“I’ve hadan idea for your list,” Sloane announces, jerking open the door to her flat and beckoning me inside.
“Hello to you too,” I laugh, giving her a squeeze. This is my first visit to her place, which I probably should have conducted before agreeing to move into it. But after a day of visiting cesspits and meeting repellent roommates, Sloane’s offer seemed too good to turn down.
As I follow her inside, I realise I needn’t have worried. Her flat in Bermondsey – about 10 minutes’ walk from London Bridge – is gorgeous. It’s spacious but cosy, with high ceilings, exposed brickwork, and huge paintings covering every wall. It’s easy to see a creature like Sloane at home here – there’s an energy to it that’s warm, quirky, and in your face, just like its resident.
“I’ll give the grand tour,” she announces, spinning on her heels. “And then I’ll tell you my idea.”
I follow her as she gestures around the big open plan space.
“This is the kitchen-living-diner,” she says, waving a hand around. “I tend to live on takeout but I’m told the oven is top of the range.” She shrugs. “Over here, the sofa and TV. I’ve got the usual streamers. I’m more of a dinner on the sofa kind of a gal sothe dining table is mainly where I work and study.” She points to a huge table which is absolutely covered in potted plants. There’s a small empty space at one end which I assume is her de facto desk.
“This one is my room,” she says, grabbing my hand as she opens the door to a bedroom. The walls are a rich red and her bed is ahugefour poster, draped in a gauzy fabric. My eyes widen and she catches the look, giving me a grin. “I know, I know. It’s a bit much. But I love it.”
Much like the rest of it, Sloane’s bedroom is very her. There are trinkets over every surface: photographs, little sculptures, jewellery, bits of origami. It’s busy but it works.
“You’re always welcome in my room, just be warned, what’s inside my bedside table may scare you.” She gives me a diabolical smirk and I laugh.
“Noted. No rummaging!”
“And this one,” she says, as we go back into the hallway, “is the spare room. Your room, if you still want it.”
She opens the door to a beautiful, light-filled space. It’s simply decorated - a large king-size bed in the centre, a white painted chest of drawers, and a built-in wardrobe. There’s a painting above the bed – a woman standing with her back to the artist, gazing out over the sea.
“I’ve always liked that painting,” Sloane says, coming to stand beside me. “I wonder what she’s thinking about. Where she’s been.”
“Maybe she’s looking for herself,” I reply, feeling a pang in my chest. “Sloane, this room is perfect. Your flat is stunning. Are you sure you want a roommate? You just met me. I could be a crazy person.”
She laughs. “Oh, I’m counting on it, honey. Crazy is where all the fun happens. But yes, I’m serious. I’ve lived alone for agesand I could do with a bit of company. And I cannot in good conscience let you live with the taxidermy guy.”
“Ha, thank you. So, when can I move in?”
“Is next weekend too soon?” She beams. “Come on girl, let’s celebrate with a coffee and a chat about where your next orgasm is coming from.”
I croak out a startled laugh and follow her back to the main room, where she flicks on a drip coffee machine.
“Couldn’t leave the US without my baby,” she says, giving the machine a loving pat. “The instant coffee you lot drink here is disgusting. Anyway. Here’s my addition to your list: an erotic massage.”
“A what?!”
“An erotic massage! From a professional! Guaranteed orgasm, no reciprocation, no messy emotions, just an hour to fully relax and be selfish. They’re incredible.” She closes her eyes as if reliving a blissful memory.
“That’s a thing?!” I don’t consider myself particularly naïve about sex but I don’t know anyone that’s ever had an erotic massage. Suddenly I feel like Alice – and I’m following this gorgeous kinky American into Wonderland.
“Of course it’s a thing. You’ve never heard of a happy ending?” She pours the coffee into two huge cups. “Cream?” she adds with an exaggerated wink.
“You know, Brits usually just have milk. But sure; why not. Let’s be decadent. And of course I’ve heard of a happy ending. I just assumed it was a thing that only men did.”
“Oh honey, no. Why should men have all the fun? I know this woman, Lotus, who does them. She specialises in women. She actually does a four-handed massage with her male partner if you really want your socks rocked off.” Another wistful smile. “But I reckon you could start with just Lotus and go from there.”
“So let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that I go to a random lady I’ve never met and ask her to make me come?”
“Basically, yes. It’s a full-body massage. Emphasis on full. You’re naked, she’s naked. Proper spa treatment – except she doesn’t skirt around your bum. And she massages your pussy until you come right there on the table. Ideal.”
She takes a swig of coffee and sighs in delight as I scramble to get my brain back online. I can’t deny the thrill that flashes straight to my core.
“And you’ve had this done? By Lotus? Wasn’t it super awkward?”
“God, no. She sees like 20 pussies a week. She LOVES her work. Her great passion in life is to bring people to orgasm.”
