Jodie knows all my dates because I bring them here.Every single one.Some people would be embarrassed.I am not one of those people.Not when it’s happy hour and I’m one smile away from a free dinner.Fish gotta swim, girl’s gotta eat.
‘I’ll let you know next week,’ I say, grabbing my bag.
He turns as I reach him, his eyes doing another quick scan of my short red dress – what little of it there is.
‘Ready?’I ask.
He smiles, gesturing towards the door like a gentleman who maybe googled how to be one on the way over.‘After you.’His hand lands gently on the small of my back as we step outside.
It’s only called loneliness if it comes from the Loneliness region of France.Otherwise, it’s sparkling independence.That’s what I tell myself as his hand slides into my hair and our mouths fuse like a French porno where he’s got the last baguette and I’ve got the final wheel of … camembert?
‘Where’s your bedroom?’he murmurs, lips grazing mine.
We’re standing in the world’s narrowest hallway, which happens to be the grand entryway to my one-bedroom apartment.My best friend Abbey calls it a shoebox.She’s not wrong.But it’s a shoeboxin Clovelly, which means it costs more than a small car and has the floor space of one.I call it broké – a chic way of saying I’m broke in a bougie part of the city.My other best friend, Ella, calls me Bubbles because I have champagne taste on a beer budget.What can I say?We all have our cross to bear.
I open the door, and we stumble into the bedroom – ‘bedroom’ being a generous term for the rectangular corner that houses my mattress, a single nightstand and a small rack of clothes.My dress and his shirt come off fast.He’s halfway out of his jeans when I pause, breathless.
‘Do you have protection?’
He does the rehearsal.You know the one: fake pat-down, overly hopeful expression, checking non-existent pockets like a magician who misplaced his deck of cards.‘Shit,’ he says, as if he’s surprised.‘I thought I had one.’
Uh-huh.I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.It’s always the mouth, that microsecond of guilt right before the lie comes out.
I’ve seen this before – once, twice, seventeen times.The first time, I was trying to be the Cool Girl and let it slide.Pun absolutely not intended.The plus side?Skipping the admin of watching him fumble with a condom.The downside?Three minutes of mediocre thrusting followed by a case of chlamydia and a deep, haunting regret.
So, no, we are not doing that again.
I reach towards my nightstand, pull open the drawer and retrieve a little silver packet as though it’s a mic drop.
‘Oh,’ he says.
Yeah.Oh.
Now I feel like a hussy, because he’s seen the whole damn box.
But if men actuallybrought their own, I wouldn’t have to stockpile.Am I right?Or am I right?
Once he’s on his back and I’ve confirmed we won’t be needing a paternity test in nine months, I climb over him, lips tracing his neck.His hands settle on my thighs and then squeeze my arse.He’s hard.He lifts his hips in search of friction and I’m more than happy to oblige, one hand reaching down to guide him in—
‘Hey,’ he says, voice suddenly sheepish.‘This might sound weird but … would you tie me up?’
I pause.Do I laugh?Say yes?Join a nunnery and finally fulfil my lifelong dream of becoming Julie Andrews singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’?All three responses feel equally valid.
But here’s the thing: when you’ve survived a week of performance reviews and you’re straddling a solid nine with biceps carved by the gods, your brain short circuits and your people-pleaser instinct takes the wheel.
‘Sure,’ I say, pretending to be a woman who has definitely done this before and who is not silently panicking about whether rope burns are covered by renters insurance.The reality?I don’t have any kind of BDSM starter pack.No silk ties, no leather cuffs, not even a blindfold – unless you count my sleep mask that smells faintly of lavender and despair.So, I improvise.Two pairs of Lululemon tights, one pant leg knotted around his wrist, the other tied to the bed frame.Exercise meets Fifty Shades of Budget.
He seems satisfied.So am I – for about twelve seconds.What I really want is something simple.Something perfectly timed and mutually satisfying.Something, dare I say, missionary.
He pulls at the tights, testing their limits.‘Come here,’ he whispers.
I do, trailing kisses along his jawline, hoping to reignite something that vaguely resembles my libido.He moans, deep and guttural, and I shiver, repositioning myself over him.I’m not dripping wet, but I’m not about to quit before we get to the final boss.I trail my hands over my body, fingers teasing my nipples, then drifting down to my clit.His eyes are locked on my hands like they hold the key to the lost city of Atlantis.He bucks his hips.I start to move on top of him – slow, grinding circles.
‘Fuck,’ he says, his voice strained, hands tugging helplessly at the activewear restraints.
I lean in, hoping he’ll take one of my nipples into his mouth.He does – technically – but it’s wet and disorganised, as if he’s taste- testing a mystery sauce.
I close my eyes, focus on the pressure, fingers working overtime.The tension within me starts to build, coiling, stretching – almost there, almost—
