It's Not You, It's Them

by Portia MacIntosh

  I walk up to my full-length mirror to admire my new underwear, but for some reason it doesn’t compliment my body quite as well as it did the mannequin in the window. I imagine that’s because she was made of hard plastic, whereas my normal, slightly squishy body is harder to contain with all these peepholes. Trying to wrangle my natural boobs in this cupless bra is proving more difficult than I thought it would, but if I make sure I’m lying down when Mark gets home, he won’t notice the fighting battle I’m losing with gravity. It doesn’t matter than I’m only twenty-nine years old; real boobs are a law unto themselves.

  That’s the plan of attack on his boxers sorted; now all I need to do is dash to the kitchen and grab a can of whipped cream so I can carefully apply it to my body and then wait on the bed for him to come home and devour me.

  I open the fridge and glance around a few times, but I can’t find the whipped cream anywhere. I only bought it last week, and I know I haven’t used it. Dammit, what can I use instead? So long as it’s something I can spread on my body that Mark loves the taste of, it’ll be fine, right?

  Hmm, somehow I don’t think a tub of Philadelphia is the best option, even if it is Mark’s favourite kind of cheese. Ditto that jar of passata. Spying another jar on the shelf, I grab it, reading the nutritional information, as though that has some baring on whether or not I’m going to smother it all over my nipples – I’m just trying to think of a better idea. That’s when I spy another jar on the worktop and, with no alternative options popping into my head, I take them both to the bedroom with me.

  I lie back on the bed, strategically positioning my body in just the right way so that my boobs don’t disappear under my arms and my thong at least covers something, because I’m suddenly a little dubious about whether or not crotchless underwear looks sexy or terrifying. Then I grab my two jars. Well, peanut butter and jam sandwiches are Mark’s favourite… so I can’t go wrong, can I? I don’t imagine mixing them together to make a kind of sticky, cloudy paste is going to look all that great, so I do what any sensible, sound-minded, sexy woman would do and smear strawberry jam all over one boob and peanut butter all over the other. Glancing down at my handiwork I can confirm that – as delicious I smell – this doesn’t look as sexy as I had imagined. I wanted to swirl big dollops of whipped cream straight from the can that my lover could wrap his lips around as he devoured it – instead, he’s going to be alternating trying to eat crunchy peanut butter from around one nipple, and picking strawberry seeds from his teeth after having a go at the other. Well, this doesn’t look sexy or appetising, so I guess I’ll wash it off and just hope the sexy underwear does the trick, except…

  ‘Hello,’ I hear Mark call, closing the front door behind him.

  Fuck.

  ‘Hi,’ I call back. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’

  ‘It’s OK, I’m coming to get changed,’ he calls back.

  Double fuck. I’ve got about thirty seconds, during which I decide that, as awful as this looks, the only way I could make it look worse would be for Mark to see this vertically. Probably best I just stay lying down and hope for the best.

  ‘You had a good… oh, my God,’ Mark exclaims, dumbstruck as he walks through the bedroom door. ‘What… er… what is that all over you?’

  ‘Peanut butter and strawberry jam,’ I say, owning it.

  ‘Of course it is,’ he replies, laughing at me with his eyes. God, I love it when he does that. His deep-brown eyes just light up and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking – it’s usually: ‘what the hell is going on in this girl’s head?’ But it isn’t a judgemental laugh; it’s warm and eternally forgiving, and I just know that, no matter how daft I am, Mark isn’t going anywhere.

  Mark unbuttons his shirt and kicks off his trousers before jumping on the bed.

  ‘Well, I am starving,’ he laughs, kissing his way from my ankle to my thigh.

  I gasp and wiggle involuntarily, the way I always do the second I feel his lips on my body.

  ‘OK, seriously, this was misjudged, I look ridiculous, and I do not expect you to have sex with me while I look like this,’ I tell him.

  ‘Have you seen that underwear you’ve got on?’ he asks me, gently kissing his way up my body until he’s on top of me. ‘You could’ve smeared mud all over yourself and I’d still have sex with you. You look sexy as fuck.’

  ‘Even with the jam?’ I laugh.

  ‘Especially with the jam,’ he replies, kissing my chest, covering his face in it. As he looks into my eyes, he smiles, and even though it’s sticky with strawberry jam, it still takes my breath away how handsome he is. I run my hand through his hair and sigh.

  ‘I love you,’ I blurt out.

  ‘I love you, too,’ he laughs. ‘But I hope this isn’t my tea…’

  I laugh and roll my eyes.

  ‘I bought stuff for dinner, too,’ I assure him. ‘The plan was to cover myself in whipped cream, but we didn’t have any – I thought we did.’

  ‘We did, I ate it,’ he tells me casually. I feel his body tense up as he presses down on me harder – Mark’s tell that he’s too turned on to think straight.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I reply. ‘Wait, when did you eat it?’ I ask. ‘With what?’

  ‘Just on its own,’ he tells me breathlessly, grinding his body against mine.

  ‘What, like straight from the can?’ I persist with my questioning.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You ate the entire can?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he laughs. ‘While I was watching Match of the Day. Now will you just shut up and kiss me, please?’ he demands impatiently.

  I laugh quietly to myself at the image of my sexy boyfriend sitting on the sofa, squirting whipped cream straight into his mouth as he yells at the TV in protest at an unjustly given yellow card.

  As he passionately kisses me on the lips, I feel jam transfer from his face to mine. As sticky as it is, I’m too turned on to care right now. Our white bed sheets be damned.

  Mark jumps to his feet, offering me his hand to pull me up.

  ‘Stand up. I want to get a proper look at this underwear,’ he demands.

  As self-conscious as I feel in my awkward undies, I own it, and stand up proudly.

  ‘Wow,’ Mark exclaims as he takes it all in. ‘OK, no more snacking. I’ve got to have you.’

  Grabbing me by the hips, Mark pushes me up against the wall. I lock my legs around his waist. Suddenly I can appreciate the plus points of crotchless, peephole underwear – I can keep it on and still have sex, and it does just enough to hide my small body hang-ups.

  ***

  Lying on the bed, exhausted, elated and covered in a gross mixture of strawberry jam, peanut butter and sweat, I exhale deeply.

  ‘That was amazing,’ I tell him. ‘You’re amazing.’

  ‘You weren’t so bad yourself,’ he tells me. ‘And you shaved your legs for the occasion.’

  ‘I did… wait, you notice stuff like that?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ he laughs. ‘You really think I didn’t feel how prickly your legs were every time I ran my hands up and down them for the past two weeks?’

  ‘I really did think that,’ I tell him.

  ‘I know you did,’ he laughs, rolling onto his side, resting his head on his hand as he faces me. ‘I read your article.’

  I sit up straight.

  ‘Oh, you’ve already seen it?’ I ask, pointlessly. ‘Erm… what did you think?’

  ‘That I’m more observant than you give me credit for,’ he replies.

  ‘So you’re not mad?’

  ‘Am I ever?’ he laughs. ‘So is that what all this was in aid of?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I reply. That’s what the extra effort was for, but it’s not exactly out of character for me to jump on him the second he walks through the door after work of an evening. I think I’m freaking out today more than usual, though, because I can’t get the thought of meeting his parents out of my head. I’m scared to put a foot wrong – although somehow I don’
t think my seducing their son by smothering my body with spreads usually reserved for toast would buy me much favour with them, do you?

  ‘You’re too good for me,’ I tell him. ‘Right, I suppose I’d better make you some dinner.’

  As I make the grand gesture of pulling myself to my feet, Mark grabs my wrist and pulls me close, squeezing me tightly.

  ‘Before you go, I spoke to my mum today – she’s invited the family to visit for Christmas. I figured we could go see your mum and dad, then head up to the Dales, spend the night there – give everyone the good news about us getting engaged!’

  ‘That would be awesome,’ I tell him, smiling widely like I do every time I remember we’re engaged.

  ‘We’d be travelling back on Christmas Eve, but we’re all prepared for Christmas anyway, right?

  ‘We are indeed.’

  I glance at my engagement ring, only to realise it’s covered in jam.

  ‘OK,’ I laugh, ‘I really need a shower. Then I’ll make dinner.’

  Wriggling free of Mark’s grasp, I slip my expensive, spread-covered underwear off, throwing my bra and kicking my knickers to one side.

  ‘I could do with a shower, too. I feel dirty,’ he calls after me. ‘Whack it up to full, I’ll be right behind you.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘You’re not going to need… all that this weekend,’ Mark tells me as he carefully places balled-up pairs of socks into his overnight bag.

  I glance up from clipping my stocking to my suspenders.

  ‘Erm, I do need “all this” because I have to wear stockings on my super-white legs, because someone won’t let me use fake tan any more.’

  ‘To take a leaf out of your book, here’s a list of three reasons I won’t let my girlfriend use fake tan any more… Number one: it smells so bad – like you ate a spice rack and then threw it up on your legs. Number two: our white sheets and towels are no longer white. Number three: you…’

  ‘All right, all right.’ I wave a pair of Mark’s white boxers in the air to show surrender. ‘I get it, you think I’m gross.’

  ‘If you’ll allow me to finish,’ Mark starts, sitting down on the bed behind me. ‘Number three: you’re perfect as you are.’

  ‘Even with my ghostly white, white legs?’ I ask, a huge grin spreading across my face.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, taking my chin between his thumb and finger as he kisses me gently.

  My grin dissolves into a sigh.

  ‘Come on, what’s up?’ Mark asks me as he gets back to packing.

  I sit down on the bed and cross my legs, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words.

  ‘I… I’m nervous about meeting your family,’ I admit.

  ‘What? Why?’ he asks, surprised. ‘They’re going to love you.’

  I know he’s right. It is his family, after all, so he knows them better than anyone. I guess I’ve just watched too many movies.

  ‘That said…’ he starts, ‘are you sure you’re packing the right kind of clothing? They keep saying it’s going to snow. Shouldn’t you pack some flat boots of some kind?’

  ‘I haven’t weather-proofed my new Uggs yet, so I can’t wear those’.

  ‘So you’re just going to wear heels?’

  I shrug casually. He knows I am. But I only need to get to the car and back, it’s no big deal.

  As I stuff the last few things into my overnight bag, I struggle with the zip.

  ‘Help me out here, buddy,’ I demand, pouting my lip a little. ‘I’ll hold it tightly, you pull it.’

  ‘That’s what she said,’ my cheeky fiancé jokes. ‘OK, here we go.’

  Mark’s bulging biceps come in handy all the time. If I need a jar opening, he pops the lid off like it’s nothing. When it comes to bedroom antics, he can throw me around the room with ease. And it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one will dare harass us in the street because he looks like he could crush someone’s brain with one effortless headlock. I know that he’s a sweetheart, who probably wouldn’t really know what to do in a fight, but the hours he spends in the gym deceive everyone and he looks as tough as he is strong. Yep, usually Mark’s strength is useful, but not today. Today my hubby-to-be pulls the zip with such strength it rips clean off my bag.

  ‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry. It just came off in my hand.’

  ‘That’s what she said,’ I reply, echoing his cheeky joke. He was only trying to help; I can’t be mad at him. I do have a problem now, though. ‘Erm, OK, so I’ll…’

  ‘No, you stay there – I’ll go grab you another one. You finish getting ready,’ Mark insists, grabbing his keys before kissing me on the forehead and dashing out of the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ I call after him.

  Living in the city centre has its perks, like being able to go out and buy whatever you need, whenever you need it. I’ve lived in London my entire life so it’s all I know, but Mark still finds it amazing when he can get a pizza delivered to his flat at three o’clock in the morning.

  I can’t wait to see where he grew up. As much as Mark prefers city centre life, he talks fondly about growing up in Rippledale – a village in the Yorkshire Dales I’ve never even heard of. Apparently it’s tiny, remote and in the middle of a valley, so the mobile phone signal is sparse.

  I’ve never actually been to Yorkshire before so, in my head, I’m only going on what I’ve seen in Emmerdale – not sure how accurate that is. I’m happy to admit that, being born and raised in London, I’m one of those people who thinks it is the greatest place, and that nowhere else in England compares. It’s just that everything happens here; it is the capital, after all. If I need a break, I go abroad; I don’t drive over two hundred miles to sit in a field. I’ve just never had any reason to head up north, that is until now. I’m excited to meet Mark’s family, I just can’t begin to imagine them. All I know are the stereotypes; that northerners are tight and pour gravy on everything – I’m also smart enough to know that stereotypes are not a realistic representation of a county. Anyway, Mark isn’t tight at all, and I’ve never noticed his gravy consumption to be anything other than average…

  So maybe signal-free, gravy-rich Yorkshire wouldn’t be my first choice of places to get away to, but I’ve been under so much pressure at work lately, it will just be nice to take a break – even if it’s only for a couple of days. I know what you’re thinking: but Roxie, don’t you just write about how to get a boyfriend and crack dick jokes all day? And, yes, you’re right – the work I produce may not be particularly important in the grand scheme of things; but I do work hard on it, and I do have an editor breathing down my neck, and deadlines to hit, and – do you know what? – my dick jokes are fire, and I won’t let anyone tell me otherwise.

  Unable to pack until Mark arrives with my bag, I lie back on my bed, stretching out, ready for a relaxing few days. I think a bit of solitude will do me good. I feel my muscles slowly begin to relax, one at a time, my body slowly slipping into holiday mode until my phone rings, and all at once every inch of me tenses up again. Shit, it’s Kath, my editor. I know I’m supposed to be on holiday, but I can’t exactly swerve her call, can I?

  ‘Hey, boss, how’s it going?’ I ask cheerily, hoping she hasn’t called to bollock me for something or, worse, revoke my holiday for some reason that I haven’t had chance to start panicking about yet.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she says in reply. I’m not sure I do, but we’ll leave it at that. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Just about to hit the road,’ I reply. ‘I’m going away with Mark for a few days.’

  Just in case Kath was thinking of asking me to head into work for something, I pretend to shout to Mark in the next room.

  ‘What’s that, babe?’ I call – and, no, I don’t ever call him babe. ‘Sure, I’m ready to go.’ I turn my attention back to Kath. ‘Sorry, Kath, Mark is nagging me to hit the road; apparently we’re going to be late to meet his parents.’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling you,’ Ka
th tells me.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet your fiancé’s parents for the first time?’ she asks.

  I think for a moment. Why would I tell her?

  ‘I…’ I start, but no more words come out. Luckily for me, Kath makes her point clear.

  ‘I want you to write an article about it,’ she tells me.

  ‘About meeting Mark’s family?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ she replies casually. ‘This is a golden opportunity. You need to make the most of it.’

  Writing about my personal life is something I do all the time, and I’m happy to do it, but when it comes to writing about my love life, I’m very careful. I would never mention Mark by name, or just straight up write about him. I will often mention ‘my boyfriend’ in relation to things that I am saying and doing, but that’s it. He’s just a nameless, faceless character in my life that people don’t really think too much about when they read the articles, because they’re not reading to find out about my life, they’re reading to work out how to learn from my mistakes to make their life better. Writing about meeting Mark’s family, though – that’s a completely different thing. He might be able to forgive me for writing about our bedroom antics, but dragging his family into my work isn’t something he is going to be OK with – well, who would?

  ‘Well, I just finished a piece on things to consider before you meet your boyfriend’s parents for the first time – I don’t want my readers to think I’m rehashing old material, or bragging about how engaged I am, you know?’

  ‘Who is your editor?’ she asks me pointlessly.

  ‘You are,’ I reply. ‘But…’

  ‘But you’ll do it?’ she asks. Well, it sounds like a question, but we both know it isn’t. ‘I’m thinking we can cover the whole engagement, wedding – beyond that, even. “How to choose your bridesmaids” to “Thoughts you’ll have while walking down the aisle” – there’s just so much material here.’