269. The day after

The day after, the euphoria has subsided and suddenly transformed into fear.

What if she doesn’t love me? What if I was just a fling? A body to use for one night only, with no intention of reciprocating feelings the next day?

But then I remember her warm embrace and the sweet kisses she blew in my ear. I recall how we not just clicked sexually but on a deeper level. And I think back to the look in her eyes, so telling in her fondness of me.

The worried frown in the bathroom mirror turns into a confident smile, as I walk back into the apartment.

Just in time to see her close the front door behind her and notice she has left neither a note nor a phone number on the crumpled bed sheets.

 

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215. I saw her naked

“I saw her naked.”

Peter’s jaw dropped firmly to the floor as Alvin cheekily flicked a cherry bubblegum in his mouth.

The two best friends were walking home from playing hooky all day and Peter was surprised that only now, with just five minutes of their day left to discuss it, Alvin dropped the bombshell.

“You saw her boobs? How? When?”

Alvin smiled mysteriously.

“I didn’t just see her boobs.”

“You filthy liar.”

Those were the three words Alvin had been waiting for. He whipped some lace lingerie out of his trouser pocket. Peter fondled the fabric in disbelief and slung his arm around Alvin’s shoulder.

“You are now officially my hero, you know that, right?”

“I got lucky, that’s all. I was practicing my swing with my little brother in the backyard when I hit the ball right on the sweet spot. I mean, I have never, ever hit a ball that good. You should have seen it.”

“Alvin? Less baseball, more boobs.”

“Okey, so I hit the ball and it went over the fence, straight for her house. Straight for her open window.”

“And you climbed up there?”

Alvin nodded.

“Hero!”

“I wasn’t in there for ten seconds or the door flung open and in she walked. Wet from the shower. Naked. Hot! I had to hide, but boy, I could see …”

“Everything?”

“Everything!”

“I’m gonna need descriptions. Detailed descriptions.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not gonna tell you how she looks.”

“How long have we known each other? Eight years? That’s two thirds of our lives!”

“All I’m gonna say is that my baseball is still up there.”

Peter looked up. The window was open and he could just about hear the shower running.

“Hero,” Peter said, hugging his friend so hard he nearly crushed his ribs.

 

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176. Sax ad, noun

Sax ad, noun: personal ad that disguises itself as something equally fun and freewheeling but rather less lurid.

The word was printed on page 2,954 of the Oxford English Dictionary – and thus had some credence to it – yet it was a phantom, inserted for the specific purpose of tracing blatant plagiarism in other dictionaries.

So it was quite a surprise to Averick Ghormenghoul, literary phenomenon and main OED contributor, to come across the word during his daily rummage through the tabloid back pages, in a bland typeface, undistinguishable from the personals that surrounded it:

‘SAX AD – woman (27) looking for man to jazz together. Age irrelevant, mastery of instrument paramount. Experience a plus.’

The ad read like a joke yet seemed serious as well. Averick was rather curious: why would a 27-year-old place this ad in-between dozens of overtly less cryptic ones? And what kind of man would react? He wanted to find out desperately.

So he picked up the phone and dialled the number. At the other end of the line a hoarse yet youthful voice replied.

“I’m calling about the sax ad.”

“You feel like jamming?”

“I do.”

“You have a sound instrument?”

He did. He’d been playing saxophone since he was eleven. If that was what she meant.

“Be here at nine. You got a pen?”

Averick scribbled the address down. It was in an upscale part of town.

“Will there be other … jammers?”

“Just you and me. You did get that from the ad, right?”

She hung up before Averick could answer. He was still none the wiser, though he had an inkling.

At half past eight he left the house.

His saxophone never left the patio cupboard, but Averick made some beautiful jazz that night.

 

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145. So the dick is a deal-breaker?

“So the dick is a deal-breaker?” the she-male asked.

“Yep,” Shane said, oozing disappointment with some disgust thrown in.

He had picked up his companion for the night near Central Station, not knowing the neighbourhood was renowned for prostitutes whose gender was best described as ‘miscellaneous’.

“You know, I could just tuck it away. Out of sight, out of mind. I should have some tape…”

“Don’t bother,” Shane said. He was sitting naked on the edge of the bed, his back towards Titiana. The name should have been a clue, really.

Titiana embraced the customer. The hermaphrodite’s breasts pressed against Shane’s back.

“Give it a try. You might like it.”

“I seriously doubt it.”

“Go on.”

Titiana’s hand moved towards Shane’s groin.

“You’re going to dock me anyway, aren’t you?”

“That’s the name of the game, hon.”

Titiana was a pro. As far as aphrodisiacs went, she knew none was stronger than an empty wallet without at least some friskiness to show for it.

 

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65. Terrible chat-up line number one

Terrible chat-up line number one: are you free tonight or will it cost me?

That one lands me a gin tonic in the face. Note to self: never start with a prostitute reference. Surely the night can only improve from here on in?

So I walk over to the dance floor and make my move on a busty brunette shaking her bubble-butt. Our eyes connect and at the end of the song she follows me to the bar where I correctly guess she’s in the mood for a cosmo. Words have not been uttered up to that point. Just glances that imply that if I play my cards right I get lucky.

Enter terrible chat-up line number two. I’m new in town, can you give me directions to your apartment?

Clearly unimpressed by my improv skills the brunette finishes the cosmo in a single chug. This is getting more pathetic by the minute.

I’m willing to throw in the towel when I overhear the macho next to me hitting on a redhead.

“Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?”

It is a terrible, terrible chat-up line. The third of the evening but at least it’s not me saying it. Yet the redhead plunges her tongue into his mouth, grabs his hand and guides him to the exit.

“Wow! I can’t believe that worked!” I stammer to myself.

“She’s a slut,” explains a voice next to me. “She’d made up her mind before he said a thing.”

The voice belongs to an elegant blonde with bright blue eyes that beg for a witty reply.

“A shame the same trick won’t work on you then,” I say.

The blonde smiles. She’s made up her mind.

 

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55. Monogamy is a myth

“Monogamy is a myth,” the groom said. His six brides nodded in unison, though only five meant it.

Shirley might have just married ‘Many Wives Marc’, she didn’t believe in his views. To her mind each woman should only have sex with one man at a time and vice versa. She was a hopeless romantic in that regard.

Obviously that wasn’t going to happen on wedding night. Marc would first have his way with Andrea, then Camille, Julie, Nathalie, Sarah and finally herself. An alphabetical orgy. Each bride, when the groom was banging another of his wives, would in turn fuck one of their own lovers. Each bride but Shirley.

So by the time Marc had made his way to her bedroom and put on his sixth rubber of the evening she asked him the question that had been pinballing though her mind for what seemed like ages.

“Can we be exclusive?”

He answered yes.

After all, he’d just fulfilled his lifelong dream to fuck six brides in one night and he was pretty sure he’d catch a VD if this polygamous arrangement persisted.

Whoever said romance is dead?

 

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33. I butted in on his date

I butted in on his date, there he had a point. But with a girl this gorgeous, wouldn’t you? Gorgeous eyes, gorgeous figure, gorgeous tits, gorgeous all the way. Besides, she was flirting with me, not the other way around, so there’s a loophole right there.

My friend had been talking her up for over an hour anyway, between pints on a sun-drenched evening. Since she lived up to the potential he had hinted at I saw no point in playing coy. When I see something I like – or someone, wouldn’t want to objectify a woman – I go for it, that simple.

Perhaps I underestimated his desire for sex that night, cause his fist arrived fast and hard when I asked her if she’d rather accompany me than him to the pizzeria round the corner. Perhaps he should have awaited her reply though, since her original  intent was to not come back on a previous promise. Once a witness of my friend’s violent ways of settling a quarrel, she however changed her mind and went for a pizza with me.

The pizza turned out mediocre, as did the sex. I guess there’s a moral in there, I told my mate the next time we had a pint on a sun-drenched evening.

 

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23. These are your plug-in legs

These are your plug-in legs. They should be a perfect fit after the alterations we have made.

She screwed the legs on. They fitted snugly under her upper torso.

Not too tight, the saleswoman asked.

She shook her head. The legs were everything she had hoped for. Long, slim, smooth. Nothing like the pair of flabby stumps she owned before. She looked at her behind in the mirror. Her ass was so perky the saleswoman had to stop her from grabbing it herself, adding: not yet, miss. Give it 24 hours. You don’t want to ruin the cheeks before the gel has dried.

But she wasn’t prepared to wait a minute longer. As soon as she left the surgeon’s cabinet she walked into the nearest bar. She could feel how the eyes of the men on their stools flicked towards her as she passed them. These were not the type of legs you saw regularly anymore.

As she perched on a vacant stool it didn’t take long for a guy to buy her a drink. In fact there wasn’t a guy in the bar who didn’t buy her one, it seemed. And as they moved their stools closer to hers they all copped a feel of her new ass or let their fingers run subtly along her shins. She was elated. This was exactly what she had hoped for.

The guy she eventually wound up next to the following morning did however not get what he had hoped for as the gel that perked up her ass was now oozing onto the bed-sheets. As she lit up her second cigarette her reply was deadpan.

You can’t have it all, love.

 

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20. You are the colour of the North

“You are the colour of the North,” she said.

“And you my dear,” I replied, “are very, very drunk.” before downing another Jägermeister.

 

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8. I didn’t fuck our next-door neighbour’s teenage son!

I didn’t fuck our next-door neighbour’s teenage son! I wasn’t the one who spread my legs in his bedroom and let him screw me every which way but missionary. And enlighten me: whatever happened to that promise we would be exclusive? When did it end? When my beer belly started to show? When I stopped shaving my pubes? When you insisted on fucking in the dark? Christ, does he even HAVE pubes?

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