“Exactly,” I say. “It’s literally just for the next two weekends and then we can go back to being hostile work colleagues.”
“Or maybe you can make a friend out of him?”
Part of me leaps to agree with Aisha. What would be so terrible in having Charlie as a friend? Our brief chat yesterday suggested he’s not as annoying as he originally seemed. But then I think about the pitch we need to work on, the pitch I need to be better at delivering than him in order to get the project lead I truly deserve and a shot at the Creative Director role.
“I don’t go to work to make friends,” I tell my sister.
“God forbid,” Aisha mutters. “Okay, I have to go and stop Nick from inviting everyone on his pub league football team, plus their wives, girlfriends, children and pets, to our wedding.”
“Sounds so much fun. I’m sorry to miss out on it.” I amp up the sarcasm.
“Ah, but you see afterwards I get to take a nice and long hot shower…”
“Fuck you,” I snarl.
“Love you too,” Aisha replies and then she hangs up.
I throw the phone on my bed and my eyes travel to the three items I’d been holding when my sister called. Three items I’ve been putting off throwing away but I finally feel ready. I scoop them up again and walk to the other side of the room which has a bank of kitchen units on the far wall. Standing in front of the bin, I move my hands as if weighing the three silicone dildos and find myself feeling something I haven’t really felt since Hannah and I split up.
Horny.
God, I love wearing a strap. I love fucking. I love making someone squirm and wriggle and whimper in pleasure. I love the power it gives me. I love the joy it brings others. I love how it makes me feel so captivatingly and, perversely, feminine.
I sigh. Loudly.
These dildos were good to me. They were even better to Hannah, it has to be said, as I bought them especially for her, but still, they also brought me a lot of smiles, orgasms and good times.
But those times, they’re over now. My smiles are harder to come by, my strapping days are even more distant, and apart from the rushed perfunctory climaxes I give myself when it all gets too much, my orgasms are not readily available things either. That’s why they have to go.
I drop the silicone cocks in the bin and huff out a bitter laugh at the thud they make when they land on top of the rest of my rubbish.
An unexpectedly hopeful part of me pops up, reminding myself that I can now have fun rediscovering old ones in my collection or even buying new ones, or maybe I can wait to shop for them with my next girlfriend, but the rest of me, which happens to be the very opposite of hopeful, is quick to rebuke my optimism.
No more silicone cocks. No more girlfriends. Not for a long time. It only ends in stress and stress means migraine attacks and migraine attacks mean I can’t do my job. Migraine attacks mean I can’t do anything.
No, it’s best to focus on getting through this week, starting with tomorrow and this ridiculous pretend date arrangement for Charlie. But I’m not going just as a favour to him. No, I’m not that nice, not at all. My main motive for going is so I can talk to him and help him see reason that I should be the project lead on Status. He’s done it several times before, but I haven’t and it’s been nearly two years since I was promoted. It’s starting to look weird that I haven’t been made a lead yet. Maybe if I can talk to him some more tomorrow night, explain how much better suited I am to this role, he’ll also start to see how much it means to me and perhaps how comparatively little it matters to him.
As if he knows I’m thinking about him, my phone pings and the message I’ve been waiting for arrives. The number is unfamiliar, but I know instantly it’s him just from the sheer length of the message and the first seven words.
I read through the message twice, taking copious breaks to roll my eyes or tut and then I type back a quickand then throw my phone back on my bed.
An hour later, I’ve had some dinner, tidied up afterwards and I’m sat on my bed wrapped up in a towel, shaking and shivering after yet another ice-cold shower. Deborah Harry is doing figures of eight around my feet, probably her vain attempt to distract me or to cheer me up but it’s going to take more than that. I’m too busy moaning about it to myself, muttering countless expletives and then tsking myself because I’m getting stressed and stress is what causes migraine attacks and I don’t have time for that right now and… my phone buzzes. I pick it up and mutter another few curse words when I see who it’s from.
Annoying. So fucking annoying.
I throw my phone away to the side, quickly change into my pyjamas, fix my Cefaly TENS device onto my forehead and then find my sketchpad and pens. I settle into my bed, pat a spot on the duvet next to me, beckoning Deborah Harry who curls up contentedly at my side, and then I start to move my pen. I sketch and doodle and draw and try to escape the best way I know how.
Chapter Four
My Mama Said
Charlie
“Are you sure she’s going to be here?” My mother, once again, is the voice of my inner demons.
