Girls' Night In

by Jessica Adams

  Or was it the fact that they’d both been virgins which seemed to open so many doors? Not theirs, per se, but did ‘Virginity’ offer more pleasure possibilities than the ‘lone penetration’ of the future? Karen pondered on these profundities as she watched the baby twitch and guzzle while the woman smiled unashamedly.

  Her Life Skills weekend workshop had advised her that if she thought of those moments where things had gone really well, she could re-create the mood and make them happen again – more or less. Karen set to on an early memory involving a penis.

  Here was one. She remembered Frances’ sister had got them both tickets to a hockey club disco in Sidcup. A drink in one hand, she could remember looking around pleasantly at the men, none of the insecurity of the present day with, ‘Do I look attractive, are they committed and does my breath smell?’ tattooed across her waistband. It was simply, ‘Here I am, in my nice white rosebud Biba cotton dress – take me I’m yours and we’ll deal with the virginity factor later.’

  She remembered how a real-life Wimbledon player who had been deseeded (as he was fast soon to become again) asked her if she’d like to go out for a walk. She did, and very soon found herself snogging him against a wall. She felt it was necessary to tell him about the virginity thing, since it was quite interesting to her and she assumed it might be of interest to him, but he didn’t seem to be listening – a rummage around her breasts and a fingering up her pants seemed to be more pressing. After a lot of heavy breathing Karen knew she had to take action to prevent the usual cross and sulky riposte. This was the lot of an active virgin. She leaned down to oblige him but he’d already got there before her, waving it about as if to say, ‘Ready!’

  She had become quite efficient at seamlessly hoovering up, like a cat with a saucer of cream. A neatening up of housework really, thought Karen fondly.

  Then she had reported in to Frances about exactly what had happened with the tennis player and received general approval before they were driven home by the unwitting sister.

  As the train journey continued Karen busily went over other penis occasions and started to wonder how often Frances had similarly reported in to her? The thought suddenly struck her: had it just been Karen who’d gone round doing the ‘plating’, as it was then called. What had Frances been up to in the meantime?

  She knew Frances liked to talk about it a lot and remembered when she first met Frances’ husband Brian, he seemed to like it too. She found him staring at her mouth in a rather odd way. Eventually she asked him what was up and he replied, ‘I’m just imagining that little mouth round all those dicks. Hope you don’t mind.’

  Well, she did, but as usual she didn’t say.

  ‘Tell him about the chewing gum,’ Frances had instructed.

  ‘No, I can’t,’ said Karen, ‘I really can’t.’ Not sure if she liked being in the company of Frances and Brian together.

  ‘Let me then,’ begged Frances.

  Karen had allowed the telling to go ahead, since at that point in her life talking about sex wasn’t as painful as it had become. Talking about it now just reminded her how easy it had once been and would she ever remember how to do it again? ‘Your hole will heal up at this rate!’ Cora had cheerfully remarked recently.

  Frances duly got into her stride about the chewing-gum incident, which had involved a tall Australian. He had been allowed to take Karen to a beer cellar near Charing Cross and it was here that he had suggested kissing Karen ‘there’, which was indeed a new one on her – so much so that she’d thought she’d misheard him at first. But when he dropped her back home, she soon realized she hadn’t. They went into the play-room upstairs – which had been re-named the ‘piano room’ for obvious reasons. (They had cut out Formica flowers and stuck them over the piano since it was the late sixties and the room needed to reflect its time. Frances always liked using background information to embellish a scene.) A lie down together on the Mexican rug was followed by the usual routine of ‘Hey, I’m a virgin but you can play with me’ type of thing. Frances then described how, at bedtime, Karen couldn’t get her knickers off. They were stuck and she simply couldn’t think why. She pulled and she pulled, until she bent over and had a peek. The Australian was obviously partial to a bit of gum and, rather than break off proceedings with Karen, he had chosen to deposit the gum – perhaps as a personal signature, like the flag left on Everest. Karen, however, wasn’t that impressed at the time since much scissor work was required to free her from her pants.

  Brian had clearly enjoyed the gum story and insisted on a re-play of just exactly where the gum had been, and when did she discover it, and how did she remove it from her – you know …

  Karen had started to get slightly uncomfortable then, about how much pleasure they both might be getting at her expense.

  ‘Why don’t you tell Brian about when we went camping in Brittany then?’ suggested Karen. ‘You know, when we had to go in the tent and you ended up with Robert and …’

  ‘You ended up with Patrick,’ finished Frances.

  Brain had started to shift about in his chair stiffly.

  ‘When was this then?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ Frances said airily, ‘it was ages ago. I think it was more to do with Patrick and Karen though. Do you remember when you got in his tent and he came before you even got to lie down!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Karen, not sure whether to pursue how Frances and Robert’s goings-on had all got a bit ugly because Robert had been one of the few blokes who wasn’t keen on the virginity thing at all. Karen remembered having to find her torch – which wasn’t easy because she had to slip about over Patrick before finding it in her rucksack and go and calm him down. Amazing what the offer of a plating can do to placate an ugly scene, she mused. Then they’d packed up and left the next morning without reference to it again.

  Brain had changed the subject after that and suggested quite a strict game of Scrabble which didn’t allow people’s names. Which ruled out Dick, of course.

  Karen was just beginning to doubt the real usefulness of going down to see her friend at all, when there was a commotion opposite. A woman was lurching down the carriage with a bottle heated up in a tumbler. She screamed when she got to Karen’s section.

  ‘What?’ said Karen, nervously looking around, wondering what was wrong. ‘What?’ she asked again.

  ‘My baby!’ screamed the woman. ‘My baby!’

  She looked furiously at where the suckling woman was sitting – who, it had to be said, appeared to be on the brink of a massive orgasm judging by certain sounds and kicking movements of her legs against the table-top.

  The new woman plucked the happy baby from a monstrously enlarged nipple and shrieked, ‘She’s mine!’

  The first woman could no longer keep the orgasm at bay as it had been building for so long and roused herself with a ‘Yeeees!’ before sinking back into the seat with closed eyes, clearly spent.

  ‘I told you,’ said the new woman, now apparently familiar with the situation, ‘I told you I’d be a few minutes, but it’s Bank Holiday – they’re short-staffed.’

  The baby had started to whimper without the succour, so the new woman shoved a teat from the now heated-up bottle in its mouth. Then the two women started to snuggle and admonish each other indulgently.

  Karen’s mouth had dropped open so much the two women turned to look at her with interest. ‘This is too much,’ thought Karen as she gathered up her bags, looking around for support from the neighbouring passengers. None was forthcoming. Apart from looking up at the louder phase of the orgasm, most of them had retreated back into their holiday reading and Game Boys.

  ‘It has to be first class,’ Karen decided, and began hobbling down through the corridors again. By now several people had got off and it was easier to find an empty compartment. Karen was shaking with disbelief and settled down to ring Frances on the mobile to tell all.

  She was still looking at the mobile when a man came through and sat opposite. Karen felt ve
ry exposed since two people alone in a private compartment are somehow required to acknowledge each other. She looked up quickly to see who the offending interloper was and whether there would be any more trouble ahead.

  Amazingly and miraculously, the interloper turned out to be a man of around her age, not particularly good-looking but not ugly either. Karen started to feel hot. Perhaps this was it. Positive thinking had worked. This was a man on his own in her compartment. She made herself look directly at him since the Life Skills workshop had forced everyone to look each other in the eye for at least five minutes. This had been excruciating but was apparently crucial for bonding and sexual attraction. The man soon became aware of Karen using her new life skill and finally could stand it no longer. He asked her. ‘Is that a Nokia?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘How do you find it?’

  ‘OK. Well except I can’t plug in addresses.’

  ‘It’s easy,’ he said, keen to get rid of the staring eyes. Karen was just as keen to stop staring because it had produced tears and she didn’t want him to think she was emotionally unstable. He moved a little closer to her and said, ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course,’ Karen replied as if they were at a tea dance.

  She was starting to get hot. Hot because she liked him. Hot because he was a man and hot because, well, it was summer and her Ghost outfit absorbed the heat.

  ‘It’s hot isn’t it?’ The man took off his jacket and Karen noticed some sweat marks under his arms. She found this exciting and mentally worked out how long she had before her stop. Was there time to either jump on him or at least get a firm promise of a date? She tried to look attractive while she weighed up her options.

  ‘Do you know who you remind me of?’ he said.

  Oh no, she thought. Here we go.

  ‘A goldfish?’ she suggested, to get it out of the way.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of a fish, no,’ he said.

  ‘Look, I know this is mad,’ Karen ploughed in, realizing she had ten minutes left and simply had to jump in feet-first. ‘But I, well I’d started wanting something to happen today and now it has, so I was wondering …’

  The man looked very interested. ‘Yes?’ She could see his pupils starting to dilate, which was encouraging.

  ‘And, well, I wonder, if you could just, well, could you kiss me, do you think?’

  ‘Here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, it’s just a train thing,’ said Karen, trying to be throw-away. ‘It’s just with the rocking motion of the train, I tend to vibrate …’

  ‘Do you?’ asked the man with even more interest.

  ‘Well, I wondered if you could just, sort of test it for me, to see if I’m vibrating?’

  Karen hoped this made sense to him because it didn’t entirely to her but they were getting close. The man stood up awkwardly and slightly adjusted his trousers. He came over and cleared his throat, and then started very tentatively putting his tongue over her lips and then inserted it into her mouth.

  It was so long since Karen had snogged anyone, she’d completely forgotten what to do. But she wasn’t going to argue. She just sort of hung her mouth open to see where he was going next. Then he used his hands to prise off her cardi and pull down the straps of the Ghost shroud. People were getting off at the station and looking in with fascination. She realized that one breast had been taken out of her bra and was pointing straight at the window but she didn’t care. Something was happening. She’d made it happen and it was happening now.

  The train pulled out with many more curious people waving at their window. With some awkwardness he lamented that he lacked ‘protection’ but offered to lick her if that would appeal at all? She said it would and together they moved into an even more unusual position, with her legs up against the window while he set to.

  Suddenly his mobile rang.

  Oh no, don’t stop now, Karen thought but couldn’t really give this too much attention. He picked the phone up, breaking off only to say he’d missed the stop and that he was sorry. Then he resumed the action.

  Then Karen’s phone rang, which he deftly intercepted and said, ‘It’s for you,’ holding it by her ear while he continued his work.

  It was Frances.

  ‘Was that your right breast I just saw winking at me through the window?’ she demanded.

  ‘Probably. Are we there already?’ gasped Karen, raising her hip for a better angle.

  ‘You were. I can still see the train in the distance. I forgot to tell you my brother was on the same train. He would have got you off in time. Mind you, he brought his friend down with him, who apparently went off to the loo and hasn’t been seen since.’ She sounded annoyed.

  ‘Ooohhh,’ managed Karen.

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Frances. ‘I was going to set you up with him. The least you can do is turn up. What am I going to say to the friend?’

  The man paused to lick his lips.

  ‘Ooohhh, sorry, can’t think right now …’

  Claire Calman

  Claire Calman is the author of four novels: Love is a Four Letter Word, Lessons For a Sunday Father, I Like it Like That and Cross My Heart and Hope to Die. Calman first decided to write a book when she discovered that it mainly involved making cups of tea and gazing out of the window. She has now got these two key skills down to a fine art; it is only the actual writing bit that has proved to be tricky. Before she got into daydreaming full time, Calman spent several years working in women's magazines, then in book publishing, editing gardening books. She has also written comic verse for radio and live performance, and her short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines. She has just completed her very long-awaited fifth novel.

  The Plain Truth

  Claire Calman

  Do you know what it’s like to be ordinary? To be a plain Jane? Do you have any idea? Perhaps you do. Perhaps, like me, you’re used to the way men’s eyes slide over you without noticing, as if you’re part of the wallpaper. If that’s all you know, you expect it as your due, but watching – always – seeing how they look at other women, their eyes lighting up like a panther who’s spotted the prey.

  For me, it had never been any other way. I wasn’t a pretty child. I’ve always tried to comfort myself with that. How much worse to be irresistible when you’re six, only to watch your childish charms disappear one by one, your angel skin spotted, your flaxen hair dulled to mouse, your china-blue eyes faded to bruised grey. They used to take care to praise me, saying: ‘Lisa’s ever so good with her hands, isn’t she?’ ‘What a neat little girl,’ and ‘Aren’t you doing well at school?’ But it was planned, painstaking praise; I could see it even then, embarrassed for them that they tried so hard, pretended for their sakes to be gratified, biting the inside of my lip when I saw the real thing – their spontaneous smiles at the sight of a truly pretty child, their Pavlovian delight.

  If you’re one of the blessed, the lucky ones, you’ll have about as much understanding of all this as you would if I was speaking in Klingon. For you, attention is as normal as breathing, compliments an everyday occurrence as unappreciated as a bus turning up on time. Next time you’re at a party, basking in the smiles and too-long looks, take a moment to look around. See, there, in earnest conversation with another woman, ably demonstrating the art of looking like she’s having a great time, or in the kitchen thoughtfully washing up some glasses, you’ll see one of us.

  If you can fight the natural tendency for your gaze to sweep on – yes, the women do it too – take a good, long look. See how neatly she keeps her fingernails, buffed but without the arrogant look-at-me semaphore of shiny nail polish. Notice the hair, properly trimmed and tidy, but not fashionably cut. The clothes now, the skirt not quite the right length perhaps, the skirt of a woman ten or twenty years older; a maiden-aunt blouse with some silliness about the neckline or the buttons, a solitary piece of self-indulgence. Or she may be in no-nonsense jeans and shirt, showing how little she cares for all that dressing up and shallow fl
irting.

  My two best friends, Alison and Jo, are also, well, average, shall I say? At least when we go out, there’s none of that feeling like ‘the other one’ all the time. But I’ve got this other friend, Becks, who’s a bit of a knockout. She’s tall – five feet ten, I think – and her hair’s all just pinned up any old how with bits hanging down, but the general effect is sort of soft and tousled and sexy. If you analyse her features one by one, there’s nothing extraordinary about her. It’s the whole picture though. I’ve watched her at parties, or even when she’s just going into a sandwich shop. When she enters a room, she stops, pauses for a moment or two inside the door, almost as if she’s arranged to meet someone. Then she does one small thing – pulls a strand of hair out of her eyes or reaches up to adjust one of her earrings. And I swear, she has no idea she’s doing it. But it’s like she expects people to turn around, to stop whatever unimportant thing they’re engaged in and look at her. And they do. Especially the men.

  And then I come in and everyone goes back to their conversations or their drinking. Sometimes I want to shout, to scream at the top of my voice and stamp my foot on the floor like a spoilt brat: ‘Look at me! Look at me! I’m here. I’m not fucking invisible!’ But I don’t of course. I’m not bonkers or anything.

  I went and had a free make-up lesson in a department store once, some special promotion it was. I was only in there for a pair of tights but the assistant talked me into it. It felt nice, having someone fuss over my face for half an hour, feeling the cool liquid foundation being sponged on, the flick of the blusher brush over my cheeks. Then, when it was finished, they showed me to the mirror with a flourish as if I were the ugly duckling about to see myself as the swan. I’m surprised they didn’t have a trumpet fanfare on tape.

  I didn’t look like me. There was this horrible, creepy doll staring back at me from the mirror. She’d changed the outline of my mouth, drawn in a new one outside my own lips and filled in with this glossy lipstick – it looked as if I’d tried to swallow a pot of strawberry jam all in one go. It was disgusting. There was so much mascara on my lashes that I had an expression of permanent surprise – which was just as well because it masked my look of total shock. I could hardly speak. I murmured a quick thanks and said I’d think about the products, but must just nip to the ladies. The other shoppers must have thought I was wetting myself, the speed I dashed to the toilet. I scrubbed it all off and dried my face on those awful stiff paper towels, grateful for the roughness purging my skin, grateful for once to see my own familiar, plain face reappearing in the mirror.