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  God, Eleanor! I don’t think I could even get it up for her now, even though I have the most fantastic it’s-not-you-it’s-me excuse, in that I’m a poor disabled boy and since my accident my cock just isn’t what it was. But I don’t want to go down that road with Eleanor. She’d probably put me on an intensive exercise and therapy programme for my cock. And I can’t help thinking that that wouldn’t be as much fun as it might sound to someone like, say, Larry.

  Mary

  Carrie, all is forgiven. I feel like such a bitch for all the bad things I’ve ever thought about her in the past, because actually she is really nice. Maybe she is one of those people who come out of themselves in a crisis. And this is a crisis, after all, with the emphasis on ‘cry’.

  After my blubfest on the sofa on Friday night, she has been nothing short of an angel, an angel bearing comfort food. She’s taken care of me for days, while I’ve sobbed and snotted all over the upholstery, calling in sick to work and existing on nothing but sleep, junk food and that reality show which was on the night I got home, and which Carrie and I are already hopelessly hooked on, only two days in.

  And now it’s Sunday and, while I’m semi-comatose in front of the Hollyoaks omnibus, Carrie’s been out and got me tissues and ice cream and huge slabs of Dairy Milk. What’s even better is she hasn’t probed me for details. Which is a really good thing, as I can’t think of a way of telling this story that makes me sound anywhere near reasonable.

  But there is one person I can talk to, who, if not exactly understanding, at least can be relied on to know what it means to be the bad guy in a relationship. Mercury is coming over for lunch.

  ‘So,’ I say, taking a steadying glug of the tea St Carrie has made me, and I launching into a prepared poor-me routine. ‘Here’s what happened, version one, I am très kinky for the boys who can’t walk. When I found one in the local library I took him home and had my wicked, wicked way. Then, after initially writing him off as a one-night-stand, I decided he was worth some more of my time, so I sought him out and shagged him senseless for a month or so, until I got bored and needed yet more disgusting kink, so I tried to get him to fuck a sort of able-bodied version of himself, but that all went wrong, and then all his disabled pals found out what I was up to, so I practically made him choose between them or me, and he chose me, and then, when I find out that he might regain his ability to walk, I totally freak out, and tell him that if he walks again I won’t be attracted to him any more. Not good, huh?’

  ‘Tut tut, indeed,’ says Mercury sarcastically, regarding his mug of tea with suspicion.

  ‘Yeah, I know, pretty damning. In my defence, though, I’d like to say that it’s not what it looks like. Really. I did do all those things, but, well, it wasn’t really like that. And I know it might seem like we finally split because I couldn’t handle the fact he might walk again. Which would make that bloody bastard Andy right – that I am evil and just after David for his disability. But the thing is, he was only interested in me because of his disability. He would never have gone for someone like me. Someone older. Someone without the required long flippy hair and long flippy legs.’

  I pause for breath and Mercury takes the chance to point out that I do, actually, have legs. But I ignore him and plough on with the case for the defence. ‘I knew he was settling for me. He’s so good-looking, I mean fucking incredible. I’ve seen a lot of people not notice because they can’t see past the chair, but you should see old photos of him before, or how girls react when he’s driving or something and they can’t tell. Shit. And talking of photos, I’ve also seen photos of some of the girls he dated before his accident and they all look like bloody supermodels, for god’s sake…’

  I dry up at this point, as Mercury gives me a heavy-browed steady-on look. ‘OK, well, glamour models then, maybe not Kates or Naomis, but easily Abis. I know for certain that he wouldn’t have bothered with me if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s currently keeping his self-esteem in an old paper bag. As soon as he’s walking again – if that really is what’s going to happen – he won’t be interested in me, he’ll be back being a player. It’s not me that wouldn’t be interested if he were walking again – it’s him!’

  Mercury looses the laugh he’s been trying to suppress since I said ‘Abis’. ‘For god’s sake, darling,’ he splutters, barely intelligibly, ‘breathe.’

  I take a deep and much-needed breath.

  ‘Look, sweetie,’ Mercury continues, once he is satisfied I’m not going to asphyxiate, ‘first of all I think you’d be so much better off if you admitted that, despite your eloquent soliloquy on the subject, you are pissed off with him because he might walk again. That awkward fact has shattered some of your precious little dreams and ruined some of your smugness about finding your Mr Perfect. And that’s not a crime, you know. That’s what you like about him – the fact that he can’t walk. Besides, would it be better if you were with him but wishing and hoping for a miracle cure that would make him more normal?’

  ‘But his walking or not walking, it’s not everything.’

  Mercury shrugs. ‘No one ever said it was.’

  Then, just before Mercury starts giving me an ethically induced migraine, Carrie announces that lunch is ready. I notice that Mercury still hasn’t touched his tea and shudder inside at the thought of what he will make of her heavy-on-the-tofu, light-on-the-actually-tasting-of-anything cooking.

  David

  There’s never anything on television on a Sunday night except stupid reality shows. That’s my excuse. That’s why I’m doing this. That’s why I’m sitting in my chair. Naked.

  It’s almost a kind of revenge, because she would so love to see this.

  I’m all ready. Before I stripped off I spent ten minutes or so using the internet the way it was intended. Just me, my mouse and the directory in my bookmarks folder euphemistically marked ‘other’.

  Right now, probably because I’ve been looking at porn and thinking about Mary, my cock is burning. It’s so hard and tight and aching that it is pressed flat against my belly. Unignorable. Making its presence felt.

  I’m too eager to wait. Greedy. I touch it. Reaching down and just grazing the back of my hand along its sensitised length. Slowly. Lightly. And, oh, I want to tease this out. Make it good. Make it as good as she would. I try to control myself the way Mary would control me. Toying with myself like she would.

  But I can’t.

  I can’t wait. My hand is gripping my cock. Tight. Tighter. I’m there. Right there. Falling. Losing it.

  My tight fist moves faster.

  ‘Mary,’ I say out loud. Her face fills my mind. Just her smile is more, a million times more erotic and potent than the finest hardcore that the internet is willing to provide (at least, without a subscription). And she’s nodding her head, she’s permitting me.

  And then I come. Hard and soft and perfect.

  Now, just take that sad little scene and replay it about fifty million times and that’s my life. That’s how I spent the first month after Mary left me.

  Part Three: April

  Mary

  I’m lying on my bed watching this reality show that I seem to have become addicted to. It seems to be about which one of a group of talentless weirdos can become the most irrelevant minor celebrity.

  Right now they’re being herded into a film première, because these days everyone makes their movie selections based one how many Z-listers are interested in a free ticket.

  But don’t let that description of the show make you think I’m being scathing about it – I’m just being honest, and I honestly love this show, right now. But I’m not really watching it. I’m just pretending. And I’m pretending because watching trashy TV is rather humiliating for the person who’s kneeling naked at the end of my bed. And that humiliation is nice for both of us.

  I’m wearing these beautiful new shoes I won on eBay. David introduced me to eBay – I was a late bloomer with all things beginning with ‘e’ – but now I’m addicte
d, especially when it comes to finding delicious shoes. These ones are bottle-green with a neat T-bar strap and a big fat heel. Real Alice in Wonderland shoes. They’re also slick and shiny patent, and something about patent leather says lickable to me. Which is what Thomas is doing right now, licking my too pretty emerald slippers. It’s all too delicious. Almost as delicious as the way I’m nestled in the super-soft bedclothes wearing these perfect shoes and nothing else.

  As I watch gorgeous Thomas’s gorgeous tongue sliding over the elegant curves of my rounded toes, I do wonder just why this is so sexy. Him licking my shoes. It’s so weird, and cliché, and yet also bizarre. But it’s wonderful. That tumble of dark, messy curls, that divine sullen mouth, that red tongue and the sparkling dewy-leaf look of the leather…

  Mmm.

  But as his tongue slides over and over, and his closed-eyed expression wavers between ecstasy and something even more zoned-out, I have to tell myself that, as with so many things in my twisted life, I don’t have to understand it to love it. And, oh god, do I love it.

  My voice sounds so low and husky-dusky when I say, ‘Don’t forget the soles, baby.’

  Thomas was such an easy option for me. It was such a lazy move to replace David with his obvious heir. It took me a shamefully short time to do it too. Less than a week after David and I split.

  That Sunday, after I had had lunch with Carrie and Mercury, I managed to stagger into La Lucas and I had Thomas in my bed – well, tied to it – that night. Inevitable, really.

  Oh, it’s not pretty, and I’m not proud, but the facts were these: David and I had split, Thomas looks a lot like David, Thomas was clearly interested, available, easy and kinky. It was too easy. I am too weak. And this is the result: a rebound so fast my teeth are still rattling. It’s just for fun, of course. Thomas. It’s just a sex thing. And an I-don’t-want-to-be-on-my-own thing. On my own I might do too much thinking and end up realising what I’ve lost. Can’t have that.

  Much better this way. Less depressing. More sex.

  It took Mercury to point out the other thing. By suddenly climbing into bed with Thomas I might well be trying to show David that a fully-functioning, up-and-walking version of him was just fine by me. Maybe there’s something in that. Maybe. Or there would be, if David had any idea I was sleeping with Thomas. If David and I were even talking.

  David doesn’t return my calls. Or my texts. Or my emails. I haven’t tried going to his house. What would be the point? I get the message. Or rather, I get the complete lack of messages.

  ‘You know what I’d like to do now?’ Thomas says, when I finally tell him my shoes are clean enough.

  ‘No, I don’t, but I’d really like to know.’ And I really would too, because over the last few weeks I’ve discovered that Thomas is full of wonderful surprises.

  ‘Well, you know I told you I thought I might be bisexual, ages ago, outside the restaurant one time.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sit up a little, suddenly even more interested.

  ‘Well, I don’t think I am.’

  ‘Oh, Thomas.’ I deflate like a balloon. ‘I thought you were going to tell me something nice.’ I make a comical pout. ‘You got me all interested and everything.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Thomas dips his head. I don’t know if anyone else in the world can manage to do a coy look that lights up the room, other than Thomas. Well, maybe just him and Princess Di.

  I’m not really cross with Thomas, I’m mostly feigning. Sure, Thomas’s revelation that he isn’t bi after all is a little disappointing, but now I don’t have a beautiful warped reflection to pair him with, Thomas’s tastes in that direction are meaningless.

  ‘Well, actually,’ Thomas goes on, still giving me that princessy smoulder, ‘I don’t think that fact should spoil any of your dirty plans – if you still have them – because I think I might still get off on being told to do it with a guy for you. Um …’ He stops talking and squirms a bit against me. Funny boy. He just can’t hide a thing. I can’t believe I ever thought of him as some kind of unattainable sex god.

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ I say with a laugh, and then, when Thomas doesn’t say anything more, I prompt him. ‘I think you were going to tell me what you’d like to do.’

  ‘Oh yes, well, you know what I think it might be? What I want, you know. What made me think I might be bisexual,’ he says, still so ridiculously bright and upbeat. I can’t help comparing him to David, who would do anything to avoid having to admit liking anything even remotely deviant. Even though David’s hidden kinks, I’m willing to bet, would make poor Thomas look like Julie Andrews.

  But I shouldn’t compare Thomas to David (or to Julie Andrews). And I certainly shouldn’t keep thinking about how much Thomas looks like David and how if I half close my eyes…

  I’ve done a few things with Thomas that I maybe shouldn’t have. I’ve tied him to a dining chair and taunted him. I’ve tied his legs together and made him drag himself across the floor, naked. I’ve climbed on top of him and called him David.

  After what happened the night I took him home and he freaked at the sight of David in his chair, I did wonder if this would be OK with him, but I’ve got away with it so far. I’ve said before that Thomas isn’t the sharpest of knives, so maybe he never made the connection.

  But the Thomas freakage-factor is probably why I’ve decided to draw the line at getting him to sit in an actual wheelchair.

  Or maybe the real reason I’ve done that is just more basic. More obvious. Maybe I couldn’t take the sight of Thomas sitting in a wheelchair. After all, the whole point of this diversion with Thomas is that I don’t want it to make me think about David. Well, no more than is inevitable. I might have to face the fact that I am going to think about David, at least a little bit, every time I have sex for the rest of my life.

  I’ve moved on now, anyhow. Well, I’ve realised that there is more to Thomas than using him to fill the David-shaped hole in my life. There’s a lot Thomas isn’t – like clever – but for now I’m quite happy to waste time concentrating on what Thomas is – like pretty.

  Oh, and full of ideas and enthusiasm. ‘I think I’d really like to dress up. You know, in clothes. Do you have any clothes?’

  I chuckle and the expression on his face tells me he has no idea why I am amused. ‘Of course I have clothes. What sort of clothes do you mean?’

  Thomas’s voice is bright as ever. ‘Kind of slutty clothes.’

  ‘Women’s clothes?’

  ‘Yeah, slutty women’s clothes.’

  Weird thing is, I might not be able to help him here. Despite being an active pursuer of the naughty, the kinky and the bad, I don’t really wear the uniform. I’ve never done the leather catsuit thing – it’s always seemed a bit, well, a bit trying too hard. And show me head-to-toe PVC on a non-anorexic woman and I’ll show you a decent impression of a giant slug propped on its end. I prefer the idiosyncratic and the interesting to the I’m-so-sexy-it’s-actually-painful look. I’m not saying I couldn’t do that streetwalker look if I wanted to. I just don’t want to.

  I don’t mind looking like a student. Or even like someone who used to work in PR. But I don’t want to look like a whore, even in private – especially in private. I like to look quirky. Even behind closed doors. I hate the clichés. A very good example of the slightly off-beat look I like to work is my old faithful – David’s fave – my cherry-print dress, or my navy-blue T-shirt with the Strawberry transfer, or indeed my glistening peacock-glacé shoes. I seem to have a pretty good and kinked-out sex life wearing nothing more exotic than my fancy footwear and nothing else.

  OK, it could be said that I have a bit of a shoe thing. I do occasionally feel the urge to be something of a bitch goddess, but it’s strictly from the ankles down – or, once in a blue moon, the knees down.

  So I probably don’t have the kink-o-meter-turned-up-to-eleven wardrobe that young Thomas and his fevered imaginings might be hoping for, but I try and make the best of things. Because the truth is tha
t I am a verrry kinky woman who owns five almost identical pairs of double-dyed jeans and not a single black PVC miniskirt. More than one man in my life has been seriously disappointed by that fact before now. I hope Thomas isn’t going to add his name to that list.

  ‘I don’t know if I exactly have “slutty women’s clothes”,’ I say, ‘but I might have something that will make you look suitably nasty. Have a look.’ And I point at the large and largely crappy came-with-the-flat wardrobe. Some student places these days are decked out from cellar to loft in brand-new IKEA stuff, but Carrie’s place, including the room she sublets to me, is rather more traditional – everything looks like it only made its way here after someone else had thrown it away. Kind of a step down from shabby-chic. Skip-chic, maybe.

  But the old wardrobe is pretty vast, which means Thomas (once I have freed him from his handcuffs) all but disappears inside, in his hunt for sartorial treasures.

  When he emerges he’s done very, very well. His take on cross-dressing is decidedly more preening-peacock than Frank-n-Furter. Male, yet decorated. Pretty, pretty. Pretty boy.

  Around his hips he’s tied a silky fringed scarf which shimmers with iridescent colours – royal blue, gold, mauve and lots of vivid sea-green. The glossy fabric emphasises his slim hips and neat little bum. He’s knotted it very high and tight on one side, so it’s like a brutally skimpy miniskirt. It also looks incredible.

  He’s teamed it with a satin camisole, also bluey-green and trimmed with cream-coloured lace. It’s a sweet little thing that I’d almost forgotten I had. (And I never realised it matched that scarf so well.) There’s something very thrilling about the way a whisper of his chest hair is protruding over the top of the camisole’s neckline. A precious and fucked-up contrast, reminding me exactly what I’m looking at.