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322 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 24, 2014
It started, as ever, with a kiss.
It always starts starts with a kiss.
It never starts with five pints of lager, three shots of tequile, and your bottom being groped in a dingy bar, does it?
The worst thing is not that he wants to use a breakfast food as a lubricant, that he wants to butter up my vagina as if it's a piece of toast, thus possibly giving me thrush or cystitis or God-only-knows-what embarrassing condition that I will have to explain to a doctor. The worst thing is that, to allow my ridiculous fantasy of a life together to continue to flourish, I find myself making up an excuse instead of telling him to get lost. I find myself buttering him up, if you will.
'Oh,' I say, thinking on my feet. 'I'd love to, but I'm lactose intolerant.
I spend most of my day staring at my mobile, trying to magic some sort of Happy Christmas text from Sam. I decide to send him one myself, one that looks as if I have just casually sent it to everyone in my phone book.
'Happy Christmas! Hope you're having a great one! Bxxx'.
'Yeah, you too,' he replies, on Boxing Day.
'Is it totally tragic that it has taken a man to make me calm?
I actually feel fretful and guilty, as if I have led him on. This man who has a girlfriend has made me feel as if I have done something wrong. 'Sorry,' I actually say, moving up to the sofa next to him and uncupping my boobs, in an attempt to lighten the mood. 'It would be much more fun to get to it.'
And so it is that we have uncomfortable, perfuncory, brief sex, not on his sofa - good God, we wouldn't want to leave a stain on the cushions now, would we? - but on the floor, my hips digging into the wood as he grunts on top of me. And when it's over, thankfully very quickly, he says that it is probably best I don't stay, as he needs a good night's sleep and anyway, I probably want to get homt to my own bed.
“My lungs feel like they are about to explode. Some people talk about the sense of freedom they feel when they go running, but I think they might be psychopaths.
“He seems to lick the enamel of my mouth, as if he is trying to be some sort of human toothbrush, reaching parts that other oral cleaning instruments can’t.”
“You are the only person in the entire cavernous function room who has an empty place setting next to them. The accountant on the other side is talking to the backpacker from Australia, meaning you are left twiddling your thumbs and trying to pick up the fag ends of conversations happening elsewhere on the table, and even on the table behind you because, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”