Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (2 page)

I love you with all my heart, baby.

Nick.

Jamie’s Blog

Sunday 9 January

Oh God, her breath smells like the gates of Hell have opened…

This was the first thought that went through my mind when I met Isobel outside the local JD
Wetherspoons
on Thursday night.

The second was that I would be killing Jackie the moment I stepped into the office on Monday morning.

‘Oh, you should meet my friend Isobel,’ the evil, lying harridan had said over the coffee machine a couple of weeks ago. ‘She’s a lovely girl. I think you two will really get on!’

…and like an idiot I’d believed her.

Jackie has a reputation for being sickeningly positive and upbeat about almost everything, so I should have known her assessment of Isobel’s character would be
way
off the mark.

I chose to ignore my gut instincts however.

I’ve been single for two years now - and in those trying circumstances desperation trumps common sense every time.

Frankly, Jackie could have told me Isobel’s vagina was like a bear trap and I would have still considered going on a blind date with her.

Despite her being the oral harbinger of the apocalypse, I decide to give Isobel a chance – providing I can find a seat downwind of her.

The horrendous breath is palpable from a good foot away, so the kiss on the cheek by way of greeting is a bad idea - it brings me close to the Gates of Hades. I hold my breath though and escape relatively unscathed.

Isobel isn’t entirely unattractive, though her mousey brown hair is scraped back into a pony tail so tight it acts like a DIY facelift.

Her boobs look quite nice, peeking out as they do from a
Wonderbra
that’s at least a size too small for her.

The black blouse she’s also elected to wear is too frilly, and the maroon knee length skirt doesn’t do much for her square arse, but it’s either an hour in the pub with her - or back to my flat for some more lonely masturbation and barbecue flavour Pringles.

I open the pub door with a sigh of resignation and wait for her to go in.

‘
Fanks
very much. Ain’t you a gentleman?’ Isobel says, her bad breath apparently strong enough to render her unable to pronounce Ts and Hs.

‘My pleasure,’ I reply, forcing a smile.

I can’t help but look at her square arse with a degree of despondency as she walks ahead of me towards the bar.

‘What would you like to drink?’ I ask when we get there, hoping she’ll order a pint of Listerine.

‘Double vodka and Red Bull, please mate.’

Good grief.

Five minutes later sees Jamie Newman and his lovely blind date ensconced in one of the ratty looking booths that run along the back wall of the pub.

Some may believe that Thursday is the new Friday, but none of them are frequenting this place tonight. It’s deader than Elvis in here.

Breath monster and I are the only customers, save a wizened old man in a green cagoule nursing half a bitter at the bar, and two fat lads of indeterminate age huddled around the fruit machine, inserting their Job Seeker’s Allowance into it with an eagerness that represents a real triumph of mindless optimism over cold, hard reality.

‘Jacks says you do journalism stuff,’ Isobel remarks, swigging her drink.

‘Um… yes. Kind of.’

I’m actually a freelance public relations consultant and copywriter, currently working with a local newspaper on re-branding their image, but trying to explain the difference to Isobel would have required a flip chart and the patience of Job, so I just leave it there. ‘Jackie says you’re a hairdresser.’

‘That’s right. Got my own business, haven’t I?’

I bet it’s called Curl Up ‘N Dye.

‘It’s called A Cut Above!’

Damn
.

‘I’m
doin
’ really well.
Loadsa
customers these days. Taking a week off next month for some
holibobs
in
Menorca
.’

Kill me.

Kill me now.

‘Aah… that’s lovely,’ I say, taking a large gulp of lukewarm Stella
Artois
.

‘You going on ‘
oliday
anywhere, Jake?’

‘Jamie,’ I correct. ‘Maybe. I’ve got some friends in
Canada
I was thinking of visiting later in the year if I get the chance.’

‘Never really thought nothing about
Canada
,’ Isobel says, mangling her double negatives for all she’s worth. ‘I know they speak French.’ She pauses, head cocked to one side. ‘Is
Canada
near
France
then?’

Oh my, yes. Jackie was going to get it in the neck and no mistake…

Speaking of mistakes, I probably made a big one by having sex with Isobel that night, I’ll freely admit.

However, the above was only the first of
many
large gulps of lukewarm beer I had that evening, in an attempt to fight off the slide into crippling depression.

…and we all know that too much alcohol can rapidly escalate a situation from quite bad to absolutely dreadful in no time at all.

By the time Isobel is telling me all about how her brother has just been released from jail - having served a six month stretch for a burglary that ‘
them bastard coppers fitted him up for’
– I’m halfway through pint number five and her arse is looking a lot less square.

By pint seven I’ve got my hand on her thigh and she’s massaging my genitals under the table.

I say massaging…
kneading
is more accurate.

If Isobel ever wants to trade A Cut Above for a bread shop she already has the skills and technique down to a tee.

Still, it’s making me hard - which just goes to show that when you haven’t had sex for two years, having your genitals squeezed like a pound of dough is not necessarily a barrier to sexual excitement.

‘Put your hand up my skirt,’ she whispers in my ear.

I drunkenly oblige, shoving my arm between her legs with all the grace and sophistication you’d expect from a man way past the legal limit.

I manage to get my little finger caught in her suspender, which bends it back painfully and causes me to simultaneously stab her in the vagina with my thumb.

This doesn’t appear to bother Isobel in the slightest.

In fact, she leers at me like a sex offender and moves in for a kiss. One of her hands crushes my testicles in a death grip, while the other one wraps itself around my forearm, keeping my hand exactly where she wants it - hovering over her growler.

I’m very proud to say I didn’t vomit.

Not even as my nose is assailed by a blast of horror breath emanating from her mouth - now delightfully laced with the aroma of seven double vodka and Red Bulls.

Her tongue goes down my throat in an apparent attempt to lick my kidneys.

I feel like John Hurt in Alien.

After thirty seconds that lasts two hours, Isobel lets me come up for air and I make every effort not to gag.

As far as I’m concerned this is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me, but I look down to find that my battered penis completely disagrees and wants more.

Isobel locks her face round mine again and unzips my fly in an expert piece of multi-tasking that must have come from years of practise. Her long fingernails snake into my trousers and find purchase.

This change in tactic and grip allows me to remove my arm from the moist sex cauldron lying underneath her skirt.

I break away from the stomach-churning kiss to grab what’s left of my seventh pint - and drain the bastard in one go, trying to fight back tears of shame as I do.

‘I want to screw you,’ Isobel gurgles into my ear.

Do you really?
I hadn’t realised… what with you more or less jerking me off in public, and your skirt pulled up high enough for me to see the
Poundland
thong you’re wearing
.

‘Okay,’ I mumble back, deathly afraid I’m about to ejaculate over her hand – thus ruining the hideous plans she no doubt has in store for me back at the flesh palace she calls home.

One short but traumatic taxi ride later I’m surprised to find that the flesh palace is actually a rather neat three bedroom semi-detached in an area of town where the drug dealers have the good grace to conduct their business indoors.

‘Me
mam’s
place,’ Isobel explains. ‘I’m only
livin
’ here until the divorce is finalised.’

I really am going to kill Jackie...

Isobel’s mum is out, thank God. If she’s anything like her daughter I’d have found myself being double-teamed into an early grave.

The front door is barely closed before Isobel is on her knees and unzipping my trousers again. She whips out my abused penis - which by now is beginning to resemble a caveman’s club.

The experience that follows can be accurately recreated by any man who might be reading this. If you’re a woman you’ll just have to use your imagination.

Simply find the nearest Henry Hoover, turn it on and stick your John Thomas in the hose.

If you can find a yak nearby that’s trying to clear a particularly large hairball, you’ll get the aural effect as well.

I wasn’t complaining though. Not out loud, at least.

This is the first blow job I’ve had in two years - since my ex-fiancé Carla decided her boss was a better prospect for healthy children and a balanced bank account, and promptly left me.

…Carla could never manage to get both my testicles in her mouth, it should be noted. Isobel is quite the talented lass.

She eventually stops her impression of a performing seal and stands up with a look of such animal aggression in her eyes, I regret not telling my loved ones where I was going that evening.

‘Upstairs big boy,’ she orders. ‘You’re gonna eat me.’

I trust she means that she wants me to perform cunnilingus on her – and not that she wants me to engage in cannibalism. I can’t be a hundred percent sure either way though…