The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs

by Dawn O'Porter

  ‘So,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘Hi.’

  Ben burst out laughing. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I am,’ she replied, setting the wine bottle on the bedside table and hopping gracefully up onto the bed. ‘I’m having a perfectly lovely time. You?’

  ‘I am now,’ he said.

  Smooth, whispered his quest-brain. That’s the stuff. More of that.

  ‘Are you just going to stand there?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Course not,’ said Ben, and settled onto the bed with as much elegance as he was able, keeping a respectful distance between them.

  ‘Cool,’ she replied. ‘So. Ben. Why exactly did you call Mrs James your mum?’

  A black hole of shame opened up inside Ben’s stomach, and his skin began to tingle with embarrassed heat. ‘What?’ he managed.

  ‘Come on,’ said Grace. ‘Like we were going to be able to get away with not mentioning it? It’s not that big a deal, Ben, really it isn’t. I don’t know why you let everyone give you so much shit about it.’

  ‘I didn’t let them,’ said Ben. ‘I couldn’t stop them.’

  ‘You let it bother you, though. That’s what feeds them. That’s what kept it going.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘But … I called a teacher Mum. Seriously. Out loud. There didn’t seem to be any way I could get out of it.’

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’ said Grace, and started to giggle. ‘You called your English teacher Mum.’

  Ben felt himself start to smirk. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Right in front of everyone.’

  Grace burst out laughing, and he felt himself surrender to the infectious sound, felt himself begin to laugh about something that he had believed had come to define him but now felt utterly insignificant. He howled with laughter, rolling onto his side and clutching at his ribs, feeling months of misery and self-hatred spill out of his open mouth. Grace had buried her face in a pillow and seemed to be having trouble breathing, she was laughing so hard; Ben hoped she was all right, as there was absolutely nothing he could do to help her if she wasn’t.

  Eventually, the tidal wave of laughter began to subside. He gasped for air, as Grace slowly lifted her head and looked at him.

  ‘Bonnie talked to you,’ she said. ‘Right?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘What did she she tell you?’

  Ben swallowed hard. ‘She told me that you were looking forward to seeing me at the party … ’

  ‘And?’

  ‘ … and that she thought you might still like me. Although I don’t think I was supposed to tell you she said that.’

  Grace smiled. ‘It’s all right. I won’t tell her off too badly.’

  Ben was suddenly very aware of the temperature in the bedroom; it was as though someone was steadily turning up the thermostat, sucking all the moisture out of him. He was incredibly aware of his tongue, and his mouth felt as dry and rough as sandpaper. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Grace tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone a bit red.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘Are you nervous around me?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Because you don’t have to be.’

  ‘I’m not nervous.’

  ‘You are. I can tell. Maybe this will relax you. Or maybe not.’

  Grace reached down and with an effortless raising of her arms, brought the blue top over her head and threw it onto the floor. She smiled as he stared at her, the colour draining from his face, his mind empty apart from the screeching, triumphant voice of his quest-brain.

  This is it! This is going to happen! It’s happening! DON’T SCREW IT UP!

  ‘A quest? What are you talking about?’

  Ben could feel his cheeks beginning to burn. He didn’t know why he had suddenly decided to bare his soul to Grace Matthews, but he was committed now; there was no going back.

  ‘Like a pact,’ he said. ‘Me and Sean Redman.’

  Grace rolled her eyes. ‘Christ. This isn’t going to be good, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ben. ‘It seemed like fun when we started it, but now I’m not sure. I think it might be sort of stupid.’

  Grace leant back against the pile of pillows at the end of the bed and folded her arms across herself. Ben tried not to notice how her forearms pushed her breasts up and in, creating a cleavage that threatened to render him incapable of conscious thought. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘It was after I came back from Kefalonia last summer,’ said Ben. ‘There was this waitress … ’

  ‘There was, was there?’ asked Grace. ‘Did you have a little holiday romance with her?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘No. I never spoke to her. But I saw her … on the beach … ’

  ‘In a bikini?’ asked Grace. There was a set to her jaw, a certain straightness to her mouth that made Ben suspect she was already several steps ahead of him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not in a bikini?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, sort of. Top half.’

  ‘So you saw some Greek girl topless on the beach. What’s the big deal?’

  Ben said nothing. He couldn’t work out how to articulate why the moment had seemed so important to him, why it had sent him home lit from within by some unknown fire, ready to make pacts and start quests. After a long moment, Grace spared him.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ she said, rolling her eyes and fixing him with a look of intense disappointment. ‘They were probably the first tits you’d ever seen apart from your mum’s, weren’t they?’

  Ben didn’t reply.

  ‘Jesus, why are all boys so stupidly predictable?’ she asked, her pale cheeks starting flush pink. ‘What the hell is it with all of you and tits? You’re like dogs after a bone. Tell me this quest then, you might as well. What was it, who could be the first to get a girl to show you hers?’

  ‘Sort of,’ managed Ben. ‘We had to … touch … ’ His voice faded away to nothing, driven back into his throat by the look on Grace Matthews’ face.

  ‘You’re on a quest to see who can be the first to touch a girl’s tits? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I … ’

  ‘Because you know how pathetic that sounds, right?’

  ‘I do. But I … didn’t. Until now.’

  ‘And you heard that I liked you, so you thought I was your best shot?’

  Ben stared helplessly at her.

  ‘Do you know why I liked you?’ asked Grace, her eyes blazing. ‘Because I thought you might be different. I can get this sort of crap from any of the boys in our year, could go downstairs right now and get it from any of the dickheads dancing around in the living room. You, though? You’re sort of awkward, and you try to hide how clever you are, which pisses me off, but you’ve always been nice to me and I thought you might be a good person, that you might have something about you, something more going on that just football and cider and trying to shove your hand up girls’ skirts. So maybe your mate Sean is the smart one, because I’m clearly the idiot here.’

  Ben reached out a hand towards her, trying to somehow bridge the gap that had yawned open between them. Grace slapped it away, then sat forward, reached behind her back and unhooked the black bra. It fell into her lap as she sat up straight and fixed her eyes on his.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Ben’s eyes widened. ‘What are you –’

  ‘Do what you came up here with me to do. Touch me. Finish your stupid little quest if it means so much to you, then we can go back downstairs and I can try and find someone I actually like to talk to.’

  She reached out, grabbed his wrists, and pulled his hands forward, guiding them towards her breasts. Ben realised what was happening a millisecond before it was too late, and pulled back. For a moment his hands trembled as they were pulled in opposite directions, until Ben managed to free them from her grip and plant them firmly onto the duv
et cover.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, her gaze locked with his. ‘I thought this was what you wanted?’

  ‘So did I,’ he said.

  ‘So what do you want now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ben. ‘Not this.’

  Grace tilted her head to one side, and regarded him with an unreadable expression. ‘What about your quest?’

  ‘To hell with it,’ he said, and smiled. ‘It was stupid. I’m stupid. And I’m sorry I involved you in it. I’m really sorry.’

  Grace stared at him for a long moment. Eventually, a small smile rose on her face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m going to get dressed now. Look away.’

  Ben nodded, and shuffled himself round on the duvet, fixing his eyes on the far wall of Cheryl’s bedroom. A full-length mirror stood beside a chest of drawers, reflecting what was happening behind him, and he fought the urge to take a single glance into it, one last action in pursuit of a quest he no longer wanted any part of.

  ‘Okay,’ said Grace, and he turned back to look at her. The blue top was back in place and the colour was fading from her cheeks. Her hair was messy where she had pulled the top over her head, long strands of it hanging loosely around her ears and down towards her neck.

  ‘How do I look?’ she asked.

  ‘Good,’ he replied.

  Grace rolled her eyes. ‘Good? Is that all? Jesus, there is so much I have to teach you.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. The thought of being taught anything by Grace Matthews suddenly seemed like the best thing in the world. ‘I’m a fast learner.’

  She laughed. ‘I bet you are. Come sit next to me.’

  Ben made his way up the bed, and flopped down beside her. He raised his knees so they formed an arch, and felt a shiver of excitement rush through him as she rested hers against him.

  ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he asked. His reserves of small talk, never particularly overflowing, were dangerously close to empty.

  She frowned momentarily, then smiled. ‘Green. What’s yours?’

  ‘Blue,’ he said. ‘Pale blue.’

  ‘Why did you tell me about your quest? You must have known I wasn’t going to like it.’

  Ben nodded. ‘I did. But I didn’t want to lie to you.’

  Her smile widened, and she inclined her head slightly towards his. ‘Yeah? Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just seemed important. It seemed like –’

  Her lips stopped his words. Ben’s eyes widened, then slowly closed, as the world he knew faded to black around him.

  RUFUS HOUND & SIMITCHELL

  A Trip Down Mammary Lane

  AMY HUBERMAN

  Going to the shops with my mum

  Was the same old boring humdrum

  She never seemed to listen

  As I’d see the goods in the shop windows glisten

  I yearned for all the stuff I could see

  So badly I wanted to pee

  Passing another shop door, my tongue would scrape on the floor

  ‘Mum! This window! Look at those puppies!’, I’d shout

  ‘You’re not ready, not now’ and I’d furrow my brow

  What was she on about?

  Passing the dairy shop entrance

  She would sigh with a waited temperance

  ‘Mum, I want them! Those milk jugs!’

  And she’d pull me along with her tugs

  Next up it was the baps on display

  As the baker stood mixing his whey

  The cans in the store, the melons galore

  The kegs in the pub, the man selling balloons while eating his grub

  The funbags on sale midst all of the toys

  Being stared at and played with by all of the boys

  The scooters with hooters and tonkas with honkers

  I wanted them so badly it was driving me bonkers!

  And then finally one day

  After years of dedicated pray

  I gazed in the mirror with a dumbfounded stare

  Had someone actually answered my prayer?

  Sweet Lord I finally had a pair!

  And it was then that I knew what my mum had meant

  I’d have been all shopped out with my money spent

  When there was no need to panic; the process was much more organic

  I jumped in the air and shouted ‘Hoorah!’

  But then I thought ‘Shit’, I have to shop for a bra.

  JAMEELA JAMIL

  My breasts and I, as with any relationship, I suppose, have had our ups and downs. Although I can sufficiently say, since heading past ye olde twenty-five mark, it’s more a case of downs. Literally. But we had our glory days once upon a cleavage – long, long … LONG ago. I had few attributes growing up; I was far too tall, socially inept, incredibly chubby, spotty, train tracked and worst of all, I considered the lunch ladies to be my only friends at school. But to compensate for the arse I was dealt (an arse that DARED to be both big AND flat!), God (or whoever) bestowed upon me some enormously capacious knockers. They were the light(s) at the end of my dark teenage tunnel. Though I am sad to say that for the first few years of our time shared together, I was deeply ashamed by them. I felt as though they were unwelcome squatters on my chest, I found their size embarrassing and attention-seeking. They completely stole my thunder from age thirteen onwards. Always entering the room SEVERAL seconds before me, constantly introducing themselves to strangers before my face even had a chance, and blocking my view of the television if I ever tried to watch telly lying down in bed, not to mention their knack for turning running for a bus into a game of volleyball. The day I was measured in John Lewis and was forced to buy a 38HH bra, I remember weeping. Hating my father for it, because they are without doubt inherited from him. He’s known for his ample bosom. Still quite firm for a man in his sixties. I would spend hours constructing diversion techniques by stooping and swanning around in oversize men’s shirts.

  Looking back, I feel deeply ashamed of my animosity, and more so … naivety. What I saw as impostors were actually loyal friends in disguise. Assets I didn’t realise could one day become something of a currency in the bedroom and, the feminist in me is loathe to admit, almost everywhere else. And yet, in what I now look back at as their glory days, I took them totally for granted. Since my teen years, I’ve lost five stone. A large portion, as with most women, came off my décolletage, and now where those mountains once stood proud, lies a very unimpressive pair of molehills. Molehills that with every year try to run further and further away from my face. I have this recurring nightmare that by my fifties I shall be able to wrap them around my neck and fashion some sort of new age (or old age) bow tie out of them. (She shudders.)

  Nonetheless, I’m glad we had some time together. I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologise to my breasts for the years of abuse and neglect I subjected them to, all the sports bras two sizes too small that I shoved and folded them into trying to flatten them down, for all those times I huffed and puffed because I insisted they made everything I wore look slutty (when actually, looking back, I realised, I just bought slutty clothes), for holding them hostage under thick material, never to see the light of day. Breasts, at any size or shape, are a miracle. They are the food with which we nourish our children, they are the collateral with which we negotiate with lovers, and come on, let’s face it, whatever they look like, you have to admit we got lucky, we could have had balls … imagine that.

  The Wall and the Door

  MAUREEN JOHNSON

  It was a very hot autumn when I first arrived at my Catholic girls’ school, aged thirteen, non-Catholic, clueless, never having faced a nun before in my life. Why I was sent there has never been made clear. This is the kind of thing that passes for a joke in my family. And during that very hot autumn, the order lost one sister a week for the first five weeks of school, as if on schedule. Every week, we were taken to the chapel to see them. We knelt and said prayers I did not kn
ow directly in front of the bodies of people I had never met in life. I’d only seen a few dead bodies in my life, so five was a lot. That they were all nuns was deeply disorienting. And for a while, it looked like this was how things were always going to be at our school. Someone was going to die every single week. But it wasn’t. It was just a bad five weeks, and it earned us the name the Freshmen of Death.

  I felt that this was a bad thing, in that distant way that you do when you hear about the death of someone you do not know. You do not want anyone to die. You do not want people to be sad. But when you do not know the deceased, it can be hard to truly engage in what is going on. The five deaths that greeted our arrival almost seemed to fit the strange new surroundings I was in.

  There were constant reminders that we were mortal, we were all going to die. There were prayers about it, songs about it, rituals to aid us, statues that depicted it. We said the Hail Mary every morning and before every class, imbedding the words ‘now and at the hour of our death’ into my brain. I said it in three different languages every day. There was a giant painting by the front door of our school showing nuns of our order bravely standing up to Nazis, and being mowed by machine guns and falling into a mass grave. That was how we greeted you. I had never seen so much death before. It was like I had arrived at Death Prep.

  But there was life as well. Potential. We were constantly being told that we were blossoming young women, young and fertile. Too many comparisons were made to flowers. Our bodies were the source of constant commentary. It started before we even got to school, at our mid-summer uniform fitting before freshman year. We were sized not according to our current shape and person, but to the blossoming young woman we would become.

  By this, I mean our chest size. See, we wore these tight vests. Well, they were tight in theory. They would be tight when the blossoming had happened. But as pre-freshmen, our petals still closed, it was hard to tell just how much lily there was to gild. And your vest had to last you for four years – you didn’t get a new uniform every year. Which is why they employed the Amazing Breast-Size Guessing Nun.