Anne’s sat there, giving me the eye. And now it’s so apparent that I can’t ignore it. I go to turn off the CD, Mary’s singing ‘Adam at the Window’ for the third I time that night — I love that song. It’s making it clear that it’s time to go.
Anne’s bold. “Do you want to come back With me, doll?”
That’s what they call each other round here. It’s the name the old girls have for each other. The gay boys and girls have taken it over and it sounds sweet.
Anne looks all right. The lighting here is rigged to make everyone look better, actually. Hiding puffiness, tiredness, showing up all your good bones. And she’s framed by the gold-and-green starred curtains, the silver fireplace and its freight of prim les. So I say all right.
When we get back, her room’s a state. It’s in a flat down Leith Walk. A mattress on the floor. But what more do you want?
After the dirty deed — my mind was elsewhere, I can hardly remember what we did, she looked disgruntled throughout — we smoke a joint and she turns out the light, without even asking if I’m staying or what.
I try to sleep. Glass breaks down in the street, somewhere on Leith Walk. I must drift off because next thing I know there’s fresh smoke in the air and look up to see her smoking a new joint in the dark.
“Hey,” I say, companionably enough.
And notice that she’s cradling the phone.
“Yeah, yeah,” she whispers sexily. “Look, she’s awake. I’m going. Hurry yourself up.” She puts the phone down.
“Hey,” I go again, “Who was that?”
Anne shrugs. Her breasts are like two brown-nosed hamsters staring me out.
“Surprise for you, doll. A nice one. Terry’s coming.”
“Who the fuck’s Terry?” I’m sitting up and my heart’s pounding.
“My boyfriend and he’s intae a bit of fanny, like. Two lots. He likes that.”
I can hear a key going in the lock. Terry letting himself in. Turns out he lives just upstairs.
He’s a big fat fucker, I can see that straight away as he lets himself in the room.
I’m already on my feet, struggling back into my jeans, pulling my jacket on. They can keep the rest of my things. Just so long as I get away with my jeans and leather jacket; the only two perfect things I have.
“Are ye goin’ doll?”
“Too fuckin’ right,” I shout. I back away as he lumbers towards the mattress. Anne’s lying back again, giving this low chuckle.
“Look, I’m not into this.”
Terry shrugs. “Whatever.” He’s stripping off his T-shirt, showing a fat hairy belly. Big fat monkey’s belly, I call them.
“Make her stay, Terry,” Anne says suddenly. “Get her to stay.”
Terry shrugs. “I can’t fuckin’ make her.”
I’m on my way to the door. “God fuckin’ bless you, Terry,” I go. I’m shitting myself.
“I can’t make her shag us,’ Terry’s saying behind me. He’s sounding all plaintive.
“You’re letting me fanny out!” Anne’s shrieking now. “You’re lettin’ me fuckin’ fanny get away!”
“Shut the fuck up, doll,” he goes.
And then I’m out of there.
Not for the first time, I’m thinking, my sex life’s not just queer. It’s a sex cartoon.
It’s a dank, pissy stairwell down. Three flights to a green front door that’s been left open.
Last night would have been Reet’s worst nightmare. He isn’t the adventurous sort.
The boy’s come to join us. The pretty bar boy in the Adidas top is talking to Reet. Maybe Reet’s luck is in after all. I earwig but it turns out the boy’s just there to show off.
Reet’s taken in. He’s flattered by the conversation. Nodding, fluttering, going Ooh.
“I’ve got nothing against dirty sex but I do draw lines.”
“Oh, yes,” says Reet who, as far as I can tell, does nothing but draw lines.
“I was shagging this bloke. And the bloke asked if I could talk dirty to him. So I did. And I was shagging him and talking dirty and then he starts talking. He’s talking back, going, ‘That’s a virgin hole you’re fucking.’”
“Is this last night?” asks Reet, wide-eyed. He likes to get his facts right, especially in a story.
The boy shrugs. “It was more recent than that, actually. What I’m saying is that, if he’s such a fucking virgin, he wouldn’t be talking like that. It’s bullshit. So I, like, finish shagging him and he’s saying, can we do something else? I shrug and he says, can you put this pair of ladies’ tights on?”
“Oh,” says Reet, “dear.”
“Well, there’s no fucking way.” The boy looks at Reet. “No fucking offence, like. I mean, it’s just fucking daft.”
He laughs and takes a couple of rapid sips of his drink. I can see Reet’s aching to change the subject, to engage the boy in something of his own.
“Thing is,” the boy says, “I wouldn’t fucking mind putting them on my head, say. Or cutting them in half, up the fanny, like. We could wear one each, then. On our heads. That’d be a fucking laugh.”
Reet laughs. “I’m going downstairs,” I say. “Dancing.”
And I think — Don’t go sucking up to the likes of him, Reet. Don’t fucking bother.
Downstairs they’re playing Pulp’s ‘Common People’.
The floor’s packed. This summer, the girls in silver lamé, hair bleached with roots showing, the boys in scarlet tartan.
Oh, I know these details will fade. I know
