50 Ways to Find a Lover

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  he just encouraged me to blog

  forty-three

  ‘It’s so big,’ I say sadly, looking over my right shoulder into the mirror behind.

  ‘Calm down, Sare, you look great,’ soothes Si.

  ‘We could be Mexicans as well! You can’t use nurses and a Mexican to sell a product. Where’s the branding in that? You’ve got to think about branding, Si! Can’t I have a nice floor-length poncho? Please, Si, please.’ I’m nearly crying. I do not want to wear this outfit to Club Whack next week. PVC is crap. I look like a giant condom. I smell like an antiseptic wipe.

  The doorbell goes.

  ‘That’ll be Julia,’ I say. I need to get Julia on my side. We need to lay down our terms. Form a union. Ponchos, not PVC. I open the door.

  ‘Oh good gracious me,’ blushes the man from Flat 3. ‘Hello, Sarah.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Now then, we’ve had some work done on the leak and I just wanted to check your damp patch,’ he says, composing himself. ‘Shall I go through?’

  The man from Flat 3 and I are facing each other. If I turn around normally he will see my bum trying to escape from a small, overstretched piece of plastic. I start to walk slowly backwards. Every time I take a step he follows. It looks like we’re playing What’s the Time Mr Wolf: The Sex Game.

  ‘Woah!’ cries the man from Flat 3. ‘Stop there, Sarah. You’ll have that lamp over. I’ll just pop in the lounge there. I’ll show myself out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. I like him. He’s always polite despite probably thinking that I am a low-class prostitute who operates only metres above his head. The doorbell again. Julia. I rush to get it.

  ‘Julia,’ I say, relieved not to see the man from Flat 1 concerned about grouting.

  ‘Brilliant costume,’ she gushes, charging past me to the bedroom.

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’ I say, trailing her.

  Julia has her costume on in no time. I haven’t seen her like this over clothes since she hosted a hookers-and-pimps party for her twenty-first. She starts giggling and flirting with Simon. I pick up my laptop to check whether I have any new comments. Simon sees me.

  ‘Sarah! What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m just checking my blog.’

  ‘Jesus, Sare. Hello! We’re real people and we’re in the room. Why don’t you interact with us instead of going on-bloody-line?’

  ‘Calm down, stroppy. I’m just going to see if I’ve got some new comments,’ I humph. I do have a new comment. Another poetic plea from Perfect P.

  P the Poet

  Sarah, Sarah, what’s she going to do?

  There are so many men desperate to woo.

  There’s the old bloke with his charming ways

  Who doesn’t want you if you do plays.

  There’s the number one fan on her Internet page

  Face it, he’s probably deranged.

  There’s the handsome photographer

  Who’d rather have a he than a her.

  And then there’s me, the Poet P,

  The one who’s smitten helplessly.

  When I read one of these dreadful poems I get weaker and weaker. Today I think, Oh he can’t really have a girlfriend if he’s able to write a love eulogy on another woman’s blog. Yet my logical mind knows his girlfriend could be out having coffee or at a yoga class. She’s bound to be at yoga. She’s bound to be bendy. God, I hate her. Sorry, God.

  I’m distracted by the semi-naked nurse and the mad Mexican. They’re both laughing. Julia just squirted Cocka-lada at Simon. Simon is saying, ‘Easy, tiger.’

  I don’t want them to get together. It feels wrong. Really wrong. Like Julia-kissing-my-dad wrong.

  forty-four

  I am the only person in the whole of Club Whack with cellulite. There can only be two reasons for this:

  1)

  People who have cellulite don’t go to fetish clubs. This is because fetish lighting is purple. Purple lighting makes cellulity legs look like baked beans in tights

  2)

  Smacking bottoms gets rid of cellulite. There are two common traits that unite people in this establishment: they don’t have cellulite and they enjoy having their bottom spanked. You do the maths

  Julia looks so good someone is bound to ask her to do a photo shoot with a penis pump and some extreme restraints. She’ll probably become the face of Club Whack. She has also been hiding creative talents under her bushels. She is a master of role play, improvisation and acting. I wonder whether she could get Arts Council funding for her Cockalada routine. It’s very inventive.

  She nestles a Cockalada in between her breasts. Not so much ‘nestles’ as ‘wedges with force’ – there isn’t much space down there. Once in place, the phenomenally realistic bell end peeps out of her cleavage like a lost ferret. She approaches a fetishist with purpose and pride. She touches her hand to his or her forehead and says, ‘Oooh, you’re feeling hot.’ For the purpose of this role play Julia speaks as though she’s introducing shows on a late-night porn channel. ‘I’ve got some medicine to make you feel better. Open your mouth for me, handsome/sexy/gorgeous.’ Then she leans forward, squeezing her breasts together. The Cockalada ejaculates its liquid into the mouth/eye/dog collar of the man or woman. At that point they generally have their £4.50 out to buy one and Julia exits.

  I haven’t got the hang of being in a fetish club, let alone selling Cockaladas. The biggest problem is eyeline. In a fetish club you have to look up. If your gaze falls beneath neck level you’re fucked. It is especially important that I don’t look down because when I look down and see private hairy places and pale butchers’ sausages I pull a strange face. It’s my bone marrow/Brussels sprout face. People don’t take kindly to this face when it’s in response to their genitals. This is why I’m hiding in the corner behind a big wooden thing, drinking a double vodka and tonic. I am watching the action. Simon looks very stressed. He’s darting around the room as though he’s lost something. Oh bugger! I think he was looking for me. His hands are raised in a gesture of despair and he’s coming this way.

  ‘What are you doing in the dark dungeon corner?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘This wooden thing’s the rack. I’d get away from it, Sare, or someone’ll have you on it.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t like it here, Si, please can I go home?’

  ‘Sare, you said you’d help me out.’ He’s having trouble with his cheap stick-on moustache. It keeps sliding off and into his open mouth.

  ‘Go and help Jules.’

  ‘Evil boss man,’ I humph. I stand still and look for Julia. I spot her on the other side of the room, tapping a man’s bare bottom with a riding crop. The man is chained to a wall. The man’s bottom looks pink and painful. The man’s face looks sweaty and ecstatic. Julia hands the riding crop to a lady in her fifties in head-to-toe PVC. The older lady gives the riding crop some welly.

  ‘Ouch,’ I grimace.

  ‘Aaaww,’ winces Simon.

  ‘Do I have to go out there?’ I whine.

  ‘Yes!’ he says, slapping me on the bum. I tumble forwards. I relent.

  ‘Would you like to see my cocks?’ I eventually chirp in an Eliza Doolittle Cockney voice.

  To my amazement people start walking towards me. Hands go down PVC to produce notes. People giggle and suck on the cocks. Everybody is very polite.

  A naked man in a dog collar says in the Queen’s English, ‘I’m so terribly sorry, darling, my mistress is just putting her coat in the cloakroom. She carries the money; if I’m a good boy she might buy me one.’

  ‘You don’t look like a good boy to me. You look very naughty,’ I scold, finally getting into the spirit of things.

  I hear Julia’s sultry voice next to me, saying, ‘You look very hot.’ But then she shrieks, ‘Oh my God! I didn’t recognize you. You’re out of context.’

  ‘Off you go, you bad boy,’ I sing to my well spoken submissive before turning around to see what Julia is screeching about.

/>   When I see the man she’s talking to, I say the word ‘fuck’ very slowly.

  It’s Eamonn Nigels. He’s clutching his eye and saying the word ‘ow’. A bit of Cockalada dribbles down his cheek. He is not dressed in fetish gear. He is wearing a pair of jeans and a creased checked shirt. His hair is unbrushed and there are dark hammocks under his eyes. Tonight, for the first time, he looks nearly sixty. I don’t know the protocol for bumping into a man you’re seeing in a fetish club.

  ‘I thought you were in LA,’ I say.

  ‘I was. I flew back early,’ he tells me. He could at least act embarrassed that I’ve just exposed him as a pervert.

  ‘You flew back early to come here?’ I ask incredulously.

  He sighs deeply. I start to feel guilty. He’s come here for a night of frenzied and sustained spanking and who should he meet but the woman he’s seeing?

  ‘Sarah, I’m going to go to the bar and get a drink. Then can we find a dark corner to sit in and have a chat?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Although you have to be quite wary of dark corners in here.’ I am still speaking in the Cockney accent. He’ll never cast me in anything now.

  Eamonn makes a deft move towards the bar.

  ‘Fuck me. Who’d have thought Eamonn Nigels was into this sort of thing?’ whispers Julia.

  ‘I know!’ I exclaim. I start to wonder if I have led a sheltered life.

  ‘Curious,’ she says half to herself. Then she plasters on her Cockalada grin and gets back to the nursing.

  I watch Eamonn Nigels buy a drink at the bar. When he’s taken a few prolonged glugs I join him.

  ‘So, how was LA?’ I accidentally drop my gaze. I see the back view of an elderly man, wearing nothing but a tool-belt, bending down to tie his shoelaces. I look up quickly.

  ‘Fine,’ he says. He doesn’t look at me. He surveys the room and its occupants.

  ‘Look, I just want to say I don’t usually come here. I’m helping my flatmate with a new business venture,’ I stammer. I feel it’s important to get this straight in case he invites me to his house, puts a gimp mask on and unlocks his dungeon.

  ‘Sarah, what you do is your business. And the Internet’s, it seems.’

  Eamonn is bitterer than a barrel of Best. I’m not sure whether my heart or the bass line is thumping more.

  ‘I knew you would be here tonight. I read it on your blog.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Look, what I really want to know is—’ He stops suddenly and looks so tired I want to take him straight home and tuck him up in bed. ‘Is my son gay?’

  It is an easy question. I know the answer. However, I can’t tell him.

  ‘Um. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Sarah, I was at my LA office today and my PA was giggling away over the computer. I asked her what she was reading and she said the blog of this actress/waitress woman in London. Well, I read some of it over her shoulder. It was all about me. Obviously about me and you. How you had two identical dates back to back with the father and son. All about the age difference. The bone marrow. Sorry you didn’t like it, by the way. And Maggie! My God, I hope she doesn’t read it.’

  I cringe. I took Clive’s bitching advice to an extreme with Maggie.

  ‘But I’m a father and the fact that my son can’t even tell me he’s gay hurts.’ Another sigh. Then a steely look directed at me. ‘I want to know if it’s true.’

  This is all happening so quickly. I can’t answer. I’m still getting over the fact that someone in LA was reading my blog!

  ‘Is it?’ he asks again, impatience in his voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. He looks down. I want to warn him about that but I don’t.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Eamonn.’

  ‘I’ve had a whole flight to think things through. I’ll take Marcus out to lunch tomorrow and ask him outright. The other thing I’ve been thinking, and I’m probably an old fool to say this, but, I like you, Sarah. I think you’re fun and refreshing and down-to-earth and I’m addicted to your smile and your laugh. I’ve read the blog. I can understand your doubts about the age difference and not wanting to tell me you were an actress. I also understand why you didn’t mention Marcus to me. Sarah, I would like to carry on seeing you. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, smiling, ‘I think you’re great.’

  ‘The only thing that I ask is that you stop the blog. I have a public profile and I really don’t want all your online musings to leak to the press or my work colleagues. I’d like you to remove it all from the public domain. Will you do that for me?’

  I hesitate.

  ‘You don’t want to, do you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘But you started the blog in order to find a partner. Now I’m offering to be your partner.’

  ‘I know.’

  My behaviour has always been rubbish in tense situations. And I don’t improve with age. I simply recycle the same old rubbish behaviour.

  ‘Can I think about it for a day?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head sadly. ‘If you need time to decide between a blog and me then you don’t feel the same way about me as I do about you. Don’t worry. Carry on with your blog. I wish you well.’

  I feel a painful slap upon my bottom.

  ‘Jules!’ I scream, spinning around.

  It’s not Julia. It’s Rachel bloody Bird. Eamonn Nigels fixes his eyes on her. It’s not surprising really. She’s wearing more make-up than clothing. False eyelashes, hair piled up sexily on top of her head, two silver satin nipple tassels, a minuscule PVC black miniskirt and some incredibly high clear-plastic shoes. I read her blog: why am I surprised to see her?

  ‘Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!’ Rachel Bird says as if we were bumping into each other in Tesco. ‘I’ve never seen you here before. And who’s your friend?’ she asks, lifting up her cane and spanking Eamonn Nigels on the derrière. Eamonn flinches. A look of joy passes over Rachel Bird’s face.

  ‘You’re Eamonn Nigels!’ she gasps.

  Eamonn shifts uncomfortably.

  ‘I actually need to be going.’ He nods goodbye to both of us and rushes out of the club.

  ‘He is so handsome!’ says Rachel Bird, watching him leave. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Well, he was.’

  ‘Wow. Sarah, do you want a drink?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Rachel, I’d love one,’ I say sadly. ‘A vodka and tonic would be great.’

  Rachel wiggles her way to the bar. I am not sure whether I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life. Eamonn Nigels is a wonderful man who for some reason, probably a psychiatric disorder, really likes me. So why do I want to keep my blog rather than go out with him? Or did I just not like being told what to do? Or is it because I think he’s too old for me and want to carry on looking? Or is it because I’ve really grown to love my online life and blog friends?

  Stupidly, I look down at my feet. The man in the tool-belt is crawling towards me on his hands and knees.

  ‘Hello down there,’ I say.

  ‘Can I lick your beautiful shoes, mistress?’ he asks, looking up at me with pleading eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t, I’ve got the smelliest feet in the world.’

  ‘Please, mistress, I beg you.’

  Rachel Bird reappears and immediately puts her foot under the poor man’s face and barks:

  ‘Kiss my foot, you filthy piece of shit.’

  ‘Rachel,’ I protest. ‘He seems like a very nice man.’

  ‘Sarah, that’s what he wants. He wants to worship us.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m so confused.’

  I sip my drink.

  ‘They want to be punished, Sarah!’ she tells me as though I’m stupid.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘So, you and Eamonn Nigels, is this a romance?’

  ‘Well, it was. Until he read my blog. I went on a date with his son, who I tried to kiss, but he was gay and Eamonn didn’t know and now he’s found out.’

  ‘
Your life sounds like mine.’

  ‘Ah, I ballsed it up big time. And I didn’t tell him I was an actress and he’s got an actress ban.’

  ‘So what happened, he came here to dump you?’

  ‘No, he came to ask me to stop the blog.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t do it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Wow,’ says Rachel thoughtfully.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it, thanks for the drink. Have fun.’

  ‘Sarah,’ she adds keenly. ‘We should swap numbers. I’ll email you mine tomorrow. Us convent girls should stick together.’

  ‘OK. Bye, Rachel.’

  I move away. I find Julia and Simon by the entrance. They are very close together. They’re kissing. I freeze and watch them for a moment. It doesn’t look very sexy. Simon’s rigid. Julia’s pawing him. I move to get a better look. I breathe again. They are not kissing. Julia is trying to fix his moustache back on.

  ‘Sare, where the bloody hell did you go?’ Simon yells.

  ‘Oh, Eamonn just dumped me and I bumped into Rachel Bird.’

  ‘Rachel Bird’s here! Where?’ screams Julia deliriously.

  ‘Oh, over there, punishing some bloke with a foot fetish,’ I say wearily. ‘Can we go now, Si? I’m knackered.’

  ‘Yeah, we were waiting for you. All the cocks are gone. Thanks, girls. Let’s get a cab.’ Simon puts his arm around me. ‘You all right, gorgeous?’ he asks kindly.

  ‘Hmm. Eamonn read my blog. I feel really bad, Si.’

  ‘Ah well, I did warn you that thing was evil,’ he says and

  then races out into the middle of the road in his poncho

  to flag down a cab. I watch him and smile. My phone

  beeps; I have a text message from Marcus:

  I’m meeting my dad for lunch tomorrow. Will you be there, Mummy? Clive says hi. xx

  forty-five

  ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger, fuck,’ swears Julia, carrying two cups of tea and a plate of toast. ‘I’ll go and get some kitchen roll,’ she says, placing a half-empty cup next to me on my bedside table.