by Holly Bourne
Simon’s face screws up. ‘Triggers?’ he asks.
I nod. I really do love talking about my job. Our little charity. It’s been such a source of good in my life since Ryan. ‘Yes, subjects that upset you – usually because of something that’s happened in your past. At work, if you’re triggered by a particular topic, you may be too upset and therefore need to let a colleague take over.’ I smile fondly, thinking of Matt and Katy and all the others in our little microcosm of support. ‘So, we are all very close. Like, I know my buddy cannot handle anything to do with alcoholism because his dad was an alcoholic. And, my manager isn’t so good on the STI type questions, because she’s phobic of germs, and one of our volunteers, bless her, isn’t so good on anything to do with drugs.’ I look up at Simon, still grinning, expecting him to be grinning too. So, it’s a shock when his face isn’t the face I imagine. Instead, he’s leaning back, looking slightly bored. I see him punch his thumb onto his phone to check for notifications and my stomach twists.
‘Whoa, all a bit heavy, isn’t it?’ he says, nose wrinkled.
I can taste the change of vibe in the air. I detect his discomfort and feel instantly self-conscious and stupid.
‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’ Simon very deliberately changes the subject, arms crossed in front of him. ‘Or,’ he says, raising one sly eyebrow and changing the vibe further, ‘we could just grab a drink at mine?’
I’m still emotional when he drops the sex hint, trying to locate how and when I messed up. I make myself smile, while I do the basic-level psychology needed to figure out what’s going on. ‘I guess we could head back to yours?’
I’m stressed that I’ve upset him, feeling like I’m wobbling backwards on the edge of a ledge, arms flailing to keep balance. But sex … sex always grounds you with them again. I now want to have sex with him, not because I’m horny, but to make things OK. Offer myself as an apology for being myself.
He stands quickly and puts his arm around my back as I scramble up. A crowd of drunken suit-wearers push past, claiming our table before I’ve even disentangled my handbag from my stool. I’m still mentally processing as we’re spat out onto the pavement next to Embankment, where a Big Issue seller mumbles a desperate plea for sales. I’m trying to get back into the good feeling. Have I just imagined our connection vanishing? Probably. Especially as …
There’s no time for further thinking. Simon has pulled me into him, moaning as our lips meet. We make out in front of the Big Issue vendor for twenty solid minutes, London blurring to nothingness. I forget how much kissing renders me incapable. I lose all sense of fear as biology takes over, flooding me with the druggy high of chemistry. Simon breaks off, takes my hand and drags me to the Tube station, all eyebrows raised and the-sex-is-going-to-happen-soon. I instruct myself to feel excited rather than tense.
There’s four minutes until the next Circle line train so we kiss again, breaking apart only to debate whether to change at Tower Hill.
‘It’ll save us two minutes,’ I say.
‘What’s two minutes?’ Simon replies, pulling me back into him.
The Tube hisses its arrival. We stagger onto the half-empty carriage. Under the glaring lights, we silently agree to shelve the PDAs, and sit opposite one another. The kiss escapism lasts a whole Tube stop before my anxiety shows up. I stare over at Simon and start oh-so-predictably freaking out about everything that’s happened and is about to happen. He’s pulled out his phone, scrolling through with a glazed expression. Why isn’t he staring over at me adoringly, like I am him? That’s the first twinge of angst. Then, just as we’re clattering past Monument: Why did he go all weird when I brought up my job? Was I too much? I’m always too much. Why haven’t I been practising with my trainers? Will it work? Will I be able to?
Don’t say anything, I instruct myself. Don’t bring it up. Enjoy this. Have the sex. Get the closeness back. You know how to have sex. You’ve done it before. Fall in love. This man clearly likes you. Look! He’s just looked up from BBC Sport and winked! A wink! What a lovely, romantic wink … oh, he’s gone back to looking at his phone now, but that’s OK. You can’t expect him to gaze at you adoringly the whole Tube journey. That’s asking too much. You’re asking too much, just like always.
But my mouth is open and the words are already out:
‘Simon? Is everything OK?’
He glances up from his screen and wrinkles his nose for the second time that evening. ‘Yes, why?’
Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, stop talking.
‘I didn’t mean to go on about my job …’
‘Don’t worry about it. It was just a bit too much for a Friday, wasn’t it? Look! This is us!’ He reaches out to entwine fingers again and I step out onto the platform, feeling a little bit like I’ve been punched in the face, but also like it’s my fault and I’m the one who needs to make it better.
‘I cannot wait to get you back to mine,’ Simon whispers into my neck before kissing it.
I make a non-committal sexy-sounding noise and try to gear myself up. What did he mean by ‘a bit too much’? I’d hardly said anything. Why are those two words always used about me?
We steer through the Friday night energy, dodging clumps of scantily dressed revellers, and the swaying drunks looking for the meaning of life in their Ginsters pasties. Simon kisses me as we wait at the bus stop. Each kiss soothes the angst and pulls me back into the moment. As we get on the bus I try to tell myself I’m being silly and reading too much into things, like I’m always told I do. I try to get myself into the mood for sex, mentally checking I’ve got myself ready for it. I’m wearing nice matching underwear. I shaved in the shower this morning. I’ve got condoms in my bag, and a toothbrush. I hope there are no specks of loo roll stuck around my vagina. Maybe I can use the bathroom beforehand, just to check?
The loud ding of the stop button being hit. Simon’s standing up.
‘This is us.’
I clamber up, trying not to fall as the bus lurches into the stop. He gets off first and holds out his hand. ‘M’lady,’ he says, kissing the top of my own hand.
‘Sire,’ I reply, though I’m having an inexplicable moment of finding Simon totally repulsive. You’re a cheesy twat, I think. Fuck you for being weird about my job.
Then it passes, as promptly as it arrived. I laugh and do a little curtsey.
Simon’s pulling me towards his flat, muttering sweet-anythings like the director’s commentary on a film called Everything A Woman Secretly Wants to Hear. ‘You’re so beautiful, and sexy. I really, really fancy you. You’re amazing.’
The words dissolve in, like honey in hot milk, and erase away all the doubts putting their hands up. I feel potent with power, high on how much he wants me. If he can just keep up this level of adoration for every minute of our lives together, that will compensate, surely, for the fact he can’t handle one minute of me talking about my job being hard, or the fact he is a bit cheesy actually, and … oh. We’ve just got into his flat and, looking around, it’s an atrocious mess. It’s filthy. There’s crap everywhere. It’s like him and his housemate are feral. Eww. Eww eww.
‘Sorry. The cleaner’s not coming until Sunday morning.’ Simon lifts my arms up above my head to remove my top before I’m ready to remove it. I mean, we’re still in the cluttered entrance. He’s not even pretended we are going to drink coffee.
I could’ve done with a bit more reassuring small talk beforehand but now my top is off and Simon’s behaving how all men behave when they get a whiff of laid. His eyes have that angry urgency to them, and now he’s plunging his tongue into my mouth. It’s gone all primal. I feel like … bait? Oh God, brain, stop thinking! I try to focus on kissing him back and losing myself in instinct and feeling good and sexy and doing all the right things, but, yes, I do have one eye open, to take in his flat and try to figure out what that means about his character. It’s hard to deduce much through the mess. It’s typical men-living-with-other-men stuff – two lazy boys
and an easy-to-assemble pine table from IKEA littered with wilting Evening Standards. I twist him around so I can get a view of the kitchen. I’m unimpressed with the stack of washing-up and crumb-laden surface. I mean, he’s 33 and he can’t wipe a counter top?
‘Let’s go to my bedroom.’ Simon’s erection strains against his suit trousers, his shirt half-unbuttoned.
‘OK.’
We crash around, attached by the lips. He carries on undoing his shirt so I put my hands up the back of it and sort of scratch him so I can feel like I’m contributing. His grunting noises amplify their urgency and we smash through the door and arrive in his room. There’s a Welsh flag hanging on the curtain rail, which surprises me because he doesn’t sound Welsh. Is he Welsh? Do you need to know if someone is Welsh or not before they put their penis inside you? Oh God – shut up brain! Enjoy the sex. What is wrong with me?
We fall backwards onto his unmade bed with a doof and a giggle. The intimacy of his laugh turns me on a bit. It feels real and right again and I’m back in the game. My brain clears enough for me to tug off his shirt and chuck it to the floor like an actual vixen – well, not an actual vixen, they don’t have opposable thumbs. Shut up brain, shut up brain. Simon gently guides my pelvis up to try and take off my skinny jeans. He does marvellously, until they get stuck on my shins. I lean down to help him.
‘No,’ he smacks my arms away and yanks.
Shocked, I say, ‘I was just trying to help.’
‘Well don’t.’
He struggles to get them off a while longer, muttering, ‘What the fuck are these things?’ Then, once he’s finally yanked them off my feet, he beams at me, all cocky and voila! Like he didn’t just smack me. Like I was supposed to find being told off sexy.
I’m not sure what to do so I lean up and kiss him, craving tenderness for counterbalance. But he wraps my hair around his fist, pulling me towards him roughly, using his other hand to try and unclip my bra. I know this one has a tricky clasp and he’ll struggle but I’ve learnt that he won’t appreciate any pointers. So I run through all the things I like about him to try and get myself back into it, pretending it’s not taken over a minute now for him to get the hang of it: Simon always replies to my messages within an appropriate level of time. He makes me laugh. He is not like other people who work in finance. I remember how hard we giggled on our first date because the waiter was so incompetent and kept ignoring us. I remember how, on our second date, he turned up holding a bunch of tulips because I’d told him they were my favourite. I remember the lovely message he sent me last week, when I had to rain check because I got struck by the office lurgy, telling me to get well soon. Nobody is perfect, I think to myself, as he rummages himself out of his boxers and silently instructs me to slide out of my knickers. I’m so lucky I’ve met him, I think to myself, as I wait propped on my elbows while he faffs around with the condom. This could really be the start of something, I think to myself, as he leans me back. I take three, subtle, deep breaths just as he’s about to enter me, stressing that it won’t work that it will hurt that it will be awful and my life is ruined … but … oh thank God he’s made it in and we’re having sex. I sigh in relief, my entire body relaxing. Simon mistakes the sigh for satisfaction and lets out a matching one. He pulls my face towards him to stare into my eyes. That’s nice actually. I like that. It’s tender and real and safe for two whole minutes of missionary. But then his eyes leave mine, his face closes off, and he gets rougher, thrusts more forcefully, like it doesn’t matter if I’m there at all. Why do they always do this? Why? I need him to look at me. I need him to see me. I need to feel like this is something. But the porn urge has overridden him and I feel like nothing once more and I’m losing it, spiralling away from this room and him and into the darkness, holding on by my fingernails.
But it’s about to get worse. He pulls out and, without asking, without checking, without kissing me or showing me any tenderness at all, he starts arranging me into the doggy position. It’s so cold and unfeeling and no, no! Where has he gone? Why is he acting like I’m not here? My anxiety builds and builds, my stomach curdling as he yanks my hair. The nice man I thought I could fall in love with is gone and I panic …
I can’t.
I freeze. Primitively suspended in the moment. Fear soaking through me.
He doesn’t notice, or maybe he’s pretending not to notice. Either way, he’s getting ready to start again, despite me stiffening up, but no …
No no no.
Not this way.
Please not this way.
The white wallpaper.
No. But oh God.
This will be so much easier, so much easier if I just go along with it.
But I can’t.
I can’t.
‘I’m sorry,’ I squeal. I roll myself over so I’m no longer bent over the bed. I fight the urge to kick him away and run out of the room.
‘What the hell?’
I glance up to see panic bleed across his face. His mouth hanging open, lips slightly curled.
Shit. I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it. I’m terrified and want to run away but I also can’t handle his face now that I’ve ruined it.
‘I … don’t understand. What’s going on?’
‘Can we just not … in that position?’ My voice is more squeak than voice. ‘Not tonight.’ I desperately grasp at an excuse. ‘I want to see your face.’
‘Oh,’ Simon says, standing there naked. ‘Oh,’ he repeats.
‘OK, cool.’ I say and unravel myself and make myself lean up to kiss him, to try and get it back. I reckon I could drag myself back into the moment if he could just be a bit more tender. We can recover, this is fine, he’s still a good kisser … or is he? He’s hardly kissing me back. I can taste the hesitation. And, when I glance down, I can see the deflating impact of my behaviour.
Shit. Shit shit shit shit.
I shouldn’t have said anything.
What’s wrong with me?
Why did I do this?
Anxiety pulses through me, panic starts hitting the button. I break off, even though I know talking about it will make it worse. ‘Is everything OK?’
Simon’s eyes are wide; Simon is not OK. ‘Yep.’ He winces as he says it. Then … ‘I mean, well, actually …’ He sits down on the edge of the bed, away from me, signalling the end of the sex and, I’m quite certain, the end of us. My throat closes up in self-loathing. I long for an alternate reality where I just let us continue. Where I am the sort of woman who loves a porn-style pummelling by someone she’s sleeping with for only the first time. ‘I’m just … well, you’ve made me feel bad. I wasn’t doing anything wrong …’ he trails off, hangs his head.
‘I know you weren’t! Sorry! I’m so sorry. I just …’ I don’t want to tell him about it, but I also don’t know how to explain it without telling him about it. I will try and make it breezy. I can do that, surely. ‘It’s just … umm … I had a bad experience a long time ago and so I need a bit more time sometimes …’ His eyes widen, panic well and truly flowing through him now. My heart’s bending over on itself, but I’m still determined to save this. ‘Look, it’s nothing, I was really enjoying it. Hey? Hey …’ I fling myself at him, wrap my naked legs around his waist and kiss him even more desperately. I rub my hands down his back, scratching his skin, trying to be all alluring like the women in the movies.
He ignores me though, and just stares at the wall. ‘I … I don’t think I can have sex now,’ he announces, before standing suddenly, shedding me like a coat he’s dropped to the ground and striding to the en suite. I watch him take a piss. I watch him as I gather my clothes to myself, my heart close to snapping. I expect him to sit down and say maybe we can talk about it. Although I’m disorientated, I reckon I can power through this, make light of it, laugh our way back to sex. He doesn’t talk about it though. He turns off the light and strides back towards the bed, like I’d said nothing, like we’re a stale couple who have been married a millio
n years. And with that, Simon, the man who I thought may be the love of my life, is a stranger again. All the connection just got pissed down the toilet.
He smiles awkwardly. ‘It’s late, and I’ve had one hell of a week at work. Shall we just go to sleep?’
I nod, shoving my dress back over my head to shield my naked body. He leans over and kisses me on the forehead. ‘You all right?’ he asks, making it clear the only acceptable answer is yes.
‘Yes.’
Satisfied he’s a nice man because he bothered asking, he clambers under his slightly-smelly duvet and rolls onto his side. ‘Night,’ he says with his back to me.
‘Umm, night.’
There’s one toss, one groan, and one turn, while I blink up at the ceiling next to this stranger. Then Simon does the impossible.
He sleeps.
I’m not even under the duvet by the time his breathing falls into a steady hiss and his body goes heavy. I take a deep breath and calmly bend to pick my knickers off the floor. I shrug my dress to my nose and smell the cigarette smoke and sweat from the day. Then I lie back next to this man in the dark and actually contemplate the possibility of being able to fall asleep too. I would like to. To be able to check out of reality right now, to pretend whatever the fuck just happened didn’t just happen. I could wake tomorrow, refreshed and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and somehow laugh it off and say it’s nothing before seducing him into having good sex and getting us back on track again.