He smiled. We went through the hotel’s dim brown lobby and up to the second floor. I nodded at an acquaintance on the way. Sometimes it occurs to me how small the world is. By morning, I thought, all my friends and family will know of this.
The door was barely closed when we started grabbing at each other’s clothes. Dr. C was as fit in the altogether as he’d been dressed, and his hands as good as I’d imagined. I took his penis in my mouth. “Ahh, that’s fantastic,” he murmured. “American girls don’t know what to do with a foreskin.”
He felt right to me, he tasted and smelt amazing. The sex was good but not like at work. It was joyous, reveling in his body, feeling good for sharing mine. I couldn’t stop touching him, nibbling him, wanting him. He felt like someone I’d been with forever. And he took me again and again with amazing intensity. Each time he came, the muscular spasms ripped straight through me like a sound wave, setting off my own alarms, starting an orgasm from the inside out.
We slept a couple of hours, woke up, shagged again. Listened to the morning news on the radio. The usual stories-bombs, death, foreign elections. There wasn’t much conversation. I didn’t know what to say. Thank you, that was luscious, you know we’re not going to see each other again, don’t you? I was going to London in a couple of hours; he’d be flying back to San Diego later in the day. And yet it was a comfortable silence, the kind I could imagine stretching indefinitely into couplehood.
I brushed my teeth. When I came out of the toilet, he was dressed. He watched me put on my coat; I had to meet a train. “Do you need a taxi?” he asked.
How many times have I heard that question? “No thank you, I’ll walk.”
“It isn’t far?”
“It isn’t.”
He stood up, came over. Put his hands on my hips and kissed me tenderly. I’m reading too much into it, aren’t I? It was a kiss that promised more if I wanted it. An open-ended question that already knew the answer. “Safe trip,” he said.
“Goodbye,” I said, and left. California is thousands of miles away. I smiled. The morning was warmer and brighter than I had reason to expect it to be. vendredi, le 5 mars
Back in London on a reasonable spring day-not murderously hot, but pleasant enough to sit outside reading the papers and think about possibly leaving the coat at home. Was out and about when I saw S, one of the Boy’s friends. The last I knew of him, he was freshly dumped by his redheaded lass, who was making time with the Boy’s housemate. I suppose technically S is my friend as well-not knowing one of us better than the other-but presumed that anyone who did not contact me within twenty-four hours of the breakup to offer a cup of brew and the advice that all men are bastards anyway, was probably on the Boy’s side.
I smiled and waved. He crossed the road and kissed me on the cheek. “It’s been ages,” he said. “How are you?”
“In rude health, as ever,” I said. “Not to mention rude everything else. How are the motorcycle lessons going?”
“Dreadfully well,” he said. “I’m looking at a Ducati 996 T reg this afternoon.” The surest sign of a convert- slipping impenetrable abbreviations into conversation. Bless his cotton socks.
“Smashing,” I said. “Or rather, not, I hope.” We laughed.
“Bite to eat?” We sat in a dismal oriental cafe and ate mystery meats in an obvious base of powdered soup. At least the tea was copious, hot, and free. S has been seeing a woman he met through whatever leather-clad underground circles motorbike enthusiasts move in. He had to run along and I was starting to suffer MSG-related indigestion, so we walked down to Bayswater tube station together.
“I hesitate to ask this, but-”
“I was wondering if you’d bring him up,” S said.
We paused on the pavement. The postlunch crowds parted and flowed around us. “Mmm. I was just wondering, what did he say was the cause of the breakup?” Cringe-worthy, I know, but curiosity does get the better of one.
S flapped his hands helplessly. “Oh, the usual man things,” he said. “So little time, not being close enough… I think he’s quite immature, really.”
“You’re not obliged to say that to please me,” I said with a smile.
“It’s true. He has not had much experience with women.”
“I’m tempted to say if he goes on like that, it’s not likely to improve.” Of course, I would say that, wouldn’t I?
“That’s what I told him,” S sighed, and checked his watch obviously. I was probably keeping him, not to mention being a boring girl hell-bent on analyzing a failed relationship. Nothing makes a man make his next appointment faster. S pecked my cheek. “At any rate-a pleasure seeing you.”
“Marvelous to see you. Best of luck with the motor.”
(Knickers today, butterfly-printed with shocking pink lace round the leg openings.) dimanche, le 7 mars
Am recovering from a fancy-dress party which included getting jiggy to the worst music of the last two decades while a rabbi threw himself on the floor and pretended to be swimming and a man dressed as a tree dirty- danced over him. Because apparently Jews are literally commanded to get pissed and make noise on Purim.
Makes Carnival look rather timid in comparison, no?
Spent most of the morning hungover and reading multiple copies of the Big Issue, one bought from every homeless vendor I saw on Friday, and nibbling the pastries a neighbor brought by first thing today.
May have to go back to bed now. Knickers today: none, who wears knickers to bed? lundi, le 8 mars
Sometimes I feel so tired and wouldn’t mind someone else stepping in for a bit to do the grunt work while I take off on restorative jaunts north. The selection process for such responsibilities, though, would have to be airtight.
One criterion would have to be intelligence. And abs to die for. I could do sit-ups from now until the singularity and still not have rippling muscles down there. Flat, yes. But not a six-pack. Not even a four-pack of dry cider. Wherefore all the masochistic gym punishment? I should turf this job out to a better-looking body double and stay in, writing and eating cookies.
People whom I wouldn’t throw out of bed for pretending to be me:
Karolina Kurkova,
Karolina Kluft,
Theoretically, anyone named Karolina.
Anna Kournikova,
Anna Nicole Smith,
Many, though not all, Annas.
Lisa Lopes,
Lisa Simpson,
A reasonable fraction of the world’s Lisas.
Liz Taylor,
Liz Hurley,
Her Majesty Liz II.
Please send a brief cover letter (one side of A4 only) describing why you should be me, plus contact details and references to the usual place. I shall have my imaginary personal assistant sort them and contact you for interviews.
Attach photo of self in best underwear. Style over substance, as ever. mardi, le 9 mars
The client was a young man, probably not much older than me. When I entered the room, he was dressed casually, in a tight T-shirt and baggy trousers I could easily imagine any one of my friends in. Immediately I felt how overdressed I was by comparison, how high theater my suit and makeup were to his street clothes.
“Hello,” I said, smiling, and confirmed his name. There is always the slight possibility I might have knocked on the wrong door. Would someone turn away an unbidden hooker? Probably only when called on to pay before the sex.
“Hello,” he said. He had lovely, smooth brown skin and an American accent. The room was crowded with unpacked luggage and piles of books. Was he here on business? Yes, he said. Leaving tomorrow. He nodded toward the money in an envelope on the desk. I put it away without counting. I trust them.
