Are We Nearly There Yet

by Lucy Vine

  He laughs again, ‘Sure, sometimes.’

  ‘It’s like how I imagine heaven must be,’ I breathe. ‘Rows and rows of imaginative, beautiful food. There are like six olive bars, how is that possible? I don’t even like olives, and I still spent forty minutes examining them all. And the salad bars have macaroni cheese! That’s not salad! But I could tell myself it was healthy because it was part of the salad bar! It’s wonderful. I am planning to spend every day next week in a Whole Foods.’

  ‘Don’t you have Whole Foods in the UK?’ he asks, still watching me in the mirror. I’m not sure he’s looked at the road once these past five metres. I grip the door handle again, as his speed creeps up once more.

  ‘Um, well I guess we do,’ I say. ‘But not many. We’re more into Tesco and Boots.’

  ‘What’s Boots?’

  I sigh heavily. ‘Uber Driver, our countries will never be able to get along until you embrace a Boots over here. Or at least a Superdrug. Where did you go to shoplift mascara when you were fifteen?’

  ‘CVS,’ he confirms. ‘Aged fifteen was my drag phase.’

  ‘Really though?’ I say, forgetting to hold on and getting thrown across the seat as he crosses two lanes without warning or indicating. But I’m no longer annoyed. Actually, all this dangerous driving is starting to feel a bit sexy.

  He nods. ‘Actually, yes, I did wear a bit of mascara as a teenager. I thought it was punk. Obviously I got the shit kicked out of me regularly at my high school, but that just made me wear more.’

  ‘I am obsessed with Drag Race,’ I say excitedly.

  ‘It wasn’t exactly drag,’ he says, laughing again. ‘More . . . rebellion. Against my parents, against the teachers, against the other kids, and against gender norms.’

  ‘Fuck yeah,’ I punch the air, and then add, ‘Drag is really sexy though.’

  He nods, looking me dead in the eye. ‘Good to know.’

  The eye contact suddenly feels a bit heated and I clear my throat, glancing out the window. I realise we’re almost back at mine. I am a little disappointed.

  ‘Well, enjoy your pasta and shitty chocolate, 3.5,’ he says, playfully, as we turn into my road.

  ‘Ha!’ I say, a little sadly. ‘Um, thanks. And you enjoy being a godawful driver out there. At least please try not to kill anyone tonight. I’m not over here long enough to waste time being interviewed by the police.’

  He laughs his barrel laugh again, and pulls over. I reach for the door.

  ‘Unless . . .’ he starts, a little shyly. ‘Unless you want to go for a drink instead? I’m going off duty, and it’s rare I meet someone in the Uber subsection as mean and cute as you. I promise I’m not a crazy stalker, and if you say no, I’ll still give you a solid four stars.’

  I can’t help laughing. ‘How do I get that up to five?’ I say and I am flirting.

  ‘A drink would get you to five,’ he smirks.

  I smirk back, thinking about it.

  Of course I must say no. Duh, of course, no. I am not a stupid person, and I grew up hearing the stranger danger mantra. I cannot go off into the night with this large, reckless man who has been given such a bad rating from other people. I picture defence lawyers holding up my underwear in court and declaring me ‘asking for it’.

  No way, man.

  I open my mouth to politely decline, when my phone lights up. A message from TD flashes up and the message is short and salty.

  ‘When r u back? Cum on I’m horny.’

  I am suddenly sickened by the idea that his was the last penis I had in me. The last sex-sweat I tasted. Ugh. I can just picture his leering, unappealing face, his face slick with desire. Ugh.

  I throw my phone back into my bag, I don’t want his text touching me.

  ‘Come on then, Uber Driver,’ I say impulsively. ‘There’s a bar round the corner, we’ll go get a drink. I want my five stars, but please don’t murder me.’ He grins in the mirror and unbuckles his seatbelt. We both climb out of the car and oh boy, he’s good-looking. We face each other for a moment, smiling widely about what is happening. I am dizzy with spontaneity and buzzing with adrenaline from my near-death experience in the car. Or maybe it’s at the thought of sleeping with this large, sexy human.

  He offers me his hand to hold, and I take it, leading him away from the car.

  Here we go, it’s finally happening. I am going to have sex at long, long last. And I am confident it will be at least a 3.5.

  10

  AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed

  6 May – 6.12 p.m.

  Jkbfedbkh%

  7 Comments · 0 AWOLs · 1 Super Likes

  COMMENTS:

  Kirpa Saul

  | Oh hello, somebody just butt-blogged.

  Karen Gill

  | We haven’t heard from you all week, been having too much fun?!

  Ayo Damiunse

  | Yeah! Fuck you, AWOL! Let’s all post nonsense until we bring down The Man!

  Eva Slate

  | Miss yoooooooou, where have you been?! Answer my texts so I know you’re alive.

  Ryan T

  | WTF is this? Dumb cow

  AWOL MODERATOR

  Replying to Ryan T

  | Hey Ryan! Luke here! I’m sure you’re just having fun but please be respectful to our users :) Cool chatting to you, bro. Luke

  Ryan T

  Replying to AWOL MODERATOR

  | am not ur bro luke u dickhead

  ‘Owwww, ow, ow, ow, ow!’ I shout, wriggling around in the bed sheets. ‘Pins and needles, ow, ow.’

  Dom reaches over and rubs my hairy legs. ‘Better?’ he asks, but it’s not. ‘I think maybe I need to get out of bed,’ I say reluctantly.

  ‘Nooooo,’ he booms, grabbing me round the middle. ‘I won’t let you. Nobody is ever leaving this bed.’

  ‘Well, you know, that is technically a kidnapping,’ I point out, wincing at the shooting pain in my left foot. ‘And I should warn you – other people are fight or flight in those situations – I just lose bladder control.’ I point down at my stomach. ‘Especially when I’m being squeezed.’

  He laughs and lets me go, rolling away across the crumpled sheets.

  Me and the Uber driver have been in a sex bubble for nearly a week now. We had one drink in that bar, before the horn took over. I wasn’t sure about the AirBnB rules pertaining to shagging strangers in your room, so we raced back to his in the Uber – only nearly dying three more times – for a night of shagging. I was a bit alarmed when he took his clothes off, because – much like everything else about him – his penis was really upsettingly large. He presented it to me in this delighted way, like I should be ecstatic about this massive, unwieldy implement. But honestly, I didn’t want it anywhere near me. There is a lot of talk about women preferring large willies, but in my experience, that is only the case because they quite like terrifying their pals with stories afterwards. Personally, I prefer anything coming that close to my internal organs to be as average as possible. But after some heated discussion, we agreed to make an attempt and, thankfully, Uber Driver made suitable efforts to ensure I was, er, ready for landing. All went as it should.

  It’s been fucking lovely. And lovely fucking.

  But I have also not really been able to poo in, like, a week. His bathroom is right next to his bed, and I couldn’t risk it. At this point, I am worried it has reabsorbed. Reabsorbed poo has got to be bad for you, hasn’t it?

  ‘Uber Driver, I think I may have to go home,’ I say, sitting up slowly. My back creaks from too much lying down. ‘I am in a bad way, and the bed sores are starting to get infected.’

  He laughs, long and hard. ‘You are so unusual, Alice. Very different from other women.’

  I hate this line. I’m a human being, humans are all different
from each other. It is one of the very first things they teach you at school: that people are all unique. Saying that line just feels like another way to set women against each other. We are encouraged to be different to ‘other women’, as if most women are awful and their personalities must be avoided at all costs.

  I give him a look. ‘You mean different from the other tourists you pick up in your Uber?’

  ‘Exactly right,’ he says grinning. ‘You are so rude and you don’t care what I think. Most women in the US get bounced from the state for eating carbs but I’ve seen you eat a whole loaf of bread in two days. Not to mention that large bar of chocolate you ate for breakfast.’

  I harrumph. ‘That was only to prove a point,’ I say defensively. ‘How dare they call it a “Sharing bar”? I don’t want to share. They don’t get to police how I consume my snacks, with their politically correct, diabetes-friendly messaging.’

  He laughs again.

  ‘Also,’ I say, ‘You are not my elderly grandparent – you do not get to comment on my eating habits. This is a verbal warning, I don’t want to hear anything else about me eating carbs or I’m out of here for real.’

  ‘Fine, but I’m just saying I like it,’ he smiles and reaches for me again, pressing his erection against my leg.

  ‘Keep your likes and dislikes to yourself, you are a seven-night stand, that is all.’ I roll away.

  ‘Seven nights?’ he says, coyly. ‘That means I get one more night with you?’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply distractedly, looking around the room for my underwear. ‘No, I just don’t know how to count. Maths was never my strong point.’

  ‘Math,’ he corrects me.

  ‘MATHS,’ I say, giving him my undivided attention again. ‘We invented the language, we get to decide if a thing is plural or not.’

  I pull on one sock but he takes the other one, hiding it under the duvet. ‘Don’t go, Al, I want you to stay!’

  I sigh. ‘Really, I do have to go back to my AirBnB. My host, Patrick, will have called the police by now. He hasn’t really seen me since that first night. And I’m meant to be seeing Isy for lunch tomorrow. I have to shower properly and I need a change of pants.’

  ‘These are fine,’ he says, picking up my jeans from the floor and sniffing them. ‘You’ve hardly even worn them.’ I roll my eyes. ‘No, pants. Underwear. Oh God, you lot really have ruined the language. Although, I do very much enjoy what you’ve done with the word “fanny”.’

  ‘Well, I very much enjoy your fanny,’ he says, scooching over, squeezing my bum and tugging at the top I’ve just put on.

  ‘Look,’ I say, giggling. ‘We will compromise. I’ll stay with you for one more evening, but we have to actually go outside. I want to see the world out there, I want to taste something that isn’t takeaway pizza, leftover bread and chocolate you found in a cupboard that was so old it was turning white.’

  ‘You still ate it,’ he points out.

  ‘What did I say about commenting on my eating habits?’ I say loudly, standing up. He leaps up, too, and I feel my stomach flip a bit. He’s so tall and big. I forgot about his bigness while we were horizontal for days on end.

  ‘OK,’ he is suddenly eager like a puppy. ‘What would you like to do? What haven’t you done in LA yet?’

  I smile up at him. I already know what I want to do. It’s been on my list from day one, but I didn’t want to do it on my own, and I definitely didn’t want to do it with that dirtbag Robert.

  ‘I want to go visit a Green Doctor,’ I say, grinning and taking his hand.

  He cocks an eyebrow back at me by way of an answer.

  An hour later, we are going through airport security.

  It’s not actually airport security, but it feels like it. We are in a place called WEED LOVE TO HAVE YOU AT THE BEST JOINT IN TOWN, where we are going to buy some totally legal marijuana. This could only be more exciting if it were still illegal.

  ‘This is so awesome,’ I loudly hiss, as I show a stern-looking woman my passport. Dom elbows me to shut up. ‘It is though!’ I say, my voice not really any lower. He pulls me closer as the woman nods us through and we enter the spliff shop.

  So my original idea was to visit Muscle Beach for this. I’d walked past a bunch of totally legit-looking places selling the good stuff from ‘Green Doctors’. They all had t-shirts with the name and everything. But Dom said we should go somewhere a bit more reputable.

  The fact that marijuana shops have reputations to consider blows me away.

  ‘This one has really good Google reviews,’ he says conversationally now, leading me through a short corridor and into what looks just like the inside of an Apple Store. There are young, cool staff everywhere, wearing lanyards and showing customers around the room, explaining their products and making recommendations.

  ‘More importantly, the name is pun-tastic!’ I add, helpfully. ‘A bit convoluted, sure, but I do love a pun.’

  He snorts, confirming, ‘That is what matters most, of course.’ He glances down at me. ‘You doing OK, 3.5? Have you really never smoked a spliff before? What were you even doing with your time at high school?’

  I shake my head, still awed by the rows of options before us in fancy glass cases. There are edibles, drinks, and a vast array of pre-rolled spliffs. I bet they even have a genius bar somewhere around here.

  ‘No, never,’ I say, absent-mindedly. ‘I was too busy not studying at secondary school, and also not getting laid.’ I turn to face him. ‘So, what should we get? Any suggestions? What do you usually buy?’

  ‘I think let’s stick with a straightforward spliff for your first try,’ he says, trying not to laugh. ‘They have three options on the menu. One that makes you hyper, one that mellows you out and one somewhere in-between, like a mix of both.’

  ‘Won’t the one in-between just even you out?’ I ask, only half joking.

  ‘You could do with a bit of evening out, actually,’ he says, smirking. ‘You are quite the rollercoaster ride.’

  I’m not sure if this is a compliment or not, but I’m too excited to care. We buy two pre-rolled spliffs, for fourteen dollars each, and I’m fascinated to discover that I am allowed to pay with my debit card. I even add a tip – because dollars are not real money anyway – and briefly wonder how this will appear on my bank statement. I am suddenly seized with worry over what a mortgage advisor would make of this purchase, were they reviewing my spending. But then I remember I’m wasting all the money I have in the world anyway, and will never be a home owner. But, let’s face it, no one my age will – not without a parent to help. It’s a real shame about my parents being so poor and complicated.

  The cashier hands me a receipt, smiling. It has information about tax on there. I stare at it, enthralled. It’s a receipt for marijuana that talks about tax. I am keeping this for ever. It occurs to me that I am one of the last generations who will find this a novelty. There are kids out there today who will grow up with it always being legal. Isn’t that funny? They will grow up thinking of it as nothing to buy marijuana from their local Med Men or Green Doctor. It will be like Oddbins was for me when I was a kid.

  Life is changing too quickly for me. I don’t know how much I like it.

  ‘Can we go smoke it on the beach?’ I say when we get outside. I am bouncing up and down with excitement.

  ‘Sure,’ Dom says, handing me the plastic folder with our purchases. ‘But FYI, that is incredibly illegal. They treat it like murder one here, so we’ll have to be very careful.’

  ‘Oh, excellent!’ I breathe out. ‘This wasn’t going to be nearly as much fun without it being illegal in some small respect.’

  He takes my arm and we wander down to the shore, choosing a spot on the sand near the creeping tide. The light is starting to fade as Dom shows me how to inhale. I am unsurprisingly bad at it.

  ‘Are you going to be OK?’ he ask
s me nicely, patting me on the back as I cough up my lungs.

  ‘I’m fine!’ I say weakly, genuinely quite enjoying the burning sensation in my throat. ‘It’s great! Because this is how it is in the films, Uber Driver,’ I explain. ‘The idiot virgin coughs up internal organs the first time she tries drugs, thus learning her lesson for ever. She never does drugs again but her best friend becomes an addict of course, later dying in a tragic car accident after taking too many hallucinogens. The survivor guilt haunts our heroine but ultimately, she goes on to have a great life after marrying her high-school sweetheart who teaches her the true strength and courage of saying no.’

  He looks at me contemplatively, ‘It’s a good job you’re not a virgin then, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Because that life sounds tedious as fuck.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ I agree, looking around at my beautiful surroundings. Everything suddenly feels a bit smooshy – but that might just be all the coughing – and I stare up at the sky, fascinated. Somewhere out there, the sun is setting, but the evening cloud is too thick to see where.

  ‘Where is the sun?’ I say and my voice sounds far away and gravelly. ‘It must be over there. That’s west, right?’ I point in a random direction.

  ‘How would you possibly know that?’ Dom says affectionately – and he sounds far away, too. ‘You haven’t got a clue where west is.’

  ‘I sensed it,’ I reply, self-importantly.

  ‘You sensed it?’ He does not believe me.

  ‘Yes, I think that psychic I saw a couple of weeks ago gave me special powers.’

  He still sounds sceptical, which I do not understand. ‘Do you indeed? You know what I think, 3.5? I think that maybe the drugs are kicking in.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I protest. ‘How am I supposed to know if they are, anyway?’

  ‘Well, how do you feel?’ he says, turning to me.