Love by the Book

by Melissa Pimentel

• • •

  Today the sun shone for the first time in a fortnight and I woke up feeling renewed. I decided to face this month’s challenge with as much aplomb as I could muster. So what if I couldn’t have sex? I was soon to be a lean, mean, Tough Muddering machine.

  Speaking of which, I’ve got my date with Running Man next Saturday.

  And, even more excitingly, or possibly disastrously, tomorrow is my dinner with Adrian.

  I have no idea what to expect but I do know what NOT to expect, and that is sex. I can’t believe I’m actually writing these words, but tomorrow I am going to see Adrian at his house (which is WHERE HIS BED LIVES) and I am not going to have sex. I feel like I’ve fallen into Bizarro World (which may explain the sunshine in London today).

  Wish me luck.

  June 11

  Push-ups and pull-ups: none—too annoyed

  • • •

  Adrian canceled yesterday. Of course he did. Apparently there was a massive warehouse fire in Slough and he had to go cover it for the paper. I hope he got a fireman’s hose stuck up his ass.

  And to add insult to injury, Running Man canceled our date for Saturday too. Apparently his grandmother is ill or something. Selfish bitch.

  On the bright side, a month of abstinence isn’t going to be all that difficult to achieve if no one wants to have sex with me.

  I’ve also noticed that all of last month’s flirting has ceased abruptly. I don’t know if it’s all the demure clothes, or if I’m emanating some kind of anti-pheromone, but I haven’t had a single glance thrown my way so far this month. On the tube, in shops, in bars: it’s like I’m invisible. My light has definitely gone off.

  June 13

  Push-ups: two to three billion, all under duress

  Pull-ups: none, though I can barely pull my pants up at this point so it’s not surprising

  • • •

  Lucy and I went to boot-camp training in Victoria Park tonight after work. I thought it would make a nice change from our usual run and it was a glorious evening: still warm and bright with only the slightest of gentle breezes.

  Before I knew it, that gentle breeze was whizzing past as I galloped up and down a hill while an enormous former Marine sergeant shouted insults at me. We were being forced around a gigantic circuit, each station bringing its own special blend of blinding pain and bullying from the instructors.

  I caught Lucy’s eye as she dove to the ground to do yet another burpee while a sadistic-looking blond man towered over her. Her pupils were dilated with fear.

  At the end of the hour, we were both covered in dirt and brambles. Lucy’s normally bouncy ponytail was hanging limply and I was convinced I’d dislocated my thumb in an overzealous forward roll. We went to the pub for a pint and a bowl of chips (carbohydrates being an important recovery food).

  “Jesus,” I said, taking a long sip from my pint. It tasted like cold, liquid heaven. “Those guys were a little . . . intense, don’t you think?”

  “Never again, babe.” Lucy swiped a chip through the pot of mayonnaise and popped it in her mouth. “Those instructors might have been super fit, but I stopped thinking about shagging them when the blond man called me ‘dumpling,’ and I don’t think he meant it affectionately.”

  I clinked glasses with her. “Here’s to abstinence.”

  June 14/15

  Push-ups: eight (amazing progress!)

  Pull-ups: a quarter (again, progress!)

  • • •

  I had already changed into sweatpants and was folding laundry when my cell phone rang. The time was 11:03 on Friday night. It was Adrian.

  I stared at the phone for a minute, wondering if I should pick up.

  That’s a lie. Who am I kidding? Of course I was going to pick up.

  “Are you calling to cancel non-existent plans just for shits and giggles? Cat up a tree this time? Bomb threat in Tesco?”

  “Cunningham, are you still dwelling on that? You know what Billy Joel says: I didn’t start the fire.”

  “Go to hell. What do you want?”

  “I’m just by your flat and wondered if you wanted to get a nightcap.”

  “I’m in my pajamas.”

  “Even better. Shall I come up?”

  My eyes darted around the room, which was currently covered in piles of socks. It wasn’t exactly inviting. Plus, Adrian in close proximity to a bed was asking for trouble.

  “No!” I blurted. “Do not come up here.”

  “Why? Have you got a suitor around? Dirty girl.”

  “No. I just don’t want you coming up here.”

  “Fine, then come down here. Meet me in the Eagle in ten.”

  I made a noise like a trapped cat.

  “Come on, Cunningham. Just for one. I’m buying.”

  Three hours later and dressed in torn skinny jeans and an oversized sweatshirt (my painstakingly assembled “I just threw this on and came down to meet you” outfit), I found myself pressed up against Adrian in the Horse and Groom as a drunk man in a bear costume stumbled past.

  I had consumed more bourbon than I could recall, and Adrian had his hand on my inner thigh.

  “Do you want another one?” His breath was warm and vodka-tinged and impossibly alluring.

  “Sure. Can we go outside first? I need a cigarette.”

  “You and your nicotine . . .”

  I followed him out and leaned against the wall of the pub. As I lit my cigarette, I glanced over at Adrian. His hair had fallen over his left eye and his white T-shirt had a huge rip down one side.

  “What happened to your shirt?”

  He glanced down at the tear. “Dunno. Been like that for months.”

  “Did you ever think about throwing it out?”

  “Why would I do that? It’s still functional.”

  “I don’t know that I’d call it functional. I think you’ll find the purpose of a shirt is to cover your torso, and that, my friend, ain’t cutting the mustard. Where the hell did that phrase come from anyw—”

  He lunged forward and kissed me, pinning me against the wall.

  “Do you ever shut up, Cunningham?” he whispered.

  “Hrrrmmmmmgh,” I mumbled.

  “Let’s get out of here. Back to yours?”

  I nodded weakly as he placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd of smokers. I was powerless in the face of his voodoo magic. Where the fuck was my valerian root when I needed it? He stopped at the intersection to kiss me again, then slipped his hand under my sweatshirt to my bare back. (I was suddenly grateful for all the push-up work.)

  We were a block from my apartment when I saw it: an enormous billboard featuring a neon-lit pint of Guinness and the words “The Best Things Come to Those Who Wait.”

  It was like a bolt of lightning sent by Zeus, or the angel Gabriel blowing his little trumpet right in my face.

  I stopped short and dropped Adrian’s hand like it was on fire.

  “I can’t do this.”

  Adrian looked startled. “Do we need to make a condom stop?”

  “No. Ugh. NO! I can’t have sex with you.”

  He gave me a lopsided, quizzical grin. “Of course you can. It’s very simple, Cunningham. I believe you’ve done it before, though I’m happy to provide a refresher course. I can assure you that you’ll have a lovely time.”

  “I’m sure I would but I just . . . can’t. I’m sorry.”

  I gave his hand a quick squeeze and then ran across the road, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by a minicab in the process. I heard someone cursing me, but didn’t want to turn around to see if it was the driver or Adrian.

  June 15 Continued

  Push-ups and pull-ups: none (all energy sapped from amazing display of willpower)

  • • •

  Lucy was perched on the edge
of my bed, the hour hideously early for a hung-over Saturday. I was lacing up my sneakers while she poured black coffee in my mouth and pumped me for details.

  “So? Did you sleep with him?”

  “Lucy Hunter! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “I know exactly the type of girl you are, so don’t play coy with me. You reek of whisky and you look like the cat that got the cream. Give it over!”

  I took a gulp of coffee and grimaced as it burned my tongue. “I am pure as the driven snow.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Fuck off!”

  “It’s true! My honor is intact. Chastity belt still firmly locked. Are you ready to go?”

  Lucy tucked her iPhone into her sports bra and tutted. “This bloody thing never stays put. Right, let’s go. You can explain on the stairs how you managed to spend time with Adrian without shagging his brains out.”

  “It was a feat of enormous self-discipline. I almost caved, but then I ran away at the last minute.”

  “What do you mean, ran away?”

  “I mean I physically ran away from him. It was the only way to save my pure soul.”

  “How did he react?”

  “I didn’t turn around to see.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Disgruntled, mainly, but also kind of smug? It’s weird. Obviously I wanted to sleep with him, but there was something kind of liberating about waking up alone. I feel like I have the upper hand back or something. Of course, I’m sure he’ll never speak to me again considering the ungodly case of blue balls I must have given him.”

  “I suspect Adrian’s cock will survive.”

  “Mmm. It’s resilient, I’ll give it that.”

  “Anyway, I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, man. Me too. C’mon, help me sweat all this booze out.”

  • • •

  When we got back to the apartment, I found a text message waiting for me.

  I’ve been very distracted this morning thinking about you, you little tease. A xx

  And that, my friends, was the exact moment my brain exploded. Somehow, it had worked. After months of trying to get Adrian’s attention by having increasingly imaginative and acrobatic sex, it turns out that the best way to turn him on was by not sleeping with him. Go figure.

  I spent the rest of the day highlighting passages from Close Your Legs and rereading the text from Adrian (to which, being of a sexual nature, I naturally did not reply).

  Tonight, I broke out in a rash; the result of a valerian root overdose.

  June 18

  Push-ups: thirteen (huge burst of strength)

  Pull-ups: two-fifths (better)

  • • •

  Three days have passed without a word from Adrian and without so much as a whiff of sex. I’ve spent much of my time doing laundry, rewashing the several white high-necked shirts I’ve been wearing all month. I’ve also reorganized the cupboard under the sink, painted one wall of my bedroom purple and embarked on an ill-advised curtain-sewing project using some Liberty print scarves I found at a vintage shop. My bedroom now looks like a 1970s bordello.

  I have done so much exercise I nearly passed out from dehydration at work yesterday. Cathryn took one look at me and told me to go lie down on the sofa in our office, but we’re working on a huge new exhibition on microbes and I had to finish drafting the press release. I’ve been working more hours than God gives us and my desk has never been more organized.

  In short, going for this long without sex has made me a more productive, fitter, neater and more diligent person. It has also made me really, really fucking boring.

  Thank God for cigarettes and booze, and for the light at the end of this very long tunnel.

  June 26

  A breakthrough: managed three-quarters of a pull-up before my hands slipped off the bar and I fell to the floor. I also did fifteen push-ups. I am basically bionic.

  June 27

  After weeks of arranging and rearranging plans, Running Man and I finally went on a date today. Well, sort of a date. We went for a bike ride after work.

  I know: people are actually doing this now! Instead of sitting in a nice cozy pub and guzzling attractiveness-enhancing alcohol down their necks, people are opting to sit on bicycles and stare at each other’s spandexed asses for long stretches of possibly deadly road, reach the designated point, briefly discuss the scenery, share a Power Bar, turn around and go home again.

  Normally I would balk at the suggestion of going on such a clearly ridiculous and un-fun date, but I figured that nothing dampened passion like cycling gear and the smell of bike oil, so when Running Man suggested cycling along the canal to Hackney Wick, I agreed. I was almost a month into celibacy and couldn’t be trusted to keep my underwear on in almost any circumstance.

  Unfortunately for me, Running Man happened to have a seriously excellent ass, so I spent much of the ride thinking about biting it. As a result, I nearly ran over several small children and one very irritated goose.

  When we got there, it took us fifteen minutes to find somewhere to lock up our bikes because of a Hackney-wide cycle-polo tournament, by which point I was half-starved and—thanks to a freak heat wave—had a tongue like a dried sponge. I suggested we go to Crate Brewery for a beer and a slice of pizza.

  He looked at me with surprise and—if I’m not mistaken—a tinge of disappointment in his eyes.

  “Do you mind if we go somewhere else? I’m in training for an ultramarathon so I’m really trying to hold off on eating any processed carbs.” He punctuated the statement by patting his admittedly slim torso. “There’s a macrobiotic place around the corner that does an amazing quinoa salad. We could pop in there if you’d like?”

  My heart sank. I like quinoa as much as the next woman (by which I mean that I have trained myself to like it over years of enforced consumption) but I wasn’t so hot on a guy who shunned pizza and beer for whole grains and green tea. I know I’m being sexist, but it just seemed . . . prissy.

  Nevertheless, I was going to pass out if I didn’t eat something soon, so off we went to the macrobiotic cafe, where Running Man promptly had a shot of wheatgrass and asked for a grilled chicken salad (no dressing, no croutons). I had a piece of organic carrot cake with tofu frosting (just about as gross as it sounds).

  “When’s this ultramarathon of yours?” I asked as I speared a runaway raisin.

  “Next month. I’m fired UP!”

  “How long is an ultramarathon again?”

  “Hundred K. Can’t wait.”

  “Jesus. That’s a long trot.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “I think there’s something almost spiritual about running that far, you know? It’s like you’re one with the gods.”

  “Mmm. The longest I’ve ever gone is a half marathon, and I didn’t feel particularly spiritual toward the end of it.” In actuality, I’d pissed myself on the last mile, but I thought I’d keep that to myself. (Hey, you try running 13.1 miles without a bathroom break and see how you fare.) “I’m doing Tough Mudder in a couple of days, though, so that should be a challenge.”

  He looked disgusted. “Tough Mudder is nothing. It’s just a little mud and a few hills.”

  “And barbed wire.”

  He waved me away. “Those things are just distractions. What you want to do is distance. Pure distance. Just you and the road. Once you free this—” he leaned over and tapped the top of my head—“you can run forever. Did you know that there’s a group of Japanese monks who run forty thousand kilometers over a thousand days?”

  “Yeah, but they’re monks. What else do they have to do?”

  “Lauren, they’re spiritual beings. They understand that pain is purely physical. To achieve true enlightenment, you have to transcend that pain barrier. I ran the Three Peaks marathon in Wales last summer, and within the first mile I tripped over a roo
t and fell off the trail.”

  I bit my lip to stop myself laughing. The image of people falling over does it to me every time. “What happened?”

  “There I was, lying in a ditch, my ankle twisted, watching all the other fellas tear down the course ahead of me. And then I heard this voice.”

  “A voice?”

  “From above.”

  Here we go. “What did it say?”

  “It said, ‘Stay the path. Feel no pain. You are a warrior.’ I got up and started running. The front of my trainer was torn, so I ripped it off and ran on without it.”

  “So you basically ran a marathon in a sandal with a sprained ankle because a voice in your head told you to?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Yes. At the final mile, I collapsed. I had lost several toenails by that point, and what remained of the trainer was soaked in blood. People were shouting for me to stop and get help. A medic tried to pull me off the course and into a waiting ambulance.”

  “It sounds like you needed it. You could have really hurt yourself.”

  “That’s a loser’s attitude. I knew that if I just transcended the pain, I could finish.”

  There was a long dramatic pause as his gaze locked onto mine, his eyes burning.

  “And so I finished. It was a new personal best. I still don’t have feeling in the toes on my left foot, and it’s taken a year for the toenails to grow back. But it was worth it.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yes. You see? It’s all in the mind.”

  “Maybe, but I’m still not sure I would want to lose toenails over it.”

  “You hardly miss them when they’re gone.” He took another swig of wheatgrass and looked determinedly into the middle distance.

  We cycled back to Old Street and parted ways at the top of my street, him proclaiming that he was off to do a brief 50K cycle before going home. He asked if I wanted to come along to his running club meeting on Wednesday, but I demurred. I wasn’t ready for transcendence.