I also find myself swearing at other motorists and making v-signs.
I may require counselling at some point in the near future.
Anyway, I said I’d come up with the idea for our next date.
It’s the twenty first century after all, so the woman should be allowed to set the tone of the evening as much as the man.
Sadly, I couldn’t think of a bloody thing for us to do.
The shadow of fajita night still hung over us, so a meal was out. I can’t stand ten pin bowling - and being a typical bloke, I doubted Jamie would like a long, romantic walk in the country.
Hmmm.
Cinema it is then!
Yes, I know it’s clichéd and dull, but all I really wanted was another go on those lovely soft lips of his, so I couldn’t give a damn what the actual content of the date was beforehand.
The choice of movie wasn’t important either, so I took a cursory glance at the local listings and saw something called ‘Bound Together’. It looked like a thriller, which was perfect. Not a girly romantic comedy he’d have hated, and not a stupid action movie I would have been stone cold bored with after five minutes.
I went for the small cinema on the waterfront that shows independent movies.
I can’t stand the multiplexes – partly because the smell of rancid popcorn turns my stomach, and partly because at this time of year they’re packed to the rafters with people going to see the latest CGI infested blockbusters.
The Harbour Cinema is a much nicer proposition.
We meet in the car park outside and I have to resist the temptation to kiss Jamie there and then. No-one likes to be easy though, so I just let him give me a quick peck on the cheek and we go in.
The woman behind the counter gives me a funny look when I ask for two tickets to Bound Together. I should have realised something was amiss right then.
Her expression doesn’t register though as I’m quite pre-occupied with how nice Jamie smells. He’s standing right behind me, and whatever he’s wearing is making me a bit weak at the knees.
‘Did it sound good in the write up?’ he asks as we walk away from the counter.
‘Mmmm. Yeah. Yeah it did,’ I reply. I didn’t have a clue whether it sounded good in the write-up or not. I didn’t care either. As long as I could sit nice and close to Jamie in a darkened room I was happy.
We settle in to our seats.
There are only a few other people in the cinema with us. All of them men.
…another vital clue I completely missed thanks to Jamie’s aftershave.
There are no trailers, so we go straight into the movie.
The first few minutes seem pretty innocuous.
A pretty girl is walking through an indeterminate Eastern European city. A suitably airy piece of incidental music plays over the scene as she meanders through a flower market.
Then a large black van pulls up and whisks her from the street.
Exciting stuff… but not nearly as exciting as the fact Jamie’s leg just brushed up against mine.
The screen fades to black.
Then we see the girl again, this time tied to a chair. She’s naked.
Two men enter the room.
The music isn’t light and airy anymore.
The men move closer to the girl and things start to happen.
The next few minutes are eye-opening to say the least.
While not quite hardcore pornography, there’s certainly enough flesh, grunting and bodily fluids on display for it to be borderline. There’s also a nasty misogynistic element that makes me squirm even more in my seat than the piles did at The Cheetah Lounge.
God knows what Jamie is thinking…
I’d barely paid attention to the movie I’d chosen, figuring it wouldn’t matter. He must think I’ve actively decided that the best movie for us to see on our fourth date is a seedy European softcore porn movie.
I daren’t look at his face.
Mine is bright red.
I can feel the embarrassment radiating from my cheeks like a convector heater.
I’ve got nowhere else to look but at the screen, where it appears one of the gentlemen concerned is now slapping the poor young girl on the forehead with his penis, while the other one in inexplicably putting her feet into a bucket.
I have no idea why.
Perhaps the Eastern Europeans find galvanised steel sexy.
The penis slapping goes on for another few seconds. I can’t quite decide whether the girl is enjoying it or not.
The other guy starts washing her feet in the bucket with icy water. He also appears to be masturbating feverishly.
I’m now so shamefaced by all this I’ve sunk down into my seat far enough for my knees to be hitting the back of the one in front.
Look at him. See what expression he’s got on his face.
No! I can’t do that.
You have to, you idiot! If he’s looking disgusted it’s bad… if he’s looking horny it’s worse.
I sneak a glance at Jamie, terrified I’m going to see him cross-eyed and dribbling with pleasure – much like the guy sitting about eight seats further down the row.
Jamie is in fact crying.
…with laughter, that is.
It’s one of those silent laughing fits that are almost painful to experience. He’s holding his sides, and it looks like someone’s shoved a broom up his backside. The tears flow down his cheeks and he keeps making high pitched squeaking noises in an effort not to burst out laughing and disturb all the mouth breathers - who are no doubt loving every second of the penis slapping.
Laughter is infectious as we all know.
My cheeks rapidly become bright red through suppressed hilarity, rather than embarrassment.
We both manage to hold it together for another couple of minutes, but then the penis slapper calls the girl a ‘cock-a-holic’ in a thick Polish accent.
I’ve never laughed so much in my life…
It doesn’t help that the other guy is now sucking the girl’s toes like his life depended on it, while simultaneously slapping his own meaty posterior with a tennis racket.
Jamie and I jump out of our seats to a chorus of angry shushing noises from the mouth breathers.
There’s nothing like two idiots laughing like hyenas to put you off your stroke, I suppose.
We erupt from the screen in a gale of laughter.
Jamie has to stand against a wall bent double for a few moments while the giggles do their terrible work and I have to sit down in a nearby chair to get my breath back.
‘Why… why did you think we should see that?’ he asks between gasps. ‘I thought you said it looked good?’
‘I lied! I didn’t… didn’t look at the reviews properly.’
‘Really? You don’t say?’ Jamie wipes his eyes. ‘I’d love to have seen them though,’ he continues, and makes writing gestures with his hand. ‘If you only see one movie this year with a man slapping his penis on a girl’s head, make it this one! Five stars!’
This sends me off into another gale of laughter and we only sober up enough to leave the cinema when the woman from behind the counter comes storming round the corner, telling us to be quiet.
With our movie going experience cut short, we elected to visit the nearest pub… where Jamie proceeded to mercilessly tease me about taking him to see a porno flick.
After I rubbed his nose in his total lack of driving ability the other day, I guess it was nice for him to get his own back.
‘Now Laura,’ he said, leaning forward and taking my hand. ‘If that was your way of saying you like having your feet sucked, you could have just told me, you know.’
‘Sod off.’
‘And indeed, if it makes you feel sexy, I can go buy a sausage and smack you over the head with it, if you like. It’s not quite the same thing, but this is only our fourth date.’
He spends another fifteen minutes at this before I get bored and shut him up by moving my chair right next to his - and favouring
him with a lingering kiss that definitely wakes his sausage up.
Frankly, I wanted sex there and then, but if there’s one weapon a woman has in her arsenal when it comes to assessing a man’s worth, it’s seeing how he reacts when you hold off getting naked and sweaty for just a little bit longer…
We parted company in the car park after virtually dry humping against his Mondeo for ten minutes.
Any of the mouth breathers watching Bound Together would have probably enjoyed what we were doing even more.
…provided we both put buckets on our heads, I suppose.
As I drove home, I knew that the next time I’d see Jamie would be when I’d finally go all the way with him. I just had to decide the best way for that to happen on my terms.
As ever, love and miss you, Mum.
Your very distracted daughter, Laura.
xx
Jamie’s Blog
Tuesday 6 September
Good grief, it’s hotter than a mustard vindaloo out there.
This is not the weather you’d expect for September in the UK, but then if you want a predictable climate, this ain’t the country to be living in.
The unseasonable warmth was an appropriate backdrop to the consummation of my relationship with Laura McIntyre on Sunday night.
While the country was sweating thanks to the clammy Indian summer, we were sweating for much more enjoyable reasons.
Don’t fret, I’m not dumb enough to write about it here without having run it by Laura first.
I’m smart enough to know that telling the world about your first sexual encounter with a new woman without getting her permission isn’t likely to win you many brownie points.
She’s given her blessing… and actually said she was looking forward to reading it.
No pressure there, then.
Turns out she writes a diary herself, though she’s very cagey about it.
…my mind’s afire with curiosity.
I got the idea that Laura might be ready to go a little further than the public display of affection stage when she suggested I come over to hers for the evening.
When a woman invites you into her home it tends to suggest things are proceeding in the right direction.
While I didn’t count my chickens before they’d hatched, I did make sure a fresh condom was secured in my wallet, just in case.
I won’t lie and say that my heart wasn’t beating faster than usual as I rang her doorbell. I was really looking forward to having the opportunity to, well… ring her doorbell.
‘Evening handsome,’ Laura says with a cheeky smile as she opens the door.
‘Christ, you look incredible,’ I reply.
This is no word of a lie.
Laura is wearing the classic ‘little black dress’.
If someone has invented a sexier outfit than this, then I certainly haven’t seen it… especially when the woman wearing it has a figure to die for.
To trot out a hackneyed expression: there she stood with all those curves and me with no brakes.
I stop speculating about what she might be wearing underneath the dress, otherwise I’m likely to spend the next five minutes on the doorstep staring at her and dribbling.
I hand over the bunch of flowers I’ve just picked up in Tesco and give her a kiss.
Stop making that face.
Tesco flowers are perfectly acceptable in my book - provided it’s a last minute thing.
It only occurred to me that I should buy her some as I walked out the door.
Admittedly, I should have thought of buying a bunch a lot sooner and visited one of the local over-priced flower emporiums, but at least I didn’t pull into the nearest Shell forecourt and pick up a bunch that stank of petrol.
Originally our plan was to get take-out, but Laura surprises me by stating that she’s cooked us a spaghetti bolognese.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says when she sees the look on my face. ‘I made sure the mince was fresh and cooked properly. We’ve got two toilets though, just in case.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Got us a movie to watch afterwards as well. My flatmate’s out, so we can watch it in the lounge.’
Movie?
Lounge?
These are not the things a horny gentleman wishes to hear on a night he’s designated for first time rumpy pumpy.
Watching a movie (along with eating a meal) will fill up a majority of the evening, leaving little time for hanky panky.
Maybe this is Laura’s plan though.
Perhaps she wants to take things slow, and not jump right to the winky wonky.
…yes, I did make that last one up.
This turn of events does not meet with approval from my penis. He’s not happy in the slightest.
My stomach is quite content however with the smells emanating from Laura’s kitchen.
I go into the lounge and sit at the table while she dishes up the meal. We chat about our respective days through the serving hatch as she wrestles with the pasta.
I offered to help, before you accuse me of being a lazy misogynist, but she told me to stay put.
This is probably wise as the last time I was let loose in a kitchen I nearly killed the both of us.
To head off any thoughts you might be having of a repeat performance of fajita night, the bolognese is fabulous and there are no unpleasant after effects (other than my need to break wind expansively later that evening).
We continue to chat about nothing in particular over the meal, though I have to admit to being somewhat distracted by the soft whispering sound her stockings make every time she crosses her legs.
‘What movie is it?’ I ask.
Please be a short one. Please be a short one.
‘Slumdog Millionaire. I’ve never seen it. Have you?’
‘No, but I’ve heard good things about it.’
Mainly that the bugger is a good two hours long, damn it.
‘Great!’
‘Completely devoid of slapping penis, I’m led to believe.’
We clear away the plates and settle down to watch the flick.
To be fair to Danny Boyle’s tale of life in the Mumbai slums, we did manage to get through a whole thirty seven minutes before turning our attention to more exciting activities.
While the acting, storyline and cinematography are all very nice, they really can’t compete with a beautiful woman in a tight black dress, who’s had three glasses of wine and is feeling frisky.
By the time Slumdog (I never catch his real name) starts getting close to winning the million rupee jackpot, I’m getting pretty damn close to scoring a jackpot of my own.
Upon discovering what Laura has underneath her little black dress, my penis goes on a metaphorical victory lap and high fives my testicles: Black stockings, black frilly knickers and suspenders with red bows – it’s every red blooded man’s dream.
I’m not sure she’s so enamoured with my Primark boxer shorts, but at least they were clean on that day, which hopefully counted for something.
Ten more highly enjoyable minutes go by before Laura says something that sends my penis off around the track again for another lap.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ she whispers into my ear.
As this isn’t a bad romantic comedy from the eighties, I don’t attempt to pick Laura up and carry her. I let her climb the stairs under her own steam – which is fine by me, as I’m right behind her and get a good eyeful of her bottom. She hasn’t pulled the dress back down properly, so the tops of her stockings are visible.
My penis is now pulling champagne corks and jumping up and down on the podium with the national anthem playing in the background.
It’s baking hot in her bedroom so Laura throws open the windows, letting in a pleasant breeze, only slightly blocked by the curtains she pulls to prevent the neighbours getting a free sex show.
It’s still fairly early in the evening so I can hear voices coming from the gardens of nearby houses.
Within a minute of
hitting the bed I’m naked apart from the budget Primark pants.
Laura allows me to divest her of a majority of the lingerie, to her apparent relief.
‘This stuff looks good, but it’s a pain in the backside when it’s hot like this,’ she says as she rolls one stocking down her long, tanned leg.
‘Mmmm,’ is about all I can manage. My brain has pretty much frozen solid watching the stocking as it makes its way down her thigh.
There’s a moment when you’re in bed with someone for the first time when you realise that you’re completely naked in front of them.
This usually leads to a strange combination of sexual excitement and neurotic anxiety.
It’s one thing to see someone else’s sweaty naked body, but the prospect of them also seeing yours – with all its blemishes and imperfections – is somewhat disconcerting.
Luckily, sexual excitement generally wins the battle nine times out of ten, and worries about self image are lost in the ensuing tangle of body parts.
The foreplay is brief. We both want it that way.
There will (hopefully) be plenty of time for long, languid sex sessions in the future, but right now we were both in such a state of excitement that delayed gratification really wasn’t on the cards.
I climb on top, look into her deep blue eyes, plant a gentle kiss on her lips and slide slowly into her, making us both gasp.
My eyes stay locked with hers as I run a hand down that long, tanned leg, marvelling at how soft and sensual -
‘MITTENS!’
What the bloody hell is that?
‘WHERE ARE YOU, MITTENS!?’
From what seems like right outside the window, the sound of a highly upset little girl’s voice breaks the mood like a badly thrown sledgehammer through a sheet of glass.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ I exclaim.
‘Oh Christ… it’s the girl in the block across the way,’ Laura says. ‘She’s got a cat. The bloody thing’s always going missing.’
Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Page 12