Single White Failure

by G. J. H. Sibson

  That weekend he went out to get his woman, the first of many that he intended to ensnare with his new tactic. He was out on the prowl, a changed man, he even dressed differently. All traces of relaxed Edward, nice Edward, had disappeared. The Ralph Lauren shirts and smart trousers had been consigned to the back of the wardrobe, in favour of the quintessential bastard black. Girls take heed, when you see a guy dressed all in black, it means they want nothing but sex that night, you can liken them to the predatory panther if you will. It’s all part of the ceremony, like you’re a marine camming up before a mission. It gets the testosterone pumping, you feel good and nothing will stop you getting some action that night.

  Bastard Edward makes his entrance at the Café de Paris, with Raj in tow. The air is mixed with old-school hip hop tunes and expensive fragrances. People are dancing and the cocktails are being knocked back like they’re going out of fashion. Normally Ed would be sipping on a Long Island Ice Tea himself, chatting with his group of friends and occasionally scoping out the joint for potential women. Potential women he could try it on with, only to crash and burn in great style. Raj notices that Ed is very different tonight, very focused and a little colder than normal, clearly there is something on his mind. They throw back a couple of scotches, Ed’s eyes don’t leave the gaggle of girls in the centre of the dancefloor. Raj is wisecracking as per usual but his partner in crime is barely listening, nothing will break Ed’s concentration. Raj notices Ed’s eyes pulse and flicker with interest, some stimulant has caught his attention, and Raj’s joke about the nun and the goat goes completely amiss. Instead, he follows Ed’s line of sight to where a blonde beauty is dancing.

  Without uttering a word, Ed hands him the dregs of his drink and glides towards the blonde. The girl has a great arse, prised nicely into a pair of Diesel hipsters. A real platinum blonde, she gives off that all-American Britney Spears look, before she started dressing like a trailer-tart from Salem. Bastard Ed coolly approaches this fine specimen, swaying to the music just enough to look like he’s enjoying himself while oozing the self-confidence of a man who knows what he wants, and is about to take it. Britney (I call her that because I don’t think her real name was ever actually determined) gives him a faint smile as he sidles up alongside her. Ed is not known for handling these situations well. He’s used to approaching women at legal conventions or at the deep freeze section of his local M&S. On the rare occasions that he does make a play for a girl in a bar or a club he would normally spend the next hour dancing near her, getting closer and closer, risking a little flirt here and a grope there. But not this time. Instead, he peers into her eyes, not smiling, not betraying a single emotion.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, a little gruffly.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, not especially interested.

  He looks at her blonde hair and lets his eyes glide down her neck and between her chest, outrageously admiring her all. He calmly continues to check her out; her arse, her legs and finally he gets to her feet.

  ‘Nice shoes,’ he says, eyeing her strappy numbers.

  ‘Thanks,’ is all she says.

  ‘Marni,’ he muses, as if making a mental note.

  ‘Wow, yes,’ she’s shocked. ‘How did you know that?’ Now he has her attention. She’s smiling.

  ‘Last season, but a classic,’ Ed says, as if he’s an authority on women’s footwear. She’s impressed, but then her face flashes with concern.

  ‘Are you gay?’

  He takes her by the waist, with his left hand clasping her cheek and he kisses Britney deeply. She doesn’t fight back, as previous girls have, no she responds, kissing him back. Ed can feel her quiver in his embraces.

  Within the hour they are back at his flat and Ed wastes no time in disrobing her before carrying her through to his bedroom. His shirt discarded, he starts to kiss her, his hands scoping every inch of her. Foreplay is not high on Ed’s agenda this evening, he just sets to it, selfishly making himself feel good. But once he gets started, Ed can’t help but feel some form of affection for the lovely Britney. Nice Guy Edward starts to feel bad about the way he has seduced this girl, but determined, he gags the imaginary voice of his conscience. He pushes all niceties aside and they embark on a frenzied rutting. It’s not long before Mr Nice rears his sanctimonious head. The thing is, Ed might have been successful in getting her home, and of course he wants to be naked with this chick, I mean who wouldn’t? But not like this, it’s too cold, too detached. He starts to feel more guilty, he can’t carry on, he wants to do something for her, he wants to be less selfish. So he goes down on her.

  With the pangs of guilt moistly dispensed with, and Britney somewhat satisfied, the two drift off to sleep. Ed wakes up in the morning, with the sun streaming in through his recently restored Victorian sash windows, and the first thing he claps his eyes on is this vision of nineteen-year-old beauty, nestled into him. This angelic creature has washed away any pretence of a bastard exterior that Ed had conjured up. Her soft skin, those cupid’s bow lips, the lovely long lashes and breath like a goat – he can’t help but feel endeared towards his conquest. As she stirs, Ed starts to stroke her hair and kiss her softly. He slips out of the bedroom, puts the kettle on and shoves some bread in the toaster. If only Dirty had been there to warn him. It is a sure sign that his bastard façade has truly withered away. The man in the bastard mask is free, Ed is back to his old self and he feels all the better for it.

  The news that Ed was getting laid more often than a bet on Grand National day – albeit with the same nag – just made me more angry. Not with Ed, obviously, but with myself. His bad boy image had been short lived but the tactic had had a 100% success rate, even if he had made the mistake of falling for his victim. Shit, if Ed’s getting it without complaints, what’s holding me back?

  Following Ed’s success, and taking Dirty’s advice, I decide to try it for myself. One Friday night in September, I am at the opening of a new bar in the West End called Opium. Swathes of those very heavy, rich red silks, a den of decadence Singapore-style. Low seating, teak furniture, musk and incense filling your lungs. Fusion beats hang over your head like the thick canopy of a Berber tent. With Dirty Dave over for the weekend, this would be the perfect venue for our first legendary drinking session since Barbados.

  As we’re sitting in Cambridge Circus, having a catch-up pre-club beer, Dirty declares, ‘Max, I invited a friend of mine along this evening.’

  ‘Oh right, what’s his name?’

  ‘Actually it’s a girl,’ he says. ‘She’s a colleague, well sort of my boss really. She is over from our Paris office on business.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell,’ I think. I normally enjoy going out in a mixed group but the most amusing thing about hanging out with Dirty is that the evening is bound to be debauched. That is unlikely to happen with us chaperoning his boss. No matter how much you like to think otherwise, you can never quite act the same way with women around on a sharking trip.

  ‘It’s ok, she’s a top lass, she’s Brazilian originally,’ Dirty says quickly, seeing the concern on my face. ‘Yes you’ll like her, she’s curvy, dark skin and great clothes.’

  Then I think ‘what the hell,’ if she’s cute perhaps this will be my opportunity to put my plans into effect, to try and be a bastard. When better than in the company of the bastard supreme himself.

  We finish our beers. Dirty has been regaling me with stories of his latest exploits. I think the most recent conquest was some Polish lass he’d stayed the night with, and when dropping her off in her part of town the next day, she had requested he stop at the end of the road. She insisted she walk the rest of the way down the street to her apartment, as it was likely her husband would be in. Unbelievable.

  We meet Maria Jose in a Sloaney wine bar just down the road in Soho, the type of place that serves sickly Chardonnay in goldfish bowl sized glasses. For once, Dirty is right, she is certainly curvy. She walks like she is on the catwalk. This woman oozes sex appeal. In fairness, she could be a Dolce & Gabbana girl,
fresh from Milan. Her clothes are indeed complementary, they take her natural beauty to another level. She is wearing a black satin dress, cut at an angle to reveal more thigh on one side than the other. Her ensemble is finished off with elegant black stilettos encrusted tastefully with diamantes. It is modest around her breasts, trust me they don’t need to be flagged up – you can see that she has tits the size of ripe cantaloupes. Men neglect their girlfriends just to watch her sway through the punters at the bar. As she comes up close, arm outstretched to shake our hands, we are able to fully appreciate her soft bronzed skin and her silky brown hair, which is lightly curled, and hangs seductively about her shoulders.

  ‘Ah, Maria Jose,’ shouts Dirty. He’s positively salivating.

  ‘Hi Daveed, it’s good to see you,’ the south American goddess clasps his hand and kisses him on each cheek.

  I think I just came in my pants. Not only is she gorgeous, she has a voice that’s so husky it makes Mariella Frostrup sound like a soprano. Those piercing light green eyes turn their focus onto me. I can feel her weighing me up, taking me all in (so to speak).

  ‘You must be Maxxx!’ Squelch, damn there it goes again.

  Dirty and her are chatting away, catching up on work gossip and the latest instalment of Dirty’s work romance. While he’s babbling away, Maria Jose occasionally throws a glance in my direction. It may be brief, but it’s a penetrating look. Unless I’m mistaken (and I often am) this juanita is interested. We down our drinks and head for Opium.

  My party-organiser friend Pippa has sorted us out with the guest list at the club. Because we have a woman in toe, or in Maria Jose’s case, leading the way despite not knowing where she is going, it means we are spared the ridicule of standing in the single sad male queue. The witch on the door with the clipboard immediately lets us into the club. Said witch doesn’t attempt to make us queue, she sees she has met her match in Maria Jose.

  Pippa is there with her usual posse of pashmina wearing, Berkshire-born girlies. Pippa is doing her usual socialite thing, making sure that everyone is okay. She is always flitting from one person to the next, caught in a barrage of luvvie kisses. She is a great girl, and very down to earth, despite this ‘club-promoting’ façade. But her hangers-on are nothing short of annoying, they are so incredibly pretentious. Having said our hellos to Pippa, we grab our sherbets and waste no time in heading for the dancefloor. As we’re dancing away to some Eminem-Jackson remix, Dirty heads off to the loo.

  With my friend otherwise occupied, and Maria Jose and I alone, it is the perfect opportunity to implement my bastard tactics. But before I can put my bastard plans into effect I become aware of Maria Jose’s intensive gaze. She has moved up close and is starting to dance very sensually. She looks me straight in the eyes, bold as you like, and slinks her arms around my neck.

  ‘You know what, there is someone in here I am flirting with?’ she says.

  ‘Oh good stuff. And, er, who would that be?’ That’s it, gotta keep cool, I’m a fucking bastard, I can deal with this. This is going to be easier than I thought.

  ‘Well he’s very, very close. But I no sure he likey me.’

  ‘Really, oh I’m sure he does, likey you very much, and he’ll be back in just a sec,’ I say looking in the direction of the toilet, acting coy.

  ‘Hah,’ the little minx throws her long silky hair back in laughter, ‘I no mean Daveed, I talking about someone else… friend of Daveed.’

  I never thought you could hear someone gulp like Daffy Duck, but you can. Why am I feeling like a little boy with a crush on the older girl next door? I’m trying to maintain my bastard composure, but instead I find myself melting.

  ‘Well, I can assure you that I…’ I am cut short by what I can only describe as the most mind-blowing, awesome kiss that I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Thinking about mind-blowing kisses does make me sound like a whoopsy (and yes, I did have my eyes shut to make things worse) but this was so fucking fantastic.

  You think you’ve snogged some girls that are good, some that are bad, and then you discover a seductress that can have you wrapped around her little finger with nothing more than some fantastic lip work. I swear, this Siren had been practising at the art of kissing since she was old enough to recite the alphabet. I am completely in her control, to the point where momentarily I forget I am in a club, I don’t give a monkey’s that this Brazilian bombshell is playing me like a fiddle. She is so impressive that everyone else stops dancing to watch, they can see the intensity that I am feeling. Dirty reappears, not that I would know, and stands open mouthed as his boss seduces his old mate. When I think it can’t get any better, the voracious jezebel introduces an ice cube into our lip-locking, not in the inept way my Kiwi had done, but with timed skill and expertise. She knows all the places to flick with a tongue, how to hold you on the edge of sheer bliss ready to implode. The ice melts between our hot lips. She works around to my ear, whispering in Portuguese, blowing softly, speeding up becoming more and more impassioned. Bugger me, I really am going to climax. Then with a final deep, long kiss she pulls away, panting. The rest of the room stands staring, the only person who is more like an automaton than any of them, is me.

  As I recover, I see Maria Jose smiling, she’s enjoying the effect she’s having on me. She winks and grabs my hand to pull me over to the bar. Incredibly there is no queue to get a drink, everyone must be on the dancefloor.

  ‘Would you like some water?’ I ask her. I know I need some after that.

  ‘Yes please. And hold my breasts.’

  ‘Two glasses of water please. Excuse me?’ Did I just hear right, did she ask me to hold her breasts? I look at the barman, confused, and he gives me that face, ‘What are you waiting for you dumb fuck, do it quickly or I’ll come round there and do it myself.’

  By now, I am totally fazed and any bastard exterior I thought I created has all but dissolved. She is completely in control. I stand there agog before cupping a poont in each hand, nearly crying. I grope her like I am checking a couple of very large avocados to see if they are ripe. She groans a little, encouraging me to squeeze some more.

  ‘That’s it Max, dahrrling, harder, firmer.’ I am like a kid in a candy store. It must look like I am touching a boob for the first time. She kisses me again, I am hers to do with as she pleases. And that’s exactly what she does. Looking me straight in the eye and wearing a wry smile she declares, ‘Now, the bed in my hotel is way too small. We go to yours.’

  Babble is about all I can do.

  Half an hour and an unconventional cab journey later, which had caused the driver so much excitement he nearly knocked a woman off her bike by Trafalgar, we arrive at my place. I can hardly get the key in the door with excitement.

  Crossing the threshold, I stumble into the lounge and put on some suitably sultry music, the Buena Vista Social Club. Predictably I light up a candle (if he could see me, Dirty would have his head in his hands about now). Throwing my coat on the couch I make my way into the bedroom. Bugger me if my Brazilian hasn’t already discarded her dress and, well by the looks of things, all her clothes. The bedsheets are carefully placed just to cover the pleasure spots. It’s clichéd, and I thought that it only happens in cheesy American films but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t do the trick. God doesn’t she look wonderful. The cream sheets are drizzled over her chocolate brown legs. A single firm thigh lies on top of the covers and her slender shoulders give way to a partially protruding bosom.

  Before I know it, we are at it like Catholics. And most notably I am introduced to the delights and benefits of a true Brazilian strip – and I ain’t talkin’ bout no football team neither! So much cleaner, more beautiful, far sexier, much better. Mind-blowing would be selling the rendezvous short. The only thing that ruins this carnal bliss is when Maria Jose starts wailing like an Apache squaw doing a war dance. Now, I know that some women like to be vocal in the bedroom and, for the most part, us chaps like to plough away with the job in hand, but this is ri
diculous. She is blatant screaming, I suppose all to my credit, but she’s really putting me off. I want to laugh, it’s difficult to suppress the urge, but to let a single giggle pas my lips would be fatal. I lie there, under this howling, writhing woman, waiting for my next-door neighbour to come round and tell me to ‘shutthefuckup.’ Although knowing the dirty little bugger he is probably cracking one off listening to her screams. Not that I’d blame him – I’d be doing the same.

  I wake in the morning, make some coffee and lean on my Juliet balcony. The street below is busy with the early morning tradesmen and market stall holders who are setting things up. ‘This could work,’ I think to myself. She is attractive and stylish and foreign. And the best bit is she lives abroad. People always criticise long-distance relationships, quite frankly I can’t think of anything better. They provide you with the independence you require. And when you do make the effort to meet up you make the most of the precious little time you have together, making it so much more intense. Essentially, you only see each other when and because you really want to.

  As I stand there, lost in my world of pensive bliss, Maria Jose shuffles into my lounge, wearing one of my white shirts. It is a sight to behold, that olive skin and chestnut brown hair, slinking towards me with those big mugs – big mugs of steaming coffee. So we stand there, drinking. It’s all good.

  ‘Maxy, I likey you verrry much,’ she says suddenly.

  ‘Well, I rather like you too Maria Jose.’ It’s true, I do like her. I look back out onto the street. The owner of the deli below is unloading crates of mangos, one of the crates has just splintered into several pieces as it was dropped from the back of the van. Various Punjabi expletives can be heard above the murmurings of the market. I laugh to myself, this is why I love London – the grittiness. I enjoy the scene and take another sip of coffee.