Read Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Online
Authors: Nick Spalding
Isobel pulls me up the stairs by my belt, my penis waggling around merrily as we approach her bedroom.
On the door is one of those children’s name plaques. ‘Isobel’ is written on it in bubblegum pink and a couple of tutu clad fairies squat at either end, gormless smiles on their cherubic faces.
It hits me that I’m about to have carnal knowledge of a sexually belligerent divorcee in her childhood hideaway.
Once we get in the room, Isobel pulls her skirt down in a flash, her square arse exposed for me to see and (sort of) enjoy.
Her blouse is next, revealing those attractive breasts we spoke about earlier.
Focus on the boobs, Jamie,
I tell myself.
That’ll get you through this.
Isobel lies on the bed, spreads her legs and pulls her
Poundland
thong to one side. ‘Get to work,’ she demands.
Even my penis is starting to have doubts about this whole debacle now and is beginning to lose its happy mood.
Still, I’ve come this far, so I do indeed ‘get to work’ as best I can.
Thankfully Isobel’s lack of hygiene is only an oral issue - otherwise the seven pints I’ve consumed would probably be making a triumphant encore appearance right about now.
Isobel grabs me by both ears and pulls my head in so hard it’s like childbirth in reverse.
As I lap like an arthritic dog trying to satisfy Isobel’s desires as best I can, I’m painfully aware that I have to insert my currently flaccid penis into her at some point in the very near future.
The scene now looks so pathetic from an objective point of view it’s enough to make a grown man cry: Me squatting on the floor at the side of Isobel’s single bed, performing drunk oral sex on her and mindlessly flogging my penis in a last ditch attempt to get it hard enough to penetrate the hairdressing sex fiend; Isobel with her legs locked around my neck, her head thrown back in an orgiastic display of carnal delight.
‘Do me now!’ she screeches like a hyper-active drill sergeant.
‘Okay!’ I cry subserviently and stand up, still beating myself off like a man possessed.
Luckily I’m just about upstanding enough to enter Isobel’s dark domain.
This is like chucking a chipolata up the
Blackwall
Tunnel.
I don’t know who Isobel’s soon to be ex-husband is, but there must be horse DNA in his genetic code.
Despite my lack of girth and malfunctioning erectile tissue, Isobel seems to be enjoying herself immensely and starts spouting such filth from her mouth it makes me wish I’d brought a crucifix.
‘Oh yes… ram that hot pussy, you horny bastard!’
Yes ma’am! Please don’t hit me!
‘You feel massive!’
I’m pretty sure I don’t love, but thanks for the vote of confidence.
‘Bury me, you bastard. Bury me!’
With a stake through your heart and some holy water? No problem!
‘Cum all over my face! I want it in my mouth!’
Which might explain the awful breath, I suppose.
All I want to do now is arrive… then leave.
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to escape this
sexcapade
from hell and retreat to the safety and sanctity of my one bedroom house. In my thirty one years on this planet, I’ve never felt so completely helpless.
Isobel suddenly stops bucking and thrashing like a landed turbot and stares me right in the eye. ‘I’m done. Pull out and finish over me.’
I once read that the universe is a place of diametric opposites: Good
vs
evil, light
vs
darkness, love
vs
hate… and so on and so forth. If there is a place in the universe that is the epitome of love, romance and passion… then this woman’s bedroom on a Thursday evening in January is surely at the absolute other end.
Isobel opens her gob so wide it’s like I’m about to ejaculate into a pedal bin.
With a cheerless grunt I spurt over my blind date, getting some in her eyes. The rest spatters onto her breasts and face, along with what’s left of my self esteem.
I know I haven’t actually just been raped, but I’m definitely in the neighbourhood and looking at the map for directions.
I tuck Jamie Junior back into his hidey hole and look down at Isobel. All pretence had now left my body, along with my spermatozoa.
‘Can I leave now?’ I ask forlornly.
Isobel’s expression of sexual contentment is replaced by one of disgust.
‘Well that’s charming isn’t it? I give you a good time and you just want to piss off straight away?’
I start to argue that the only person who’s had a good time in this room tonight is her, but can’t summon the energy to defend myself and just nod my head in resignation.
Isobel jumps to her feet. ‘Get out then!’ she screams and thrusts her finger in the direction of the door.
There’s still some of my ‘product’ on her hand, which flicks violently off. It flies across the room and splats onto a badly rendered portrait of Jesus hanging above Isobel’s dressing table.
If somebody had told me that this evening would end with my semen sliding down the cheek of our Lord and Saviour, I would probably have stayed indoors and played
Gran
Turismo
.
Isobel may be a man hungry lunatic with a sex drive like a malfunctioning Formula One car, but it also transpires she is a religious nut as well.
She lets out a cry of anguish, rushes over to the portrait and starts wiping it with her blouse.
It’s an oil painting, so Big J’s cheek gets smudged badly as she feverishly tries to clean off my man gravy.
Isobel starts crying.
‘I’m sorry!’ I wail, as if I’d actively gone over and knocked one out over Christ’s face on purpose.
‘Just bloody leave!’ Isobel orders… and for once I’m delighted to follow instruction.
‘Er… bye then!’ I offer, along with a half-hearted wave - and exit stage left with great urgency.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I reach ground level in three seconds flat and see Isobel’s mother coming in through the front door.
Given that
‘
Good evening madam. I’ve just penetrated your daughter and mucked up on the son of God
’ isn’t the best way of introducing oneself, I elect to repeat the half-hearted wave, along with a smile bordering on the maniacal.
I decide it’s best not to wait around for a response, and am off running down the front path as fast as my little legs can carry me, hoping
Izzy’s
mum hasn’t got a good enough look at my face to provide an accurate description to the police.
Unbelievably, I got a text from Isobel the next day that said:
That
woz
a weird
nite
.
Ur
fun
tho
.
Wanna
hook up again? U can have me up the backdoor if u like xxx.
Thus far I have neglected to respond.
Wednesday, February 2nd
Dear Mum,
Your daughter is a shameful excuse for a human being.
Any redeeming value I may have had was extinguished last night in an act so heinous I may never recover.
All I can say by way of explanation is that I did it because I thought I needed to ‘get back into the game’ as it were – and pleasuring Brian with my hand on our first date seemed the most appropriate method of doing so… for some reason.
Quite why I thought giving a twenty nine year old estate agent with a lazy eye a hand job was the best way to reintroduce myself to the dating scene completely eludes me.
It was totally out of character.
You never brought me up to be that kind of girl, after all.
Before this I’d not so much as kissed a man before the third date.
But there I was, sitting in the passenger seat of his 52 plate Vectra doing my best milkmaid impression, while looking out of the window wondering how I’d arrived at this place in my life.
You know how bad I was when Mike and I split up - but I don’t think
I’d
even realised how much of a knock my confidence had taken, until I was staring at Brian’s average penis as he went cross-eyed and started to dribble.
I hadn’t wanted the date really.
Tim had pushed me into it.
‘It’ll be good for you
Loz
,’ he told me over his cappuccino with an almond twist. ‘Dan tells me Brian is a very nice boy. They go to the gym together. Apparently he’s not that well hung, but has a lovely body otherwise.’
‘I’m not sure, Tim. Blind dates and I have never agreed with one another.’
‘You can’t sit around waiting for Mister Right to walk into your life for much longer, miss. That evil thirtieth birthday is looming on the horizon you know!’
‘Yeah, yeah. I know.’
‘Besides, Dan showed Brian your picture on Facebook and he really liked the look of you.’
‘Oh bloody hell, Tim! You could have warned me. My profile picture is still that one of me dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein from last year’s Halloween party.’
‘Don’t worry. Dan wouldn’t have concentrated on that one. I’m sure he went straight to the
Goa
bikini shots.’
‘I’m not so sure they’re any better.’
‘Please! Those tits of yours look fantastic.’
‘Wow. You make me sound so
classy
.’
‘Classy doesn’t get you dates,
Loz
. When it comes to straight men, the tits do it every time. Brian
really
wants to meet you.’
I stared out of the Starbucks window in much the same way I’d be looking out of Brian’s windscreen a few days later.
‘Oh, alright. I suppose it can’t hurt.’
‘Great! I’ll get Dan to give Brian your number. Expect a call!’
That’s how the date came about, Mum. You always used to say Tim was a bad influence and would get me into trouble…
Five days later I was stood in front of the mirror wondering what the hell to wear that might impress an estate agent who isn’t well hung, but has a lovely body otherwise.
I wondered at what point somebody had come into my flat and burgled me of every item of evening wear that didn’t make me look like a prostitute at one end of the spectrum, or an Amish grandmother at the other.