by Shari Low
Why hadn’t she noticed his really cute grin before? Hang on, what was going on with her? Did you have mind-blowing nookie and all of a sudden you became this highly sexed being who viewed everyone around you as a potential conquest? And, she wondered with just a touch of flippancy, would that really be so bad?
She inhaled deeply. There was no escaping it–twenty-seven years old and she was finally experiencing a sexual awakening. And it was more than a gentle rousing of her sexuality–her libido was jumping up and down on the end of the bed, dressed in crotchless knickers and a peephole bra, clutching a condom while screaming ‘Rise and shine and let me at ’em’.
Mmm, crotchless knickers, peep hole bra…
‘Ginny?’
‘Sorry, sorry, I was just thinking about your question. Which was…Roxy. Coming back. That’s right. I’m not sure, to be honest. You know what she’s like–she likes to be spontaneous and, erm…’
‘Totally irresponsible, erratic and unreliable?’ he added, with the grin that was getting cuter by the second.
‘I was going for “dynamic”.’
‘Okay, we’ll call it dynamic. In an irresponsibly unreliable kind of way.’
Silence, while they both sat there looking at each other, wondering what came next. She still wasn’t quite sure whether this was a social chat or a loaded conversation that would end with her removal from the premises. Sam was obviously struggling here–he seemed a little edgy, nervous, not at all his usual together, controlled self. This chat was pole-vaulting across the line from ‘mildly uncomfortable’ to ‘buttock-clenchingly excruciating’.
She was absolutely no use at this. It suddenly occurred to her that when it came to long, in-depth verbal interaction with the opposite sex, she was out of practice. Or maybe she’d never actually been ‘in practice’. Ridiculous as it now seemed, she couldn’t remember the last time she and Darren had actually just spent some time really talking. And the vocabulary and sentence structure that she volunteered in the presence of Jude was hardly going to win a debating prize. Unless it was at the Porn Olympics. In fact, the only bloke she really, really spoke to was Mitch. A smile played on her lips as an image of his bedraggled hair and mismatched clothes came into her head. She missed him. She missed his easy chat and his rubbish jokes and the way nothing–not even her mother on a HobNob and HRT-fuelled rampage–ever flustered him. Maybe she’d give him a call and see if he wanted to come up to London for the weekend. They could see the sights, catch a show, get naked and filthy…Wow–she abruptly snapped out of it. Mother of God, what had happened to her?
Thankfully, Sam finally spoke. ‘The thing is…erm…actually, we’d still love to have her back here. The clients liked her, and although she was pretty scatty she actually did a fairly good job. So what about the boyfriend–are they back together? Only, I guess that would affect her decisions, wouldn’t it?’
Ah, Ginny understood now. He felt awkward talking to her because he was trying to work out whether or not Roxy had definitely left for good so that he could start the recruitment process to find a replacement–and Ginny obviously wasn’t in the running for the job. She couldn’t deny she felt a twinge of sadness–not that she’d even considered staying there after the month was done, but it would have been nice to have been asked.
‘No, she’s definitely not back together with Felix. To be honest, I wouldn’t bet on that one having a happy ending. He was a bit of a, erm–’
‘Prick?’
‘That time you got it spot on.’
Destiny appeared at the doorway, wearing thigh-high black leather boots, a rubber catsuit and a Batgirl mask. ‘Stephen Knight is going to have to get over the whole “Batman rejection/Christian Bale stole my role” thing before I have chafe marks that will never heal. Sam, all the girls are busy upstairs–can I borrow Ginny to help me get out of this garb before the prickly heat sets in?’
‘Sure, on you go. Jenny will be here in five minutes and I’ll cover until she arrives.’
‘Thanks, Sam. By the way, are you coming out with us tonight?’
‘No, I’ve got some stuff I need to catch up on.’
‘What about you, Ginny? Fancy swinging your bits with me and the girls?’
Ginny thought about it: the sore feet, the aching bones, the fact that she was walking like she’d just given birth to quads–of course she wasn’t going out. But then, Jude was staying overnight in Leeds after a personal appearance as the star attraction at a WAGs hen night. She hoped he’d survive it intact.
Meanwhile, did she really want to go home to an empty flat?
Much as she was currently orbiting Planet Ecstasy, she knew that an empty flat would catapult her crashing to earth, where she’d land on her backside and be forced to confront the questions that her current euphoria was currently suppressing.
1. What did last night mean for her and Jude?
2. Was this the start of a new relationship or just a one-night fling?
3. Did she want a new relationship?
4. Or another one-night fling?
5. Shouldn’t she feel some kind of remorse, regret or jealousy that he was probably right now revealing his dick to the most expensively accessorised group of women in the country?
6. Shouldn’t she still be mourning the loss of Darren?
7. Why had Darren never licked cream from her nipples or drunk champagne from her cu—nope, unlike her sexual Tourette’s of the night before, she couldn’t even think or say that word while fully clothed and in a public place–from her flower.
8. How did Jude feel?
9. Did he have feelings for her or was this just another shag to him?
10. What was his surname?
11. And did it go with Ginny?
12. Aaaargh, why was she thinking such pathetic, needy, conventional thoughts?
13. Had Roxy calmed down and realised that she was being ridiculous yet?
14. And would Roxy ever take her calls so that she could enlighten her to the truth?
15. How would she feel when this month was over?
16. Could she go back to her old life?
17. Would Jude want her to?
18. If his surname didn’t match hers could she just keep her maiden name?
19. Aaaargh! Again–why was she thinking such ridiculous thoughts?
20. And why, oh why, when all this drama was swirling like a tornado around her, did she feel giddy, warm and bubbly every time she thought of the master class in genital stimulation from the night before?
Ginny nodded as she gingerly stood up–not too fast for fear that her muscles would snap like overstretched elastic bands.
‘You know, I think I’ll come for a little while.’
‘Great. Right, come help me change then–you get the talc, I’ll get the crowbar.’
In the empty staffroom, Destiny turned her back to Ginny and leaned over the table, a position that triggered Ginny’s four hundred and fifty-sixth flashback of the day.
‘Okay, unzip it–but do it slowly, especially when you get near the bottom or I’ll have welts on my arse for weeks.’
Ginny contemplated the sight in front of her and was suddenly curious as to how Sam would phrase the requirements for this job in a situations-vacant ad. To her recollection, she’d never read an advert in the Times that included ‘Must be open-minded, discreet and proficient in the ancient art of stripping rubber from the buttocks of fetish experts.’
She reached over to the top of the industrial-strength zipper, and as her body mirrored Destiny’s she tried not to dwell on the fact that she was the skinniest she’d ever been in her life, yet Destiny’s hips were still a good two inches narrower.
Slowly, gently, she eased the zip down, vertebra by vertebra, watching the back of Destiny’s ribcage expand with every inch that the opening widened. She slowed even further when she reached the small of her back, easing the zipper very gently down to its resting place at the bottom of the buttocks–right above a thick black nylon square
gusset that stretched from front to back and was held on by Velcro for easy removal.
It was a strange, strange world. And what was even stranger was that none of this seemed in the least bit strange any more. In an incredibly short space of time, the Farnham Hills librarian had, she realised, become so desensitised that she would find it odd returning to a workplace that didn’t require the lubrication cupboard to be restocked on a daily basis.
Destiny stood up straight and turned to face her. ‘This is the worst bit. I swear if we had a union I’d demand danger money for this job. Okay, help me peel it down and don’t stop even if I scream. It’s like taking a plaster off–better to just bite the bullet and get it over with.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m an expert–you’ve no idea how often I have to do this after the Holy Union of Dominatrix Christmas Dance in the community centre.’
Destiny shrieked with laughter as Ginny started to pull the rubber down from her neck, over her shoulders, to just above her tits now. She moved to one side and released an arm, then moved to the other and did the same again. Back to the front now, she eased it down over Destiny’s breasts, each one springing up as it escaped captivity.
Actually, come to think of it, her face was now two inches away from another woman’s breasts–perhaps this was still just a little strange.
She rolled the suit down further, over ribs, waist, abdomen, and now pelvis, going down over her…her…hang on, there was something missing here. It was only when she got to the top of the thighs that it was confirmed–another lady garden that was no stranger to the Brazilian Flymo.
A few seconds later, one leg was finally released, followed by the other, then Ginny (not without some considerable strain on her poor, pummelled thigh muscles) retraced the path she’d just taken as she stretched back up to a standing position.
And when she reached the top, nothing. No movement, barely a breath, just an incredible realisation that she was once again experiencing the same hormonal rush that she’d had when Destiny was pole-dancing on the bar top.
She was in front of a naked woman, with only six inches separating them, and she was definitely, absolutely, feeling turned on. What the hell was Jude putting in her morning bagel? Two weeks before she’d been Ginny Wallis, sexually reticent, and now she had somehow morphed into Madonna in her experimental years.
Of course, she’d occasionally given the odd passing thought as to whether or not she could ever be attracted to a woman–usually when reading the endless surveys in the kind of farcical, conservative newspapers that claimed a huge percentage of the population were closet bisexuals but as long as they didn’t infiltrate the Royal Family we’d still prevail as a nation.
Oh, and while watching documentaries about Angelina Jolie.
But she’d honestly never contemplated being personally physical with a member of the same sex. Then again, until recently she’d never contemplated shagging a male stripper while hanging from the top of a Smeg fridge freezer.
Weird how life turned out sometimes.
‘Ginny, honey, do you know you’re staring at me?’ Destiny asked with a distinct tone of teasing amusement.
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s just…erm…just…’
Destiny was laughing now as she grabbed a pink silk robe from a coat peg behind the door and pulled it on.
‘S’okay honey, you don’t have to explain. But if you ever want to do anything about that thought you were having there, just you let me know.’
And with that, Destiny turned and strutted out of the room, the noise of her laughter audible long after she’d gone.
Ginny sank down onto a seat and placed her arms on the table, then let her head fall on top of them.
This was too much. Mentally, physically, sexually, this was all too much. She didn’t know if she was coming, going, or just hanging around choosing random people on which to foist her new-found sexual liberation.
Too, too much. And it had to stop.
‘Ginny, are you ready to go, sweetie? The limo will be here in five minutes.’
That was Mimi, who’d politely escorted Mr Davies to the door, kissed him on the cheek, waved politely as his car had driven him out of view, then turned around, pulled his hundred-quid tip out of her scarlet corset and high-fived a passing Deedee.
Ginny gently lifted her weary, exhausted head and tried to get her facial muscles to contort into something resembling a smile.
‘Of course I am, just a couple of things to sort out–I don’t suppose anyone has a couple of Paracetamol and a spare set of flat shoes, size six?’
Excerpt from Mitch’s journal–present day…
And so the education in Life According to a Certain Miss Galloway continues (note to self–great title for next book?). I now know that an iPod isn’t a suspicious growth in the optical area, a Slow Comfortable Screw won’t make the earth move unless you consume a dozen of them, and blokes called Dolce, Gabbana, Galliano and Lagerfeld are more important than God.
And I’ve laughed more than I’ve ever done in my life. Jesus, she’s mental. Last night we got caught sneaking out of her bedroom window by her mother and her Auntie Vi. I did point out to her that she was twenty-seven and therefore quite entitled to leave via the front door, even after dark, but she was on a nostalgia trip that seemed to necessitate hiding a bottle of vino under her bed, smoking while hanging out of the window and then leaving via a twenty-foot drop without the aid of a parachute.
Why? No idea. This is the third night in a row that she’s dragged me down her memory lane and every trip seems to involve cigarettes, alcohol and the risk of fractures, hypothermia and/or arrest.
I can’t decide whether she’s on some kind of crazed mission to take her mind off that eejit who trashed her, or considering a career in stunt work, or borderline certifiable.
Or maybe all three.
But here’s the thing…For all her bravado and outrageousness, there’s vulnerability under there that just makes you want to hold her and make everything better for her. Of course, she’d kick you in the bollocks if you even tried.
The whole Ginny situation sums it up. Roxy is spitting hell and damnation on Ginny’s head to anyone who will listen, but yet…well, three times now I’ve caught her with tears in her eyes, and I don’t care what she says, no one has that kind of reaction to polyester.
And the thing is, it’s difficult to reason with her. Maybe I’m being a gullible sap but I’m pretty sure that she hasn’t got the full story about what went on there so it could be that all this drama is unnecessary. I’ve tried telling her this a dozen times but she gets so pissed off that I’m not risking it again without full body armour and a riot shield.
Hang on–phone’s ringing…
Right, must go…That was Roxy and she says I’ve to meet her in an alley behind the youth club and come armed with a two-litre bottle of cider. Just struck me that if she’s crazy then what does it say about me that I’m going along with her?
White jacket, big buckles…
The End.
PS: The not-so-insignificant matter of the heart/declarations/I’ve-loved-you-since-the-first-minute-I-saw-you situation? Still on hold. Still working up to it.
Maybe that body armour will come in handy on more than one occasion…
THIRTEEN
Have I Told You Lately?
Roxy. Day 14, Saturday, 8 p.m.
‘Am I a female?’
‘Yes.’
‘Am I alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Am I a superhero?’
‘No.’
‘Am I in movies?’
‘No.’
‘Television?’
‘No.’
‘Cartoons?’
‘No.’
‘Politics?’
‘No.’
‘Music?’
‘No.’
‘Am I rich?’
‘Yes.’
‘Am I married?’
Pause. ‘Yes.�
�
‘Am I Victoria Beckham?’
Mitch leaned over and pulled the Post-It note from Roxy’s forehead, then turned it around to show her that ‘Posh’ was written on it in blue biro.
‘How did you get it so quickly?’ he asked, suitably impressed with her powers of perception.
‘The “famous for nothing” thing. It was a toss-up between Vicky B and Paris Hilton–and Paris is single.’
‘God, you’re good,’ he teased.
‘Ah, that’s what they all tell me,’ she replied. And if Mitch hadn’t been too busy throwing chips in the air then trying to catch them in his mouth, he’d have detected the subtle tone of poignancy in her voice.
Actually, what Darren had told her was, ‘[gasp] Roxy, [gasp] you are sen…[gasp]…fucking…[gasp]…sational.’
A strange sensation rose from her toes, flipped her stomach and gave her goose bumps. She couldn’t be sure but she had a horrible feeling that it was called guilt. Shit, there it was again. In fact, it had been arriving on schedule every time she conjured up a mental picture of the goings-on on the kitchen linoleum.
But then, didn’t that fall under ‘justifiable revenge’? It did. Definitely. Ginny was the one person she loved more than anyone else and she’d destroyed a lifetime of friendship for what? A quick fuck with a florist’s ex-boyfriend. Well, she deserved to know just how it felt when the tables were turned. It was tit for tat. Or rather, tits for…Oh bloody, bloody bugger, there was that feeling again.
She knocked out both the guilt and the memory with a right hook from the Pathetically Indulgent School of Self-defence.
‘In fact, Felix used to tell me that regularly until he fucked off with a florist then shagged my best friend,’ she spat, the bitterness in her voice so sharp that if the Post-It notes had the powers of emotional intelligence they’d be trembling and curling up at the edges.
Mitch froze, causing a chip to fly past his face and land in his lap.
‘Do not even go there again. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re wrong? He was lying.’