Forever Is Over (133 page)

I barely had chance to finish my sentence when Kelly reached
forward in her bed, placed her hands either side of my mouth and gave
me a big smacker! I was too shocked to kiss back!

“
What did you do that for?
”

“
I was being wholehearted! You
’
re right Roddy, sub-consciously I
’
ve
been playing games and life
’
s too short for that. I think I love you Roddy
Baker and I want us to give this a go.
”

“
So you
’
ll drop this whole boring Richie thing now?
”

“
Consider it dropped.
”

“
And you
’
re going to make up with your sister?
”

“
One step at a time, Roddy!
”

“
No! You
’
ve just said yourself, life is short, why waste any more time
playing games. We need to find out where your sister lives and when
you
’
re better, before we go home, we need to get everything sorted out.
”

My relationship with Jemma took several giant strides back in the
right direction after the crash. I made more effort to understand what
Jemma wanted from the relationship, I helped more with the household
chores such as dishwashing, ironing, washing and drying of clothes and
joined in with difficult side of parenting such as disciplining and bearing
bad news, such as breaking the catast
rophic news to Melissa that she
cannot have an ice cream from the second ice cream van when she has
already had one from the first. I had always been the type of Dad that allowed Jemma to do the majority of the trickier elements and just did
the fun stuff, but after the crash we worked as a team. For her part,
Jemma understood my physical needs more, but despite her best efforts
there were still problems on that score.

When I reminisce about this period of time now, I refer to it as our
“
Morrissey
”
period. This is because our sex life went through various
levels of activity that linked to songs. When we first got it together, I
called this our Bill Medley & Jennifer Warnes period, because sex was
exciting and frequent which links to their song,
“
I Had The Time of My
Life
”
. Then, following the wedding and when Jemma was first pregnant
with Melissa, daily sex became weekly sex, which normally happened on
a Sunday night, so this was our
“
Blondie
”
period because of their song
“
Sunday girl
”
. Once Melissa arrived and then Jamie, sex became less and less frequent so this became known as our
“
Sandy Denny
”
period
after her song
“
Solo
”
and finally, the
“
Morrisey
”
period was after the
crash when sexual regularity was not just every Sunday night, but was
at least attempted every day, so the brilliant Morrisey song,
“
Every Day
Is Like Sunday
”
defined this period!

Everything should have been perfect as for the first time in a long
time I was getting what I wanted, but it still wasn
’
t. The obstacle to
good, wholesome, enjoyable sex in your thirties, when you have two
children, is that the desire to avoid pregnancy returns to peak levels only
previously endured in late teenage years. Sex becomes a threesome, but
not a threesome involving two females and a male or two males and
a female for that matter, a threesome between a man, a woman and a
condom. At least when condoms were used in teenage years, I had a
body to be proud of, so almost all sexual activity took place in daylight
or at least with the lights on. In our thirties, Jemma was wanting to
hide her stretch marks, her
“
Spaniel
’
s ears
”
breasts and a vagina that
had been torn, stitched and battered from a double helping of childbirth
and I was equally happy to hide man breasts that felt chunky enough to lactate and a belly that resembled Demi Moore
’
s on the cover of Vanity
Fair. Thus, the act of condom placement in late teens is simple, as the
procedure is carried out in full visibility and with an instrument that
stiffens to diamond quality hardness at the mere mention of the word
“
knickers
”
. In your thirties, however, condom placement becomes like
an adult version of
‘
It
’
s A Knockout
’
! Each time I tried it, I was sure I
could hear Eddie Waring saying,
“
He
’
s a poor lad!
”
or
“
Aye..Aye
…
! It
’
s
an awkward one, the boy
’
s got to deal with it!
”

After horseplay that lasted no longer than a five furlong sprint, one
or other of us would jump off the saddle then fumble around in the
darkness in the forlorn hope of finding an elusive silver wrapper before
its intended recipient shrank from a recorder shaped instrument to the
size and girth of a tin whistle that could no longer play a tune. Pretty often, by the time all safety equipment was in place, everything was
small or dry and the very outcome you were trying to avoid, would, by
default, become physically impossible.

I clearly remember the last night I gave up all hope of retaining one
fully functional testicle. Jemma and I had bribed the sixteen year old
girl who lived opposite us to snog her boyfriend
’
s face off in front of our
television rather than her own, so we had nipped down to
‘
A Passage
To India
’
in Ormskirk, to enjoy a quality curry and a bottle of wine or
three. On our return home, we drunkenly paid our teenage guests more money than they deserved, politely escorted them off the premises and
raced up the stairs excitedly in a
nticipation of blind passion.

We took turns to brush our teeth and empty our bladders in the
en-suite, a ritual that led to foreplay involving kissing but not oral
sex. Jemma switched off the lights then we each stripped our own
clothes off in the darkness before the games began. I followed a well
rehearsed routine, kisses without tongues, kisses with tongues then a
finger dip to check whether spit on a fingertip would suffice to grease
the playing surface or whether a proper
lubricant would be necessary.
On this occasion, the wine had acted a
s a successful aphrodisiac and
the landing area was as damp as a field of mushrooms so no artificial
juices were required. Feeling sufficiently enlarged, I clambered on top
of Jemma, prodding around under her bellybutton, trying to find the
pearly gates and the entrance to heaven. In my inebriated state, I was
failing miserably so twisted over with my back to the mattress, pulling
Jemma on top of me and leaving her to p
osition herself correctly. She
did so with ease and then gyrated her pelvis around in circles, making
noises that I knew were borne out of sympathy rather than fulfilment.

Within a minute, my thoughts moved from passion to fear, as I
knew all the mini-Richies were gathering in their millions for their
pre-match warm-up, like a mass of min
i
ature triathletes.

“
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!
”
I called out like a bus conductor who
’
s
spotted a passenger riding without a ticket,
“
Hang on! Hang on! You
’
re
going to have to get off!
”

Jemma had obviously genuinely begun to enjoy it, as she sounded
frustrated.

“
Already?
”

“
Jemma, if you fizz the cola up in the can and there
’
s a hole in the
top, it can quite easily spray out a little
…
.if you
’
re happy to have another
little Jamie running around in nine months time, you stay right where
you are!
”

Jemma lifted herself off muttering something about not running
around in nine months time, but I didn
’
t quite catch it as I had begun
my search for the child catchers. I opened my top drawer next to my
bed and immediately found a couple of empty condom packets. My first
instinct was paranoia,
‘
who
’
s been using them?
’
Then reality kicked in and I realised I was a lazy bastard and
amongst my crimes was failing to dispense of discarded condom
wrappers. After much fumbling around in the dark, I realised I was
making no progress and my sunflower which had been proud and tall only seconds earlier, was now starting to droop as it faced away from
the item it worshipped.

“
Can I switch the light on?
”
I pleaded.

Jemma groaned and sighed,

“
Go on, but hurry up, I
’
m tired!
”

Female disclosure of tiredness mid-sex is a danger sign. It is warning
you, that although you have managed to get your plane on the runway,
you still might not get it up, up and away. I switched my bedside light
on and as Jemma turned away from the light, I hurriedly pulled my
middle drawer open and sitting there is a whole new packet of condoms
that I had bought from the supermarket the week before. Supermarket
condom buying is a careful process, as you always have to select the
check out aisle that will cause the least embarrassment and the most
respect. Generally, I select the lad in his mid-twenties or the very ugly
older lady who
’
s opinion does not bother me. If I buy Jemma
’
s sanitary
towels, I would avoid the mid-twenties guy and go for the mid-twenties
woman, as I want her to appreciate that I am a chilled out, modern man.
Anyway, the problem the new condoms present, is that not only are the
condoms wrapped up, but so is the box, so I have to unwrap twice and
then wrap once before I am ready for action. After a painfully drawn out
process, I managed this, but it had to unwrap twice and then wrap twice
too, as once I had my thumb and forefinger in place and started to roll,
I only got through one rotation and things came to a standstill. Inside
out! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Why does this always happen to me?

“
Are you wanting sex tonight?
”
Jemma asked,
“
as Mr.Sandman
seems to be putting out the fires that were burning earlier.
”
Hastily, I put the condom on, but by now there
’
s not much left to
wrap up and the condom looks like it has performed the penises version
of a facelift reversal, as its skin has gone from taut and stretched to
wrinkly and tired looking. I was giving up hope.

“
Are you still awake?
”
I enquired.

“
Just about,
”
was the reply,
“
but you won
’
t be needing that condom
soon as I
’
ll have been through the change!
”