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  But later, at my physio session, I forget about Mary. I forget about the fact that I haven’t managed to put her off coming to the social club and that Andy is bound to say something to her. And that it won’t be pretty. Unlike Eleanor, who looks stunning this morning, which is most of the reason why my looming unpleasantness with Mary and Andy isn’t preying on my mind half as much as it should be.

  I’m sitting in my chair, thinking, as it happens, about what Callum said to me last time and the whole ‘is walking my ultimate goal?’ thing, when Eleanor comes over and sits down next to me.

  ‘Hey,’ she says quietly, ‘you want to go somewhere after? I’ve got a break owed to me.’

  I’d love to. Fuck. I’ve been thinking about her since we kissed on Tuesday. But this really isn’t a good time. Not with the Big Bang about to detonate. I say, ‘No. I promised Andy I’d be at the social club.’

  I should have said something else. Done the decent thing. Been good. I should have given her a ‘no’ that really meant no, a sentence with the words ‘my girlfriend’ in it. But I don’t do that, and I’ve given her a ‘no’ that means ‘maybe’.

  And as Eleanor says, ‘Next week then?’ I feel awful, and I feel great.

  Mary

  I have this thing about David’s social club. It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. I think someone there might know. Know my secret. Might know about me and David.

  Obviously, I hardly shout the reason I find him so attractive from the rooftops, and most of the time I know that the way I feel is so out-there that no one would even dream it, anyway. Not here though. Here I need to be all the more careful not to let anything slip. Because a look or a turn of phrase that would be ignored anywhere else might set alarm bells ringing here. Paranoid, moi?

  I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty certain that going out with gorgeous guys like David because of their disability, rather than some tenuous notion of ‘who they really are’, is frowned upon here. Well, frowned upon everywhere, actually.

  But I decided to come here today, because I’ve been feeling a bit distant from David these past few days. In fact, for exactly a week. Things have been, well, non-honeymoon-period-y ever since that mistake with Thomas. It’s probably only a blip, though. A little bump in the road. Inevitable, right?

  Either way, Operation Be-a-Better-Girlfriend is underway. Hindered by the fact that, for some reason, David didn’t seem that keen on me coming here today. But who knows why that would be, what with David being so moody lately.

  I arrive at the club before David and feel a bit uncomfortable, hanging around on the periphery. Actually, I feel like an interloper – as if without David’s presence I don’t have a right to be here.

  I talk to a girl I know slightly called Roberta. She’s OK, but I only know her because she hangs around a lot with this guy called Andy, who David is really tight with.

  Andy doesn’t seem to be here either, which is a shame because I really like him. Well, everyone likes Andy. He does likeable extremely well. But I take care not to like him too much, because when we first met David got a bit funny about me being so friendly with him. Actually David was jealous. He was jealous because he thought that I would go off with Andy for some kinky fun – as if I found all blokes in wheelchairs interchangeable. It’s not like that. I think I defused the situation by telling David that Andy was too old for me or something, which is kind of true, but not the whole truth. That is probably something much more intangible and slippery. But, short version, all disabled guys are not interchangeable for me and I need a lot more than just the wheelchair.

  But, having said that, it’s not like I never get any jollies at David’s social club – far from it. There was this cute blonde here one time whom I could have followed home like a salivating dog, except that, well, why would I?

  Meanwhile, my conversation with Roberta isn’t exactly sparkling. She seems to have something on her mind. Possibly Andy. Ever since I’ve started coming here Roberta has been so blatantly, desperately in love with Andy it’s unreal. No one seems to have noticed except me. I did tell David about my suspicions once and he just said he didn’t think Andy would be interested. Anyway, whatever the reason for Roberta’s slightly away-with-the-fairies demeanour, I’m very grateful when David finally cruises through the doors.

  I go over to him and give him a kiss. I want a cup of tea, but he’s already got a Coke in his hand, so I wander over to the counter on my own. When I get back with my black-no-sugar, he’s talking to Andy, who has appeared from somewhere. They seem to be arguing about something.

  A few short steps later and I’ve overheard enough to realise that they are arguing about me.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve brought her here,’ Andy is hissing, loud enough for it to be clearly audible, and I know right away that I am ‘her’ – who else could he mean? I hang back a few paces to hear more. Neither of them has noticed me, they are too into each other.

  ‘She wanted to come. She kept on about it,’ David replies, and ouch, that hurts.

  ‘But after you found out she was –’

  ‘Don’t, Andy, we’re OK with it. It’s cool.’

  And that’s about all I can take. As I wade in I notice Roberta is next to Andy giving me super-evils. It feel like the whole room is looking at me, but I force myself to keep my nerve. ‘Found out I was what?’ I spit, my teeth and nails coming out, my hair bristling. Of course I know what. I know what this is. This is the thing I was most scared of. This is the place where I always knew it would come out. And somehow, right in the moment, while this is happening, I also realise that I always knew it would be Andy who unmasked me.

  And it’s Andy who is squaring up to me right now. Even in his wheelchair he’s a big guy and an imposing sight with his chest puffed out and his hackles set to stun.

  ‘Found out what you were. What you want him for.’

  ‘Which is what exactly?’

  Andy looks at me. His expression changes. He starts off kind of angry, but then, scant seconds later, he just looks sad. ‘How could you?’ he says, quite calmly. ‘He’s such a lovely guy. Why can’t you just leave him alone?’

  I wish I could explain things to Andy. I wish I could make him understand what our relationship is like. In fact, what I truly wish is that this showdown had happened a week ago, when things with David were so blissful and ecstatic, because now things are sliding and I almost feel like Andy’s words are a death knell. However, even if that is the case, there is no way I am letting him have the satisfaction of knowing that.

  ‘Well, if that’s what you think, why don’t you ask him if he wants me to leave him alone? Actually, it’s him who won’t leave me alone.’ I spit out the words, wanting to sound as angry as I feel.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Roberta, who is folding her arms and looking weirdly at me. She probably thinks I fancy Andy – her Andy – because, obviously, I can’t wait to jump any man in a wheelchair. And she can fuck right off if she thinks I’m going to defend myself on that one, because I’m so not explaining that to anyone right now. How can I? I can’t even explain it to myself.

  But tough as I might be talking, there’s a nasty lump forming at the back of my throat. I can feel it getting larger, making it harder and harder to talk, until I realise that if I don’t stop having this conversation pretty damn quickly I am going to cry. ‘Ask him, then.’ I say quickly, as my voice starts to sound a bit weird. ‘Ask him if wants me to leave him alone.’

  And I know that if David doesn’t back me up right now, I am out of here without him. No choice.

  ‘OK,’ says Andy. ‘David?’

  ‘What?’ says David, as if he hasn’t been a part of the conversation.

  ‘Do you want her to leave you alone?’ says Andy, rolling his eyes as he speaks, clearly as infuriated as I am by David’s deliberate dumb insolence.

  ‘Um.’ David bites his lip. ‘Um, shit, Andy, do we have to do this?’

  Andy cocks his head in my direction
. ‘Her idea.’

  ‘Fuck, David,’ I say. Roberta snorts. Which makes me realise: I bet she’d love to. Fuck David, that is. Hell, how come I’m getting all the heat when, if anything, Roberta is the one who’s got her tongue hanging out for every guy round here who’s in a wheelchair?

  ‘Oh god,’ says David, so pissed off I can smell it. ‘This is fucking stupid. I love Mary, you dumbass. I. Love. Her. Of course I want to be with her. And she always told me what she likes about me, that I’m in a chair, but I don’t care. That isn’t all she likes about me. She likes me because I’m hot. And I am. And she showed me that. I love her and I love having sex with her.’

  And, oh my god, my heart just soars. I never saw that coming.

  I must be super buoyed up by this vote of confidence because then, as David says, ‘And I love having sex with her,’ I butt in with, ‘And I’m going to go out to his car with him right now and have sex with him.’ And as I turn to go I take David with me, pushing him in his chair, which feels weird and wrong, because I have never pushed him before when he wasn’t tied up, but I’m so fired up I have to do this fast.

  When we get outside I don’t know whether we are going to have sex in his car. It’s not something we’ve ever done before. I’m not a spontaneous sex person. I’ve got nothing against it – I’m in favour of most sex – but, personally, my heart belongs to pre-planned, equipment-heavy, fully choreographed stuff. However, this might be an important exception.

  Then David the mind-reader says, ‘We’d better, you know, they might be watching.’

  David

  I’m not one for over-analysing things, but I have to say, after one of the weirdest conversations of my life: what the hell was all that about?

  I mean, really, what did they expect me to say, Andy, Mary et al.? Of course I don’t want Mary to leave me, or to leave me alone. Am I so pathetic that I’d let some perverted woman have sex with me even though I wished she wouldn’t? I thought Andy knew me better than that.

  God, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut about the whole thing, but at least it looks like I’m going to get some sex, which is always nice.

  I get in the back of the car, sliding my way across the seat. I take a guess that Mary’s never had sex in a car before – she isn’t the rough-and-ready type. Well, here, finally, is a domain where I can take the lead, because I have done this once or twice before, so at least I know which door of the car to open.

  Mary catches on quick and dismantles my abandoned chair super fast, like she’s on The Krypton Factor, before slamming it in the boot. Then she climbs in on top of me. Her weight pins me down on the seat. She’s straddling me and I can’t move an inch. As she bends her head to press her mouth against mine, I feel hot and dirty. That kiss with Eleanor flashes into my mind. I’ve been such a bad boy. I need to be treated like a bad boy.

  But luckily Mary always treats me like that anyway.

  Mary

  ‘Bad boy,’ I whisper in David’s ear after I’ve done with kissing him. I can feel him squirming underneath me. For a back-seat-of-the-car quickie this is feeling rather good. I like it. I’ve got David pretty much trapped beneath me, panting and wanting in a way that makes me burn and catch my breath.

  And I find myself heading back from his ear to his mouth, like the hopeless addict I am. He tastes of Coca-Cola, like he often does, fizzy and sour-sweet.

  Next, his tongue is in my mouth, soft yet firm. I love his tongue. I know he worries about his cock sometimes and complains it isn’t the permanent bar of steel it was before his accident (although I’ve never known it to be a problem), but he more than makes up for it with his tongue’s expertise. And he’s making me crave his tongue right now, the way he’s swooping and dipping around my mouth.

  With some difficulty I stop kissing him and shuffle up his body. As I shift and twist against the car roof, he smirks at me from his sexily supine position across the backseat. I know just how to wipe that smile off his face. I replace it with, well, I replace it with me!

  It’s a very precarious position I end up in. I have to support myself against the window. I’m so uncomfortable that for a moment I can’t believe I am ever going to get off like this. But then I feel his tongue on me, lazy and yet urgent, and I realise that all this contortionism is so worth it. I can feel his breath too, dancing round his tongue, desperate gasps, as I all but smother him.

  I squirm, carefully, trying to find positions that make me gasp even more. David hasn’t got much manoeuvrability, so it’s up to me to provide the movement, sliding over him, using him, using his face, like a sex toy.

  Objectifying David like this – it’s too good. It doesn’t take me long to stop thinking about anything outside the world of the car. And then I can’t think about anything except the quickest route to my orgasm.

  I can hear David undoing the zip of his fly and then the slightest but most gorgeous tell-tale noises as he starts to play with his cock. I wonder what it is about this that is turning him on so much he has to touch himself. The fact that he can’t move, that he can’t breathe anything except me, that he is having his face fucked as if he is an inanimate object? With David, it could be any or all of these.

  These thoughts are driving me on. Driving me on so fast that I’m pushing myself against David again and again, riding his mouth, slamming into him, drowning him. I can hear his hand start to move faster. The more I get into it the more he does. Lifting us both up. Him – me – him – me. Pushing us both higher and higher, as each of us gets turned on by the other’s obvious arousal. Him by the way I am using him, me by the way he is loving being used.

  But when I come – and it isn’t long – I feel a tiny sad feeling, just the tip of the edge of a feeling, but definitely there. The feeling of regret that my relationship is dying. And although the sex is still good – still great, even – that’s not going to be enough to keep it alive. In fact, the great sex just makes the whole bittersweet thing so much more bitter, so much less sweet, because I am losing something that I am truly going to miss.

  I look over towards the hospital. Maybe I am looking to see if any of my detractors from the social club have come out to watch us. There’s no one I recognise, but there is someone. A tall blonde woman in a plain white uniform is standing by one of the fire exits. She’s quite a long way away, but she’s definitely looking at us.

  David

  I don’t know where I am with Mary any more. She seems quieter, almost pissed off, but I don’t know why. I guess it must be because she knows it was me who told Andy she was a devo. I haven’t admitted it, but she’s probably worked it out for herself. Actually, we haven’t talked about what happened at the social club. We aren’t really talking at all now. We’re drifting.

  After the showdown at the social club we drift through the next four days or so in a weird sort of stupor. We eat and watch TV and fuck, and we find a million other ways not to talk.

  Unsurprisingly, when I next leave for physio, Mary doesn’t say anything about coming along to the social club.

  Which is no excuse for the next terrible thing I do. I’m not trying to make excuses for anything. But, then again, I’m not saying this is all my fault. This all started when Mary brought Thomas home. Let us not forget who took something that was going great and started meddling.

  Let’s just say there are – and continue to be – faults on both sides with this whole stupid thing. And by the whole stupid thing I don’t just mean the stupid, humiliating mess that ensued when she brought Thomas home, but also the weird coolness that has grown between us ever since (continued great sex notwithstanding) and only been fed even more by all the crap at the social club.

  But, regarding this next great blow to our relationship, well, yeah, this one is all my fault.

  All I can say is that Mary and I are at our lowest point since we met. And I’m at physio. And Eleanor is there. Which, as I said, is no excuse, but think of this as merely a list of the various events that led up to Eleanor and me ha
ving sex in the cavernous disabled toilet just behind the gym at physio.

  But it’s just, I don’t know, I think I just want things to be simpler. Cleaner. And Eleanor is in every way simpler than Mary. What she wants from me is simpler. The reason she wants me is simpler. Let’s face it, she’s just simpler.

  One of the things that surprised me, when I first became eligible to use disabled toilets, is how much nicer they are than the regular kind. After twenty-four years of using public toilets that were like, well, like public toilets, disabled toilets came as something of a revelation. Most of them are airy, spacious and sparkling clean, and to top it all some of them even have beds.

  Well, maybe they aren’t beds exactly, more like low-slung hammocky things, but they’re as big as a reasonable single bed. I think they’re meant for people with much more serious disabilities than mine. People who have to deal with incontinence and are disabled enough to need assistants to help them while they lie down on the hammocky things. At least, I assume that’s what they are for. They can’t be intended to make disabled toilets into shag palaces, unless someone other than Mary is really keen to see cripples getting some.

  Seriously, once you get your mitts on a RADAR key, you have access to a network of pretty nifty impromptu love dens. I mean, this doesn’t exactly make up for all the difficulties and inconvenience caused by, say, not being able to get into a nightclub ever again, but it comes in useful if one is embarking on a new career as a faithless slut, as I appear to be.

  I’m lying on the bed-type thing. My jeans are on the floor. I’m sprawled, stretched out in my white T-shirt and white underpants and I feel great. I feel hot. I feel really sexy. I’ve seen Mary looking down at me when I’m in this position and state of undress, with pure lust lighting her eyes. I know this is a good look.