exhale I whisper the words, ‘Let’s get this over with.’
I exit the bathroom. Louis is standing by the washing machine in the kitchen. I try to ignore the backdrop of dirty plates and the Stella-can pyramid. I walk towards him slowly. He’s barefooted in a pair of frayed jeans. I wouldn’t walk on this floor in bare feet. His belly is quite podgy. I can see a bit of hairy man-tummy poking from beneath his grey Rolling Stones T-shirt. He smiles lazily at me.
‘Hey, sexy!’
‘Hey.’ I smile back at him. I keep my head low but lift my eyes up to meet his and I walk towards him. I stand facing him and I bite my lip, still smiling. God, I’m good. Then I run my finger along the line of his exposed belly. I feel him breathe in. I want to squeeze the flesh and say, ‘Eh up, porky,’ but I must fight that impulse as I think it might have rendered me single for years. I must remain sexy. I must play the game like Rachel Bird.
Suddenly Louis grasps my wrist tightly. He’s quite masterful. It surprises me as I thought I was taking the lead in my slow teasing way. He grasps my wrist and moves my hand to the crotch of his dirty jeans. I do not find this gesture sexy. My hand is now next to his denim-coated erect penis. Oh bugger. What do I do now? I don’t want to rub it. The swine hasn’t even kissed me yet. Then he presses his hand against my VIP area. We are standing against a washing machine in a flat caked in grime holding each other’s clothed groins. It must look as though we are about to demonstrate an advanced self-defence manoeuvre. We are frozen like this. Louis bends his head down and starts to suck and lick my ear. I hear his slu
rps and feel his dry tongue. Suddenly I hear my Bros ringtone.
‘What the fuck’s that?’ slurps Louis.
‘Oh, just my phone.’
‘Fuckin’ Bros,’ he says, still slogging away at my ear.
‘Don’t you knock my ringtone. I’d better see who it is,’ I say, sliding my way out of the groin grip and going to my phone. ‘It’s my mum and dad. I’ve got to take it. Hello?’
I see Louis mouthing the word ‘fuck’ in a very pissed-off fashion. I hear my mother on the other end of the line sobbing. I rush into the unhygienic bathroom and shut the door.
‘Calm down and tell me what’s happened. Is Dad OK?’ I say softly.
‘Your father’s fine,’ hiccups Mum.
‘What’s happened?’ I say, praying it’s not my sister.
‘Didn’t you see it?’
‘What?’ I scream, thinking that maybe there’s been an earthquake in Eastbourne and their house has been destroyed.
‘The X Factor!’
‘Mum!’ I laugh. ‘I thought something awful had happened.’
‘No, that Simon Cowell’s so cruel to those young people. I thought you were watching it.’
‘No, I’m out . . . um, at a friend’s house at the moment,’ I say, wiping my slobbery ear.
‘Oh, sorry to disturb you. Love you lots.’
I leave the bathroom. Louis is immediately upon me again. He makes a lunge for my mouth, which I deftly dodge. I look at him and I know I need to leave.
‘I’m so sorry, Louis, there’s some trouble at home. I’ve got to go.’
‘Can’t you just go in a little while?’ he says in a childlike voice. I spot him heading for my ear again.
‘No, I’ve really got to go. Now. Have a great time in Australia.’
I fling my bag over my shoulder and race out of his flat as fast as my fuck-me shoes will allow.
twelve
I feel like a failure. It’s now been 351 days since I had sex. That’s a bloody carnal drought. If Bob Geldof knew about it he’d hold a concert. And then when I do get a shipment of adult fun I run away from it. I’m frigid. I’m a frigid spinster.
What can I write in my blog? How can I explain that I fled Louis’ flat with nothing but a wet ear? You don’t go to a man’s house in hold-ups, drink a bottle of cheap wine with him and then lock yourself in the bathroom on the phone to your mum before leaving.
Rachel Bird revels in uncomplicated sex. When you read her blog it sounds easy to be naked with a stranger. She makes you feel like you have sexual power being a woman. That is why so many people read her blog. No one wants to read my blog all about female neuroses, not even my best friend.
Which is why I’m going to lie. I’m just going to make up a little sex story. I’m sorry, God. But I’m too proud to admit the truth on my blog. It’s not my fault I’m proud. Leos are proud. You could have sent Mum into labour early, then I’d be a Cancer. If I was a Cancer I wouldn’t be in this mess.
God, I know that you’re not a fan of sex or lying so please try to forgive me for what I am about to do.
Right then, how shall I start it?
I felt sexy in my hold-ups.
(God, this will entail a lot of lying, so please just look elsewhere for an hour or so.)
I stood on L’s doorstep.
(L didn’t have a doorstep because it was an ex-council block, but that just doesn’t sound sexy.)
I started to feel excited . . . I stood there for a few minutes . . . wobbling slightly on my perilously high fuck-me shoes . . . then I closed my eyes and I imagined kissing him, little feather kisses, and slowly nibbling his bottom lip, and then proper tongue endoscopy kissing . . . I hadn’t been touched for a year and suddenly being on the brink of physical contact with a handsome man made me feel like a tethered bull in a field of pretty Friesians . . . I wanted L to untether me . . . I wanted L to do quite a lot to me . . . the thought of feeling L inside me was making my nipples poke out like massive hard rabbit droppings . . . I touched them and imagined that my hands were his hands and I felt the wetness in my knickers and then I knocked on the door . . .
(God, go away! It’s important I use terms like ‘nipples’ and ‘wetness’ because people do Google searches for them and they’ll find my blog that way and I’ll get more readers; three people found my blog because they did a Google search for ‘sweaty fanny’. It’s not my fault your people want filth!)
L came to the door. He looked much better than I had remembered, with a nice amount of stubble . . . he was wearing a pink shirt with two buttons undone so I could see his curly chest hair.
(This is bad. Now I’m imagining it’s Paul. Gorgeous, funny Paul who I really clicked with but who doesn’t want me.)
He stood before me with that cheeky grin, and then I noticed his eyes wander down to my breasts . . . he looked at me for a long time and then smiled and said, ‘I bought shampagne – come through and let me get you a glass’ . . . He walked me into his beautiful flat . . . it was very clean and tidy. I wondered if he had cleaned it especially . . . He led me straight into his bedroom . . . a huge bed lay made up but we didn’t stop there. He opened the huge bedroom window and said, ‘Would you like to step on to my unofficial roof terrace?’ We clambered out on to a huge flat roof littered with cushions and candles . . . a bottle of champagne was on the floor with two glasses by its side . . . L lay back on one of the cushions and poured the champagne . . . it was dusk . . . we clinked our glasses . . . he said, ‘To us.’
Then he asked me all about my life . . . he was very attentive . . . I was just telling him about my mother running the marathon when he leant towards me and kissed me softly on the lips . . . he felt lovely and he smelt amazing . . . I wanted to kiss him for ever but he pulled away.
‘I’m very sorry for interrupting but I just had to kiss you,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t help it. Please, carry on, I want to hear all about your amazing mum.’
I think the fact that he’s about to move to Austraylia and I’ll never see him again made me far more forward than I’d ever been before . . . I got up and moved to his cushion. I looked into his eyes and said, ‘No, I’m far too distracted now.’
I knelt at his feet and lent towards him . . . he manoeuvred me so that I was straddling him and we kissed. He put his finger in my mouth and I sucked it, imagining it was something else . . . then he traced his wet finger down my front and eased it inside my dress and inside my bra . . . circling each nipple until they were like bullets . . . then he pushed me away from him . . . he looked into my eyes as he undid the small bow on the side of my dress and my dress fell to the ground . . . he moved his hands delicately across my body. . Then he looked at me and said:
‘Take off your bra.’
I did so . . . kneeling before him in just my pants, stockings and shoes . . . He said:
‘Do you want me to suck your nipples?’
I said ‘Yes,’ my voice breathless.
He started to slowly lick and suck one nipple at a time, then he sat back and looked into my eyes again . . . he moved one hand down so that it was between my legs and then he said, ‘Are you excited?’
I gasped, ‘Yes.’
He slid his hand inside my wet knickers and gently started to stroke me . . .
Then he looked into my eyes again and said, ‘Take them off.’
I did and he looked at me before lying under me.
‘I want you to sit on my face,’ he told me.
‘OK,’ I squeaked.
He lay back and started to lick me while fucking me with his fingers and playing with my breasts with the other hand . . . I was just starting the contractions of an amazing orgasm when he wiggled out from underneath me and stood up and started to unbutton his fly . . . I started to reach out to feel his hard cock but he caught my arm to stop me and he moved behind me . . . He started to feel my clitoris with one hand and I could hear a condom being opened and then he said, ‘Would you like me to fuck you?’
‘Yes!’ I y
elped.
I felt him gently enter me and then gradually drive into me harder . . . always pressing and moving his hand over my clitoris . . . Despite trying not to come I came three times and then I heard him grunt. He relaxed on top of me for a moment . . . before saying, ‘More champagne? And then I really think you should finish that story about your mum running the marathon . . .’
(God! God! Are you there? Please don’t punish me too terribly for this.)
thirteen
Sierra Oscar. Sierra Oscar! I need to report the Great Brain Robbery. I think an intruder broke into my body the other night and hot-wired my mind.
Making up a sex story and posting it on my blog has proved to be the most stupid thing that I have ever done. It has even outclassed the time I tried to impress Dave Barnes when I was twelve by jumping off his first-floor landing to the ground. He wasn’t impressed. He asked my friend Michelle out while I was in hospital having my broken collarbone seen to.
Simon says that the important thing to remember in any situation is to keep positive. But it is positively impossible not to focus on the numerous negatives entailed in drunkenly making up a sex story and posting it on the Internet:
1)
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 7
