thousand best-of-2003 lists. When I look up, I see how close the yellow handrail is to the ceiling light and brush the cover with my fingertips. A pram rocks on the unsteady journey, knocking over a mother’s shopping bags. I can’t help smiling. Further down the carriage, a bald man stares. dimanche, le 4 janvier
N jeweled my arm for the formal event last night-purely platonically, you understand. Am still angry at the Boy and taking the hard line for now that “all men are twats, unless they’re paying, in which case they’re twats who are paying.” N understands perfectly and accepts his appointment as “twat” with grace. This probably means he’s trying to get me into bed.
We showered and dressed at mine, and I tied his bow tie before we left. He was planning to wear a ready- tied, but I insisted on the real thing. I will not be seen in public with a man whose tie falls into any of the following categories: clip-on, spinning, or metallic. There is a time and a place for comedy eveningwear. I believe it passed when Charles Chaplin shrugged off his mortal coil.
Throats dry, we stopped for a pre-revelry drink at a bar that was cunningly hidden under another bar. Several dozen other celebrants were there as well, and N introduced me around. A chirpy, raven-haired Nigella-alike planted herself to my left.
“Why, hello there,” she twanged. “My name’s T-.” Her dress was doing a reasonable job of keeping her breasts restrained, but I didn’t reckon on its chances for surviving the night.
I gave N a “do you know this woman?” look. He shot me a “no, do you think she’ll sleep with me?” look.
She put her perfectly manicured hand on my knee. “I just love your accent!” she enthused. “Where are you from?”
“Yorkshire,” I said. “And your good self?”
“Michigan.”
Charming. But the crowd grew restless, and we moved on to the venue. Unfortunately, T- and her date were sitting three tables from us. Dining at a table of mostly couples, I found myself seated next to the wife of a mutual acquaintance. She drunkenly looked me and N over. When he turned to talk to someone, she said, “So how long have you two been back together, then?”
“Er, ah, we’re just seeing what happens. Only friends, you know.”
“Of course you are.” She gave me a sly wink to indicate that she didn’t believe a word of it. This indictment might have carried more of a sting if she didn’t simultaneously spill red wine down her dress.
The speeches were the highlight of the evening. A multiply medaled Paralympian with a seemingly endless supply of sex jokes, followed by a sport personality, followed by a paunchy silver-haired man. The quality of the speakers was such that even I, a rank amateur at anything smacking of nonsexual exertion, could pretend to be interested for twenty minutes.
Then it all broke down for the disco. I danced, I drank, I danced some more. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed N on the sidelines bending T-’s ear. Good lad, I thought. After she went off to dance with her date, I sought him out.
“You sly dog. So did you get her number?”
“Actually, she was more interested in you.”
“Really?” I looked back at the dance floor, where she was being spun round and round by three men. Probably an experiment in centrifugal force and its effect on fabric strain. So far as I could see, the dress was still refusing to budge-whether due to magic or double-sided tape, I don’t know.
“Yeah, I think I ruined your chances though.”
“How’s that?”
“I said you’d only do it with her if I came along.”
“You complete twat!” I punched his shoulder, probably hurting my fist more than anything else.
He kissed the top of my head. “Just saving you from yourself, dear.”
SEX: A SPOTTER’S GUIDE
• Sex Shop: not normally known to sell sex as such. Lexical equivalent of calling a specialist vegetarian grocer a butcher.
• Hot Sex: reproduces, as nearly as possible, the visual effect of pornography. See also: Phone-In Sex.
• Good Sex: in which you get everything you want.
• Bad Sex: in which someone else gets everything he wants.
• Sex Kitten: a woman of reasonable charm, though often reliant on cantilevering lingerie.
• Sexual: usually related to the mating rituals of animal species or the burgeoning hormonal urges of youth. Word never used in an actual sexual episode without a lot of giggling. Exception that proves the rule, various Marvin Gaye songs.
• Sex Education: the interface between a banana and a condom. Not generally known to impart useful information.
• Sex Bomb: a weapon of mass destruction. mardi, le 6 janvier
I rang the bell of the building; no answer from the speaker-he buzzed me straight up. He opened the door of the flat and disappeared into the kitchen for a drink. Inside, it was clean, almost sterile. Smoky glass mirrors everywhere-I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being in a restaurant. Rather incredible digs for someone the manager said was a student. Postgraduate scholarships probably extend far enough for a few pissups each term, but I doubt they cover having a lady of the night in for a session.
He: “Don’t be so nervous.”
Me (startled): “I am relaxed. So what is it you study?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
He told me his name. “Really?” I said. It’s an odd, old-fashioned moniker. “My boyfriend is also called that.” Ex, I scolded myself. Stop thinking about him in the present tense. We discussed the client’s desire to move-to North London, which apparently has “the highest density of psychotherapists in the world.” Knowing a few people round that way, I understand why perfectly.
He: “You’re an odd one, I can’t quite figure you out.”
Me: “I’m fairly straightforward.”
“An open book, right?”
“Something like that.”
(later)
Me: “What is it you do again?”
He: “Psychoanalysis.”
Which made us comrades, if not exactly colleagues. The conversation strayed to evolutionary biology and the role of pheromones in attraction. How well you like someone’s smell is, apparently, related to the likelihood of producing children together with as few congenital defects as possible. Not the usual overture to incite romance, but it works well enough on me. He liked the sex intense, sensual, tongue-centric. I liked the mirrors. He held me open and took me anally, slithering in and out. After he came, I went to clean up and noticed a copy of Richard Dawkins’s latest book in the bathroom.
Me (dressing): “I enjoyed that. And, you smell nice.”
He: “Excellent, that means we can have children.”
We both laughed. “Not quite yet.” I dressed and left.
There were still shops open and I wanted to spend the money in my bag. Heels clattering, I walked through an underground subway. At the end of one tiled passage were boxes-homeless people. I am never sure whether to hold their gaze or not; swing wide of where they’re sat or not. What is it about them that makes us so uncomfortable? Do the homeless have some kind of sympathetic magic that might rub off, and we will be rendered penniless if we dare get too close?
The men were young, talking. I caught the gaze of one. Broad Northern accents. I was aware of both the sound of my shoes echoing toward them and the weight of the money on my person. A kind person would just heave the notes in their direction, wouldn’t she, I thought.
Rubbish, another part of my mind chimed in. They’d only use it on drugs.
Ooh, get you, high and mighty. Who just had sex for money.
Yes, well. At least I have a job. I’m not selling out. I’m not getting paid for something I wouldn’t do for free anyway.
