The last man I pined for was a drip. Gorgeous cheekbones, although he kept shaving off his beard, and that made him look disturbingly like a little boy, but not worth my time. As the song goes, “if you don’t want to fuck me, baby, fuck off".
I’m not religious. I envy the comfort people seem to find in their faith, and I’m touched when someone politely expresses the wish to save my soul, but I don’t believe any of the stories. Other people’s peaceful interpretations of religious scriptures reassure me; why wouldn’t one want to be surrounded by beings who exude love, kindness and understanding? Nevertheless, I find the crossover of religion and sex a rather uncomfortable point. The idea that sex (as I see it, an amazing, fun, social activity) could possibly be an evil force of corruption between two consenting adults is alien to me. I don’t believe in shame after consensual sex.
Usually I don’t bother over thinking when it comes to making a move. Sometimes, though, when the stakes are high, I remind myself of an excellent story that I suspect may be an urban legend (and if it isn’t, let’s turn it into one), and I feel rather braver.
A sweet disorder in the dress/Kindles in clothes a wantonness
I’ve spent 20 hours of my life on the Greyhound bus, traveling from Washington DC to Columbia, Missouri. The Greyhound is an extreme experience. I passed through more blank land than I’ve ever seen in my life, and I was simultaneously connected to and isolated from other people as a transient panorama of humanity unfolded in front of me.
I look at the enormous woman sprawled sideways upon a full-sized bed, staring mournfully at an empty tray as if willing it to refill itself. She’s draped only in a loose sheet and I’m not surprised; it must be both difficult and expensive to find clothes for a woman so large. Her breasts alone are the size of honeydews and as I stare, my eyes popping, at the nipples poking through the thin cotton I wonder, in spite of myself, if they’re equally as sweet.
To anyone’s eyes he was a beautiful boy, with his sensual mouth and luminous white smile. His dark brown eyes that glanced over her body with lazy, endless appetite. His body was sculpted from playing tennis, a sport he practised avidly in his own country, which he had described to her as a place with clear blue waters, tall palms and white sands. Most of all perhaps, it had been his fine form and aura of sound health that had lured her into his bed. Healthy body and healthy mind, she had thought, imagining his psyche to be something like the landscape he was born in, with nothing ruined or defiled there, everything natural, wide open and warm.
I was never afraid of ghosts because I didn't believe in them and then when I encountered one for real I was more curious than concerned. It was a bloody inconvenience but by upbringing I am disposed to being helpful where I can and the wanker from hell clearly needed a hand.
'I don't really remember anything about her body, even when I was inside it. That's probably my fault more than hers. What I mostly remember was her clothes, and how long it took to get them off; every garment she was wearing seemed to have some kind of devious secret mechanism embedded within it. Even the T-shirt. It was as if Topshop had commissioned a range designed by abstinence campaigners without either of us knowing. I kept dodging elbows and armpits, and the time it took to pull her tights over her hips and down made me feel like I was the nurse, undressing an elderly patient for one last cold check-up. She probably thought the same on my account. She spent so long fiddling with the buckle on my belt that I thought she was making a half-hearted attempt to tease me. It had never really occurred to me before that there's probably a reason most people put on and remove their own clothes.'
At the front of the plane, the curtain was drawn across the galley as the crew chatted comfortably in the small space. Or so the passengers thought. In fact, flight attendants Carl and Andrea were having quick, quiet and furious sex in the corner, oblivious of the other attendants at the back of the plane. Occasionally Andrea reached up to turn a lock, and open a microwave door, slamming it shut, so that passengers thought the flight attendants were busy working.