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Authors: Joanna Bolouri

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BOOK: The List
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‘Have you spoken to him about it?' I asked, pouring her more tea and trying not to giggle at her outburst.

‘No. I don't want him to think I'm a cow or that I feel he's not pulling his weight or that, God forbid, I don't want to spend time with my daughter. I love my kid; I just need ten minutes to wash my hair without an audience.'

‘Then say that to him. You're the most diplomatic person I know; you'll find the right words. Either that or just lock the bathroom door when you go in.'

She looked at me like I'd just cured cancer. ‘GAH! Lock the door! Why didn't I think of that?'

Oliver came over straight from work this evening, and when he arrived he produced a bunch of flowers. Before I could say, ‘I appreciate the thought but we're not dating so what the hell are you playing at?' he laughed in my face and said, ‘Don't panic; it's not a romantic gesture. My boss was being a complete witch today so I nicked them off her desk on the way home. It's more of an “up yours” to her than anything else.' He collapsed on the couch. ‘You know, I was thinking about this dirty-talk thing. It doesn't matter if you can't do it; most women can't anyway – don't feel bad about it. I'm sure you'll manage the other challenges.'

I began to smile. ‘Take off your trousers,' I demanded.

Then I took off my skirt and tights, pulled my knickers to one side and slid down on him. Hard.

I whispered in his ear, ‘I am going to fuck you slowly and take every inch of you, until you're begging me to let you come. Can you feel how wet I am already?'

He raised one eyebrow (man, I love it when he does that) and said, ‘Good God, Phoebe! Keep talking like that and I think I'll keep you.'

So I did.

Monday January 31st

I had the dentist at three this afternoon so I cheerfully left work early, only to have a giant needle shoved into my gum and my tooth drilled by a man who had unusually large nostrils. I'd rather have stayed in work.

9.40 p.m
. My mouth is now quite sore so I've taken to bed in a dramatic fashion and had enough co-codamol to knock out a horse.

10.30 p.m
. I have checked the front door is locked three times now. I have either developed OCD or those painkillers are way too strong and have caused short-term memory loss.

11.00 p.m
. I'm still wide awake but mentally exhausted. It's been a busy month. I've successfully acquired a new friend with benefits and engaged in some outrageously filthy talk with complete strangers. Alex still hasn't spontaneously
combusted, which is perhaps the only downside, but on the upside, I'm now a lot more comfortable being obscene and Oliver loves the fact that this polite, professional girl with lovely manners can open her mouth and make sailors run screaming from a pub. I can happily tell Oliver exactly what I intend to do to him, even with something in my mouth. I have skills now. The talking-dirty challenge was excruciating at times, but I'm pretty happy with the outcome, and I'd say the list has got off to a good start.

FEBRUARY

Tuesday February 1st

Oliver's been coming over to my house more and more frequently and tonight he turned up without warning after football practice, covered in sweat. Without saying a word he went into my kitchen, drank a pint of water in one go, then turned on the shower and dragged me in.

Sex in a shower cubicle is great – confined space and nothing but wall to lean against. Sex in a shower-over-bathtub setup, however, is something completely different. ‘I'll buy you another shower curtain tomorrow, Phoebe. That one was mouldy anyway.'

It was also the first time he'd seen me up close without my make-up on or hair done and I could see him staring at me for a second while I was drying off. If that doesn't put him off me I'll be surprised. My mum once said something that's stayed with me forever: ‘I remember your dad telling me that the first time he saw me without make-up, he thought he'd woken up next to a man.'

Christ, I bear more than a passing resemblance to my mother. I wonder if they offer airbrushing on the NHS?

Wednesday February 2nd

In the morning meeting Frank announced that Marion had given birth to a baby boy called Harry. who weighed 9 pounds 9 ounces, and both were doing well.

‘I don't think she'll come back,' remarked Kelly. ‘She's a nice woman but she hated it here and she never did any real work.'

‘Thanks for your input, Kelly.' Frank scowled. ‘Now can we please make sure Lucy gets your call sheets by the end of the day? She has enough to do without chasing you lot for paperwork.'

‘I'd hardly call Lucy overworked—' began Kelly, before Frank told her to ‘zip it' and we were all sent back to our desks.

‘Don't you ever get tired of running people down, Kelly?' I asked as she sat down at her desk. ‘Marion's just given birth and you're bitching about her. It's not cool.'

‘I'm just speaking the truth,' she said with a shrug. ‘If anyone has a problem with that – tough. I'm here to do my job, not make friends.'

‘Then be quiet and do your job, Kelly!' Frank shouted across from his office. ‘You're giving me a headache.'

Kelly might be a bitch, but she's right about Marion. There's no way she'd choose to come back to this lunatic asylum. With some free time on my hands tonight, I started to think about the next challenge, which doesn't require Oliver's help, or anyone else's for that matter: masturbation.

The subject of masturbation is one I've always enthused
about and I've never been one of those ‘Who? Me? Never. I don't need to. Shut up …' women who you know are either lying or desperately unhinged from sexual frustration. I guess it comes from being raised by parents who are very open about sex. For me it's a given, but for some women it can be like having a poo; it's common knowledge that we do it but we like to pretend we don't. Like somehow the feminine mystique we've worked so hard to maintain would instantly disappear if the secret ever got out.

We use our genitalia to insult people: he's a dick, a pussy, a fanny, and so on, and we call each other ‘wankers' to denote how idiotic we are. We're also taught as children not to touch or play with ourselves, usually accompanied by a stern look which says, ‘If you do that, no one will like you' – giving us a big healthy dose of shame and introducing the hellish fear of getting caught with our hands anywhere near our bottoms. But I've never subscribed to any of that crap.

So now to think of something new I can do during masturbation. New sex toys perhaps?

Thursday February 3rd

I've been having increasingly odd dreams since my sex life returned, including one last night involving a man made of wood. He was Dutch (as most wooden men are, obviously) and we went at it in a forest. Creepy but weirdly arousing. I would have looked it up in my dream book, but it's pointless because my dream book interprets everything as death, even smiling kittens.

I've decided that I'm going sex-toy shopping this weekend.
In fact I'm going shopping for a wooden man. I'd ask Lucy and Hazel if they want to come along, except I know the answer to that already.

Saturday February 5th

Today I met the girls for some lunch at my favourite Japanese restaurant, Ichiban on Queen Street. Lucy was late as usual. Hazel met me inside and we ordered beers while glancing at the menu. ‘Where's Grace today?' I asked.

‘Kevin's taking her to Hamleys so I have the whole afternoon free. Are we still going to Ann Summers?'

‘Yes, we're going to the grown-up toy shop. Much more fun.'

Lucy arrived as the waitress brought our drinks. She ordered some sake and sat down beside me on the long wooden bench.

‘God, I'm starving. Fuck the chopsticks; I'm going to eat like a man with ten hands. HAZEL! Did you get Botox?'

‘NO!' Hazel said, frowning. Only her face didn't move. We both stared at her. ‘Fine, I did. Spur-of-the-moment decision. It hurt like hell. Never again.'

‘You're going to end up like that woman who's had so much cosmetic surgery she looks like a lion.' I grinned.

‘I am not!' she laughed, pulling apart her chopsticks. ‘I'm turning forty next year. Call it part of my midlife crisis. Now let's eat. I'm ageing rapidly as we speak.'

After lunch we walked to Sauchiehall Street for a rather expensive jaunt around Ann Summers. I buy most of my sex toys on the internet rather than in Ms Summers's shops
because it's usually cheaper, but as I feel like a walking hormone recently, there's no way I could wait a week for delivery and then greet the postman, red-faced, hoping there was no mention of my purchase on the packaging. Thankfully, BigfakecocksforPhoebe.com are usually very discreet.

The men in my life have had varying attitudes towards sex toys, but most have felt intimidated. Trying to explain to them that toys are to use
as well as
, and sometimes during, sex, rather than
instead of
is a tough one. Sex for me is definitely about skin on skin, which will always be more of a turn-on than some plastic phallic oddity buzzing uncontrollably, but the orgasms from sex toys are bloody brilliant and it's FUN, DAMMIT!

The last time I went shopping for sex toys with a bloke, I ended up talking to myself while he stared at the floor, looking awkward, shuffling his feet like a child and occasionally saying, ‘I don't care.'

Hazel is fairly conservative when it comes to sex toys – she just likes the buzzing action, nothing inserted or too ‘out there'. As she'd mentioned to me before, she's had issues with her sex life since she gave birth.

‘I'm scared it still looks like a horror film down there. I don't want Kevin to look at my vagina in case there's a Jabberwocky staring back, so I'm starting small.'

Lucy and I are quite alike, although she prefers the outrageous ones. I'm happy with a simple rabbit but she buys the double-penetrating, action-packed, G-spot stimulators and pretty much anything that looks like it might make your eyes roll to the back of your head and reduce you to
a blubbering wreck. She's always first in line for new sex toys.

‘I wonder if they sell “fucking machines”? You know, like a Sybian? I want one of those. I don't care how much they cost – I'll pay it up for the rest of my life.' The sales assistants in these sorts of shops are brilliant. They're all mellow and thinking,
Yeah, you've just bought enough lube to fit a truck in there you big PERVERT!
but they never raise a pierced eyebrow, or look like they give a shit that you have £150 worth of anal beads in your basket. So on Lucy's advice I've become the proud owner of something that looks like a medieval torture device, a G-spot vibrator and, after a text to Oliver, he now possesses a cock ring with a dolphin on it. I've decided to call it ‘Flipper' just to annoy him.

Monday February 7th

I've never properly used toys with a partner, so tonight was exciting. The cock ring lasted about ten minutes before Oliver decided it was too distracting and whipped it off. He was then more than happy to operate the machinery while I lay on my stomach, giving muffled instructions with my face in the pillow. He didn't flinch at the thought of using toys with me, but when he went near my bum hole, I flinched. Literally.

‘What's wrong?' he asked. ‘I thought anal was on your list?'

‘It is, but I'm going to need some notice before we go there,' I said, looking over my shoulder, now very much aware of my exposed bottom.

‘Ah, OK.' He shrugged. ‘We can try it another time then. You'll like it. It's no big deal.'

‘No big deal?
Oh really?
I'll try to shove Flipper up your rectum and see how laid-back you are about it.'

‘Stop calling it Flipper. Did you know you have a giant spot-thing on your arse?'

‘It's not a spot, it's a mole. It's been there for years.'

‘It looks weird. It's really big. I think it has a hair growing out of it.'

‘WHAT? Right, you're about one comment away from never being allowed access to my bum ever again.'

‘It's like looking into the round, featureless face of a witch. OK, I'll stop.'

Tuesday February 8th

I'm trying to put the anal discussion out of my head for a while. I am curious, but that little gem is definitely one that I have to be completely ready for, in every respect. For once I don't have to soul-search for the reason why I'm hesitant to do this and that would be because of the poo. Christ, Oliver put his pinky up there last night and I nearly had a heart attack. What am I going to be like when he puts his penis up there?

I was in a rush this morning so I didn't have time to buy cigarettes on the way to work. I cadged one off Stuart on our coffee break and while we chatted all I could think was, I wonder what you'd be like in bed? I wonder if you're hairy? Would you hold me down or be polite about the whole thing? Basically I didn't listen to a word he said. While I ate lunch I thought about Stuart looking good, but by then he was looking good on top of me. And he was naked. It
was a fun pastime, but I fear this man and his tight bottom might have possessed me. I made a doctor's appointment for tomorrow to see about my moley ass. Now I'm obsessed, and keep trying to catch sight of it in the mirror like a cat chasing its tail.

Wednesday February 9th

I left work early for my doctor's appointment and after much poking and prodding he's decided to remove it, so I have to go back on Friday. Finally the obscure red thing on my bottom shall be gone. He doesn't think it's anything nasty or even interesting – which is good.

Hazel offered to come with me, but I'd have to sit and stare at her while she screws up her face and goes green at the sight of a scalpel, and quite honestly I can do without that.

BOOK: The List
10.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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