And then I learn about his fantasies. Believe me, this wasn’t on the agenda, but the combination of alcohol—we are drinking ridiculous amounts—and sexual attraction which is clouding the air around us like a thick fog, is leading us to reveal far more than I, at least, had planned.
I learn that his fantasy is to go to bed with two women, one blonde, one dark, and to watch them together before joining in. I learn that he has already had a threesome, but it was with one woman and another man, and he found the whole episode disappointing. I learn that he lost his virginity at sixteen, with a friend of his mother’s, and I learn that I am getting more and more turned on as we talk. Shit, any more turned on than this and I’d stick to the bloody chair.
And does he learn about me? Does he ever. He learns that I lost my virginity at eighteen while I was on holiday, with a handsome Frenchman who I never heard from again. He learns that I love talking dirty, that nothing turns me on more. He learns that I have never been to bed with another woman, although occasionally I’ve wondered what it would be like. And he learns that I, too, have fucked two men at the same time and it was one of the most mind-blowing nights of my whole life.
And as we talk, cocooned together in the corner of this room, we move closer and closer, until we are almost panting with passion that is fighting so hard to stay contained.
This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is incredible. This is animal lust. This is what it’s all about. This is what I’ve missed. I want him, I want him, I want him. And now I can have him, I’ve almost got him.
My hand rests on his leg, my bottom’s raised off the chair as I’m leaning toward him, my face inches from his, and just as I finish telling him about my night with two men, he whispers in my ear, “I have got the most enormous hard-on listening to you.”
I look him in the eyes with a smile and then, even though we’re in a public place, I move my hand slowly up his leg and feel his rock-hard cock through his trousers.
He closes his eyes and exhales loudly, as I massage his cock ever so gently, then stop, moving my hand back down his thigh. Opening his eyes again, thickly glazed with passion he says huskily, “Anyone can see us.”
“I know,” I whisper back, “doesn’t that turn you on? There are men watching us, watching my hand on your cock and wishing it was them. Doesn’t that turn you on?”
His eyes are closed again and he nods his head. “Carry on,” he whispers. “Tell me what else you’d like to do to me.”
I could tell you exactly what I said, but I won’t. I know you’ve had the details in the past, but this is different, this, in some ways, is more intimate, perhaps because we don’t really know each other, perhaps because this is a foreplay I hadn’t foreseen.
What I will tell you is that I sat there, leaning so close I was almost on Andrew’s lap, and I whispered in his ear exactly what I would like to do to him, exactly what I would like him to do to me. And I didn’t couch it in erotic words, I used the most basic, base, vulgar words I could find. There, does that satisfy you?
It satisfies Andrew. He keeps his eyes closed while I keep whispering, my voice becoming hoarse with lust, and eventually he opens his eyes and says slowly, throatily, “I have to fuck you.”
I stand up. “Follow me.” And he stands up and meekly follows me out of the room, holding his coat in front of him to hide his erection.
We take the lift up to the fourth floor, standing behind an American couple, and he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised that I have booked a room. Perhaps I am not as clever as I thought.
I slide the card through the sensor outside the door, and it opens into a small, but immaculately decorated bedroom. I wish I could tell you it opened into a wonderful sumptuous suite, I know it would make a better story, but I couldn’t afford the suite, and this was the best I could do. And it does. Naturally.
Andrew closes the door, drops his coat on the floor and pushes me back on the bed, shoving his tongue in my mouth, hands all over my body. He pushes the straps of my dress off my shoulders, and roughly kneads my tits, bending down to suck a nipple. Hard. Ouch, this hurts. “Slow down,” I whisper, “we’ve got all night.”
But he doesn’t slow down. He pulls my dress off and whips off his shirt and trousers, and he kneels between my legs, completely naked, in all the glory I’ve been dreaming of for weeks. Months.
Except I’m not really feeling anything. I don’t even feel slightly turned-on. I feel nothing other than a vague satisfaction that I managed to pull this off.
This has happened to me before, I think. Shit, this has happened to me before. You build up a fantasy in your head, a fantasy that involves elaborate detail about the man of your dreams.
You lie in bed at night and spin out long daydreams about what it will be like, when it eventually happens. You try and picture their body, their voice, what they will say to you, what they will tell you to do.
You build the excitement, the anticipation, and then, after you’ve spent hours planning it, it actually happens. And suddenly, as they kiss you, you find that it’s not so exciting after all.
But it has to grow, you tell yourself, because this is your fantasy come true. That feeling of lust will come, you think, because it has always come to you in the past, while you have been lying in your bed alone and planning this very moment.
But that feeling of lust doesn’t come, or if it does, it’s a flicker of the feeling in your head. It’s too late to stop this, you think. You have to go through with this because you have talked yourself into a situation and it is too late to get out.
So you do go through with it, and it is far less than earth-shattering. It is not even earth-splintering. You find yourself going through the motions of sex, feeling nothing whatsoever other than boredom.
And afterward you lie there and tell yourself you will not do this again. You will not spend hours creating a fantasy of perfect sex with a perfect man, unless you haven’t a single chance in hell of getting this man, because you will always be disappointed.
And because this has happened to me before, I suddenly realize what the outcome will be, and that I don’t want this to happen to me again.
I watch Andrew as he gets off the bed and walks over to his coat to get a condom—did he know this was going to happen or does he always carry condoms in his inner pocket just in case?—and I know as an absolute certainty that I can’t do this.
If this were to happen, it would be a meaningless fuck, and suddenly I don’t want a meaningless fuck anymore. I don’t want the intensity of fucking someone I don’t know and don’t care about. I want the laughter, the security, the warmth of making love. I want to make love with Adam.
I don’t want you, I want Adam. I don’t want your body, I don’t know your body, I don’t know what to do with your body, and you certainly don’t know what to do with mine.
And for the first time since Adam and I broke up, I miss him. I really, really miss him. A physical pang hits me, and I suddenly realize what I’ve got. What I had. What I could have again if it’s not too late.
But shit. Andrew’s coming back. How the hell do I get out of this? Do I just fuck him and get it over with, or do I tell him now? How do I tell him, what do I say?
“Oh God,” I groan, just as he climbs back on the bed.
“What’s the matter?” My groan was quite obviously not a groan of passion.
“I can’t do this. I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this.”
“You are joking.” But he knows I’m not, at least his erection does, it’s wilting by the second.
“No. I can’t, I’m just not ready for this.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says, his voice cold. “You lure me here on some pathetic pretext of wanting to talk, and you sit downstairs talking about sex, obviously seducing me, and now, at the eleventh hour, you decide you can’t do this? Have you got a fucking problem?”
He stands up and gets dressed, not saying a word, while I lie on the bed, curled up in the fetal po
sition, half under the duvet with my head pressed into the pillow.
He still doesn’t say anything, just walks out, slamming the door behind him. Thank God, thank God he’s gone. I want Adam. I cradle myself as I lie in this big double bed, rocking backward and forward as the tears finally come.
Huge great heaving sobs. I want Adam. I miss Adam. I love Adam. Tonight wasn’t passion, tonight was nothing. I don’t care about passion anymore, I care about Adam.
They say you never know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and I always thought that was ridiculous, a load of bullshit. I never thought it would happen to me.
But it’s happening now. 0207 266 6431. Where are you, Adam? I don’t know what I’ll say to you, I just know I have to tell you. Where are you at midnight when I need you?
Oh God, he couldn’t be with anyone else, could he? A flash of insecurity, of panic, but no, he couldn’t, it’s Adam. Pick up the phone.
It rings three times and then his machine picks up.
“It’s me, can’t get to the phone, so do your stuff after the bleep.” Where is he? It’s midnight and where is he? Why isn’t he there for me to tell him I love him. I can’t leave a message, it’s too impersonal, so I just put the phone down and I cry, and cry and cry.
In case you’re wondering what’s going on inside my head, I’ll tell you. I think I have just discovered what love is. That love can be passion, admiration, and respect, but that passion comes in many forms. That passion doesn’t necessarily have to be heart-wrenching or gut-clinching. That passion can be comfort, safety, and security. That passion can be trust, friendship, familiarity.
But whatever it is, for the first time I am completely sure that I have it with Adam. But Adam is not here, and lying here alone, curled up with tears streaming down my cheeks, it has to be the loneliest night of my life.
23
Louise hands me the bill, folded neatly in half, and says, “Look at it when you leave.”
She comes over and puts her arms around me, hugging me tight, the first physical contact I have ever had with her, and when she releases me there are tears in both our eyes.
“You’ve done it,” she says with a smile, “you’ve done it.”
This is it, I can’t believe that this is really it, that I’ve finally finished this journey that seems to have taken so long. Christ, it hasn’t been easy, and I’m not even sure I want it to end, there’s something so comforting about this space, this time for myself, this process of self-examination.
But I knew it was over, I had learned as much as I was going to, and Louise knew it too. She knew it when I told her about Andrew, about the night of passion that never was, about the truth and strength of my feelings for Adam.
I look at the bill when I reach my car, and my very first thought as I read her words is, Jesus, bit naff, isn’t it?
“Good luck, Tasha, and thank you for sharing your life with me, for teaching me so much. It has been a privilege to know you, and I’ll miss you. Louise.”
But my first thought doesn’t last very long. My second thought, or perhaps feeling, is pride. I sit in my car and look at the words, and feel incredibly proud of myself for making it, coming to the end of this journey.
We never think we have things to teach other people. I always saw myself as a pupil, trying to learn how to make the best of life, looking at others, trying to emulate them, to do as they do, to have what they have.
But Louise, with all her degrees, her knowledge, her wisdom, has learned from me. God knows what, but I believe that’s true, I believe that despite our professional arrangement, I have somehow touched her life, because she’s hardly going to lie to me, is she? What would be the point?
And Christ, has she touched mine. Changed it. Made me understand why I am the way I am. It may sound trite to say I was half empty when I first went to see her, and now I’m full, but that’s exactly how it feels.
I do honestly believe that people enter our lives for a reason. That everyone who we meet, who forms an impression, has something to teach us. Everything that happens to us is an experience, and because of that it can never be bad. An experience can only be good because it all serves to shape the person that we are, the person that we become.
I forgive my parents, knowing now that I can’t blame them, as I did for so many years, for screwing me up, screwing up my relationships. I’ve learned that they were doing the best they could with the knowledge they had, and that that is enough.
I forgive Simon, despite breaking my heart, because if it weren’t for Simon I wouldn’t have slept around, wouldn’t have learned that that isn’t the answer, and most of all, I wouldn’t have met Adam.
I even forgive you, dear reader, for your feelings about me when we first met. Don’t think I didn’t know how you felt, your animosity, your occasional hatred, but I hope you’ve learned from this too. I hope you’ve seen something of yourself in me, I hope that you too realize that I was doing the best I could, with the knowledge I had.
Christ, stop me before I become slushy, this isn’t sounding like me at all. But then again, maybe it is, maybe it’s the new me. Nah. Maybe not.
Seven messages on my machine. My heart skips a beat, maybe one of them is from Adam. I called him the morning after the night before, as it were, but he wasn’t in, and I didn’t leave a message.
I called him that night, and he wasn’t in, and I didn’t leave a message. For three days I kept calling, and eventually I left a message. I told him that I needed to talk to him. I told him that I needed to see him. I told him to call me as soon as he got in, it didn’t matter what time it was.
He didn’t call.
The messages are from the girls. Four from Andy, “Where are you? Call me,” one from Mel, one from Emma, and finally . . . finally, one from Adam.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been away for work. I’m at home, so give me a call when you’re around.”
God, it’s weird hearing his voice. Not that it’s been that long, but his voice sounds different, familiar, but different. The affection is missing, replaced by a curtness, and I sit there and replay his message six times. Definitely curt, but Jesus, can you blame him?
I call back immediately, and he picks up the phone.
“Hi, stranger.”
“Hi,” he says, then more guarded, “hello. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Adam. How are you?”
“Fine. Working hard.”
“Ad, I need to talk to you.”
There’s a silence. “Ad?”
“I don’t know, Tasha. I’ve had so much time to think and I’m not sure there’s anything left to say.”
Oh God no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He said he’d wait. He’s supposed to be over the moon, he’s supposed to want me back. Please, I plead silently, please God, let him want me back.
“I know how you must be feeling,” I start, talking very slowly, not sure of how to express myself, but sure that I don’t want to say too much on the phone, sure that everything will be all right if he sees me, remembers how much he loves me. “But I’ve been thinking too, and so much has happened and so much has changed, too much to go into on the phone, but we have to meet.”
Another silence.
“Please.”
“OK,” he says finally. “When?”
“Tonight?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t make tonight. What about tomorrow?”
He can’t make tonight? What is this, he’s supposed to be missing me so desperately he can’t wait to see me. Oh shit, this is my penance, isn’t it, this is what I get for behaving like such a bitch.
“Tomorrow’s fine. Do you want to come over? I could make something to eat.”
“No,” he says emphatically. “I’d rather meet somewhere.”
OK, I know this game. I understand about neutral territory, and I understand that he does not want me to have the upper hand, so we arrange to meet at a café in Maida Vale. Not dinner, too formal, but coffee. Coffee that could take h
alf an hour, or three hours, depending on what it is I have to say to him.
I put the phone down and I’m shaking, so I call Mel, Mel who I’ve been avoiding since this whole fiasco began. Mel who I’ve wanted to talk to so badly, but I wasn’t sure how she’d take it, how she’d judge me.
But right now I need her, I need to explain, to tell her she was right.
“Mel? It’s me. I know we’re all meeting for lunch, but can you get there earlier? I need to talk to you.”
She’s there when I walk in, sitting at our usual lunch table, by herself, looking safe and familiar and lovely, and when she sees me she smiles, her lovely Mel smile and I know that she’s forgiven me, that she knows it’s all going to be OK.
And as I walk over she stands up and she gives me a huge hug. “You’ve got something to tell me, haven’t you?” She smiles, breaking away and sitting down.
“Oh Mel,” I sigh and shake my head, “you were right. Why didn’t I listen to you? I love him, Mel. I love Adam. I needed to go through this, I wouldn’t have realized if it hadn’t been for Andrew, but Jesus, he’s the most important thing in my life and of course I have passion with him, I just didn’t realize it.”
“I’m so happy for you,” she says, and she means it. “But what made you realize?”
“I will tell you, but you have to promise not to be angry with me.”
“I promise.”
And I tell her about the quest for passion, the fuck that never was, the exhilaration and desperation when I knew for certain what love is. And she doesn’t say anything, she just listens as it all comes out in a torrent and when I’ve finished she looks at me very seriously and says, “You must never tell him.”
And I nod because I know she is right, I know that it would hurt him beyond redemption, that if he knew what I had done there would be no going back.
“Will he have me back?” I ask her, because even though I know she won’t have the answer, I need to be reassured.
“He loves you,” she says, “but you have to realize that right now he doesn’t necessarily trust you. You need to prove to him that you are trustworthy and that may take time, but yes, I think he will have you back.”