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