22 Mar 2004

Once again he was made eye-wateringly aware of the dichotomy that exists in the brain of the female. He had gone out on a date on Saturday night. The first proper date in about two years. His was a small town and prearranged times and locations for meeting the possible woman of his dreams were not necessary as you could always ‘run into’ whomever you might like to enjoy. Last Saturday was different though. He had run into this dark-haired, dark skinned beauty one night several weekends ago in the local club, one dark and sweaty night. There had been drunken snogging and dancing and, as per normal, a drunken exchange of numbers. Her number had been stuck into the bottom spring of his anglepoise lamp and he had picked it up and put it back several times throughout the next week, never really with any intention of calling her. The fact he couldn’t remember her name was part of the reason. “Hey, babe..”, or maybe “Alright girl?…” were not great starts to any phone conversation which was already going to be quite strained. He thought that he would leave their brief union as just that, perhaps to be repeated if they bumped into one another again, under the dripping ceilings of The Break. ‘And besides’, he thought in further justification of his inactivity, ‘she hasn’t called me.’

Two Thursdays ago he ran into her in the Carriers. He barged into the pub with his fellow hockey players post-practice, all brimming with adrenalin and sweaty armpits and boisterous behaviour and he ordered the round. As he took a well earned draft from his pint, he sauntered around the corner to the table only to be struck by the visage of that dark lady. There she sat at a corner table, looking at him. His brain flashed a warning to get a firm grip and he walked straight ahead to her table, all the time aware that the fact he was sober and about to make with some moves, was rather a rare occurrence. ‘How will I perform?’ he asked himself as he straight away sat himself down on a stool next to the lady in his sights.

Later, as he left her company to joins his sporting compadres on another table, he mused that the meeting had gone quite well. Other than the fact that he had apparently given her an incorrect number in the club, that he couldn’t remember her name and had to persuade her to play hangman so that he might discover what it was and that one of Shakira’s flatmates was sitting at the table. A flatmate that Shakira (for that was her name) asked if he remembered. “Erm, no, should I?” he ventured, all the time with a dawning feeling of familiarity. Shakira informed him that Tracey had been the target several weeks before, in the same club, but she told him with a smile on his face, perhaps because although he had forgotten her name, he had not forgotten her altogether. Numbers were exchanged again and he told her he would call. Which he did.

Saturday night came and he found himself sitting alone at a table at that same pub. They had arranged to meet at seven thirty for a drink and would then meander over to the restaurant for a meal. All very proper date-like. He was absolutely shitting it and bemoaned the fact to himself that he was still sober at least twice every minute. Probably as a result of the noticeable element of clean-sailing that he had achieved in their last sober meeting, he had decided to start their date sober and move on with her from there. He wondered if this fear was normal for a pre-date sensation or if, as your date tally grew, you became hardened to the trepidation he was feeling. He couldn’t remember. He also wondered and worried about Date Etiquette. For example, is there an unspoken law that he suspected might exist but was not sure about, that said, no matter how well things are going, one shall not attempt to get into her knickers on the first date? How far then? A kiss on the doorstep, tongues, groppage, what?

A military upbringing meant that he was ten minutes early, all the better to have time to wind himself up with pre-date anxiety. ‘Is she coming, what time is it, perhaps she’s standing me up, is it seven thirty yet, should I go now, where’s my mobile, have I dreamt the whole thing?’ he thought repeatedly. The fact that it was still only seven twenty five made no difference to his nerves. The shandy was not really helping either. Shakira did turn up to meet him, only several minutes late and looking absolutely gorgeous although she professed to being slightly tired. His heart sank a little when she asked for a diet coke with lemon and ice but nothing else. ‘Bollocks to this’ he thought, ‘Abstinence be damned. I’m having a G and T immediately!’

Things were going very well. They made it to Scrummies and they ordered, ate and talked and drank the fruity rose that he had brought. He made her laugh, she made him laugh, and he did not more than twice take a quick peek down her sumptuous cleavage. He was honest about everything. It was after he had honestly complimented her in some way that the problem started. “I cannot stand cheesey lines,” she informed him “but that shouldn’t be a problem you suffer from, what with you being a writer and everything, right?” He shook his head vehemently. ‘Right, so she wants the quality shit, the good stuff, no problem.’ he noted to himself, ‘No problem.’ The evening progressed wonderfully well. Shakira was totally engaging and he lapped her up. They eventually decided to give the chef and last waitress a break and leave the establishment. He rolled them both a fag and they took to the streets. They walked back towards her flat by the sea and on the way he put his arm around her. Then he gave her a piggy-back. She invited him up for a spliff and he accepted, although with a warning of “I warn you, I’ll get weirder.” which she laughed at after looking him straight in the eye as if to say ‘Is that possible, I wonder?’

She showed him around the flat and re-introduced him to her flatmates. He rolled a couple of spliffs which the two of them shared and they drank a dark green cocktail. The flatmates went upstairs to bed and he mused as to whether or not he should move in for a kiss. They had been exchanging private glances as they smoked and talked with the others but he was not entirely confident that Shakira was ready for snoggage, what with it being a first date and everything. She got up and walked past him to close the window with her g-string showing leaving him no choice. He grabbed her as she came back. “C’mere!” he said as he pulled her down to the sofa and wrapped his arms around her. She moaned a little as his hands stroked from her shoulder to her knees down her side. She moved her long hair from her face and he bent down to kiss those full lips as her head lay in his lap. They kissed for awhile and then she broke away and said,”Say something poetic about me.”

‘For fuck’s sake!’ he thought to himself as he stared down into her eyes in mild panic, ‘It’s almost always the same. The lady in the equation needing to justify what is happening and what might well happen in a little bit. Why? It’s all good the way it is, isn’t it?’ Then he thought to himself what might happen in a little bit and pulled himself together.

“Poetic? Shakira, sweet thing, I’m fairly pissed and a little stoned and whatever I come up with is going to sound cheesey.”

“Go on. Please.”

“But I thought you hated ‘cheesey’” he replied as he thought wryly to himself, ‘Good thing I washed my knob.’

“Please…” she repeated as she pulled his head to hers and they kissed.

“Alright. How about this…” and he proceeded to do an acceptable job of composing an epic saga of their meetings and the events that had led them to this sofa and this clinch, all from off the cuff, in rhyming couplets of no definite meter and with open ended and very loose meanings. He had commenced slowly but as his mind got into the groove it just started to pour out. He enjoyed it and she showed him her appreciation with delectable kisses. “You’re very talented,” she told him. He replied with,”It’s easy to write about something you’re very interested in.” They got back to the matter in hand for awhile before she freed herself from his grasp and sat upright and proclaimed the fact that she was about to be sick.

He thought, ‘Fair enough, that’s probably about enough for a First Date anyway, isn’t it?’ He helped her to the toilet and was about to say goodbye and leave her to it when she flapped her hand in the direction of her room and told him to wait in there and tidy it up. She shut the bathroom door and for the next fifteen minutes there were sounds of eruption and then absolution and water running. He spent the time picking the clothes up from her bed, inspecting them, folding them and piling them on the floor by her wardrobe. The room was not excessively messy at all, quite clean in fact when compared to some, he pondered with a very mild sense of guilt. He paid special attention to the two thongs he found. He smelt them and inhaled a musty aroma that hinted of spices, nutmeg or cinnamon. He placed them out of sight and sat on the bottom mattress of her bunk and waited for her to come in.

When she did she told him to close his eyes as she changed into her pajama bottoms. “I’ll close my eyes but I have to warn you that I have a very active imagination”, he said.

“Don’t!” she giggled

“O yes, that’s very nice. Wow, you look great, amazing, I’m really enjoying this.”

“Stop it!” she said and hit him on the head with her trousers.

She dove under the duvet and complained of being cold. ‘Right,’ he thought, ‘that’s definitely suggesting I warm her up, isn’t it? Can I do that on a first date? Fuck it, I’m jumping in there with her.’ He cuddled up close behind her as they watched some dramatic Bollywood movie, her translating what was going on for him. He stopped stroking her for a moment to sit upright and take off his top and then his trousers. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Shared bodily warmth works much better without clothes. Trust me, I’m a survival specialist.” he replied. She said nothing as he shaped his body to fit around hers again. And there they stayed, his strokings becoming more adventurous as her body gave in to them.

Not much later and things had advanced past a stage that he knew was against First Date rules but he gave it no real thought as his mind was happily occupied elsewhere. Things were going very well indeed and then she asked, ”What are you going to do to me?” in a tone of mildly desperate arousal, quite insistent in fact. “Errm, I’m going to pleasure you as much as you want.” he replied between mouthfuls.

“No,” she said as she pressed his head down onto her magnificent chest with both hands “What are you going to do to me?!”

He stopped what he was doing for a moment as the realisation dawned on him that she wanted to hear graphic details of sexual content, otherwise known as Dirty Talk. ‘Okay,’ he thought quickly to himself, ‘I can do that. I’m a writer. No problem.’

“I’m going to run my hands up and down your svelte body, all over you, and kiss every inch of you.” he whispered into her hair huskily.

“Are you going to fuck me?” she demanded. ‘Shit,’ he thought ‘She’s not hanging about. I guess I am going to fuck her then. First Date rules be damned. Right.’

“I’m going to make sweet love to you all night and make your toes curl and your back arch” he said as he pulled on her hair and then kissed her hard.

“I want you to fuck me hard from behind. You can do whatever you want. Fuck me hard and deep.” she hissed from between clenched teeth as he nibbled on her bits. “What are you going to do?” she asked again.

He paused as he stopped himself from coming up with a reply loaded with style and over ebullient verbiage. ‘Talk dirty man, enough with the poetry,’ he thought to himself and then the contradiction hit him. Earlier she was demanding of him top-end linguistics and now she wanted gutter talk. ‘I guess there is a time and place for both,’ he considered as he desperately stopped trying to think of ‘sweet and moist valleys’ and ‘torrents of passion’ and other such terms which were just not mucky enough for the situation at hand.

“Fuck you.” he ventured and then added, ”Hard.”

“Yes! And then?”

‘What do you mean “And then?”?’ he asked himself. ‘I don’t know, I guess I’ll fuck you again, this time hard and deep and from behind. Isn’t it eminently obvious?’ He told her and then dove downward to occupy his mouth in something that he thought he would be better at. He felt far from adequate at the whole Dirty Talk thing, but he knew he was more than acceptable at Cunning Linguistics. He made a note to spend some time working on bringing his language down into the gutter for just such an occasion in the future.


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