It's Not You, It's Them

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Mum, leave it,’ he replies, his face still in his hands. ‘And Bea, I’m not kidding, stop it right now.’

  ‘Come on, Mark, don’t be a spoilsport. The Mark I’m reading about in this article certainly sounds like a good laugh,’ Bea reasons. ‘Just a couple more. The next one is from Twilight: Breaking Dawn – that’s cute, Roxie, appealing to the kids, too. “At the time of writing, I have never broken a bed” – there you go, you’ve fulfilled that dream now – “and I didn’t see any sense in doing so for the sake of an article. Now, I haven’t read the books, and I only watched the sex scene for the purpose of this article. All I know is that one person is a sparkly vampire, and someone rips a pillow to pieces, so I covered my boyfriend in body glitter before insisting he not be gentle with me. With me not having the strength, and my boyfriend not having the inclination, to destroy a pillow mid-sex, I ripped the stuffing out a pillow and scattered it around the bed like Twi-hard rose petals. I also insisted my boyfriend give me a love bite during. 5/5 – we may not have followed the scene to the letter, but it was pretty hot.” Ooh, steamy,’ Bea laughs.

  Kerry cackles again. She’s loving this, and taking it exactly as intended – as a joke – but Mark’s mum is glaring at me furiously, like she’s angry at me for leading her son astray.

  ‘One more,’ Bea says.

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ Mel interrupts. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘There, look, you’ve made Mel feel uncomfortable, and you’re making us feel uncomfortable,’ Mark tells Bea.

  ‘Mark, this is Roxie’s job,’ Bea reminds him. ‘I don’t feel ashamed when I cure a child, so why should Roxie feel bad about this. You’re proud of this, aren’t you, Roxie?’

  When I published it, and I received thousands of likes, shares and positive comments, I felt so proud. Some people found it funny, others said it inspired them to try and replicate a few scenes with their partner, and others even suggested I write a follow-up article where I tried out even more sex scenes, like the girl-on-girl sex scene between Nina and Lily in Black Swan, or the famous Brokeback Mountain sex scene – I’m not sure if they were suggesting we do it in a tent, or in the butt, but either way I was so happy with this article, I didn’t feel like it needed a sequel.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I’m very proud of it.’

  ‘Then I’ll read one more,’ she replies, ‘because I found the Ghost one especially amusing. Although I did like the Team America World Police one where you tried out as many positions as possible in a short space of time.’

  It’s at this point that I realise hardly anyone in the room is speaking, and that even Millie is hanging around in the doorway, listening. Bea’s audience is captivated – I guess that’s good journalism.

  ‘“A potter’s wheel is surprisingly hard to come by – well, not literally, if Ghost is anything to go by”,’ Bea reads. ‘“I must admit, I had to half-arse this one a little, because I didn’t have the right tools for the job, and it was the day before my article was due. I knew I couldn’t write a list like this without mentioning Ghost, so I had to improvise. One of the girls at work brought me in some Play-Doh to take home with me. I cut the sleeves off one of my boyfriend’s shirts and sat in it, playing with my Play-Doh as ‘Unchained Melody’ played in the background. 4/5 – the sex part was pretty much just our usual standard of awesome, but the fact I couldn’t make a vase out of Play-Doh frustrated me to the point where I just made a dick instead. Photo below.” Does anyone want to see the photo?’

  ‘Enough,’ Mark yells, jumping to his feet before storming out of the room.

  ‘I thought it was great,’ Kerry tells me quietly. ‘Really funny.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bea echoes sweetly. ‘That hit the spot.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I leave the dining room about five minutes after Mark, but by the time I catch up with him in the study, he’s already in bed, despite it being so early. I slip off my outfit and hop in with him.

  ‘Your ex is a bitch,’ I tell him with a slight laugh.

  ‘She shouldn’t have done that,’ he agrees. ‘You did write those words, though. All she did was read it out.’

  ‘Yeah, to your parents,’ I reply. ‘That’s out of order’

  He sighs deeply.

  ‘Well, I guess they were going to find out what your writing was like sooner or later. And they’d be crazy to think we weren’t having sex already.’

  ‘With that body, of course they would,’ I jokily reply. Under the covers I place two fingertips on his thigh and walk them seductively up his leg.

  ‘Roxie, don’t,’ he replies, pushing my hand away.

  ‘Whoa, OK, what is happening to us?’ I ask, sitting up suddenly.

  ‘Nothing, I’m just not in the mood,’ he replies.

  ‘You’re always in the mood,’ I remind him. ‘You only have one mood: really fucking horny.’

  Mark sits up next to me, a serious look on his face.

  ‘Look, after what just happened – notably my parents getting a detailed description of sex positions we’ve tried – I just don’t feel like it right now.’

  ‘But we keep striking out,’ I tell him.

  ‘So what?’ he replies. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s not as much of a big deal as you suddenly saying you’re not going to take my surname,’ he hits back. I should’ve known that was still on his mind. Well, two can play at that game.

  ‘I never said I’d take your name,’ I point out.

  ‘That’s just what people do,’ he replies. ‘That’s just normal.’

  ‘Oh, so I’m not normal?’ I ask. ‘Because I thought what was not normal was to tell everyone about your plans for someone else’s uterus without asking them first – that’s not normal.’

  Mark looks thoroughly confused now.

  ‘What are you talking about now?’ he asks.

  ‘You, telling people how many kids you’re going to get out of me, like I’m some kind of baby vending machine.’

  ‘What’s the problem with me talking about us having kids?’

  ‘I don’t want them.’

  For a moment, Mark is rendered dumbstruck.

  ‘Everyone wants kids,’ he replies.

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Why would you not want kids?’ he asks, a look of genuine confusion on his face.

  ‘I just don’t. Some people do, some people don’t – both choices are fine.’

  ‘Well, I want kids,’ he tells me. ‘I want to get married, travel the world for a few years with the charity, helping kids that need it, then come back, settle down and have my own.’

  ‘There’s only one problem with that plan,’ I point out. ‘It doesn’t involve me. I’ve worked so hard to get where I am at work, there’s no way I’m giving it up to travel and then come back and pop out kids at your command. No way.’

  ‘I think you’d be embarrassed if you could hear how selfish you sound right now,’ he tells me sadly.

  That’s always the response from people who don’t understand an individual who doesn’t want children – that they’re selfish. Like how dare you live on this planet and not reproduce. People always demand a reason, but I believe that, simply, ‘because I don’t want to’ is a good enough reason.

  ‘What if you don’t give up work completely?’ he bargains, but it’s not just that.

  ‘Do you know what my mum tells me every time she stands up to go to the bathroom?’ I ask him. ‘She says “I could hold my bladder until I had you”.’

  ‘She’s joking,’ he laughs.

  ‘She might be,’ I reply. ‘But it will have such a huge, detrimental effect on my body, and that’s a sacrifice you won’t ever need to consider. My body will change for you, too, you know. My “downstairs” won’t be the same. You know how much you love that I go off like a firework the second you touch me? That will probably change.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he replies
.

  ‘Oh, yippee for you,’ I snap.

  I know that Mark thinks I’m being selfish, not wanting to ruin my body to bring kids into the world, but he’s being selfish, too, by just expecting me to. I remember watching an interview with Robbie Williams, where he was talking about what it was like to be a dad. He was asked what it was like watching his wife giving birth and he described it as being like watching his favourite pub burning down. As funny as that is, it’s very telling of the situation. Men don’t bat an eyelid at women forever changing their “downstairs”, because men will make the sacrifice for a baby. Nothing changes for them, sex-wise. They don’t have to go through pregnancy, or childbirth.

  ‘You’ll change your mind,’ Mark assures me.

  ‘Erm, I’m nearly thirty,’ I remind him. ‘If I haven’t come around to the idea by now, I don’t think I ever will.’

  ‘Look, why are we talking about this now?’ he asks.

  ‘Because it’s important,’ I reply.

  ‘I can’t do this now, and I can’t do it here. Can we just go to sleep?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fine,’ he echoes, matching my frosty tone.

  I roll over on to my side, facing away from Mark. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I don’t think either of us knows what to say exactly because we’ve never really had a proper argument. Sure, we’ve bickered, but about stupid things like the thermostat or who should win The Great British Bake Off.

  This is that ‘going to bed angry’ thing I’ve heard so much about, but never experienced with Mark. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After whipping the internet cable from Oscar’s PC and plugging it into my laptop, I open up the dashboard and I’m ready to write. Not only is this my second day waking up here, but my deadline is looming, too, and Kath is expecting something good about ‘meeting the in-laws’. I’ve realised that now, more than ever, I absolutely cannot write that article, because not only do I not have anything positive to say at all, but there’s nothing at all relatable about this situation.

  My most successful articles are my more personal ones – it makes sense to write about what you know, right? As I wrack my brain for a topic to write about, I play with a lock of my curly hair, twirling it around my finger.

  My conversation with Mark last night has left me feeling anxious. It isn’t just that one conversation that has concerned me, but our argument about our future was definitely the straw that broke the camel’s back. Since the moment we arrived here, everything that has happened has made me worry that maybe Mark and I are not right for each other. We love each other – I know that without a doubt – but maybe we don’t know each other as well as we thought we did. As soon as we get home, we’re going to have to talk – a lot – to catch up on all the things it turns out we don’t know. Everything from his love affair with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to where he sees himself in ten years – all bases need covering.

  For now, I think it might be a good idea to write something positive, something that will remind me exactly why I’m marrying Mark: ‘10 signs you’ve met the man you’re going to marry’.

  I stretch out my fingers and begin typing. We use a really useful program at work, which means I can work from home, then, as soon as I’m done writing, I simply hit save, my editor reviews it and then it’s published. The hardest part is going to be getting it written, but I’m feeling inspired.

  Reason 1: he looks at you like a Minion looks at a Banana. I think that’s a great point to start with. I’ve considered making the same point in a few different ways, like: he looks at you like he looks at a waiter carrying pizza towards him, or: he loves you as much as Kanye West loves Kanye West. The point I’m trying to make is that, if you meet someone who cannot hide how much he adores you, you’ve found yourself a keeper. There is nothing worse than dating someone – or, worse, being in a relationship with them – and finding yourself wondering some days: does he even like me? You want someone whose face turns into the emoji with hearts for eyes the second he sees you.

  Reason 2: the sex is fire. Having sex with someone is easy (9/10 times anyway) but being sexually compatible with someone is truly a gift. You can meet the most handsome, charming, funny, sexy, rich, wonderful man who ticks all your boxes, but if your sex life is rubbish, there’s no way you’re going to be as happy as you should be. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you’re wrong for thinking that sex is important, because it is so important. It isn’t down to one person to make sex work, it’s the responsibility of both of you, so you both should be putting in equal effort. If you’ve found a man you adore who can make you scream as often as he makes you laugh, you’re a very lucky lady.

  Writing this reminds me just how important sex is, and it gets me thinking about my spell of striking out with Mark over the last few days. I know three days doesn’t seem like a long time to go without it, but that’s a long time for Mark and me. It’s not like we’re not getting the opportunity, but when we do, it just isn’t working for whatever reason. Maybe it’s just bad luck – I can’t stand the thought of it being something more than that. It’s not even like it’s the actual sex part I miss. If this were just a case of me being super horny, I have something hidden in my handbag that could take care of that in a second – it’s being intimate with Mark that I miss. Sex is a way for us to be close to each other in a way that no one else gets to experience with either of us.

  Reason 3: when you think about your future, you see an Up-style montage of how happy you’re going to be – only with much less tragedy, and more trips to the zoo. And you stop imagining this life before you get to the part where one of you dies and the other has to live a miserable life alone.

  As I write, I can’t help but think about how things are with Mark. I feel like this article is turning into a literary representation of the problems we’re having right now. I know I do my best work when I’m writing about real life, but I’m not sure if this is healthy expression or just making me obsess over things even more than I already was.

  I attempt to run my hand through my hair, only for it to get stuck in my tangled curls. As I sigh deeply there is only one thing I know for sure: this article is crap. No matter what your opinion of the article Bea read last night, you can’t say it was boring, and you can’t say the writing wasn’t good. This piece that I’m writing today is just pure rubbish, but I can’t get my head off my own problems enough to write anything good. When your head is in a bad place, your creativity will follow a similar pathway. When I’m in a bad mood, my writing gets much darker, my humour gets more cynical, and my pessimism thrives. There’s no way I’m going to write anything of any worth today, so I open Skype and call up Gil.

  ‘You caught me on my way out for coffee,’ he answers – no ‘hello’ necessary. ‘Come with. Get changed though, you’re not coming in that jumper.’

  I am wearing a pretty ugly jumper right now, borrowed from Val’s box that should be labelled ‘Misc 80s/90s clothing that needs burning ASAP’.

  For a fortysomething, Gil doesn’t looks a day over thirty-five. I say fortysomething because I have no idea how old Gil actually is. Along with his real name, Gil keeps his date of birth under wraps. I only know that he’s in his forties based on how long he’s known my parents. He looks good and he’s in peak physical shape, so who cares? Certainly not the swarms of men who fall at his feet. It isn’t just his looks that make him irresistible to both sexes (he’s had a few female stalkers in his time), it’s his cool confidence and ability to see the humour in all situations, no matter how bad things get. He’s so irresponsible, but so charming with it. He’s the hare, and the tortoise, knowing how to take it easy when he feels like it, but always getting what he wants, too.

  ‘Erm, I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘I’m stuck in the Dales.’

  I fill Gil in on my situation, only for him to fall about laughing.

  ‘Babe, you’re living an absolute nightm
are,’ he cackles. ‘And everyone sounds like they need therapy. Mark’s gay dad, most of all.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I reply, glad somebody else gets it. ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘Mark’s gay dad,’ Gil replies with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  ‘Are you on something?’ I laugh. ‘Mark’s dad isn’t gay. He’s married – to a woman.’

  Gil rolls his eyes at my naivety.

  ‘I’ve had sex with plenty of men who had wives,’ he reminds me. ‘Come on, Roxie, you grew up around theatre people. If anyone knows gay, it’s you. Everything you’ve told me about this dude screams gay.’

  I think about it for a moment. Oscar does have a good knowledge of theatre – then again, so does my dad. He has great style and excellent taste, except for when he doesn’t, but that just reminds me of what Gil is like because if he thinks something is stylish, then he can’t be told otherwise, and believe me, I’ve tried. As I recall Oscar’s fashion advice and his finely tuned gaydar, I wonder whether Gil might be on to something.

  ‘You’re stereotyping,’ I tick him off. ‘And reaching.’

  Mark pokes his head into the room and whispers to me, asking me if I’m ready to go.

  ‘Mark’s dad is reaching…’ Oscar replies. ‘Around.’

  I snap the lid closed on my laptop quickly.

  ‘Was that Gil?’ Mark asks. I nod. ‘Hope you said “hi” for me.’

  I exhale deeply, feeling relatively confident Mark didn’t hear a word of that.

  ‘You OK?’ Mark asks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘Just stressed. My article is due and I haven’t written anything yet.’

  ‘You need to clear your head,’ he tells me. ‘A little time away from the screen will do that. Come on, let’s go to the pub for lunch.’

  I smile and nod in agreement, but that’s not what I need at all. Even without my other problems, I’ve never understood the argument that if you’re struggling to write you should just stop and try again later because, if I stopped every time I struggled, most of the time I’d never get any work done.