by his inability. I’m no longer looking forward to this. Still, I’m here. He’s on a promise and I think it is dishonest to pull out at this stage. It wouldn’t be polite. I’m many things but a prick teaser isn’t one of them. I make the decision to get it over with as quickly as possible. I really am tired and it would have been wiser to have had an early night.
I shrug away his attempt to offer me something from the mini bar.
‘You go ahead.’
He pours himself a whisky. He then tries to light a cigarette but fails and spills the matches on the floor. He’s very nervous and I feel almost maternal. Is he too young for this? Am I too old? I take pity and decide to encourage him. Delicate thing, the male ego. I’ve often thought of those soapy bubbles that you make by blowing a lot of hot air through a little plastic device. Easy to inflate, easy to pop and easy to grow again.
‘Hey, tiger.’ I prize the whisky tumbler out of his hand and kiss him. Fine. Quite good really. But then, it is just kissing. He lunges for my zip and tugs at it. The dress is Versace and cost me nearly a thousand quid. I play a tactful manoeuvre where I shimmy out of it doing a little mini striptease. He loves it. And I save my dress. To be fair, he is trying – he just lacks subtlety. He’s kneading my breasts as though he’s trying to massage a muscle out of spasm. We are lying on the bed and suddenly his fingers are deep inside me. Better. OK one, two is fine. Jesus, I hope he knows fisting is just an expression.
‘Would you like me to go down on you?’ he asks. That’s novel – I’ve never been called upon to have an opinion before.
‘Would you like to?’ I ask, grinning.
‘Well, I don’t mind, if it’s really what you want. It’s not actually my favourite. But I’m happy to oblige if it will make you come.’ I guess this is sweet, in a way. But sweet is not sexy. I now seriously wonder if anything he can think of will make me come. Being called a prick teaser seems like an attractive option.
I disengage and go to the bathroom. When I emerge I’m wearing a towelling robe and I’ve cleaned my teeth. The vibes I’m giving off are Mary Ellen à la Walton family rather than Sue Ellen, Ewing family temptress.
‘Goodnight.’ I smile, pecking him on the cheek. I pull the dressing gown tightly around me, turn the light out and deliberately roll away from him. I don’t even care that he doesn’t seem too disappointed.
I scramble for my mobile, which slices through my dreamless sleep. It’s Issie.
‘Happy New Year! Where are you?’ Her voice is a unique blend of excitement, frustration, anger and concern.
‘In a hotel in’ – I scrabble around for the note pad next to the telephone – ‘Mayfair.’
‘Who with?’
I look at the empty bed. I feel the sheets next to me. They are still warm. They smell of male sweat. I can hear the shower running.
‘His name’s Ben.’ I hear her tut. I know the conclusion she has naturally drawn and I haven’t the energy to correct her diagnosis of events. Instead I confirm it. ‘It was New Year’s Eve. It was just physical.’
‘It’s always just physical. That’s the problem,’ she sighs. She doesn’t seem impressed. ‘You are heading for trouble. You’re on overdrive. You’ve been working too hard. When did you last go home?’
‘Not sure. What day is it?’
It turns out to be Sunday. I haven’t slept or bathed in my flat since Christmas morning and before that a week last Tuesday. I did stay at my mum’s on Boxing Day, but besides that I’ve been using the facilities at the gym and work.
‘You need a rest,’ says Issie. But she’s wrong – I thrive on activity. I’m at my creative best when I’m hyper. Ordinary people may need to rest after such intensive work periods but I’m strong. I’m fine.
I think I’m going to cry.
‘I’m so tired,’ I wail. ‘It was awful. In fact, I can’t remember when I last had good sex. I’m so tense. I’m going straight from here to my masseur. My neck is so tight I can barely move.’
‘You can’t go to your masseur, it’s New Year’s Day. They’ll be closed. Look, Josh’s called. He’s missing us. He’s