Fur Coat No Knickers

by C. B. Martin

  I couldn’t help but feel slightly anxious about Laura’s temperament for the evening. Usually she was a wise, intellectual type with patience akin to a Buddhist monk. However, get one-too-many drinks in her and she would revert into a party animal that never wanted to go home. In my opinion, she showed traits of our father’s genes in more ways than one. However, needs must, I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from going out and having a very good time indeed.

  Laura and I made our way to our favourite cocktail bar in Dublin city centre with a lock up your husbands, we’re on a mission attitude. Upon arriving, Laura approached the doorman confidently, legs first. I stood back awkwardly and wondered what the frig she was doing. I watched her provocatively allowing the side splits of her pencil skirt to flap open as she began wrapping her tanned, toned leg around his waist; using his body like a pole and shimmying up and down him in a very sultry, risqué manner. She was such a show off! God, I wish I had a quarter of her carefree attitude.

  I looked down at myself, feeling suddenly butt-ugly. I knew I shouldn't have worn this outfit! I had agonised what to wear all day. Planning it all thoughtfully, I wanted to look sexy, yet stylish with a carefree edge. But now I felt none of these things. I had stupidly opted for my metallic, silver, skinny jeans and silver, sparkly, off-the-shoulder jumper, with huge, matching silver bangles. Even mum - who never noticed anything important - said I looked like an inflated roll of tin foil (although I think she was trying to be encouraging).

  Laura, on the other hand, had just thrown on a tight black pencil skirt, crisp white shirt and pulled it together with a wide, black-buckled leather belt, which gave her the sexiest hourglass figure. Me? Well, there was no strategy whatsoever. I mean for God’s sake, I hadn't even put my best assets on show. Jesus, I had paid enough for them. What was I thinking?

  I jumped from one foot to the other on the gravel to keep warm - I should definitely have brought my fur coat - it was bloody freezing. I thought Laura was never going to stop flirting with the doorman - I just wanted to get inside - I could hear the band doing a fantastic rendition of ‘Valerie’ by Amy Winehouse. Becoming impatient, I put my best foot forward and attempted to shimmy sexily to the beat when suddenly a stone flicked back, ricocheting off my ankle. ‘Owww…’ I was huffing, puffing and hopping around in sheer agony. I thought I was going to pass out.

  I reached out for Laura, holding up my ankle, desperate for sympathy, but instead she used my poor, throbbing leg as her handbag holder so she was freed up to finish her seduction of the doorman.

  There she was, Ms. Lickarse Laura, perfect at everything, caressing the Incredible Bulk. She was running her hands seductively down his dribbling chops, snapping into some kind of Argentinean tango, with her short, black bob flicking from right to left, left to right. The show finally ended (thank God) with the doorman powerfully cupping the base of Laura’s spine and throwing her down into a dramatic, exotic dip.

  ‘Tara!’ shouted Laura, her eye’s lit up wildly.

  ‘Yep?’ I winced, wondering if I needed to get to A&E.

  ‘Bar!’ she announced, with an authoritative point.

  I couldn't have felt less cool if I had tried, as the doorman made a great show of leading us through the door.

  I hopped in, rubbing my swollen ankle, while Laura tangoed through the crowd like she owned the place, oblivious to my practically broken ankle. To our joint pleasure, we found the place was heaving. We noticed straight away the ‘pickings’ were far from slim. The local rugby team was out on a Christmas jaunt and both Laura and I were very partial to a bit of muscle. We stood at the bar, scanning the crowd. There was plenty of choice.

  ‘We can afford to be picky tonight,’ I whispered, nudging Laura.

  ‘That’ll make a change for you!’ she jibed back, with a mock prim expression. Ignoring her comment, I raked my fingers up through my hair, trying to give it extra height. Pulling the curled length around my shoulders, I applied some more sticky lip-gloss.

  Laura confidently ordered our drinks. She was immediately approached by the shortest player of the whole rugby team. He was what she would later dismissively call a ‘typical Irish Leprechaun.’ However, despite his lack of height, Laura seized the opportunity and flirted unashamedly with him in order to get an introduction to the rest of the team.

  He must be the one who ends up on the bottom of the scrum pile, I mused to myself as I watched Laura fluttering her eyelashes and handing me a vodka and coke. This guy definitely had a face only a mother could love.

  Laura’s flirting did the trick though; before I knew it, we were whisked over and introduced to the rest of the team. Thank you, God! Miraculously the pain in my ankle subsided as my focus was instantly turned to the bulking frames of pure muscle in my midst.

  I was going to play it super-cool, noticing that one of the rugby players kept staring and smiling at me. He was absolutely the best-looking ride I had seen for, like, ever. Oh yes, I fantasised about doing some rip-roaring sexual healing with him. I took a deep breath and pretended I hadn’t noticed him. No way was I going to make eye contact - which made him stare even more to get my attention. I did my ‘I haven’t even noticed you’ routine and simply exaggerated my body language, oozing femininity to stir him up, while very obviously scanning the rest of the team.

  Trying to find confidence from somewhere, I conjured up a little plan. With my heart pounding, I swaggered in front of him towards the toilets. The prime objective of this killer strategy was to give him an opening to whiff my new ‘take-me-now’ perfume, which perfectly complimented my ‘take-me-now-eyes’. As I got within a few feet of him, I opened my mouth as if about to blow a bubble, rounding my lips into the perfect ‘O’ shape in the hope of the perfect pout. As I drew up beside him, I paused for a few seconds while standing far closer than absolutely necessary and seductively placed my hand on his torso.

  ‘Ex-cu-se me,’ I whispered, in the slowest, sexiest voice I could conjure up. Unable to contain myself, I kept moving while sensually trailing my fingertips across his muscular torso. God knows what this was doing to the man, but I could feel adrenaline coursing through my veins. My breathing was short and sharp, as I battled to keep my sexy composure. That’s no walk in the park either while wearing four-inch heels, holding in your stomach, sticking out your chest, keeping your shoulders back, pouting your lips and wiggling your backside at the same time. I’d like to see blokes try to pull off that move.

  As I slithered across the floor, I could feel his eyes burning into me. A sixth sense told me he was watching my every move. Knowing how visual a man is, I thought I would go one step further and emphasise my womanly sensuality a little more by slightly exaggerating the bum wiggle while sticking my chest out a few inches further for ultimate sex bomb effect. I was nearly at the toilet door, when I felt my (severely battered) ankle give way.

  The next few seconds were like a scene from Bambi. My knees banged together while my flailing arms grabbed some poor, unsuspecting woman. God love her, she seemed genuinely concerned as she steadied me. I hardly even managed to thank her because, in trying to re-gain my prowess, I quickly turned around red-faced and saw Laura chatting to my prey.

  ‘Feck… arse… shite!’ I scolded myself, as I hobbled through to the toilets. What if he saw me? Waving furiously at Laura from behind the door, I beckoned her over.

  ‘Laura. Laura! Come here quick! Oh my God… I’m so embarrassed. It could only happen to me,’ I groaned as I yanked her in.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked, ignorant to my nearly fatal mishap.

  ‘Please, tell me you didn’t see that?’ I begged, as I cupped my hands over my face in shame.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Did he see? Did you see? Did anyone see?’ I gabbled uncontrollably.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Laura answered, shaking her head, looking genuinely confused.

  ‘Me, falling off my shaggin’ heels on the way to the toilets!’ I barked.

  ‘
No,’ laughed Laura. ‘I was way too busy checking out the wall-to-wall cock-a-locka.’

  ‘It’s karma; I always get punished when I think naughty thoughts,’ I sulked.

  ‘C’mon - c’mon,’ encouraged Laura as she swung open the door back to the bar. ‘We’re wasting time in here. I didn’t come all this way to spend the night in the bogs - let’s go have us some fun!’

  ‘I’ll be out in a bit,’ I replied, still feeling mortified and not quite ready to show my face.

  I really needed to undo my skintight jeans so I would at least make some use of my embarrassing ‘trip’ to the toilets. Back at mum’s, I had eaten the remains of an old box of rejected chocolate liqueurs found at the back of a cupboard (well, all the rum flavour ones anyway). It was a comfort food thing, although perhaps it was through lack of festive alcohol too. Either way, the chocolate liqueurs were now terrorising my insides and giving me windy-pops. Added to this was the small issue with Siobhan’s Christmas present (small being the key word here). She had bought me a thong which was at least two sizes too small. To be honest, after my chocolate gobbling session, it was maybe three sizes too small. It had felt okay just as I was leaving mums. However, the minute I got into the taxi it felt like my arse was sitting on a cheese wire. The offending garment had developed an unhealthy, intimate appetite for my nether regions. I squeezed my hand down the back of my jeans and tried to release the torment of the string, but within seconds it was back, slicing me in half again.

  Realising there was little I could do about the thong issue (perhaps another vodka would act as a pain killer), I fixed my lip-gloss and gently ruffled my hair, making sure my extensions were all in place. I swallowed my pride and nervously came out of the toilets.

  I had been single for way too long. It’s not like I couldn’t find a man or anything. I just had a graveyard full of failed relationships that all suffered the same fate: him getting too close and me running for dear life. I couldn’t help myself. When I found someone I liked, I would even sit down with a notepad and analyse and dissect the relationship to no end. By the time I’d finished over-analsying, I would be so anxious I simply hit the panic button on my emotional ejector seat.

  Not this time though. I was only too aware I had wasted so much time in the past, which is why I’m in my bloody thirties with no husband, no babies and a bleak future. Besides which, I didn’t need a notebook to know for certain that Mr. gorgeous rugby man outside was absolutely, without a doubt, prime husband and father material.

  Taking a little more care this time, I strutted my stuff back into the bar. While trying to see where the object of my attention was, I was stopped by a ‘yokel’. A yokel is Laura’s code word for local yolk of a farmer who needs a wife, only knows how to speak to the animals and has no female contact in his life except that of his female heifer variety.

  ‘Sure you're a fine looking woman,’ said the yokel.

  I smiled sweetly, thanked him and tried to get back to the gang of hotties. I was just pulling my arm back when he came right out with it and asked me if I was looking for a husband.

  ‘No!’ I replied, trying not to sound rude. Well, yes actually, I thought, but it’s not gonna be you in a million years, chum!

  ‘Can ya milek cows?’ he inquired in the strongest Irish accent I had ever heard. It was then I noticed he had a tooth missing - as if there weren’t enough nails in his coffin.

  By now, I was beginning to really lose patience.

  ‘No!’ I said petulantly, putting on a cut-glass English accent. ‘Why on earth would I want to fondle a cow’s udder, when I could pick up a carton of semi-skimmed from Marks & Spencers?’

  Is he mad? Clearly he was. Whilst trying to get away from the eejit, I spotted the ride from earlier staring straight at me… so quickly switched tactics and pretended to enjoy the painstaking conversation with the yokel. I turned back to him and smiled sweetly.

  ‘Actually… on second thoughts, maybe I would play with a cow’s udder,’ I added deviously, slamming on the flirtation switch.

  ‘Sure that’s grand news, so it is!’ slobbered the revolting yokel, looking delighted. ‘Can you cooke? I’m a meat and two veg man meself, so I am.’

  ‘Ah! You’re so funny!’ I laughed, deliberately too loud. ‘Me, cook? I can’t cook for toffee!’ I said, giving him a playful shove; knocking the featherweight slightly off-balance.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ I gasped, grabbing him by the arm. Actually, I wasn't. I took the opportunity to see if the hunk in the corner was still watching. He was.

  ‘Ah, never mind sure, you’re me dream woman, so ye are,’ said the yokel, steadying himself, shuffling his way closer and closer until I had to take a step back. ‘I likes a bit of rough and tumble me self, sure I do.’

  He just didn’t seem to get it that I really didn’t care for his ‘meat and two veg’. I wanted the gorgeous ride’s meat and two veg - that was far more appetising.

  ‘Can I catch you for a dance later?’ leered the indefatigable yokel.

  Ah, see mum and dad had very strict views on this. They brought us girls up to know that if ever a man had plucked up the courage to ask us to dance, we were never to say no. They had really drummed it in. So, of course, my answer was ‘yes’. However, I drew comfort in my traditional get-out clause – my would-be dance partner would have to try and find me first.

  ‘I’ll be back later for that dance,’ I grinned, turning to dart away. He picked up my hand and slobbered a kiss on it. Yuck! Smiling through gritted teeth, I worked my way back to the real men.

  Shite! I couldn’t see him. He had completely disappeared. I didn’t want it to appear that I was looking for him - so, disappointed, I sloped over to Laura. She was on her third pint of Carlsberg already. I could never comprehend how she was able to drink beer at the same rate as men and still remain upright at the end of the night. She seemed to be having a ball too and was flirting outrageously with a very handsome six-foot-tall, broad, blonde Adonis. She was in her element. The Adonis pulled her out to dance and I was left alone with the other players, feeling a little vulnerable. Lovely as the rugby boys were, I couldn’t help but try and find my ride from earlier... Nothing. That bloody farmer! My heart sank. Giving up hope, I threw back my vodka and Coke, swallowing it down in one.

  Then, suddenly all six-foot plus of my hunk emerged from the darkness, striding directly towards me. My heart rate accelerated instantly and my instincts were screaming: pout, pout, and look cool! Don't look at him, Tara! I just couldn’t help but gawk; he was just so god-damn sexy.

  For a few seconds, I felt as though my legs had been cut off beneath me, as I stood paralysed in awe. He was so incredibly, mind-blowingly gorgeous. My stomach flipped over as our eyes locked. I tried to look away but, quite simply, I was mesmerized. I managed to pull myself out of my stupor for long enough to check out his left hand to make sure there was no Mrs. Beautiful - there wasn’t. After that I was completely lost again.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, in a slow, sexy voice, ‘your friend said you fell over.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I purred (even though I was seething inside with Laura). The bitch! Why the hell did she have to go tell him that? Sometimes she stoops lower than a centipedes arse!

  ‘I haven’t seen you around here before,’ he continued in an English accent. I was completely thrown. I had just presumed he would be Irish. I guess he must have been equally surprised with my own English accent.

  ‘Can I buy you and your friend a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Err, that’s no friend of mine,’ I answered, trying to keep the mood casual, even though I was still raging with her. ‘That’s my much older, big-mouthed sister.’ I couldn’t help myself adding, with a mischievous grin; ‘we call her ‘Lickarse Laura’.

  ‘What’s the pair of you drinking?’ he laughed. Oh, great, now I’d have to ask for a pint for my boozy sister. I always felt so embarrassed that she drank pints; it was so unfeminine.

  ‘Err, I’d
say she’ll have a small glass of Carlsberg and may I have a vodka and cock… Err, I mean Coke, please.’

  Oh my God… did I really just ask him for some cock? Oh God. I was cringing with embarrassment; I just prayed that he hadn't heard me. He came back a few moments later with a huge tray of drinks and handed me my vodka and Coke, smirking.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do about getting you that cock later,’ he added with a wink.

  Shite! My face was crimson again.

  Trying to ignore his comment and steady my breathing, I changed the subject:

  ‘Oh, err, that’s a rather big glass for a lady,’ I stammered, desperately hoping the flame red of my cheeks would disappear.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t help but notice you earlier, and that your sister was drinking out of a pint glass… don’t worry,’ he continued with a gentle smile after seeing my cringed face, ‘it is very acceptable for ladies to drink pints in Ireland.’

  I involuntarily laughed as he swept away my anxieties in one foul swoop. Our eyes locked for a moment, unfaltering.

  ‘By the way, my name is Travis.’

  ‘Travis… that’s a cool name,’ I blurted. ‘Mine’s Tara. Tara Ryan. Nice to meet you. Where are you from?’

  ‘Manchester,’ he replied, proudly.

  Hmmm, a northern ride, I thought, suddenly developing a thing for northern men. I then explained that I too lived in England and was just over visiting my lunatic family for Christmas.

  We quickly became engrossed in deep conversation. I wanted to know every single detail about him and just couldn’t get enough of hearing him talk. It turned out he’d had a very successful career playing rugby for England and had toured all over the world. In his mid-thirties, he retired from playing professionally and was then headhunted to become a fitness coach for Dublin for the coming season. He was now living between the two countries, but flew home to see his parents as often as he could. He shared digs with other players in Dublin, but planned eventually to move to Ireland on a permanent basis. Really? I thought, slightly disappointed at the latter part of his conversation. I would soon put a stop to that!