Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to escape this sexcapade from hell and retreat to the safety and sanctity of my one bedroom house. In my thirty one years on this planet, I’ve never felt so completely helpless.
Isobel suddenly stops bucking and thrashing like a landed turbot and stares me right in the eye. ‘I’m done. Pull out and finish over me.’
I once read that the universe is a place of diametric opposites: Good vs evil, light vs darkness, love vs hate… and so on and so forth. If there is a place in the universe that is the epitome of love, romance and passion… then this woman’s bedroom on a Thursday evening in January is surely at the absolute other end.
Isobel opens her gob so wide it’s like I’m about to ejaculate into a pedal bin.
With a cheerless grunt I spurt over my blind date, getting some in her eyes. The rest spatters onto her breasts and face, along with what’s left of my self esteem.
I know I haven’t actually just been raped, but I’m definitely in the neighbourhood and looking at the map for directions.
I tuck Jamie Junior back into his hidey hole and look down at Isobel. All pretence had now left my body, along with my spermatozoa.
‘Can I leave now?’ I ask forlornly.
Isobel’s expression of sexual contentment is replaced by one of disgust.
‘Well that’s charming isn’t it? I give you a good time and you just want to piss off straight away?’
I start to argue that the only person who’s had a good time in this room tonight is her, but can’t summon the energy to defend myself and just nod my head in resignation.
Isobel jumps to her feet. ‘Get out then!’ she screams and thrusts her finger in the direction of the door.
There’s still some of my ‘product’ on her hand, which flicks violently off. It flies across the room and splats onto a badly rendered portrait of Jesus hanging above Isobel’s dressing table.
If somebody had told me that this evening would end with my semen sliding down the cheek of our Lord and Saviour, I would probably have stayed indoors and played Gran Turismo.
Isobel may be a man hungry lunatic with a sex drive like a malfunctioning Formula One car, but it also transpires she is a religious nut as well.
She lets out a cry of anguish, rushes over to the portrait and starts wiping it with her blouse.
It’s an oil painting, so Big J’s cheek gets smudged badly as she feverishly tries to clean off my man gravy.
Isobel starts crying.
‘I’m sorry!’ I wail, as if I’d actively gone over and knocked one out over Christ’s face on purpose.
‘Just bloody leave!’ Isobel orders… and for once I’m delighted to follow instruction.
‘Er… bye then!’ I offer, along with a half-hearted wave - and exit stage left with great urgency.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I reach ground level in three seconds flat and see Isobel’s mother coming in through the front door.
Given that ‘Good evening madam. I’ve just penetrated your daughter and mucked up on the son of God’ isn’t the best way of introducing oneself, I elect to repeat the half-hearted wave, along with a smile bordering on the maniacal.
I decide it’s best not to wait around for a response, and am off running down the front path as fast as my little legs can carry me, hoping Izzy’s mum hasn’t got a good enough look at my face to provide an accurate description to the police.
Unbelievably, I got a text from Isobel the next day that said:
That woz a weird nite. Ur fun tho. Wanna hook up again? U can have me up the backdoor if u like xxx.
Thus far I have neglected to respond.
Laura’s Diary
Wednesday, February 2nd
Dear Mum,
Your daughter is a shameful excuse for a human being.
Any redeeming value I may have had was extinguished last night in an act so heinous I may never recover.
All I can say by way of explanation is that I did it because I thought I needed to ‘get back into the game’ as it were – and pleasuring Brian with my hand on our first date seemed the most appropriate method of doing so… for some reason.
Quite why I thought giving a twenty nine year old estate agent with a lazy eye a hand job was the best way to reintroduce myself to the dating scene completely eludes me.
It was totally out of character.
You never brought me up to be that kind of girl, after all.
Before this I’d not so much as kissed a man before the third date.
But there I was, sitting in the passenger seat of his 52 plate Vectra doing my best milkmaid impression, while looking out of the window wondering how I’d arrived at this place in my life.
You know how bad I was when Mike and I split up - but I don’t think I’d even realised how much of a knock my confidence had taken, until I was staring at Brian’s average penis as he went cross-eyed and started to dribble.
I hadn’t wanted the date really.
Tim had pushed me into it.
‘It’ll be good for you Loz,’ he told me over his cappuccino with an almond twist. ‘Dan tells me Brian is a very nice boy. They go to the gym together. Apparently he’s not that well hung, but has a lovely body otherwise.’
‘I’m not sure, Tim. Blind dates and I have never agreed with one another.’
‘You can’t sit around waiting for Mister Right to walk into your life for much longer, miss. That evil thirtieth birthday is looming on the horizon you know!’
‘Yeah, yeah. I know.’
‘Besides, Dan showed Brian your picture on Facebook and he really liked the look of you.’
‘Oh bloody hell, Tim! You could have warned me. My profile picture is still that one of me dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein from last year’s Halloween party.’
‘Don’t worry. Dan wouldn’t have concentrated on that one. I’m sure he went straight to the Goa bikini shots.’
‘I’m not so sure they’re any better.’
‘Please! Those tits of yours look fantastic.’
‘Wow. You make me sound so classy.’
‘Classy doesn’t get you dates, Loz. When it comes to straight men, the tits do it every time. Brian really wants to meet you.’
I stared out of the Starbucks window in much the same way I’d be looking out of Brian’s windscreen a few days later.
‘Oh, alright. I suppose it can’t hurt.’
‘Great! I’ll get Dan to give Brian your number. Expect a call!’
That’s how the date came about, Mum. You always used to say Tim was a bad influence and would get me into trouble…
Five days later I was stood in front of the mirror wondering what the hell to wear that might impress an estate agent who isn’t well hung, but has a lovely body otherwise.
I wondered at what point somebody had come into my flat and burgled me of every item of evening wear that didn’t make me look like a prostitute at one end of the spectrum, or an Amish grandmother at the other.
My contact with Brian had so far amounted to one phone call, conducted at my end in the fruit isle of Tesco.
As I squeezed a few mangos looking for one that hadn’t gone too ripe, he asked me to a bar in the city called ‘Fluid’.
This is one of those places usually frequented by men who wear fake Armani suits and drive Porsche Boxters – accompanied by girls whose knicker elastic automatically loosens at the sight of both. It wasn’t a good sign that Brian had picked it as the location of our first date.
Still, as Tim had reminded me, thirty is coming up fast and I’m probably ripening quicker than the mangos, so I agreed to meet Brian in Fluid at eight the next evening and hung up.
A decision I was wholeheartedly regretting as I looked in my cupboard with the sure knowledge I had absolutely nothing to wear…
About the only item approximating fashionable was a black cocktail dress I wore once to a birthday party last year. I hadn’t put it on it since because it’s too short and shows off my kn
obbly knees too much. I always have to wear a pair of tights in order to disguise their horrific, malformed shape.
Sadly, the only other dress I would have considered wearing was the red one I bought for Mike’s pleasure on our third anniversary.
It’s virtually skin tight and puts my breasts on display like the meat in a butcher’s counter. I couldn’t be more forward if I wore a t-shirt saying ‘this vagina for rent’.
So it was the black cocktail dress… or a phone call to Brian saying that I’d come down with a severe case of ‘blowout-itis’ and couldn’t make it.
Every time I flipped open my Nokia a vision of Tim’s disgusted expression floated across my mind, so I pulled on the tights and slipped the dress over my head, allowing myself a small smile as it slid snugly over my hips. This proved that the chocolate binge from a couple of weeks ago hadn’t as yet made its presence felt on my figure.
Underwear-wise I went for a pair of plain black hipsters and matching bra.
There was no point in putting anything sexy on as the tights would ruin the aesthetic completely. They were about as sexy as genital warts.
Besides, lovely body or not, Brian wasn’t going to be investigating my lady garden that evening, so what would be the point?
The hair went back in a pony tail as I hadn’t had time to wash it and I also decided to apply make-up sparingly.
My entire outfit screamed ‘I’m not entirely sure about this’, which was fine with me.
If Brian turned out to be stimulating in every sense of the word I could break out the lacy thong, fresh dye job and ruby red lipstick the next time I saw him.
Slipping on the wedges I paid way too much for in the House Of Fraser sale, I tottered out of my bedroom ready for battle…
An hour later I’m already considering a tactical withdrawal.
It’s not that Brian is necessarily a bad guy - it’s just that he could quite easily pass for a new shipment of stock in the wallpaper department at B&Q.
If he were a colour he’d be beige.
If he were a country he’d be Switzerland.
If he were a member of Take That he’d be Howard.
I’m sure he’d be the perfect match for a woman just like him, but as I’m after bright blue, Brazil and Robbie this date isn’t working out too well.
Also, the tights are making my ankles sweat, which isn’t helping matters.
You know how you always told me to be polite, mum?
This is the first time your advice has backfired.
If I wasn’t so polite I probably would have held up a hand as Brian started in on a third anecdote about his cricket team, and told him I was leaving before my brain suffered a boredom related aneurism.
As it was, I just sipped my Pinot Grigio politely and tried to produce a dull smile every time Brian made a joke about googlies and being silly mid-off.
You may be wondering how I went from this state of affairs to pleasuring Brian in his Vectra, Mum.
You know how I came home at three in the morning when I was eighteen and you grounded me because I was completely shitfaced?
You remember how you shouted ‘this is the kind of mess too much alcohol can get you into!’ up the stairs while I threw up what felt like all of my internal organs?
The polite sips turn into large swigs as Brian explains how the exhaust manifold cracked on his Vectra last week while he was driving to the monthly meeting of his Dungeons & Dragons clan.
Even gulps aren’t doing the job when he tells me how fascinating the equity market is at the moment - and I’m wishing the Pinot was mainlined straight into my bloodstream when he describes the great retro seventies wallpaper his mother let him hang in his bedroom last week.
While he is dull, the Pinot is unfortunately telling me he’s also quite a handsome chap.
The Pinot lies though…
It’s wicked, wicked stuff – ready and willing to lead a young girl down dark and winding paths, to places she shouldn’t go.
Brian looks at his watch. ‘Wow, getting quite late Laura. Would you like a lift home?’
Well now Brian, let’s see…
It’s either a lift with you, or a twenty quid ride in a taxi.
I’m pretty drunk and wearing tights that are making my legs sweat like merry hell, so I’m willing to risk brain death listening to another one of your anecdotes, if it means I can have a free lift that’ll get me home quicker.
‘Yes please, Brian. That’d be lovely,’ I tell him and swig the last dregs of my fifth large glass of wine.
I somehow manage to make it to the passenger seat of his Vectra without breaking my ankle on the four inch wedges.
He climbs in the driver’s side and looks at me.
It’s that look.
The ‘I’ve spent the best part of thirty quid on you tonight and I'm hoping to get something out of it’ look.
Now, I could just smile and tell Brian to get driving. He doesn’t look the kind of guy who’s likely to get fisty with a woman if he doesn’t get his own way.
The Pinot suggests that I shouldn’t do that, however. It suggests I should just sit there and await developments.
Brian leans towards me.
‘I had a really nice time tonight,’ he says. ‘You’re easy to talk to’.
I’m quite surprised to hear this, as I have never played cricket, wouldn’t know an orc wizard if it bit me on the butt and can’t stand the seventies.
‘Thanks.’
He leans a bit closer.
Now, as you know Mum, I’ve not kissed a man other than Mike for five years. I’m rustier than a Scottish weather vane when it comes to this kind of thing.
If I’d have been sober I would have put a stop to proceedings before they got out of hand, but the Pinot is in control and decides it might be a good idea to let Brian kiss me, just to remember what it feels like.
Brian’s technique is to purse his lips the way Nan used to when she said goodbye after Christmas lunch, and stab his head forward like a hungry chicken.
I break the kiss before he cracks my head against the passenger window.
Now what?
‘Well,’ says Pinot, ‘we don’t want to kiss him again, do we?’
No, we bloody don’t. I don’t need bruised lips or a fractured skull.
‘So we’d better do something else to satisfy him.’
What do you suggest, oh wine of the Italian vineyards?
‘Screwing him is going a bit far.’
Yes… yes it is.
‘I don’t even fancy the prospect of a blow job, what with that neck strain we got from lying funny on the pillow last night.’
True.
‘Well… you might as well toss him off then, Laura. It’s been ages since you’ve had a penis in your hand and you’d better make sure you still know what you’re doing with one before a guy comes along that you actually do want to date.’
I reach my left hand down to the inevitable bulge between Brian’s legs and give it a squeeze.
He makes a strange noise as I do:
‘Blibble’.
Not a sigh, or a moan, or even a sharp intake of breath.
Just blibble.
Weird.
I unzip him and pull out what is indeed a very average but otherwise inoffensive penis.
‘Oh Laura,’ he says under his breath.
Oh brother, I think - and start to rhythmically pump my hand up and down.
Unfortunately for me I’ve met the only Dungeons & Dragons fan in the world that doesn’t orgasm the second a woman touches his genitals.
A full five minutes of pumping go by with no indication that Brian is about to arrive at his final destination.
I’ve now started wondering what to buy the next time I’m in Tesco. I can’t really think of anything I do want, but am bloody sure I won’t be buying mangos.
Moving on to work matters: I have to get a new order of those popular praline fondants into the shop by the end of the month, and the Green &
Blacks people will no doubt be on the phone again soon wanting to know if I’m re-ordering the summer selection this year. Running your own chocolate shop is a stressful undertaking. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone with bad organisational skills.
I remember what I’m doing and look over to see that Brian has gone cross-eyed. A small dribble of saliva runs down his cheek.
This is starting to get ridiculous now. I’ll have sobered up by the time he ejaculates at this rate.
Time for some dirty talk.
‘I want you to cum for me Brian, right now,’ I say in a breathy whisper into his left ear. I mean it as well. There are two episodes of Hollyoaks I’ve got on the Sky Plus box I’d like to watch before bed.
The breathy thing seems to do the trick (doesn’t it always?) and Brian christens my hand and his steering wheel with a shudder, along with another odd blibbling noise.
He then says the following:
‘Hoocheemumma!’
I don’t know what ‘hoochemumma’ means. Nor do I wish to.
I know men can say strange things when they climax (the second guy I was with shouted ‘there’s the magic!’ every time) but this particular piece of gibberish is on a whole other level.
Brian says it in such a deep, throaty voice it’s like an African witch doctor is putting a hex on me.
I hate to think what he might shout when he orgasms during full sex. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’d give the folk in the next village a good dose of herpes.
A quick clean up with the pack of tissues Brian keeps in his glove box (slightly worrying) later and I’m finally being driven home.
I’ve established that I’m still quite capable of giving a man a hand job - and that I’m now firmly back in the dating scene.
Woo hoo.
I stagger out of Brian’s Vectra before he gets the chance to kiss me goodbye.
‘Can I see you again?’ he shouts out of the window as I round the car, rummaging through my handbag for the front door keys.
I look at Brian’s expectant face.
Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Page 2