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Toby’s face is a mask of horror. ‘You’re not suggesting what I think you are?’
‘Have you got a better idea?’ I ask him. ‘Believe me, this is not my idea of fun, and I’ve tried to think of an alternative, but I can’t see one.’
I can see him going through the same mental exercises that I’ve just been through, and drawing a similar blank. His voice, when he speaks, is barely above a whisper.
‘So, how do we do this?’
I’ve been using his processing time to consider just this question, so I’m ready for it.
‘When I was at university, one of the girls I shared a house with was studying Psychology,’ I tell him. ‘Bear with me – there is a point to this. One evening we were talking about phobias, because I was terrified of spiders, and she explained to me that there were essentially two ways to confront them: systematic desensitisation and flooding.’
‘Go on.’ I think he realises I’m playing for time. I suspect he is, too.
‘Systematic desensitisation works by building you up slowly. You might start by looking at pictures of spiders in books, then move on to maybe handling a Perspex cube with a dead spider inside it, then a cube with a live spider inside it, and so on. It’s a series of tiny steps; once your anxiety decreases enough at each step, you move to the next, until you’re able to have tarantulas wandering over your hands without even breaking a sweat.’
‘I get that,’ he says, ‘and the other one?’
‘Flooding is the opposite. Have you ever seenI’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘OK, never mind, it was just a good illustration. Flooding is essentially ripping the Band-Aid off. By forcing you to confront your phobia at an extreme level, dealing with it at a normal level seems like a walk in the park. So, with the spider example, instead of the slowly, slowly approach, you might be shut in a room with thousands of spiders of all shapes and sizes. Or, if you’re scared of heights, you might have to jump out of a plane. After that, assuming the stress hasn’t killed you, a single spider or a ladder doesn’t seem so scary. On the TV show the celebrities can win food and stuff by being locked in small spaces and having thousands of creepy-crawlies dumped on them, or rats crawling over them. That would definitely count as flooding if you’re phobic about creepy-crawlies.’
‘How does that apply to us?’
‘Well, if we went down the systematic desensitisation route then we’d each have to remove one piece of clothing at a time and wait until we were comfortable before moving on. Besides feeling like a really weird game of strip poker, which is a game I hate by the way, it would take hours and I want to get on with some work.’
‘So you want to go down the flooding route, I assume.’
‘Exactly. I propose that what we do is stand back to back, take everything off and then, when we’re ready, we turn around and face each other. Once we’re comfortable seeing each other naked, we get dressed and it’s done. What do you think?’
‘Are you sure this is the only way?’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
‘No.’
‘Well then. Come on, let’s get it over with.’
Suddenly, Toby bursts out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask him, bemused.
‘Are you always this romantic?’ he asks.
‘Oh, shut up and get your kit off!’
We dutifully turn away from each other as if we’re preparing to fight a duel. I feel incredibly self-conscious as I remove my fleece, salopettes and vest. I can hear Toby rustling behind me, and I hope furiously that he’s doing the same, and I’m not going to turn around and find him still fully clothed. I don’t think I could bear the embarrassment. It takes all my will to remove my bra and step out of my knickers. I make sure I place them very close to me on the floor so I can put them on quickly when this ridiculous exercise is over. Finally, I remove my socks.
‘I’m ready,’ I say.
‘Give me a couple of seconds.’ I hear some more rustling of cloth before he says, ‘OK. I’m ready too.’
‘On the count of three then. One… two…’ my heart is in my mouth as I start to turn, and I can feel myself blushing furiously ‘…three.’
My first feeling is relief. Toby is as naked as I am, and also has high colour in his face. We stand there for what seems like an age, but our embarrassment only seems to be getting worse. Although I’m trying to focus on his chest, which is surprisingly masculine and has just the right dusting of hair, I’m acutely aware of his penis. There’s nothing unusual about it, it’s a perfectly average penis, it’s just that I never expected to find myself standing in a room being confronted by it. I wonder what parts of me he’s focusing on. My B-cup boobs are perhaps on the small side, but I don’t mind that. At least they won’t give me backache or drag along the floor when I’m older. I’m also not a fan of extreme pubic topiary – no Brazilian or Hollywood waxes for me, thanks – but I do keep things neat and tidy down there. I don’t think any of that will be of any interest to Toby though.
‘Maybe we should each do a pirouette,’ I suggest, after what feels like forever, but is probably no more than a minute or so, ‘and then we could start getting dressed again?’
