Sexual Healing: An Erotic Novel

by Matt Shaw

  Copyright©2014 by Matt Shaw

  Matt Shaw Publications

  The moral right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Sexual Healing

  M A T T S H A W

  Chapter One

  Five years gone. Time is dragging; the days seemingly blend into one another since my world came crashing down around me. She would have been thirty-three years young now and I miss her just as much today as when I last saw her - if not a little more. Time is a great healer apparently, but it doesn’t seem to be healing anything for me. I envy those it does help.

  Colleagues at work have tried unsuccessfully to set me up on dates with their tragically single friends. I’ve gone on a couple of dates but neither ended in anything but an ‘okay’ night and promise of ‘another drink some time’. I never called the girls back for the second date - and nor did they ring me although I can’t say I blame them. The whole time I was with them I was wishing they were my Michelle instead. I’m sure my wishes would have been clearly visible on my face and in the tone of my voice as I tried to engage them in a fruitless conversation.

  I’m not ready to move on and nor do I want to.

  I blew the lone candle extinguishing the flame with a single puff and downed the glass of whiskey clutched in my hand before slamming the empty glass back down on the bar, next to the cake. It’s not a glamorous bar but that’s fine. I don’t come here for the company. I don’t come here for surroundings. I come here to remember.

  This was the accidental destination of our first date.

  We had been on the way to a good restaurant; one I had chosen in an effort to impress her. We never made it there. The car broke down a good few miles away in a less desirable part of the town. I called the roadside recovery up and they were about an hour away and so we ended up here - the closest bar we stumbled upon. She didn’t seem to mind and we went on to have a good laugh. I was happy because she agreed to a second date with me and I saved myself a fortune on the cost of the meal we were supposed to have. Win-win.

  I come to this bar every year on the anniversary of our first date.

  A little cake with a candle, which I usually bin, and a glass of whiskey. No company, just memories. So many memories. So many dates to remember; our first date, our first kiss, her birthday, our engagement, our wedding. Her death.

  “Another!” I shoved the empty tumbler towards the irritable looking barman. He doesn’t know my name but he knows me. I’m in here enough for him to know I’m not a stranger and yet he has never smiled at me. He just serves the drinks and goes back to his business - which usually involves chatting with the unsavoury characters at the far end of the bar.

  “No more. We’re shut.”

  “No you’re not. Come on. Another.”

  “I’ve already called time. Half an hour ago. If you weren’t so busy staring into the flame on that damned cake you’d have heard me call it.”

  The barman snatched the empty glass away and tossed it into a small dishwasher under the bar before turning back to cleaning down the rest of the bar’s grimy looking surface. A row of bottles lined the wall behind where he was working; various spirits including the Wild Turkey that I prefer to drink.

  I stood up from the bar stool and walked around to the ‘wrong’ side of the bar. I took my glass out from the dishwasher and went towards the bottle I craved. The barman spun around on the spot. I couldn’t tell by his expression whether he was irritated to see me standing there or surprised.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting myself a drink.”

  “What are you, deaf? We’re closed.”

  He snatched the glass from me, put it on the side, and grabbed me by the arm - leading me back towards the customers’ side of the bar.

  “I just want one more drink and I’ll go.”

  “No,” he said, pulling me towards the door, “you’ll go now and what’s more - you won’t come back…”

  “You’re barring me?”

  I started to laugh as he pulled the door open with his spare hand and shoved me out. Of all the places to be barred from, I get barred from here? I’ve witnessed people openly doing drug deals in this bar and yet I’m the one who isn’t allowed in?

  “Can I at least get my cake?” I asked him.

  “Just fuck off!”

  The barman slammed the door in my face. A second later and I heard the lock click shut where the barman slid the bolt across.

  “So you’ll post it to me?” I called through the door - still laughing at the reality of getting barred from such a dive. Michelle hated it when I embarrassed her by doing something stupid but I can’t help but feel that even she’d laugh at this turn of events. I’ll avoid them for a while. By the time I want to go back - especially if I leave it until the next year - I’m sure he’d have forgotten this whole conversation.

  I fished the keys from my pocket and walked towards my waiting car; half-heartedly parked in the carpark across the road. Probably for the best I didn’t get a second drink. Haven’t eaten today.

  *

  I crashed in front of the television with a glass of whiskey in my hand. I had to stop off on the way home to buy a new bottle but it was worth it. Not as though it was much of a diversion and I knew - if I didn’t - I’d have regretted it as soon as I got in.

  Our actual date ended with me in front of the television. Some poor film was showing if memory served correctly. I have to confess I wasn’t really paying attention to what was on back then. My mind just kept replaying the night over and over again, wondering whether I’d made a good enough impression on her. Wondering if I’d get a second date with Michelle. I gave her my number, I told her I wanted to take her to the restaurant and have a proper date with her - we laughed about it - and that’s where we left it. That night - back then - I spent more time staring at my mobile phone in the hope a call, or even a text, would come through then I did watching the film on the television.

  Tonight there’s nothing but reality shows playing; cooking, cars, some idiots sitting around in a house, more idiots sitting on their sofas watching said idiots in the house - nothing worth watching. A white box with black horizontal lines appeared in the top left of the screen signifying an approaching ad break and - true to form - a dark haired girl appeared on the screen telling us what we could expect from the show after the break. And with that, the cameras panned back and the show went to adverts.

  Michelle loved the reality shows. I could never understand it. I still can’t. Not just her fascination with the shows but society’s in general. Even when the various programs aren’t on, you still hear people talking about them whether they’re strangers on the public transport or jockeys on a radio station. It’s frustrating. Michelle said she liked it because it was car crash television; she couldn’t help but to watch to see what was going to happen next. She’d sit next to me watching them and I’d sit next to her wishing my life away. Funny how things work out. She’s gone and I’m still here channel hopping between the shows. I sigh
ed heavily.

  As did the girl on the ad break.

  Oh hello.

  What’s this?

  Some blonde girl wearing black knickers and matching bra. Her face is so made up with heavy make-up that it is impossible to know what she really looks like underneath all of the cosmetics but - for the sake of the advert - she looks okay.

  “Are you lonely?” she purred. “Call me now.”

  A phone number was plastered across the bottom of the screen in digits so big you could see them from across the road had you been looking in through the living room window. Before I knew what I was doing, I had the phone in my hand and the line was ringing. Some cute sounding girl answered. I’m drunk but not so drunk I’ve forgotten the rule ‘hot on the phone, add twenty stone’. I’m not foolish enough to believe the girl on the television advert is the same one I am talking to now.

  “Hello, who am I talking to?” the stranger purred seductively.

  “Jake.”

  “Hello, Jake.”

  “Hi.” Part of me was imagining what she could look like whilst another part of me was trying to figure out why I had even called the number in the first place. The phone went silent for a couple of seconds and then she started to sigh and moan down the end of the line. In my mind I couldn’t help but picture her there, watching dire reality television next to her partner whilst pretending to make what she perceived to be sexual noises down the phone to me. I couldn’t help but ask her what she was doing.

  “I’m touching myself, honey,” she purred with a voice all breathy. My mind still wouldn’t allow me to picture an attractive girl pleasuring herself whilst talking to me. Too much of a realist to go there. I know how these things work; average girls going about their lives taking calls from desperate people such as myself. For all I know, she isn’t even in her home at the moment. Maybe she’s in a supermarket somewhere - standing in the middle of the aisle whilst conducting what she hopes to be a fairly quick and easy call and - more specifically - a few more pounds in her back pocket from another lonely mug as the cost of the call automatically gets added to my bill. “Do you want to touch me?” she sighed. All previous thoughts were immediately dismissed as I couldn’t help remembering what it felt like to touch the soft, warm skin of Michelle. Gentle tickles on her back, using nothing but the tips of my fingers, as she laid there - naked - on the bed. A slight smile on her face as her breathing got heavier and heavier as the tender touches helped lull her into a peaceful sleep the more she relaxed with it. “Are you there?” she asked, almost breaking character with a sudden change of tone.

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  She probably thinks I am stroking myself just as I am supposed to picture her doing the same. With one hand on the phone and one on the arm of my sofa, next to the remote control, she’d be mistaken for thinking I was touching myself.

  “Do you want to fuck me?” she asked. I didn’t answer. I stared at the television screen still playing through various adverts for chat lines; girls wearing next to nothing, lying on sofas with phones pressed to their ears and smiles on their faces. Each girl’s face that of Michelle. “I’m so wet for you, baby!” the actress on the other end of the line continued. “Can just imagine you sliding in and out of me. In and out, in and out, getting my juices all over your hard cock… mmmmmm….”

  I hung the phone up and started to cry as thoughts of Michelle continued to plague my mind; her laughing, smiling at something stupid I had done, her soft sweet voice, her long brown hair and how it used to glisten when it caught the sun, her light brown eyes which used to carry so much expression from joy right through to pain and heartbreak and - suffering. Always the positive thoughts turn darker in my mind as her final year swallows all years previous. The anguish when she was first diagnosed, the fear when she found out there was nothing else they could do, the sorrow that she was leaving me - the hurt look in her eye when she told me she wanted me to be happy and live a full life; meet someone else, re-marry. As the conversation replayed through my tired mind I tried to dismiss it. I tried to replace it with the happy memories - the ones which continued to fade despite my best efforts to keep them alive. I screamed out in frustration and threw the telephone against the wall where it shattered into a couple of pieces. Shit. Oh well. It’s not like I don’t have a mobile phone…

  *

  Since being alone sex has never really bothered me. Well - the lack of sex anyway. I was always too consumed with a sense of loss to worry about any form of sexual contact with anyone. The phone call last night - and all the adverts of seemingly happy people chatting away to each other - did make me realise I missed company more than anything else. For too long I’ve been a recluse pushing away those who wanted to help - only going on the occasional blind date organised by work colleagues who believed they were doing me a favour. Sitting at my computer desk, I couldn’t help but laugh as I remembered the last time I actually did have physical contact with someone. It was after one of the ill-fated dates I’d been set up for. At the end of the evening the girl leaned in for a kiss. It wasn’t a proper kiss I think. I think she just intended to kiss me on the cheek as a way of parting. I ended up giving her an awkward hug followed by an extra little squeeze on top of the embrace we were already in, followed by a swift retreat back to my car. I felt embarrassed for most of the ride home. I was certainly still cringing about it when I did pull into my drive. Such an idiot. After that - on the few dates I’d been on since - I didn’t leave it to chemistry or chance as to how we parted. I always offered my hand for a friendly handshake before any hint of an awkward move could be made. Not that the handshakes were any less awkward.

  I reached into the top drawer of my computer desk and pulled out a packet of painkillers. I popped two out of the silver foil packet and necked them with a gulp of my morning coffee. I have a headache from hell after hitting the bottle hard last night. I couldn’t seem to stop the thoughts of Michelle running through my mind so figured I’d try drowning them instead. It worked but - boy - am I paying the price this morning. I don’t mind though. I’m just glad I made it through another anniversary. I always fret that the next will be the one I give up on; the one whereby I take my own life - a thought which has often crossed my mind even though I don't really want to be one of those people. I just think - sometimes - it might be easier.

  One thing is different this morning, to all the other days I’ve had in recent memory. I seem to have woken up with sex on my brain. No doubt put there by the images on the television last night and the drunken dreams I’d had which saw me fucking for the best part of them. Can’t remember the last time I had had such dreams. Can’t remember the last time I’d woken up with wood either but there it was - staring me right in the face when I opened my blurry eyes. I tried to dismiss the random thoughts with figure-work as soon as I got into the office and yet here I was - browsing pictures of ladies on my mobile phone when I’m supposed to be data inputting. So many girls. All I did was put in the words ‘escort’, along with my town into the Google search bar and I was hit with page after page of girls offering sex to lonely men. A myriad of various ladies offering different kinds of services. Some expensive, some dangerously cheap, all teasingly tantalising.

  “You know - I actually thought you were gay!”

  A voice from behind me made me jump. I spun around, turning my mobile phone device upside down to hide the content from my colleague behind me. His name was Frank. He worked in one of the other departments, down the hall.

  “Glad I didn’t have money on it,” he continued.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Show me,” he nodded towards my phone. I slid it into my trouser pocket. “Fair enough. Looked pretty though.” He laughed, “Wish my lady still sent me sexy snaps. Now she just texts me a list of things to do, or get, on the way home. Still - that’s what happens when you put a ring on the finger, hey.” He thought the girl on the phone was someone I was dating, a sexy-snap someone took for me. I can live w
ith that. I’d rather that then have him know I was actually looking at pictures of prostitutes knowing it wouldn’t take much time before the whole office knew and thought of me as a sad, pervert. I don’t even know why I looked them up in the first place. I’ve never been that sort of man, the one who needs to pay for sex, I just… I don’t know. I guess it’s hangover brain working overtime. I wouldn’t have booked someone even though I can see the logic behind it for someone such as me; someone craving a little affection from someone but not wishing to get back in the dating game.

  “You really thought I was gay?” I asked as what he said finally sunk in fully. “Why?”

  He nodded. “Never seen you date anyone. I mean - going steady. And the dates you were set up on from here - well they never went anywhere, did they? You know you’re one of the only men to take Claudia out and not fuck her at the end of it?”

  “Maybe that’s why I didn’t sleep with her - because everyone else has. Besides it doesn’t mean I’m gay and even if I were - would it be a problem?” I felt myself getting irritated by the whole conversation - even more so considering Frank and I weren’t even friends. We were acquaintances. Not everyone here knew about Michelle and I. He was one of the ones in the dark.

  “No of course not. I was just making conversation. Didn’t mean any harm.” He shrugged and walk off. As I watched him walk towards the office kitchen, no doubt to get himself a morning drink, I noticed a few other people poking their heads from their office booths - no doubt attracted to our conversation after I’d inadvertently raised my voice. As soon as they noticed me looking at them, they ducked back into their own office space.

  This is why I like my own company.

  *

  Most nights I stay in, especially after days like today where I’ve felt as though everyone has been watching me and talking behind my back - no doubt caused by my run in with Frank, this morning. My evenings are a set routine. Cooking for one - a microwave meal - washing down with a glass of whiskey to help me forget the day and take the edge off. Time on the treadmill - usually twenty minutes. Thirty minutes, at a faster pace, if the day has been truly terrible. One hundred sit-ups. Anywhere between fifty to one hundred press-ups. I’m not sure who I am trying to impress by doing these. Perhaps my subconscious trying to kill me off with a heart attack - my diet and the exercise surely not a good mix. But then my Doctor did suggest exercise helps to keep stress at bay. Having said that he also suggested keeping a pet helps too. Apparently it helps to cuddle them in moments of stress. I rescued two cats from the rehoming centre and they both increased my stress. I’m sure they hate me. Only time I even see them is when they’re hungry and wrapping themselves around my legs whilst begging for their food trays to be filled. After the exercise it’s an hour in front of the television. Doesn’t matter what is on. I use it as a means of breaking the silence only and rarely pay much attention to the program or even what is being said. I tend to half watch it as I browse the net on my phone, too lazy to get up and fetch my laptop from whatever room I’d left it in.