by Emlyn Rees
d) Firm buttocks
e) Tensed thighs
Weather conditions on the lower terrain are described as moist. The overall message: Planet Inhabitable – Capable of Sustaining Human Life. Ground Control is satisfied and gives the thumbs up for full colonisation to proceed forthwith.
Meanwhile, Amy’s undone my zip. Her hand slides inside. As she takes a firm grip on what resides therein, I break the kiss for the first time since I closed the door. I pull her top over her head and let it fall on the stairs behind her. Her eyes are closed and, for a moment, I just watch her face and listen to the rush of her breath. Then I unfasten her bra and she threads her arms free, chucks it over the banister.
She opens her eyes, smiles and whispers, ‘Hi.’
And I am.
As in sky.
Just looking at her.
She’s beautiful and, I’ve got to admit, it looks like this is going to be well worth the wait. I run my hands down her sides, over her hips, and hook my fingers under her skirt, ride it up to her waist.
‘Lie down,’ I tell her.
And she does, legs and bum on the floor, back against the stairs. I kneel beside her and unfasten her suspenders, peel her knickers down and off. Sliding her legs apart, I reposition myself and lower my head, brush my lips up her inner thigh, do The Tease by bypassing the groove my tongue was designed to fit, settle for a moment on the soft skin of her stomach. I hear her gasp, close my eyes. And I’m glad it’s her. I’m glad it’s the scent of her skin I’m breathing in.
Then down.
Deep down.
Because down is where it’s at.
4
Amy
I AM IN what you might describe as a sticky situation.
This is absolutely not what I planned. Less than ten minutes ago, Jack kissed me in the back of the cab and I don’t know what he put in that kiss, but I think he must have had some sort of narcotic on his tongue, because I seem to have taken leave of my senses.
One minute I felt like I was the leading lady having the snog scene in a pretty straightforward PG romance and the next I’ve landed the lead in Amy Does Tricks, the porn blockbuster.
Hello Amy?
Earth to Planet Floozy?
I’m lying on Jack’s stairs having abandoned my bra over the banisters and my legs are over his shoulders and whilst it feels oh … OH … YES … YES … THERE … THERE … ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh … yes … yes … great, I’m also in a MAJOR PANIC. It consists of:
My Mother’s Voice: You’re behaving like a common slut. What kind of a girl will he think you are?
My Vanity: He’s going to see my cellulite and think I’m a lard monster.
My Lungs: I can’t breathe in much longer and WHAT IF HE LOOKS UP NOW AND SEES THE TRUTH ABOUT MY STOMACH!
My Paranoia: What if Matt walks in through the front door?
And worse, much much worse … What if I …
if I …
smell?
I mean I can’t do, because I wallowed in the bath until I was squeaky clean, but that’s a scary one.
And to top it all, I’m just embarrassed and feel stupid for feeling embarrassed. I mean when someone sticks their tongue in … there … mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm … and starts gently licking you … ohhhhhhhhhhhh … there … it’s not exactly an everyday occurrence is it? It’s not something you invite every Tom, Dick and Harry to do to you. It’s kind of intimate. Personal. EXPOSING!
And if Jack Rossiter thinks I’m going to have an orgasm with all this going on inside my head, he’s got another think coming.
But on the other hand, I don’t want him to stop. It’s been so long since this happened and a girl’s got to get it when she can. And anyway, Jack is Heineken Man – reaching the parts that other men don’t reach.
This makes me pleased. Pleased because he’s trying to pleasure me. Pleased because he wants to, and pleased because H will approve. No, H will be over the moon.
‘At last,’ she’ll say. ‘At long bloody last.’
My sentiments entirely. So long Mr Detachable Shower Head, hello bloke who gives good head!
A rarity.
A treasure.
A fucking miracle!
Because all the blokes I’ve had so far have been crap in this department.
Take Andy. Mr Wham Bam, put the kettle on ma’am (and you can iron my shirt whilst you’re at it). After three months, it took all my courage to broach the there-are-other-things-we-could-be-doing-in-bed chat. I mumbled, fumbled and when Andy looked at me with blank confusion and carried on reading the Sunday papers, I was mortified.
But then the next day, out of the blue, Andy whisked me off to the futon when I got back from work – and went down. I nearly died of shock. I couldn’t believe my luck. I wriggled encouragingly, groaned, praised the Lord, and just when I’d decided that I could marry Andy after all, he stopped. Just stopped. After about a minute. ‘There,’ he said with a smug look. ‘That’s your welcome home present.’
But Jack is different. Jack’s into this. He’s making noises. Horny noises. And so am I, but this can’t go on. The poor guy will get lockjaw soon and, anyway, I want to touch him. Badly.
I grab his head, which is blessed with the essential qualities of good hair. It smells nice, it’s cut well and, best of all, it’s permanent-looking. I run my fingers through it and can’t help moaning softly. Jack takes the hint. He looks up at me and gives me a soggy grin.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he says, and my heart does a loop the loop.
And then he kisses me. (Phew. I don’t smell after all!)
But it’s not just a kiss.
It’s the kiss.
And right at that point, because he does have a toptastically amazing body and because I’m melting into his eyes and because he’s bothered to go down on me and because I fancy him more than Mel Gibson, Brad Pitt and that bloke off Neighbours all rolled into one, I make an executive decision to shag him to within an inch of his life.
So I do.
But I actually now think that Jack is dying! Either that or he’s about to come, which is fair enough because it has been a bit of a marathon sesh.
‘I’m coming,’ he gasps, and I watch as his forehead crinkles and his mouth opens. And then he does something wonderful. He says my name. Right as he’s climaxing.
Cool.
He’s got my name right!
He collapses on top of me and I can feel his heart thudding. I gently stroke my fingers up his spine and look up at the ceiling.
I’ll give him a definite seven out of ten. No, that’s unfair. Eight. But still, room for improvement.
Sex for the first time is always a disappointment. I always expected it to be like all the novels I read when I was a teenager – knee-trembling, tunnel-vision passion with earth-moving simultaneous orgasms that went on all night. So when Wayne Cartwright (I still can’t believe I lost my virginity to someone called Wayne) hauled something out of his Wrangler drain-pipes that looked suspiciously like turkey giblets, I had quite a shock.
A day later when I was skulking about by the common room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Wayne, I overheard him and his mates discussing the definition of excellent sex. I stopped rigid below the open window, fascinated. However, when they all agreed that the only thing that mattered was coming at the same time, I was thrown into a state of worried confusion. The odds that Wayne-pokey-penis-Cartwright would ever bring me closer to a physical sensation other than mild disgust were firmly stacked against me, but damn it, I was blowed if I was going to be labelled frigid. Thus, overnight, I reinvented myself as Amy Crosbie: Queen of the Faked Orgasm. Meg Ryan? Pah! Not a patch on me.
But faking is a dangerous game. I found myself getting more OTT just to see whether anyone would catch me out. But, surprise, surprise, they never did. Bastards!
So twelve blokes down the line (God, Jack is my twelfth) and I’ve come to my senses. I just have to live with the fact that I’m not one of those girls who have unaided vaginal o
rgasms. So what? They’re all lying anyway.
Jack is making soft purring sounds and I continue stroking his back. Ideally, what I’d like now is for him to nose his way back under the duvet and to finish off what he started, but I know that’s wishful thinking because there are two golden rules of sex:
Rule One: Blokes never, ever do that
Rule Two: Always make sure that you come first
And if you don’t achieve number two, you can’t blame the bloke for number one. So Jack is off the hook, even though my nether regions are screaming, ‘Me me me me me me me!’
Jack rolls himself to one side and strokes my hair. As we grin at each other, I’m overcome with affection. So overcome that my brain disengages with my mouth.
‘Jack, I really, really like you. You’re the best,’ I whisper.
As soon as it’s popped out, I know that I’ve won the cheesy declaration award of the decade. Why I needed to open my big gob and say something, I don’t know, but in terms of cheesiness it’s up there – it’s Stilton.
Jack looks slightly alarmed and gently withdraws his (ten out of ten) penis from me, holding the wilting condom in place. In a nanosecond, he peels it off, ties a knot in it and drops it on the floor. (He’s obviously done this before.)
‘I’m knackered,’ he sighs, flopping down beside me and taking me in his arms. I snuggle up to him, pressing my ear into the ruffle of hair on his chest. I’m desperate to take back my cheesy comment, or to find out what he thinks, what he feels, what this all means, and suddenly I’m in a frenzy and all I want is answers, answers, answers.
I’m aware that I’m being ridiculous. I’ve just spent the best part of two hours exposing every part of my flesh to this man, and I’ve counted no fewer than nine sexual positions, which isn’t bad for the first time. So I think it’s safe to conclude from all this that he likes me. He must do.
But I know that I’ve been had. Had in every sense of the word. I’ve lost a trick in our game of sexual relations and I can’t go back. I can’t un-shag him which means that I need to renegotiate my position, which is why I’m desperate to hear it, desperate for Jack to declare that this isn’t just a one-night stand and that he will be pleased to see me in the morning.
Speak to me, at least.
‘Jack?’ I whisper, stroking the soft skin on his stomach.
But Jack is blissfully unaware of my inner turmoil, because Jack is fast asleep.
He totally passes out, as if he hasn’t slept for a week. There’s no getting through to him, so I lie suffocating for most of the night wondering whether he knows that one day he’ll almost certainly be reincarnated as a starfish.
It’s now nine in the morning and it’s another scorcher, judging from the shafts of light through the blind. I really want Jack to wake up. I want to see his eyes, to duvet lurk and have a sleepy morning shag. But instead I’m lying here listening to him snore and my bladder feels like a space hopper.
I ease his arm from across my neck and sneak out of bed, slipping into his shirt on my way to the door. I look back at him tenderly as he grunts and rolls over, his hair all ruffled with sleep.
I’m still smiling with my conquest and with the relief of an empty bladder when I come out of the bathroom and bump into Matt, tits to chest. Whoops! I can feel myself blushing to my toenails as I stand self-consciously in Jack’s shirt. It’s only just covering my bum.
Matt is amused and I feel every inch the brazen hussy that he thinks I am.
‘Jack still asleep, is he?’ he smiles.
I nod, avoiding eye contact. ‘Out for the count.’
‘Come and have a cuppa then.’
‘No I can’t, I …’ I begin. Matt is staring down at me. Close up, he’s taller than I remembered and he’s looking extremely handsome in baggy shorts and a vest. He’s got a hard fit body and a great tan from somewhere and, despite myself, despite the fact that I’ve just left Jack’s bed, I feel a guilty thrill of anticipation. But hey, I’m only flesh and blood, after all.
‘Come on. He won’t wake up for ages yet,’ whispers Matt conspiratorially and I smile at him. His blue eyes seem to dance over my face and I nod in collusion.
I pull down the shirt, clamp my knees together and shuffle after him up the corridor like a Japanese concubine, admiring the way he strides along with a casual lope. He’s got very nice feet. Nicer than Jack’s at least.
After the dinner last night, the kitchen looks like a bomb’s hit it. Matt gingerly retrieves the kettle from the pile of plates on the counter.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ I mumble. ‘We didn’t have a chance to … um … tidy up.’
Matt laughs. ‘Good night then, I take it?’
He pushes down the bar on the double doors and the kitchen is filled with warm light and birdsong. I feel like I’m in an advert.
‘It was great,’ I say, leaning against the door frame and watching him.
Hello? Why am I breathing in?
‘Jack’s a fantastic cook,’ I say.
Matt fills up the kettle. ‘Isn’t he though? I’m always trying to get him to enter Masterchef.’
‘He should.’
‘I know. Too busy though. You know these artistic types.’
‘It sounds pretty hectic, all those models to deal with.’
He flicks on the kettle. ‘It’s a tough one. It takes it out of him.’
‘Have you seen any of his work? Is it good?’
He nods. ‘Excellent. I haven’t seen his latest piece though.’
‘Oh, the one of this Sally girl?’ Curiosity gets the better of me. ‘What’s she like?’
Matt looks bashful. ‘Oh, you know, um, how can I describe her?’
How sweet of him to protect Jack. ‘It’s all right,’ I laugh, ‘you can be as rude as you like. Jack’s told me she’s a right old trollop.’
Matt rocks his head back and laughs and the sun catches his face. When he stops, he looks at me and I start to feel all flustered.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘That shirt suits you.’
‘It’s Jack’s,’ I say, fiddling with the hem.
‘Hmm. I like that one,’ says Matt. ‘Normal or Earl Grey?’
He’s flirting with me. He’s looking at my legs!
‘Normal please. I’ll do some washing up,’ I offer, side shuffling like a deformed crab towards the sink. I’m very aware that I don’t have any knickers on and I’m pretty sure that Matt’s aware of it too. I can’t meet his eye.
He stretches across me to get tea bags from the cupboards by the sink and I notice that he smells nice, not in a poncy aftershave way, but in a soapy clean way. Nice. His arm is so near I can see the fair hairs on it. He’s got a scar by his elbow and without thinking I touch it. His skin feels warm.
‘How did you get that?’ I ask.
‘I did it.’
We both twirl around to see Jack in the doorway. ‘I booted him out of a tree house, if you really want to know.’
By the look on Jack’s face, he’s wishing he’d booted a bit harder. I pull the shirt down over my thighs self-consciously.
Matt flicks a tea towel over his shoulder as if nothing is amiss, but I’m caught in a firing range of looks and Jack knows it. And Jack knows I know.
‘Tea, mate?’ asks Matt.
Jack grunts an affirmative. Uh oh. So much for being in an advert.
Matt winks at me and rolls his eyes and I feel totally trapped. I move towards Jack, but he raises his eyebrows at my scanty attire and looks out into the garden.
Matt dunks the tea bags.
‘What did you say you were doing today?’ I ask Matt, groping around for conversation and trying to suggest everything is normal, but my voice chokes with guilt.
Matt shrugs. ‘I’ll probably stick around here and catch a few rays in the garden and watch the footie on the portable. Are you going to watch the match, Jack?’
Jack shrugs, obviously put out. ‘Don’t know. I’ll probably work today.’
‘Whatever,’ says Matt, beating a hasty retreat, whistling as he exits the kitchen. I’m left alone with in an atmosphere so loud it’s hurting my eardrums.
How do I reach Jack in the kingdom of the black cloud? Oh why oh why did I get out of bed? Why didn’t I stay and wake up with him? He’s looking at me like I’m a stranger, but I can’t say I blame him. If I found him in my kitchen stroking H’s elbow the morning after our first shag, I’d throw a wobbler. I think about saying something flippant about Matt, or explaining that I had no choice in coming to the kitchen, but even as I rehearse my speech in my head, I know anything I say will make me sound guilty, as if there’s something going on.
‘Sugar?’ I ask feebly.
‘No thanks,’ he says, sitting down at the table.
I take his tea over. He’s looking broody. I wish I could rewind and start all over again. This is a disaster.
‘Do you have lots of work to do?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ I stare at the floor.
Jack sips his tea. ‘What are you up to?’
There’s no invitation in his voice. I shrug. What can I say? If he chucks me out now, I’m going to spend the day wearing black and weeping loudly. I don’t think he wants to hear this though.
‘Not much, I guess.’
I sneak a look at Jack. Can’t he see that I want to fling myself across the great divide between us and cling on to him for dear life, that I’m seriously thinking about a career change to a limpet? I can’t cope if I’ve blown it.
There’s a fraught pause before Jack speaks next. ‘It’s gorgeous out there.’ He nods through the doors.
No, no, no. Don’t give me polite weather conversation, please. I can’t stand it. I swallow hard and follow his gaze. ‘I hate being in London on days like this, the only place to be is on the beach,’ I mumble, sipping my tea.
I look up at Jack now. I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve got to ask and try, try not to make it sound like I’m begging.
‘There’s no chance that you fancy going to Brighton for the day is there? I mean, we could get the train and be there in a couple of hours.’
Thus spake desperate woman.