by Sarah Tucker
‘Some women aren’t into sex, Hazel. But I know from what you tell me, you like it.’
‘I do, but I think stuff’s that’s been happening to my friends (I think of Fran’s bump and Doreen’s lump) has made me more aware of what’s important to me, has made me become aware of my own body—and things—like sex—have just been pushed aside.’
‘Hasn’t there been the opportunity then? I suppose you’re so busy with work stuff?’
‘Oh, there’s been opportunity. You can make time, can’t you, if you really want to. Yes, we’ve had lunches and drinks and laughs and held hands, but work and time hasn’t allowed sex. Okay, we could have booked into a hotel at lunchtime and had sex or he could have easily slept with me one evening, but to be honest, I haven’t allowed it. I want to get to know him first. Doesn’t that sound naff?’
‘Not at all,’ says Angie, tweezing my left armpit for strays.
‘But that’s how I feel and I’m going with my head, as well as my heart, on this one.’
‘Has he pushed for sex?’
‘No, he hasn’t pushed for sex. He knows I’ve been preoccupied with my friends. Because my time with them is precious. I’m worried about two friends in particular, who are both going through horrendous times…’
I think, I usually tell Angie everything but what’s happening to Doreen and Fran is too raw to talk about, even to her. Doreen’s operation wasn’t completely successful, as in, wasn’t successful. So she’s having to go in again and have her breasts removed. She laughs when she talks about it to me over the phone in the early hours, saying she never thought she’d have a boob job, but she’s ended up having two. Then Fran. Who told Daniel she wanted to call off the wedding and he got vicious when he found out about the baby. So I’ve been on the phone at night a lot listening to two of my closest friends sobbing their hearts out and laughing as well. Joe knows I have given them more time than him because they need it. I’ve given Sarah more time than him because she’ll be off soon and this time with her is so very special. Those last few months. Everything has become so intense recently. It’s as though each second of life, of happiness, is a tangible gift that I’ve got to appreciate and soak in, because it just won’t be there forever. He hasn’t been selfish and forced himself on me. He’s stood back and been gently supportive. And he’s probably still mourning for his girlfriend. So he’s giving me and giving himself space. Angie appears oblivious that I’m deep in thought.
‘No worries, darling. How’s it been at work with this guy?’
‘We’ve been very professional at work, but occasionally Joe comes into the office, under the pretext of discussing some case or another, sits me on my desk, his arms around me, and I feel wonderful. Not controlled by him. Or controlling him. Just enjoying the moment with him. Not competing for power or being threatened by him. I love the way he keeps his eyes open when he kisses me. I love the way he strokes my back when he’s kissing me. I love the way he holds me not too tight and not too lightly. I love the way he’s taller than me. And broader than me. And secure in himself. I love so many things about him. But can I love him?’
I sit up as Angie puts the finishing touches to my right half leg.
‘How can you love him? Just love him. Okay, you’re a divorce lawyer. He’s a divorce lawyer. Both of you know the path of true love runs straight into the divorce courts. Both of you know love is not eternal. You realise the happy-ever-after-get-married-and-have-kids is a false ending. Or a false start. And yet, here you are, with all the stuff in your life happening to you and your friends, and you talk about him with a gentleness I’ve never heard you use before. Do you know what, Hazel, this man sounds like a man, not a boy. He sounds like a man. He sounds kind. And funny. And thoughtful. And you’ve never gone for that kind. You’ve gone for arrogant, believing it was confidence, selfishness believing it was strength and narrow mindedness believing it was determination. You’ve usually gone for good looks believing that is what makes good sex. They don’t. Some of my best lovers have been pug ugly.’
‘Well, I’m lucky there, as he’s quite handsome, but thank you for that, Angie. Thank you.’
I get off the couch and hug Angie who is grinning at me. As I walk out the door I turn and thank her again.
‘And tell me what he thinks of the arrow, will you? I always like testimonials.’
Next morning in the office, Joe and I are sitting on the desk, kissing. Not like school children. Like adults, knowing what we’re doing and why we’re doing it. He stops kissing me.
‘This is a very grown-up relationship,’ he says stroking my cheek.
‘Is that a question or a statement?’
‘A statement.’
‘Just because you’re wearing a suit doesn’t mean you’re a grown-up, Joe.’
‘Very funny. You know what I mean.’
‘’And just because you’re going out with someone who is ten years your senior doesn’t make it a grown-up relationship. Any way, what is a grown-up relationship?’
‘One with no illusions. One with no fairy tale. One based on experience and knowledge and understanding and the reality of what it takes to make a relationship work and how it can go wrong. One where the emotion manages to survive, to seep through, and not blind us, but allow us to see more clearly.’
‘You’re a poet and you don’t know it,’ I say, rubbing noses.
‘I am indeed. Poetry in motion.’
He lifts me off the table and gently waltzes me round the room, humming something classical. Don’t know what. The sunlight is streaming into my slightly untidy office, with its white walls and table and black chairs and obligatory box of tissues and coffeepot and cups. And all I can think is ‘this is very gentle and very romantic.’
Joe may be able to read my mind as he says, ‘What’s your idea of romance?’
‘My idea of romance is the unexpected. Originality and simplicity. Cornwall, The Minack Theatre. Crashing waves against a craggy cliff. Tuscan hills in the autumn. Romance is walking along a beach in the winter. Romance is being the only couple on a ride in an amusement park and wanting to go on it again and again and again. Romance is in a restaurant where you can’t afford the food but you can the ambience. And you order bread and wine and olives and nothing else. And don’t speak for the duration not because you have nothing to say, but that you can’t take your eyes off the other person. And you occasionally touch and stroke their hair. Nauseating to watch—I remember watching a couple do it in France over lunch one time—but I knew where they were at. I knew how they felt. Deep down I’m a realistic romantic. That used to make me vulnerable, but it doesn’t any more. It makes me stronger.’
‘It makes you who you are.’
‘I know. My head is in the clouds and my feet are firmly on the ground. It means I get severely stretched as a person.’
‘You’re quite magical and lovely, Hazel. Do you know that?’
‘Brian tells me that every morning when I come through the door. He says “You’re magical and lovely, Hazel”.’
Joe smiles and kisses me again while we’re waltzing and it’s lovely. And dancing for a minute at eleven o’clock on a grey Monday morning in an office in central London is now somewhere up there with the crashing waves in Cornwall, Tuscan hills and winter beaches.
Then same day, late in the evening, just out of the shower, hair dripping, about eleven o’clock, I get a text message. It’s from Joe.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Ever had text sex?
First thought, he’s been drinking. Second thought, perhaps it’s not him so I should check the number. No, the number’s his. Third thought, perhaps he feels we’ve waited long enough and he’s as frustrated as I am. After all, it’s been a month now, but is that long enough? Is there no mourning period with these men? Slash and burn is obviously de rigeur, but do I want to be a part of it? I keep the answer open.
MESSAGE SENT
You are drunk. Obviously. Go away.
MES
SAGE RECEIVED
I’m not. Ever had text sex?
I think this is in bad taste. So say so.
MESSAGE SENT
This is in bad taste. You’ve just separated from Fiona. Is there no mourning period?
MESSAGE RECEIVED
I’m just asking a simple question. Have you ever had text sex?
I’m weighing up whether I should play this game or not. I think it is a game and not a healthy one, but you never know.
MESSAGE SENT
No, had phone sex though. You need a voice to turn you on. You need to hear the voice. Texting is impersonal. Plus you can get the words wrong.
I know, I tried this with Dominic last year and instead of putting base of spine I kept writing case of prime all over the place. Poor guy thought it was some Victorian term for a part of my body that he had yet to find. He spent hours trying to tease my prime and find that bloody case.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
No you don’t need a voice. You’ve got a sexy voice, Hazel, but I don’t need to hear you. First, you ask the woman what she’s wearing. Then you ask why she is wearing it. So where are you and what are you wearing?
Where am I and what am I wearing. Right. I’m in the kitchen, just out of the shower, dripping wet with little on. I write…
MESSAGE SENT
I’m in the bedroom. Wearing pink Victoria’s Secret, my skin smells of strawberries and not much else. What are you wearing?
I feel like one of those 0800 numbers found in public phone boxes on the Tottenham Court road. The ones with pictures of Jordan look-a-likes. In reality, the women are married, going on fifty, moustached and chain smokers. I know, I represented one of them once and they make a nice little living out of it. Learnt a lot about phone sex from her I did.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Me all in rubber—is that the sort of thing…
He’s obviously in his city suit, too.
MESSAGE SENT
Rubber no good, too difficult to tear off with teeth (let’s tease him). I’m wet.
Eek, why did I send that. Bit heavy. He won’t answer. I know he won’t answer but
BROOOOOMMMMM. The car comes in immediately.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
How wet?
I suddenly don’t want to be in the kitchen anymore. I walk upstairs. Well, I run upstairs actually, holding my phone as though it’s some sort of lifeline, which at this moment, it sort of is. I make sure Sarah’s asleep. Peep in. Yep, she’s asleep I think. I go into my bedroom and close the door, put the dimmer lights on mild, so there’s a soft half light, filling the room with shadows. I undress, putting the phone down and waiting for the sound of an approaching Formula One car any time. Go to drawer. Find lacy knickers I said I had on. Put them on (this is soo weird). Lie back on bed and think of Joe. In five minutes his image of me is exact. I’m no longer in the kitchen wearing bathrobe (nicked from la Posta Hotel in La Marquee Italy on an exquisite week with Dominic) with wet hair. I’m in the bedroom, with the knickers, thinking of him and sex and sex with him.
MESSAGE SENT
Glistening. Ask me where my hands are?
I’m stroking myself very slowly around my nipples, and down toward my belly button. I admit, I can’t foreplay with myself for more than two minutes alas. If I was a man I’d be one of those men women would complain about all the time. You know, ‘he just goes for the kill’ sort of guys. So my fingers are already reaching into my knickers and stroking, and I’m very wet by the time I receive the next text message.
BROOOOOOM.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
And now very curious, where are her hands?
He’s gone into third person. It’s somehow safer, as though we’re talking about another couple, but know it’s us we’re talking about. I’m intrigued.
MESSAGE SENT
They are reaching down into her panties. She’s gently stroking herself. Where is he?
I hope he writes quick. The fact I have to wait for the sound of a Formula One engine though, makes it more exciting. It’s as though I’m playing some sort of sexual Scrabble. If he doesn’t get the words right, then it doesn’t work, if it does, I go to the next stage. Hopefully, in this game, we both win.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
He is in the bedroom. He is looking at her. He wants to touch her. He can tell she’s wet.
MESSAGE SENT
She is.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Well if she’s that wet she may need something dry and hard but not straightaway—perhaps some gentle rubbing first to help with the glistening.
Rubbing, ouch. Perhaps he’s not as good with words as I thought.
MESSAGE SENT
Ouch! No way, she’s made of flesh and blood not brass, he can sit and watch and ache and be teased while she teases herself just out of his reach. And he can watch as she strokes.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
She may have misunderstood. Rubbing poor word. Stroking touching teasing caressing on his mind. And who knows he may enjoy being teased. She is after all soft sensitive and glistening. How long he could wait….
MESSAGE SENT
His choice of words is not poor. I’m sure he can be a cunning linguist when he wants to be. Perhaps he should be bold.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
It is true the chance to use his mouth, lips, tongue does please him.
MESSAGE SENT
Where does she want to be touched?
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Somewhere bold.
What the fuck does that mean? No matter, I think I know what that means.
MESSAGE SENT
There is nowhere bold on her body, just soft and smooth and sensitive.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
This girl obviously needs to be touched.
This girl obviously needs to be touched. I reread that line. I like that line. Hazel does like to be touched.
MESSAGE SENT
How does she need to be touched?
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Caressed, stroked.
MESSAGE SENT
If he’s not already, she would like him to lie on her bed. He takes off her panties very slowly. She’s asleep. He wants to wake her and make her moan with pleasure.
A pause. I wait for his next move. Am finding this quite exciting so don’t expect the next message.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
I think you meant to send this to someone else. This is Fran.
I go cold, feel sick. Then laugh. Fuck, have sent the last message to Fran. The one about the panties. Hey ho, could have been worse—more graphic. Trust me to send something to Fran’s number instead. I can’t even do text sex properly. I don’t want to tell Joe, he might get turned on by the idea of three in a bed (I expect so) with me and my best friend (definitely if he’s turned on by me), so perhaps I’ll let it lie.
MESSAGE SENT
Wrong person. Aghhh darling now you know how I get my kicks when I can’t get to my man.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
You cheeky minx. Night night Fran x
I’ll never live that one down. Something I expect she’ll talk about when we next meet up. Please don’t Fran. Please don’t. But where’s Joe?
MESSAGE RECEIVED
He can feel the tension easing in him—surely she can’t stay wet for too long? He may not last. Think being blown dry would help his situation. But is she still wet?
I’m starting to get really aroused. I’m imagining Joe on his bed in a similar position. One hand on the mobile, the other pretending to be me. My touch, my mouth, my body. He’s watching me play with myself without actually being here. He’s in the room. I pretend he’s sitting in the corner, under a shadow and watching me intently. He can’t touch me but he’s watching me and waiting for me to climax. He’s listening to my whimpering. But he can’t even hear the sound of my voice as I come, but he’s there in my mind and I’m in his, so it’s somehow more intense. I’ve decided I need a man who’s a poet. Not just good with his
tongue, but words as well.
MESSAGE SENT
She couldn’t stop herself. She let him watch as she came. Next time, he thought, next time her hands will be my hands.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Nor could he. Nice end. Sweet dreams. His will be.
I turn off my phone. I will never look at it in quite the same way again.
I wake up wet and feeling horny. This is not surprising since I’ve been dreaming about sex with Joe all night. Think I was in an Italian villa, taking a shower and he was in the room next door and could hear me taking a shower, and was lying on his bed in a white cotton shirt, which was damp with his sweat. He’d been working in the fields all day or something, though why a divorce lawyer would be working in the heart of Tuscan farmland, don’t ask me. It’s my dream and I like it. He’s lying on the bed and he hears the sound of the shower and he knows it’s me taking the shower. This obviously turns him on and he has to investigate. He walks into my bedroom, all ochre stone walls and large wooden furniture tastefully placed. I see him. I’m afraid and excited at the same time but don’t cover myself. I’m tanned as though I’ve been in Italy in the fields myself for a month, and my hair has natural highlights and eyes look white and bright (not the usual bloodshot mess they can look pre-Optrex in the morning). He undresses and walks into the shower. Kissing my neck and turning me round so he can kiss down to the base of my spine, or case of my prime, as Dominic would have it. And then he kisses my cheeks and strokes my thighs, watching the water glide between them. He stands and pushes me gently toward him, kissing me again on the neck and stroking my nipples and reaching down to…