‘Yes, me, too,’ he agreed, game to the derailment. He congratulated me on staying awake, saying, perhaps for my benefit, ‘I know opera buffs who’d have fallen asleep during that performance.’
He moved towards me and we kissed again. I hoped he was planning to redeem himself on Round Two. I could see he was hard again, so I climbed on top of him. He came within five minutes.
‘Do you ever talk dirty?’ I asked, thinking, My turn to be aroused. I rather fancied a man with a posh accent talking dirty to me: the contrast between highbrow and low, posh and filth was horny.
‘Dirty?’ he said.
‘Yeah, dirty,’ I said. ‘You know, like, "I’d really like to lick your cunt" or "Fuck me hard". That sort of thing.’
‘Oh, my God. No! I couldn’t possibly say anything like that.’
I was making him nervous. Very nervous and uncomfortable.
‘What? Never? Ever? You’ve never said "Suck my cock"?’
‘Never! If I said anything like that, it would come out sounding positively medical.’
He hadn’t made me come. He didn’t want to talk dirty. He had bad breath. I contemplated calling a cab, but instead suggested he let me sit on his face. ‘Do you mind?’ I asked, manoeuvring towards him. I didn’t really give him a chance to answer. The score was 0–2 – zero hits, two strikes – and, given the tally, I thought it a fair request.
Giles looked horrified. Either he’d never met a woman who’d communicated what she wanted in bed, or he was appalled at the idea of cunnilingus. I didn’t much care either way. Clearly, this was going to be a one-off; there’d be no rematch and I was determined to score at least one point. So, before calling off the whole game, I mounted his face.
If I were a hooker, it would have been fine that he’d made no effort to satisfy me. A hooker’s services are designed to facilitate a man’s getting off; that’s the job they’re paid to do. But I wasn’t being paid and I’m not a hooker. We’d been email buddies for a few weeks and spent a few hours chatting on the phone. I had even entertained the fantasy that my correspondence with this charming, learned man might lead to a regular gig. Now we’d been for dinner, to the opera and to bed, and I just wanted to get off and go home. I didn’t give a shit if he liked oral sex or not. I figured I’d grind on his face and have my own orgasm within five minutes. Instead of accepting strike three, I rubbed my clit against his lips and came almost as quickly as he had. Then I told him I’d go downstairs and get a cab home.
The following day, I felt blue about my night with Giles. Despite his patronising attitude at the opera, our email and telephone conversations prior to then were fun and seemed promising. Had we not had sex, our growing friendship might have grown into something permanent. But I did not believe this was a man who could be trained. A man either likes oral sex or he doesn’t. A man either likes talking dirty or he doesn’t. Some sexual preferences, I concluded, really do emerge in black and white. I had tried turning an uncomfortable bedmate into something he was not. I felt awful about forcing my tastes on to this nice man.
The clash in the way we expressed our sexual needs had been so great I feared it had created a divide between us.
A few days after our tryst, I rang Giles. ‘I’m sorry about what happened in the hotel room,’ I said. ‘We’re obviously sexually incompatible, and it makes me feel sad, because until that night I was really enjoying our friendship.’
‘I’m so glad you rang, Suzanne. I’ve been feeling low, too.’ Giles said that, in the days between our last meeting and my phone call, he’d been walking around in a funk, feeling out of sorts. ‘I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong, but, being with you in that hotel room, it just didn’t feel right.’
I suggested we rewind the tape and pretend our episode in the hotel never happened. We went back to being email buddies, and I went back to Nerve.
5. MEDIA MAN
I can’t say I developed a preference for an Independent man over a Guardian man. Of my admittedly small sample of two, one had a small cock; the other didn’t know how to use his.
I wasn’t short on potential dates. The newspapers ran my ad gratis the second week when they saw how successful my first had been. When I rang to check messages there were another thirty or so personals to sort through. Almost a year’s worth of dinners, should I ever go hungry, I thought.
I invested a couple of months in going down the list, all ending in disaster for one reason or another. There was the boring guy with the boring job who spent an hour describing his IT support company; he made me want to go to sleep – alone. There was the guy who worked as a ‘relationship manager’ for Barclays; he spent so much time explaining why the bank no longer referred to people in this position as bank managers, I knew our own relationship would never get off the ground. There was the guy who drove his BMW so slowly I wanted to get out and push it; that date went nowhere fast. Then there was the impoverished artist who took me to his one-man show and then, after learning I was a publicist, tried to score PR services for free; he did not score with me.
Taking out personals in newspapers did not prove as successful as I’d hoped. Following up on the responses was a diversion from looking after my kids and running a busy company, not to mention a way of passing the time between my current date and the promise of a keeper. But mostly I wished I’d been passing the time some other way.
Then, at my office Christmas party at Soho House, I hooked up with Lance. He was the editor of a lads’ mag and a notorious cad around town. I was standing against the wall, talking to a member of my staff as we sipped post-dinner nightcaps in the Circle Bar. I recognised Lance from previous visits to the club and from parties we’d both attended. I nodded in recognition; he nodded back. I’d had four Belvedere martinis and was drunk, and, when Lance stumbled across the room and stuck his tongue down my throat, I realised he was, too. From what I could tell, pretty much everyone in the Circle Bar was that night.
I’d always found Lance quite sexy. He wasn’t more than 5'9", was stocky and broad shouldered, with short spiky dirty-blond hair. Not standard-issue attractive, but he had presence and was arrogant, and somehow I found that swoon-worthy. Plus, he looked like a young Rod Stewart.
He said nothing, just kept kissing me. I didn’t stop him, despite being in the presence of my employees. Plus, Lance was a good kisser, so I let him continue, and hoped my staff was too wrecked to notice, or remember, when Lance pushed me against the wall, slipped his hand under my blouse, and pulled down my bra to cop a feel. The room was noisy and people were in high spirits. So was I. I was excited he was so filthy. About fucking time. A fellow pervert.
That night, when I went home to bed, alone, I wondered if Lance fucked as well as he kissed. The next week I called him up on a work matter. We’d been in contact regarding one of my clients, a soap-opera star whom he wanted for a centrefold. Since it would have meant wearing a bikini, I’d rung the actress’s agent, who vetoed the idea. I rang Lance to tell him the idea wouldn’t fly. ‘I think you owe me some kind of compensation, Suzanne, don’t you?’
‘Compensation? Like dinner, you mean?’
‘Dinner sounds good,’ he said.
‘How about Saturday, then? I’ll book a table and let you know.’
‘You’re on.’
His flirtatious tone implied he was expecting more than dinner, and so was I, so I booked a table at Odette’s, a romantic dimly lit French restaurant in Primrose Hill. Lance arrived on time. The French waiter sat us at a small table for two against a wall that separated the large dining room from our more intimate alcove. Reproductions of vintage French posters covered the walls, which were painted a pale lemon. We both ordered the fillet steak, accompanied by a good bottle of Merlot.
‘It must be great to be the big boss of a men’s magazine,’ I said.
‘Yeah, it’s been fun,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ve been doing it for a while and I’m thinking about my next move.’
‘What’s next?’
‘Simply put, I want to be famous.’
‘How so?’ I asked. ‘Well known in the industry or, like, everyone-knows-who-you-are kind of famous?’
‘I want everyone to know my name.’
‘But you already are quite well known,’ I protested. ‘You’ve been on TV, you have the magazine . . .’
He told me he wanted to write a book. ‘I’ve already got the title: Six Months to Find a Wife. I want to do the personals, go online, visit speed-dating clubs, that kind of thing. And then write about it, you know?’
Yes, I thought, I know that kind of thing a little too well. I was also thinking his ambition to be nothing but famous was shallow. And that he was ten times better than any of my personal-ad dates. I suspected Lance wouldn’t have to do much research before he landed the woman of his dreams.
After dinner I suggested we find some place for a coffee, as I knew he lived near by. Then when we stepped outside I used my favourite line. ‘I really must kiss you now.’
‘You’re so obvious, Suzanne,’ he said, smiling.
We were back at his place in fifteen minutes.
It was a grim basement flat in the back end of Camden Town. There were no curtains, no tables or chairs or furniture of any kind except a worn sofa and a widescreen TV. It reminded me of the student hovels I’d seen while at university. I’d expected better from a man with a posh accent who edited a magazine that featured the occasional interior-decoration spread.
Either they’re not paying him enough or it’s all going up his nose, I thought. I ignored the dishes spilling over the sink and the fussy floral-patterned duvet cover and matching pillowcases I spotted through the bedroom door. Let’s hope that’s a gift from his grandmother.
Since Lance could kiss, I chose to overlook his lack of home furnishings and taste. I straddled him on the sofa, then quickly pulled my top over my head.
‘What are you doing?’ he shouted.
‘I’m taking my top off,’ I said, stating the obvious. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘The neighbours! They might see.’
‘I realise that,’ I said. ‘Surely, that’s the point. You don’t have curtains on the windows.’ For a cad about town, he was being a prude.
He got to his feet and suggested we go to the bedroom. I followed, not bothered one way or another where we went.
We got down to business and it was OK – just OK. I sucked his cock for about fifteen minutes; he gave me oral for about three. Then it was on to the usual range of positions: missionary, doggy, him on top, me on top. After about forty-five minutes he hadn’t come, and I began to wonder if he was going through the motions like I was. Though his technique was not particularly distinguished, Lance had carved his career out of boasting about the number of women he’d slept with. I was determined, therefore, to give him something he’d remember and most likely didn’t get on first dates. I suggested something I figured might get me in his book and would definitely get me going that night.
‘Would you like to fuck me up the ass?’
‘Wow! Sure!’ he said, excited, as though it were the first time a girl had made this suggestion.
‘I’ll lead,’ I said, and I coaxed his cock gently into my ass.
He started to fuck me harder and harder. I could feel he was getting excited, and it was exciting me, too. Finally, my idea of horny.
He shot his spunk in my ass, then pulled out straight after, not pausing to savour the moment, and threw the condom on the floor. ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘That was a sexual experience!’
Maybe for you, honey, I thought. I still hadn’t come.
We went to sleep – well, he went to sleep. It was difficult for me to sleep in that rancid flat, and under such a hideous duvet. Plus, Lance snored so loudly I thought he’d wake all of Camden Town. I found the only way to stop the noise was to hold on to his cock. I had never tried this trick before, but it seemed to work. Eventually, my hand got tired, so I rolled over and lay awake, listening.
At daylight I woke up and started masturbating in preparation for morning sex. I knew, if I prepped myself, I’d come this time. Lance hadn’t stayed in one position long enough to get me off the previous night. I figured, though, that if he had a man’s usual morning hard-on and I mounted him when I was on the verge of coming, he’d satisfy both of us, and think it was all about him.
I pulled it off. We came. Afterwards, we got up to get dressed. His clothes were on the floor, along with the rest of his wardrobe. Mine were in the front room where I’d left them. As I walked towards the door, Lance picked up a book that lay on the floor next to his bed, and, not even looking at it, recited an extract from ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. I didn’t know if he was trying to be romantic or attempting to prove he wasn’t really an insensitive cad about town – something I already knew from the previous night.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk . . .
Thank god it’s Keats! I thought. The only poetry I remembered from university was the first two lines from ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’, which I’d memorised to impress my hot English-lit prof. I wasn’t letting Lance get away with that. I didn’t want him thinking I was some stupid uncultured American, so I recited a few lines of my own.
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time . . .
He recognised the poem and looked impressed. Mission accomplished. I walked out the door and went home to get some sleep.
6. ONLY LOOKING
It’s amazing what you can achieve with a little perseverance and a diet consisting of two meals a day, one of them a hearty bowl of porridge. Having been a stone or two overweight most of my adult life, I finally had the body of my dreams. That is, I was finally a size 12, down from a 16. That’s all I ever really wanted – that, and being 5’5" tall. When I was younger I used to dream of reaching 5’5", as I dreaded being as tiny as my mother, my aunt and my grandmother, all of whom hovered around the five-foot mark and had to buy their clothes in the children’s department. So, when the prayers paid off and the dreams came true and I managed to reach, and stay, at my target height and weight, I was delighted. I’d had pendulous breasts most of my life and a non-existent squarish ass. The desire to change those things inspired me to stop eating and stay slim. Now, with my new bod, I wanted a permanent monument that celebrated the ‘perfect’ me. And, if I was going to have photos taken, I thought, why not erotic ones, pictures that showed off my new 38-27-36 figure, toned and shapely butt and perky new tits. So when I spotted a profile on Nerve with the heading ‘Models Wanted’, I answered it. Since I’d met Frank, Nerve had gone global, or at least had some presence in the UK – although there were only about twenty local guys on it.
One of them was James, and I knew from his first email ours would always be a complicated relationship.
‘Sorry!’ started one of his earlier notes. ‘Just back from Afghanistan, so haven’t been on the Net since end of September. E me and we’ll see what happens.’
It was already November. At this rate, I wouldn’t see him until the new year, and that was a pity – I wanted to show him my new body.
Nerve’s personals form was set out like a standardised questionnaire. James described himself as a forty-two-year-old photographer living in London. Beyond that, I knew very little. But his answer to one data point – Why you should get to know me – intrigued me: ‘I am a sensitive voyeur heavily based in the visual arts. But I’m also an adventurer – riding, flying, skiing, diving and scooting around war zones. I love sex, particularly cunnilingus.’
I thought to myself, If I reply ‘I’m a stay-at-home mother of two, heavily based in my home, who occasionally drives to the supermarket but loves cunnilingus,’ I probably would not hear back. At least we had one thing in common, though. If I had to choose any form of sex, sitting on someone’s face probably ranked alongside, if not above, straightforward fucking. But the rest of his profi
le didn’t make sense to me. It sounded more like a job application than a sex ad.
As I later learnt, he’d been in Afghanistan covering the war for an American news channel. He was their main cameraman. Erotic photography was more a hobby than a full-time career and something he was keen to pursue. I suspected it was an effort to distance himself from some of the gruesome shit he’d seen in his lifetime of covering wars.
I emailed James my number, and he called that evening. I could tell from our conversation that he was everything I didn’t want or need. He said he travelled a lot, and, looking through his diary, found one free day in the coming three weeks, then warned that even that date might have to be rescheduled if a disaster struck somewhere and he got assigned to cover it. Like Søren, the baker, he sure didn’t keep regular working hours. And, in addition, he was attached. ‘I’m kinda married,’ he admitted. ‘We fuck three times a year, if that. We even have separate rooms.’
‘I don’t do married,’ I said.
He stressed they were more like friends than a couple. He said they led very separate lives. I imagined two people getting drunk from time to time and ending up in the sack. I’d had a relationship like that in my twenties, with a guy I’d moved in with after answering an ad for a flatmate in Boston’s alternative weekly, the Phoenix. Sometimes, usually after too many shots of Jack Daniels, I would end up on the sofa sucking his dick. The rest of the time he got off with my friends. It was never a comfortable arrangement, because I’d get jealous and wish he were fucking me instead. So I tried to put James off.
‘This doesn’t sound very good,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a steady gig, every Saturday night.’
‘I can do phone sex,’ he offered.
The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker Page 8