by Unknown
So he didn’t get my note. Thank god. He didn’t sleep with Jools by mistake. There’s no reason to hate him. In fact, he has no idea that I even extended the invitation to make a dishonest woman of me. He’s probably second-guessing every move he made, wondering if he’s done something wrong. I have nothing to worry about. It’s Alfie’s room I left the note in…which means I’ve just propositioned my boyfriend’s brother.
You may wonder if I often get myself into this kind of situation. In fact, I have a history. Sometimes I get away with it, like the time I crank-called a boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, who star-69ed me back,27 forcing me to invite her to a hastily assembled surprise party for him. But sometimes confession is the only viable option, like when you prepare a romantic Valentine’s dinner only to realize you’ve dropped a Band-Aid28 off your finger somewhere in the process. I fear this is one of those Band-Aid-in-the-salad occasions.
We’ve come to the lake where the ducks are supposed to be, but nobody has told the ducks that they’re expected. Actually, this hunting expedition has been a little pointless so far. It’s just a walk in the woods with dogs, and weapons. Why not just leave it at that and stop by the food store for steaks on the way home?
KAWAAAAAGGHH!
‘What–what the hell is that?’
‘Duck call.’
It sounds like someone breaking his guitar onstage. Though no duck in its right mind should be attracted to that, fortunately for meat-eaters, ducks are not the smartest animals in the kingdom. Here they come. We all scramble to take aim and shoot. Ready. Aim. Fire…
Take safety off first.
Readyaimfire.
‘Well done, Hannah!’ Potential calls, striding over. ‘I think you got one.’
Did I? ‘Do you think I really shot one?’
‘You did. Poppy got the other one. Congratulations! Look. Drop it, boy. Good dog.’
I shot a duck. My very first time. I shot a duck! I burst into tears.
Alas, I realize that I’m no hunter. Hypocritical as it is, my interest in meat extends only to the kind that’s safely devoid of any animal characteristics, packaged in cellophane and sold in the supermarket. It’s for the greater good that most of us have no interest in shooting. If we did, there’d be no animals left after a while and we’d have to start shooting each other to fulfil our bloodlust. My squeamishness simply helps foster a well-balanced ecosystem.
I’ve got to get Potential alone, to explain about last night. I’m now walking so slowly, dragging on his arm, that he probably thinks I’ve had a stroke. ‘I have a confession.’
His face turns thunderous. Not a good start. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s about Alfie.’
‘God, I knew it. You know, this would actually be funny if it didn’t happen so bloody often.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I can’t believe a string of girls have accidentally left a love note for Potential on his brother’s bed. Surely not more than two.
‘I’m talking about you and Alfie.’
‘Me and Alfie?’
‘Just say it. You prefer him to me. Fine.’
‘No, no. I left a note in his room. For you. And I think we should get it before he finds it.’
‘What?’
Patiently, I explain again.
‘What did the note say?’
Ay, ay, ay. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
It’s impossible to tell from his expression whether he’s aroused or mortified by what he’s reading. Now I’m embarrassed. ‘I’d had a little bit to drink.’
‘How do you feel now that you’re sober?’
He’s hitting on me. I love it. ‘I feel like I’d write the note again.’
‘You don’t need to write it. Come here.’ I can taste the whisky he’s been sipping all afternoon from his hip flask. ‘Let’s go to my room.’
I’m trying not to think too much during this, the consummation of my future as a lady, but, while the kissing is all right, there’s a lot going on that demands my attention. For one thing, he’s rubbing my breast like he expects a genie to emerge. I gently move his hand to my ass, just to give him something else to focus on, but within seconds the palm is back, keen as ever. To distract him from his polishing I unbutton his shirt. A slightly sour odour wafts out. I’m a little particular when it comes to cleanliness, but I can’t really judge him when he’s been out walking in wool all afternoon. I’m delighted to see that, though slender, he’s sinewy and not too hairy. I once went out with a guy who was gorgeous until I unbuttoned his shirt and found a Wookiee29 lurking beneath.
He’s been fiddling with my turtleneck for ages and there’s no easy way out of it except to wrestle it off. Now I understand Chloe’s advice: definitely don’t look too rugged because you’re going to be seduced! We sit on the bed, still kissing, still fumbling. I feel his hand in my hair. I love having my hair played with. But as his hand moves to the top of my head, I realize he’s not interested in the smoothness of my follicles. Our battle starts gently enough, Potential’s palm pushing down ever so slightly, me nudging back. But within minutes he’s practically got two hands on my head. Generally, I’d be out the door by this time, but to be honest, I’m curious to see what he’s got down there. He’s obviously very anxious to show me. Without making any promises, I unzip his cords. He pulls his pants down so fast I almost fall off the bed.
Holy mother of all things sacred! I’ve never seen or smelled anything like this. I won’t go into malodorous detail but Port-a-Potties on the last day of a chilli and beer festival have smelled better. And, please forgive my naivety, but what am I supposed to do with that thing? Imagine a boiled pork sausage that you forgot to poke with a fork. The thing that came out of Kane’s chest in Alien was more appealing.
‘I’m sorry, I, uh…’ God, he stinks.
He releases my hair. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No joke.’
‘But, you’re American.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘You Americans love giving blow-jobs.’
‘Do we?’ If I needed another reason to pull my turtleneck back on, being told my country is full of dick-sucking sluts is it.
‘Yeah, everybody knows that.’
‘Really. How many Americans have you gone out with?’
‘Well, one. But come on. Come on.’ He makes a half-hearted attempt to put his hand back on my head. I slap it away. Is he kidding? ‘Fine. Whatever…but I have to say, you’re a bloody tease.’
‘What!?’
‘Psh. Come on, we met speed-dating. People go to those nights for one reason.’
‘To meet people.’
‘To meet people to shag.’
‘That’s not why I went.’
‘Well then, you’re the only one. And bollocks, by the way. You told me you were up for it.’
‘Right, I was up for spending the weekend with you.’
‘Whatever. I’ll drive you to the station if you want.’
What do you think? Three hours later, I’m back in my apartment, spilling my mortified guts to Stacy.
She’s having a hard time adjusting to the fact that she’s not going to be a lady-in-waiting. ‘Maybe it was a one-off. You said yourself he was out in the woods all day.’
She’s missing the point, or, to be accurate, the skin covering it. ‘It was disgusting, Stace. Just not appealing in any way.’ I’m actually having flashbacks.
‘Do you think there was something wrong with him? Maybe they don’t all look like that. I know! Google it!’
‘What, foreskin?’ I’m shuddering at the very thought of seeing a variety of stuffed squid hanging off the fronts of otherwise perfectly normal men. I’ll happily live out my days without doing that research, thanks. ‘It’s just not going to work. Besides, we didn’t part on friendly terms. And he’s a head-pusher.’
‘God, like that guy Chuck, remember?’
/> Chuck was one of Stacy’s college boyfriends. ‘Remember?! You sent him to the hospital for stitches.’
‘I did warn him. Many times. Besides, I didn’t even bite that hard. I wonder where he is now.’
I bet he’s married to a woman with dentures.
14
Obviously I’ve called the London Council together for the local view on this development. I’m sure Siobhan would contribute more if she hadn’t just fallen off her chair laughing.
‘Oh, Hannah, I’m sorry.’ Chloe has to stop to take another breath. ‘It didn’t occur to me to warn you!’
‘I just didn’t expect the uncut version.’
‘That’s just the way they all are,’ Siobhan declares, able to draw this rather sweeping conclusion from her body of research on the subject.
‘But it was so ugly!’ I shudder.
‘Aren’t you over-reacting, just a bit? I have to say it’s not usually that obvious once it’s, em, aroused. What, exactly, did it look like?’
…‘Imagine a really fat guy, a really fat guy, in a too-tight wetsuit. There was actually a crease in it, like circulation was being cut off.’
‘Oh, that’s not normal.’
‘Not at all.’ Siobhan is shaking her head with a look not dissimilar to my original reaction to the event. ‘I didn’t realize Americans were all…trimmed. Isn’t that weird, Chloe?’
‘I think so.’
You know what they say about assumptions. If I can’t take something as basic as anatomy for granted, imagine what other surprises my foray into the UK dating scene has in store for me. ‘But the BO, I mean, what’s that all about?’ Granted, we Americans are obsessive about body odour. But I feel that a country whose citizens have the right to vote should adhere to some basic level of personal hygiene.
‘Oh that,’ says Chloe. ‘It comes from school. You know, they’re only allowed a couple of baths a week, unless they play sport.’
‘Yeah, it’s always worth asking if a bloke was sporty in school.’
My view of Hogwarts is now for ever altered. No wonder Harry plays Quidditch. ‘By the way, Chloe–what was that advice about “definitely don’t look…” Your phone cut out, so I didn’t hear it.’
‘Er, I don’t remember…Oh wait, yes I do. I just said definitely don’t look like you’re trying too hard to dress up. We never do in the country. I assume it’s the same in Ireland?’
‘Sure, but we spend all day digging up the potatoes in the fields, remember, so we don’t have much reason to dress up. Or wear shoes.’
‘That Celtic wit continues to astound.’
When Chloe and Siobhan first met, I was a little alarmed at the seemingly antagonistic repartee they developed within minutes. It wasn’t till Siobhan explained a little of the history between the English and the Irish that I understood, though it didn’t set my mind at ease. What I didn’t realize (until Chloe told me) is that Siobhan, despite her field-hand declarations, actually comes from Irish gentry. So they can afford to tease each other like this without risking an international incident. ‘Chloe, do your dates ever smell?’ I have a hard time imagining this stylish woman in bed with a stinker.
‘God, no! I date middle-class boys. Most of those are trained to wash. Or sporty ones. I’m afraid this is a feature of some upper-class toffs. They don’t give a toss what anyone thinks of them. I’m so sorry, petal.’
Right, mental note. No more dating upper-class toffs unless I can verify that they bathe. But hygiene isn’t the biggest issue here. I didn’t foresee this circumcision setback. I’ve been driving an automatic my whole adult life and now I’m expected to operate a manual transmission. Just like that. Without even a learner’s permit.
I know what you’re thinking. Mark and I were naked together. More than once. How did I, who am keenly observant, miss something as obvious as foreskin? I swear I wasn’t that drunk. I’d have noticed a Shar-Pei in his trousers. Maybe he’s Jewish. Or maybe, as Chloe said, it isn’t a problem as long as he’s aroused. Which he was. I guess I have two choices. Either I embrace the Torah or I make sure my dates are so turned on that the issue doesn’t come up. Or down, or whatever. Either way, I will not let a little extra skin foil my search for true love.
However, this does beg the obvious question, once again. Why am I putting myself through all this, now limiting my options even more narrowly, when I have an obvious alternative who’s already interested? My mother would say, ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’ Okay, I’ll stop bringing it up. I’m just telling you what my mother would say.
I think Felicity is finally warming to me. She hasn’t given me her manicure appointment (or told me where she shops) but she’s letting me help with the Tory dinner. At least, she’s letting me attend so she has someone to scream at if anything goes wrong.
I’m late. I’m panicked. Everything in my wardrobe makes me look like the Slovakian national shot-put champion.
Sarah bursts through my bedroom door. ‘We’re goin’ out, wanna come…?’
I’m standing in front of my closet in Spanx and a bra that could support a work crew of six.
‘Mate,’ she exclaims, ‘are you all right? I think your pants are too tight. There’s a vein poppin’ on your forehead.’
This is hilarious coming from someone whose most stressful moments involve answering the question ‘’Nother beer?’
‘Nothing fits. I think I’ve gained weight.’
‘It’s the Heathrow injection!’
‘The what?’
‘Nathan, get in here!’ she calls into the hallway. ‘’Annah wants to know what the Heathrow injection is.’
Oh god. Where’s my robe? All humiliating topics are fair game for group discussion in our apartment, sorry, our flat. My ass is about to become one of them.
‘Nathan, now isn’t really a good –’
He ambles in, pushes aside the mountain of clothes and throws himself on my bed. ‘That’s what Aussie girls get when they land at Heathrow. It makes their arses blow up fat as a teeck.’ Fat as a tick, thanks very much.
‘Not just Aussies.’ Sarah looks pointedly at me. Australians are known for many things. Tact isn’t one of them.
‘Okay, fine, thanks for the definition. Now get out, please. I have to find something to wear.’
I want to crawl into my closet. I can’t believe Nathan has seen my Spanx. This is worse than the time he caught me bleaching my lip (I told him it was extra-strength moisturizer, but he looked dubious). He’s been privy to too many of my grooming habits not to officially be in the undateable friend zone now. It’s probably better this way anyhow–at least I can relax. Who cares if he sees me wearing stilettos with thick socks or my ultra-moisturizing gloves? Finally I’m free to eat pints of ice cream in front of the TV. I’ve been kidding myself anyway, harbouring a crush on a man who bed-hops like a rent boy in his prime earning years. Plus the other day, he farted on the couch and didn’t even look embarrassed. In fact, he said, ‘Aw, that was a ripper!’ That’s not the statement of a man who wants to impress a girl.
Sadly, gas wasn’t historically a romantic deal-breaker. I fear my list of boyfriend requirements has been too modest. A funny, fun, smart man who wasn’t afraid of commitment or my foundationwear ticked all the boxes. But I’ve realized something these last few months. The real problem isn’t the men I’m finding. It’s the men I’m looking for. Names may change, but I’ve gone out with the same guy for ten years. He’s Fun Guy, the guy everyone likes. He’s the one his friends can count on to drink all weekend, the one so emotionally stunted that he’s incapable of admitting he actually has feelings. Shedding a beery tear when his team wins the championship doesn’t count. I deserve someone who will listen, share and gossip, someone who doesn’t think farts are the height of humour. I want a man who isn’t afraid to talk about his feelings. In short, I want my boyfriend to be just like my girlfriends, with a huge penis.
What would my list of perfect boyfriend requirements look like?
1. He cooks. He cooks well. And doesn’t use too many chillies.
2. He cleans. Or pays someone to do it for him.
3. He holds my hand in public, and gives me lots of compliments. But not too many, or they’ll lose their impact.
4. …
That’s very helpful. I’ve just described an affectionate housekeeper.
Perhaps a list of warning signs to help weed out unsuitable boyfriends is better. From previous experience alone, I can come up with a list in seconds. Section I: Things the Perfect Boyfriend Would Never Say. Tick all that apply (even if said in jest, or to a friend that you found out about later, or while under the influence of alcohol or other mind-altering substances):
1. I didn’t sleep with her–we just fooled around.
2. I don’t mind that your thighs wobble.
3. Are you going to wear that?
4. But I tell my mom everything.
5. You know you can wax that off if you want to.
6. Are you going to look like her when you get old?
7. Maybe you should lay off the Chardonnay.
8. I’m not saying that she’s prettier than you–just different.
9. Tomorrow I’m having dinner with my ex.
10. Last night I had dinner with my ex.
11. I bought this for you. It’ll help with those little lines around your eyes.
12. How about a quick blow-job before we go?
13. I don’t know anyone who’s happily married.
14. Look, this obviously upsets you, so next time I won’t tell you about it.