Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (4 page)

My contact with Brian had so far amounted to one phone call, conducted at my end in the fruit isle of Tesco.

As I squeezed a few mangos looking for one that hadn’t gone too ripe, he asked me to a bar in the city called ‘Fluid’.

This is one of those places usually frequented by men who wear fake Armani suits and drive Porsche
Boxters
– accompanied by girls whose
knicker
elastic automatically loosens at the sight of both. It wasn’t a good sign that Brian had picked it as the location of our first date.

Still, as Tim had reminded me, thirty is coming up fast and I’m probably ripening quicker than the mangos, so I agreed to meet Brian in Fluid at eight the next evening and hung up.

A decision I was wholeheartedly regretting as I looked in my cupboard with the sure knowledge I had absolutely nothing to wear…

About the only item approximating fashionable was a black cocktail dress I wore once to a birthday party last year. I hadn’t put it on it since because it’s too short and shows off my knobbly knees too much. I always have to wear a pair of tights in order to disguise their horrific, malformed shape.

Sadly, the only other dress I would have considered wearing was the red one I bought for Mike’s pleasure on our third anniversary.

It’s virtually skin tight and puts my breasts on display like the meat in a butcher’s counter. I couldn’t be more forward if I wore a t-shirt saying ‘this vagina for rent’.

So it was the black cocktail dress… or a phone call to Brian saying that I’d come down with a severe case of ‘
blowout-itis
’ and couldn’t make it.

Every time I flipped open my Nokia a vision of Tim’s disgusted expression floated across my mind, so I pulled on the tights and slipped the dress over my head, allowing myself a small smile as it slid snugly over my hips. This proved that the chocolate binge from a couple of weeks ago hadn’t as yet made its presence felt on my figure.

Underwear-wise I went for a pair of plain black hipsters and matching bra.

There was no point in putting anything sexy on as the tights would ruin the aesthetic completely. They were about as sexy as genital warts.

Besides, lovely body or not, Brian wasn’t going to be investigating my lady garden that evening, so what would be the point?

The hair went back in a pony tail as I hadn’t had time to wash it and I also decided to apply make-up sparingly.

My entire outfit screamed ‘
I’m not entirely sure about this’
, which was fine with me.

If Brian turned out to be stimulating in every sense of the word I could break out the lacy thong, fresh dye job and ruby red lipstick the next time I saw him.

Slipping on the wedges I paid way too much for in the House Of Fraser sale, I tottered out of my bedroom ready for battle…

An hour later I’m already considering a tactical withdrawal.

It’s not that Brian is necessarily a bad guy - it’s just that he could quite easily pass for a new shipment of stock in the wallpaper department at B&Q.

If he were a colour he’d be beige.

If he were a country he’d be
Switzerland
.

If he were a member of Take That he’d be Howard.

I’m sure he’d be the perfect match for a woman just like him, but as I’m after bright blue,
Brazil
and Robbie this date isn’t working out too well.

Also, the tights are making my ankles sweat, which isn’t helping matters.

You know how you always told me to be polite, mum?

This is the first time your advice has backfired.

If I wasn’t so polite I probably would have held up a hand as Brian started in on a third anecdote about his cricket team, and told him I was leaving before my brain suffered a boredom related aneurism.

As it was, I just sipped my Pinot Grigio politely and tried to produce a dull smile every time Brian made a joke about googlies and being silly mid-off.

You may be wondering how I went from this state of affairs to pleasuring Brian in his Vectra, Mum.

You know how I came home at three in the morning when I was eighteen and you grounded me because I was completely
shitfaced
?

You remember how you shouted ‘
this is the kind of mess too much alcohol can get you into!’
up the stairs while I threw up what felt like all of my internal organs?

The polite sips turn into large swigs as Brian explains how the exhaust manifold cracked on his Vectra last week while he was driving to the monthly meeting of his Dungeons & Dragons clan.

Even gulps aren’t doing the job when he tells me how fascinating the equity market is at the moment - and I’m wishing the Pinot was mainlined straight into my bloodstream when he describes the great retro seventies wallpaper his mother let him hang in his bedroom last week.
 

While he is dull, the Pinot is unfortunately telling me he’s also quite a handsome chap.

The Pinot lies though…

It’s wicked,
wicked
stuff – ready and willing to lead a young girl down dark and winding paths, to places she shouldn’t go.

Brian looks at his watch. ‘Wow, getting quite late Laura. Would you like a lift home?’

Well now Brian, let’s see…

It’s either a lift with you, or a twenty quid ride in a taxi.

I’m pretty drunk and wearing tights that are making my legs sweat like merry hell, so I’m willing to risk brain death listening to another one of your anecdotes, if it means I can have a free lift that’ll get me home quicker.

‘Yes please, Brian. That’d be lovely,’ I tell him and swig the last dregs of my fifth large glass of wine.

I somehow manage to make it to the passenger seat of his Vectra without breaking my ankle on the four inch wedges.

He climbs in the driver’s side and looks at me.

It’s
that
look.

The ‘
I’ve spent the best part of thirty quid on you tonight and I'm hoping to get something out of it
’ look.

Now, I could just smile and tell Brian to get driving. He doesn’t look the kind of guy who’s likely to get
fisty
with a woman if he doesn’t get his own way.

The Pinot suggests that I shouldn’t do that, however. It suggests I should just sit there and await developments.

Brian leans towards me.

‘I had a really nice time tonight,’ he says. ‘You’re easy to talk to’.

I’m quite surprised to hear this, as I have never played cricket, wouldn’t know an
orc
wizard if it bit me on the butt and can’t stand the seventies.

‘Thanks.’

He leans a bit closer.

Now, as you know Mum, I’ve not kissed a man other than Mike for five years. I’m rustier than a Scottish weather vane when it comes to this kind of thing.

If I’d have been sober I would have put a stop to proceedings before they got out of hand, but the Pinot is in control and decides it might be a good idea to let Brian kiss me, just to remember what it feels like.

Brian’s technique is to purse his lips the way
Nan
used to when she said goodbye after Christmas lunch, and stab his head forward like a hungry chicken.

I break the kiss before he cracks my head against the passenger window.

Now what?

‘Well,’ says Pinot, ‘we don’t want to kiss him again, do we?’

No, we bloody don’t. I don’t need bruised lips or a fractured skull.

‘So we’d better do something else to satisfy him.’

What do you suggest, oh wine of the Italian vineyards?

‘Screwing him is going a bit far.’

Yes… yes it is.

‘I don’t even fancy the prospect of a blow job, what with that neck strain we got from lying funny on the pillow last night.’

True.

‘Well… you might as well toss him off then, Laura. It’s been ages since you’ve had a penis in your hand and you’d better make sure you still know what you’re doing with one before a guy comes along that you actually do want to date.’

I reach my left hand down to the inevitable bulge between Brian’s legs and give it a squeeze.

He makes a strange noise as I do:

‘
Blibble
’.

Not a sigh, or a moan, or even a sharp intake of breath.

Just
blibble
.

Weird.

I unzip him and pull out what is indeed a very average but otherwise inoffensive penis.

‘Oh Laura,’ he says under his breath.

Oh brother,
I think - and start to rhythmically pump my hand up and down.

Unfortunately for me I’ve met the only Dungeons & Dragons fan in the world that doesn’t orgasm the second a woman touches his genitals.

A full five minutes of pumping go by with no indication that Brian is about to arrive at his final destination.

I’ve now started wondering what to buy the next time I’m in Tesco. I can’t really think of anything I do want, but am bloody sure I
won’t
be buying mangos.

Moving on to work matters: I have to get a new order of those popular praline fondants into the shop by the end of the month, and the Green & Blacks people will no doubt be on the phone again soon wanting to know if I’m re-ordering the summer selection this year. Running your own chocolate shop is a stressful undertaking. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone with bad organisational skills.

I remember what I’m doing and look over to see that Brian has gone cross-eyed. A small dribble of saliva runs down his cheek.

This is starting to get ridiculous now. I’ll have sobered up by the time he ejaculates at this rate.

Time for some dirty talk.

‘I want you to cum for me Brian,
right now
,’ I say in a breathy whisper into his left ear. I mean it as well. There are two episodes of
Hollyoaks
I’ve got on the Sky Plus box I’d like to watch before bed.

The breathy thing seems to do the trick (doesn’t it always?) and Brian christens my hand and his steering wheel with a shudder, along with another odd
blibbling
noise.

He then says the following:

‘
Hoocheemumma
!’

I don’t know what ‘
hoochemumma
’ means. Nor do I wish to.

I know men can say strange things when they climax (the second guy I was with shouted ‘
there’s the magic!
’ every time) but this particular piece of gibberish is on a whole other level.