by Laura Marney
When Arab comes back she brings a barman carrying a tray, double vodkas and Red Bull all round. There has never been table service here before and Pierce is impressed by the power of a posh accent, a confident manner and a large tip. Daisy discreetly removes her hand from his trousers and puts it to her face. She is pretending to scratch her nose but Pierce sees very well what she is doing. She’s sniffing her fingers.
In the taxi the three of them are squashed on the back seat together. Arab gets into a long and surprisingly erudite argument about football with the taxi driver. She leans forward, squashing Daisy and Pierce closer together. Daisy sits in the middle, she has switched sides and now her hand lies in Pierce’s hand. In the darkness Arab doesn’t appear to notice, she is too caught up in her debate. Pierce wonders why, other than for the sake of manners, he’s not allowed to snog Daisy in front of Arab but every time he attempts to, she pushes him away. He hasn’t asked if she has a boyfriend, girls like Daisy always do. She is not averse to a little covert action though and her hand slides, still in his, towards his crotch. His cock is solid and he is pleased that she finds him so. While Arab boffs on about Scotland’s chances in the upcoming World Cup qualifier, Daisy is fingering his cock.
Crushed as they are in the taxi, Pierce’s pants are cutting him in two. His nob strains against his Calvin Klein’s as Daisy slowly, teasingly, rubs her thumb across his bell end. Predictably, she changes hands, why do women always do that? But Daisy has a reason. She’s sniffing her fingers again. What does she smell? His maleness, his sweat heavy with hormones and pheromones and last night’s curry, soap powder from his newly washed jeans, the faint whiff of hash, driblets of wine and piss. What is it that turns her on?
The seediness of being chugged off in the back of a taxi, by an editor, and the danger of being caught, heightens everything. For all the women Pierce has had, in all the strange situations, he has never had this. He’s not sure if he likes it. What is it that she’s trying to do? She’s staring at him, what is she looking for in his face?
The taxi driver turns and asks him a question. Pierce is distracted, not sure what has been asked. He slides forward as if to better hear the taxi driver but also to move out of range of Daisy’s hand.
‘I’m saying it’s got to lift the standard of our game, hasn’t it?’ says the taxi driver.
He is looking for a man’s opinion.
‘Oh aye,’ says Pierce.
Arab is looking at him now too. She wants him to join in but he can’t think of anything useful to say. Everyone is looking at him.
‘Although I suppose the money could be better spent here, sports schools, that kind of thing.’
‘My point exactly!’ chirps Arab. ‘We have to bring on our own young players!’
Pierce is off the hook with Arab. The taxi driver has given up on him as an ally. Daisy is back in control. She moves her hand over his cock and whispers to him.
‘Will you come back to the hotel?’
She pokes her tongue into one side of her cheek, distending it like a hamster. She’s offering to suck him off.
Pierce smiles. Daisy strokes.
‘Nah, better not.’
Pierce can hardly believe he’s saying this but he knows it’s the smart thing to do. If he goes back with her now he’ll never see her again after tonight. He’ll be nothing more than a provincial adventure that she’ll gossip about with her friends back in the metropolis. She’ll be embarrassed to set eyes on him ever again, she won’t even look at his book.
‘But I’ll call you.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, apparently unperturbed, ‘Call me. And send me a few chapters, I’d like to read your work.’
Result.
Pierce doesn’t care now that she’s ploughing his crotch again. He puts his hand over hers to direct her and opens his legs a little wider to afford her better access. She has picked up a good rhythm again but now it’s him that’s running the show. Pre-cum juice is lubricating his nob-end, this is better, more comfortable. He reaches across and with a cheeky smile pinches her nipple. She likes that. Her thumb is working faster now. It’s the smart thing to do, leave her begging for more.
As hand jobs go it’s not ideal, he’d like her to get a proper grip, give him a good solid tug. But it is the very fact that she is unable to do this, the fact that they are in a taxi, right under the noses of two others that is keeping him hard. Now Pierce is staring at Daisy, not at her face, at the front of her blouse. Daisy likes it; she arches her back and pushes her tits out. She wants him to touch her again but he won’t. He guides her to keep thumbing him, controlling the rhythm, faster, harder. The taxi is slowing down to stop at traffic lights; Arab is turning towards them.
‘Don’t stop!’ Pierce calls out involuntarily.
It’s too late to stop. He pinches her fingers tight around his cock, all the better to feel each quivering pulse of ejaculation.
Chapter 27
As Pierce makes his way home he’s already deciding what chapters to send her. It was the smart thing to do. No longer caring that Arab was watching, Daisy fiercely snogged him as he got out of the taxi. ‘Call me,’ she said.
As he enters the close he hears her on the stairs above, breathing and shuffling. What the fuck is Daphne’s problem? She’s still avoiding him, up there on the landing waiting for him to go in so can she can scurry past his door without having to speak to him. Well she can wait. Pierce sits on the bottom stair; he’s going nowhere. If she wants out she’ll have to pass him. He sits quietly listening to her breathing two floors above him, amplified in the echoey hollowness of the stairwell. He employs his skill of silent breathing; maybe she’ll think he’s gone out again. But then she might get a fright when she meets him here. He doesn’t want that. Daphne is of a nervous disposition at the best of times, always crying and throwing wobblies. No, it’s better if she knows he’s here. Then she can voluntarily come down and sort things out with him and get back to where they were, or not. She can go back inside her flat.
Pierce announces his presence with a theatrical cough. He hams it up, hawking and spluttering. So convincing is he that he actually produces a substantial piece of lung butter, which he gobs into a hanky. He knows that such an authentic impersonation of an expectorating consumptive will make her laugh. He imagines her up there smirking.
She doesn’t go back into her flat, that must be a good sign, but neither does she come down. She’s waiting him out. The cold from the stone step is creeping up through his bum and makes him shiver. What he poetically likes to think of as his man juice is coagulating in his pants, cold and sticky now against his belly. This is ridiculous, her hanging about up there and him hanging about down here. Fuck her, he thinks, it’s quarter-past three in the morning, if she wants to play games good luck to her, he needs his bed.
But just as he stands up, he hears movement above. Feet are coming down the stairs, but not Daphne’s, he knows her tread.
It’s Daphne’s old boyfriend, Donnie, what the hell is he doing here? Is she back with him?
‘Oh hello Pierce!’ says Donnie.
‘Oh hello Donnie!’ says Pierce with so much feigned surprise it sounds sarcastic.
And then the penny drops. Donnie has red hair, bright carroty orange, Pierce had forgotten that about him. Now he gets it. That’s why Daphne threw them out, the joke about the ginger baby, of course.
She’s still not over it. All these months of moping around in her baggy jumper, all these late-night deli runs, she still wants Donnie. The night-time crying binges stopped ages ago and Pierce had thought that her snogging Tam was an indicator that she had moved on. Why do women cling so much? And to a wee creep like this. Donnie is so ginger and hairy he looks like an orang-utan. And Daphne has taken this fucking simian back.
‘I just popped round to see Daphne but I don’t think she’s in,’ says Donnie.
‘Oh yeah? Was she expecting you, like?’
‘Eh, well, no, not really. But do you know where she i
s, Pierce? I’m a bit worried at her being out at this time of night.’
A snort of laughter bursts from Pierce involuntarily. He can’t believe the cheek of the guy. Now he has a good look at him, what did Daphne ever see in this wee gnumf?
‘Aye, she’s out with her boyfriend.’
Pierce registers the look of fright that crosses Donnie’s face and this encourages him further.
‘I spotted them in town earlier. They were getting out of the BMW and going into that really posh new restaurant on Glebe Street, d’you know it?’
Pierce is pleased with the effect this has on Donnie. It seems he can’t even speak. His mouth is open and he’s shaking his head.
‘In fact, she doesn’t even live here anymore, she’s moved out.’
This should get rid of him.
‘Really? But I don’t get it. Her nameplate is on the door and it’s the same curtains.’
Pierce hadn’t thought of that.
‘Yeah well, she’s renting it out. To a couple, big Rottweiler dog. They must be out tonight. But I wouldn’t upset them, mate, the guy’s a bit of a psycho.’
Maybe that was a bit too much, Donnie is looking quizzical, but Pierce can’t help it. When he starts a story he always wants to colour it in. If nothing else the psycho guy with his Rottweiler will be a deterrent for a fearty wee prick like Donnie, who is looking close to tears now.
‘When you see her, Pierce, will you tell her I’m asking after her?’ says Donnie, shoulders slumped, as he moves towards the door.
‘Course.’
Pierce climbs the stairs to his flat. He fiddles with the keys longer than is necessary just to be sure that Donnie has left the building.
*
This one can’t fail: Pierce was in the university two days ago putting up posters for his Wednesday evening Poetry and Pints. Usually he has to tear down other adverts to make space for the poster but this time the ad grabbed him. Of course he’d seen similar adverts before, years ago when he was a student himself, but he had no idea that they actually paid you for it. Once he realised the cash potential he looked up the phone book and was delighted to discover that there were six in the city. Six places where they handed out cash! And that was just Glasgow. It would be no bother to jump a bus to Edinburgh. He phoned and made appointments with all of them. He had to write them down in his diary so he wouldn’t mix them up but you had to be organised in business.
He has his first appointment today and is fully prepared; he put on clean pants and socks this morning.
‘Ah, Mr McCormack?’ says the woman behind the desk.
‘Yes.’
‘Lovely. Dr Morton is waiting for you. If you’d just like to make your way along to interview room four.’
Pierce is a wee bit dismayed to discover that Dr Morton is a woman, a girl really, a young attractive girl. She checks his name and asks him to fill in a long boring form with loads of questions about his general health: does he or anyone in his family suffer from heart disease, diabetes, etc. These questions are quite understandable and he quickly ticks through the boxes.
The form also asks about his lifestyle, questions that Pierce feels are a bit offensive: is he a practising homosexual? He certainly is not. Has he had sex with a prostitute? He’s never paid for it in his life. Etc.
And then it comes to the interview.
‘Pierce, may I call you Pierce?’ she asks.
Pierce nods his head; of course. He likes being on first name terms with professional people. Her name badge says her name is Mandy.
‘Thank you. Pierce, why are you interested in donating sperm?’
Pierce puts his head down and pretends to think what to say. After a suitable interval he speaks.
‘I saw your advert in the university, I’m a lecturer there, and I became interested. I thought of all the young couples desperate for a family and my heart went out to them. My sister was in that position, her husband’s testicles were faulty and it broke my heart. I believe, or at least I hope, that my semen is healthy and Mandy, I want to help.’
Dr Morton nods her head encouragingly; this is the right answer.
‘Pierce, I’m obliged to inform you that current legislation makes donor identification compulsory. These means that there is the possibility that in years to come children may be able to identify you as their natural father and may wish to contact you. You must consider this before becoming a donor.’
But he already has.
Because he has never had a job Pierce has no pension. Unless he gets a big publishing deal he’ll spend the rest of his life rooked, scratching out his last years in miserable poverty. Couples pay to come to these clinics. They pay big time.
The fruit of Pierce’s loins, cuckoos in the nest, will grow up wealthy with a loving mummy and daddy who have invested heavily in them: private school, the best university, friends and family with connections, all willing to help Junior along. With Pierce’s genes and those kind of opportunities Junior can’t fail. This is the best start in life Pierce can give him.
As far as he is aware he has never impregnated anyone, never wanted to. He always uses a condom, no matter who it is. He knows, or did until Bernie died, that he wasn’t ready for parenthood. Yeah, he’s fallen in love a few times but even so, he knew himself well enough to realise that it wouldn’t work. He’d get her pregnant and then a few years down the line they’d break up. He knows too many single parent girls, left with the kids, without enough money or support, and their kids who are denied enough discipline or attention or good male role models. He couldn’t make a woman his baby mamma. No kid of his would live like that.
And besides, when he’s a poor old codger and his grown up successful stockbroking children catch up with him, they won’t let their old dad starve.
‘Yes, Amanda, I can see that’s a consideration but I’m not married, I haven’t found the right girl yet. When I do she’ll know everything there is to know about me, there’ll be no secrets. And if the children want to find me I’ll be pleased to see them.’
He has passed the interview and now it’s the physical. This isn’t as much fun, he’s waiting in a cubicle freezing his bollocks off in a paper dress that has a split up the back. A brisk nurse eventually comes and parks him in another consulting room. He clenches his buttocks tight, he’s been told to sit on the consultation couch but he’s scared that his bare bum will leave skidmarks on it. It would be horribly embarrassing if Mandy were to see it. But luckily the doctor that comes in is not Mandy, it’s a guy doctor.
‘Mr McCormack? I’m Dr Grant. Nurse Scott will take some samples from you and I’ll be along again to see you in a minute, all right?’
Pierce doesn’t really have a chance to reply before Dr Grant is away. Nurse Scott sets to taking his blood, and so’s not to look, Pierce makes a joke.
‘So I suppose if this is a sperm bank then you must be a teller?’
‘Ho ho,’ says Nurse Scott unconvincingly. Her name badge says her name is Christine.
‘Sorry. No doubt you’ve heard that one before.’
‘Yeah, just a bit.’
She makes eye contact, friendlier now.
‘I’ve pretty much heard them all. I’m going to need a urine sample too, Pierce, d’you think you can give me one now?’
Giving a urine sample is not as easy is it sounds and Nurse Scott is waiting. Pierce hopes this is not the shape of things to come and has a moment’s anxiety about this whole sperm donation thing but then he thinks about the money. Cash in hand, tax-free and no questions asked.
After Nurse Scott has bled him dry – she’s taken at least half a pint of blood and put it in lots of wee-labelled vials – Dr Grant comes back. Even through his rubber gloves his hands are cold as he fiddles with Pierce’s cock, and it’s a bit awkward that Nurse Scott is watching everything. Still, he’s doing it for the children.
The rectal examination is not as bad as he was expecting. In fact once it’s over Pierce becomes much more relaxed. He wa
sn’t aware of how tense he had been but Dr Grant was spot on. He had somehow managed to have his finger up Pierce’s arse without unduly hurting him or making it seem weird. Pierce has a new respect for the medical profession.
At last he’s allowed to put his clothes back on and it’s back for a final consultation with Mandy again. It seems that they don’t want a sample today; they have to check the results of the tests and that will take three weeks. Three weeks? Pierce is gutted. He thought they were going to give him money today.
He hardly hears what Mandy is saying. She’s boffing on in her medical manner about abstaining from sex three days before making a donation, sperm count having to be higher than 20 million, frozen within the hour, fifty per cent survival rate six months later. That’s why payment is half the fee at time of donation and half six months later if the sperm survives frozen storage. Pierce is all ears now, half the fee? Oh well, the fee is pretty good so half a substantial fee is better than nothing but this is a lot more complicated than Pierce had originally thought. Six months to wait to see if his sperm can stand the cold. And she keeps stressing that only fifty per cent of men make it as donors.
‘Ah I’m not too worried about that, Mandy. Surviving the cold is in my genes. My uncle nearly died of cold, twice, but we Mc-Cormacks are a hardy lot.’
Pierce is pretty confident he’ll get his money and even if he doesn’t he has six months to make as many donations as possible, getting in as many half-fees as possible.
‘Let’s hope so, we desperately need quality donors.’
Is she coming on to me? Pierce thinks, maybe I should ask her out.
Mandy boffs on a bit more while Pierce runs his sexy smile past her. She picks it up and passes her own sexy smile back. She’s definitely interested. He leans in, all the better to hear her, and looks into her eyes. She meets his stare and holds it.