The One - No one said it would be easy (10 page)

BOOK: The One - No one said it would be easy
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Number Ten: The asshole, this time me

Writing about Number Ten is hard for me. It was a long time ago, but my stomach still cramps up whenever I think of him, and I have a terrible feeling of guilt that just won’t go away. Number Ten is one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met. And what do I do? I screw things up time and again. I lie and I cheat like crazy. I cheated on Number Ten nearly six times. Why? I have no idea. I thought I could just keep taking whatever I wanted, without any consideration for the one person who had given me the most valuable gift of all: his heart.

 

The thing with Number Ten started rather without me intending it to. It happened right in the middle of the final thrashings of my separation from Number Five. In fact, I had a crush on someone else all together at the time: Mister X. And Number Ten was part of Mister X’s crowd. Mister X wasn’t remotely interested in me and I was soul-crunchingly frustrated, destroyed and disappointed. All in all, I was entirely out of it during that time, no longer in love with Number Five who was all the more in love with me, me on the other hand wildly in love with Mister X who had no designs on me whatsoever. That’s how it sometimes goes in the chaotic market place of love. And suddenly, right there amongst all that chaos, there was Number Ten.

 

I’d always thought he was cute, but I’d really only noticed him because I thought he was so funny. And now, suddenly, that funny young man was interested in me and I, completely out of my depth with all the heartache shit going on, I just let him. I went on dates with Number Ten and it was nice. There wasn’t any erotic tension for me, no butterflies in my stomach. It was like meeting up with an old friend. I couldn’t possibly imagine having sex with Number Ten. But it happened, of course. We kissed. Maybe I thought that would make sparks fly, at long last. No such luck. Even during the first kiss I thought, “oh hell, now what have you gotten yourself into again.” He was a terrible kisser. It wasn’t disgusting like with the crumbly-mouthed dope head. It simply wasn’t any good. Maybe that was largely due to the absence of butterflies in my stomach. And, as is the normal course of events, a bit of kissing is followed by a bit of sex. It was no different this time. Although, truth be told, I didn’t really feel like it. So why did I go through with it? No idea. I really don’t know. I was so out of my tree with everything, I didn’t want to have to think about whether this was good or not, I just let it all happen. I was quite sure that, some way or another, I’d get out of it again.

Our first attempt at sex was a failure. He couldn’t get it up. This had never happened to me before. And I had no idea how to handle it. What do you say? And why does it happen? Is it my fault or did he maybe feel inhibited? Comforting him and whispering a compassionate oh-that-can-happen-to-anyone would surely make it even more frustrating for the poor droopy-rodded victim.
 We tried it a few more times but each time, the same thing. Number Ten was visibly embarrassed. He didn’t make any comment. He didn’t know how to handle the situation either. I interpreted his failure as pure excitement and fear of not doing right by me. Some failed attempts later, I ran out of patience. I just grabbed a hold of him, got going rigorously and without further ado, and before he could react, I’d imposed myself upon him, so to speak. I simply bowled him over. All that understanding and pity stuff got us nowhere, if anything it made it more embarrassing for him. But after my sex attack he was where the action was and he didn’t have any choice other than to join in and remain upstanding. No room for fearful thoughts! And that put paid to the droopiness once and for all.

 

Number Ten and I were together for some years. Our relationship was harmonious and full of fun. He was very sweet and, although he walked about like a mischievous Huckleberry Finn, he in fact had a very mature personality. There was a deep calmness about him and he approached everybody with a big heart and a generosity I had never experienced before. In spite of the doubts I felt in the beginning, I very much fell in love with him. But in spite of all that, what was missing was the feeling of having reached him. That, and passion. All was harmonious, clean, cute. Even the sex.

 

But sadly, sex and cute don’t really go all that well together. We had sex, lots of sex and very good sex, even extraordinary sex (at 11 degrees centigrade in a lonely bay with the surf thundering in, for example) and I almost always came. For a long time, it did turn me on, but in spite of all that, it was never really “hot” or wonderfully kinky and wicked, the way you’d want sex to be. He never let go, even during sex he remained the good little boy, clean and nice and decent, and he never lost his composure. He didn’t moan or groan or say anything and his eyes were always shut. Sometimes I wondered whether he even really noticed me. It’s hard to adequately describe how it was, sex with Number Ten. In a particular kind of a way it was very good, but also very strange.

 

Technically speaking, the sex was entirely satisfactory. But I was always left with a perplexed and dissatisfied feeling in my belly. Sex with him was always at a distance, with the handbrake on, lukewarm. I often felt that he didn’t really want to, or maybe didn’t really dare, but would do it anyway because maybe he thought that’s what I expected of him. Number Ten and I never talked about sex. And because he was so terribly nice and cute, the whole sex thing didn’t even really suit him. It didn’t feel right. Almost as though you were seducing your beloved little brother into having sex with you. Sometimes I really wondered: “Were we siblings in a previous life, or why the hell do I always feel kind of vaguely not good when I have sex with him?” Number Ten was small and compact and his body was cute, too. I was absolutely besotted with Number Ten and how cute he was, I even thought his feet were cute. And his cock (just using that term in connection with Number Ten feels uncomfortable because it simply doesn’t fit – but neither does any other term; the whole thing with Number Ten is kind of jinxed) was cute too. Back then I was certain that he had the most beautiful cock in the world. And yet, even being endowed with such a beautiful specimen couldn’t make up for me feeling “just not turned on”. Number Ten and sex just didn’t go together, at least not for me and not the way I’d imagined.   

 

Back then I couldn’t possibly admit this to myself, of course. I had put Number Ten on a pedestal of cuteness. He delighted me, I was very much in love with him. We had a deep and meaningful relationship, but with hindsight I know that’s not enough. The secret of a good relationship is a mixture of intimate friendship and lust – that’s pop-psychology for couples, part one. Without lust, it’s just a question of time before the whole thing comes crashing down. Relationships without sex are a load of nonsense. Couples who haven’t had sex in months or years are kidding themselves. It does not work, period! Kidding yourself is incredibly easy and can keep you going for quite a few years – I know this for a fact, having had several years of it with Number Ten. I kept thinking he is perfect for me, I could imagine a brilliant future with babies and everything, the whole nine yards.

 

Our relationship was perfect. No fights, lots of fun, one hundred percent harmony. And so I totally blocked out the obvious little sex problem, I kept coming up with all sort of reasons why this was a minor issue. After all, you can’t have everything, right? And sex is completely overrated anyway, right? And after a few years together, no couple on the planet still rolls around on the matrimonial double bed, randy and intoxicated with lust, right? So it doesn’t really matter all that much that the sex factor isn’t right. That’s what I thought. But it does matter. Especially when the sex factor hasn’t been right from the start. What follows now sounds like the feeble excuse of an even sillier cow: maybe that was the real reason why, with Number Ten, I felt I had to cheat as much as I possibly could. Get those missing sexual kicks elsewhere. And so I betrayed Number Ten almost six times. With Number Eleven – didn’t get busted. With Number Twelve – didn’t get busted either. With Numbers Thirteen and Fourteen – got busted both times. With Number Fifteen – didn’t get busted. And with Number Sixteen – got busted, was the final straw and ended my relationship with Number Ten for good. Number Ten and I have had no contact since. When by some fluke we run into each other in the city, I completely freeze. I am still so totally ashamed of everything, all I want to do is burst into tears. I am so very sorry.  

All I really wanted out of all those affairs was this: reassurance. Number Ten displayed the same reserve and distance with regard to expressing his feelings for me as he did in bed. Namely, he expressed nearly nothing. That’s what it felt like to me. In the very beginning of our relationship he once have me a self-made little love gift that was absolutely darling, including his message on the card. He sang songs on my answering machine when I was out. So why could I, silly cow that I was, not be happy with that? He was doing everything I had ever wished for. But when his efforts lessened after a few weeks, I didn’t like it. Like parking meters, women want to be fed around the clock, only instead of cents they require little portions of love. If only we had talked back then, about what we expected from a relationship and how we saw things develop, I’m sure we could have avoided quite a few misunderstandings.

 

Two beings, newly in love, will need to settle into the relationship, learn to understand what the other needs and expects. A relationship isn’t a plug-and-play gadget that works without a hitch, even without a manual. It’s up to us to explain to the other what our expectations are of loving and living together. We may even have to find this out for ourselves first. Obviously, there’s no need for a heavy-duty relationship-drama-queen performance during a first date, but establishing a certain framework for the relationship and finding out some basic information about the other’s emotional state makes living together a lot easier. Sadly, in my early twenties I had no concept of this. I thought it was unnerving and naff to talk about it. And I assumed that everybody would love the same way I did. And since I’d always found it pleasant and easy to wear my heart on my sleeve, I automatically expected the same thing from my beloved. I wanted him to tell me that he loved me, and that he thought I was wonderful and beautiful and fantastic, I needed to hear this 24/7.

 

Naturally, this was also an indication of the state of my ego back then: I was addicted to reassurance. And since Number Ten was extremely restrained with regard to articulating his feelings for me, I was miffed. And the nasty little devil on my shoulder whispered stuff like “See, he doesn’t even love you!” in my ear. Which was all the justification I needed for cheating. Obviously, stupid Number Ten didn’t love me, so why shouldn’t I go and find a bit of light relief elsewhere? That’s how easy it is to make the world fit your own little plans!
 

However, things were very different for Number Ten. Number Ten was a man of action. And by now I am well aware that what counts isn’t words but action and nothing but action. Stupid as I was back then, I had no comprehension of this. All I wanted back then was a Hollywood-style romance with overblown corny protestations of love. Number Ten deeply loved me, right from the start, but I didn’t see it until we had parted. He just didn’t constantly make a big fuss about it. He was with me and as far as he was concerned, that was enough to prove his love. His motto was: I want to fall in love just once in my life, and I want it to last forever. He modeled himself after his parents who’d been happily married for umpteen years with never a cloud to darken their happiness. And so, quietly and without upheaval, he gave me his heart, because I was it, his one and only. But since it happened so quietly, I missed it. If we had talked about it, I’d have told him that I’d needed a little bit more princess-type romance, and if he’d told me that I was his one and only princess, we could have shared how we felt about love and expressions of love. And maybe, if we had ever managed to talk about sex, that nasty little devil on my shoulder would have had to keep his mouth shut. But hindsight is always 20/20...

Number Eleven: Screwed sor
e

I had in effect only just started out with Number Ten. About five months before. However, Number Ten had gone to spend his spring break with his family. And poor little left-over me, I spent my nights pub-crawling with my friend, having fun, dancing, having a bit of a drink followed by staggering home, completely blotto. Never more than that, of course. Naturally. One night my friend and I went to this swish club in a park in the centre of a British city. Very cool, very stylish, lots of beautiful people. That night I felt irresistible, fantastically self-confident, with ants in my pants forcing me on the dance floor where I gave my all. They had great party music, none of that boring pseudo-cool house-lounge-chill-sleepy-snorey stuff that nobody can dance to, but real proper party music that you’d consign to the “no way!” bin under normal circumstances but, when it’s blasting out at you, propels you to the dance floor. I’m talking about tracks like “Time of my life”, “Sing Hallelujah”, “Dr. Beat”, “Bad” and so on. The club was in a villa and accordingly ostentatious and glamorous: white staircase, marble sculptures, marble pedestals, stone floor. Not that you could see much of it, the place was packed to bursting.
      

 

I went to strut my stuff on the dance floor and, as ever, checked out the talent: what guys were there, and were any of them worthy of a closer look? You’re allowed to look, even if you’re spoken for. My well-trained where’s-the-nearest-sweetie gaze scanned the crowd. And fell upon a perfectly delightful little specimen. My Number Eleven. Number Eleven was dancing with wild abandon on one of the marble pedestals and seemed insanely laid-back, cool and sexy. Tall, damn handsome (at least at this distance), with dark hair. Wearing sunglasses (inside the club where the lights were dimmed), a great big happy grin on his face. He got people going from up there, kept entertainment levels high, and the crowd cheered him on. He really enjoyed the interaction and somehow it wasn’t embarrassing. Not like those idiots with their yeah-I’m-so-cool image who climb up on some counter top and think they’re as sexy as Mickey Rourke in 9
1
/
2
Weeks. You can hardly bear to look at them the cringe factor is so high! They aren’t the faintest bit cool; what they are is completely insecure and only capable of being up there after the consumption of outrageous quantities of Vodka Red Bull. All they do is look ridiculous. Incidentally, there are more than enough female versions of this: silly girlies in cheap Miss Sixty outfits climbing on tables, gyrating their too-fat butts with strained lasciviousness, thinking they’re Britney Spears in her heyday. The young guy up there was nothing like that. He didn’t have to try to be cool; he was cool. Up there he was mega cool. Sadly, there aren’t nearly enough of those hyper-cool guys around. And since I’ve always been fascinated by cool and self-confident guys who, like male Pippi Longstockings, aren’t even remotely concerned about their effect on others but simply are as they are and do what they like, I found that guy up there extremely attractive. My friend saw him too and thought his performance most amusing.  

And so we positioned ourselves at a strategic place within his field of vision and what do you know – he noticed us. I smiled up at him, waved and raised my glass. He smiled back, which started an intense ping-pong exchange of glances (garnished by my perfectly executed beaming smile) between me down there among the dancing throng and him up there on his marble pedestal. Encouraged by his attentiveness, I danced even more wildly. I loved how he watched me while I became a sexy hip-gyrating Supergirl. I guess the other girls now regarded me the same way as I regarded those cheap bimbos that dance on tables. But I didn’t care, because the sexy guy up there seemed to obviously enjoy both my performance and the beaming flirty offensive I had launched into.
It’s one thing to be attracted to someone from afar and, safely ensconced within a crowd, start to flirt cheekily. But will this person withstand closer scrutiny? Isn’t a flirting-from-afar situation so exciting simply because it contains the illusion of a person that we, at that moment in time, believe to be exceedingly charming and super sexy? It’s kind of like window shopping – we fall in love with this divine dress on display behind the glass pane, we think this is exactly what we’ve been looking for, and we imagine how great we’ll look wearing it and how we’re wearing it when we’re off to brunch one sunny Sunday and how wonderful we’ll look and how everybody will say how beautiful we are. It’s the perfect dress, as if it was made especially for us. And then we go in to try it on. The material is much too thin and shows every wobbly dent in our legs, the cut is awful, nothing fits, and the color doesn’t suit us at all. Let me kiss you good-bye, oh dream of a perfect summer dress! We leave the shop, disillusioned. That’s exactly what’s likely to happen with a flirt. After those thoughts had passed, I decided to just leave it as it was – a fantastic flirt – and not try and make anything else happen. All I did was blow a regretful farewell kiss to marble-pedestal-man and beam my bright smile at him for the last time. I was very curious about him and would have loved to get to know him better. But I knew me and I knew only too well where that could lead to. And since I really was with Number Ten, I made the heroic decision to be sensible for once and not to get involved with anything silly. Good girl! My friend and I scrambled through the teeming crowd of party folk towards the exit. We intended to go home.   

Good girl? My foot! Suddenly Number Eleven stood in front of me. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back, saying forcefully: “You don’t think I’ll just let you take off without knowing your name and your phone number and when I’ll see you again?” Wow – was that sexy or what?! How cool! And so wonderfully manly! Still reeling from the heat created by all those hours of flirting, I thought him exceedingly tasty, even close-up. On my shoulder, Little Angel and Little Devil were kick-boxing the shit out of each other. Little Angel wanted to drag me away from him and Little Devil wanted me to throw my arms around Number Eleven there and then. Little Devil won. I didn’t exactly throw my arms around him but I gave him my phone number. And although I was very much aware of the fact that an actual handing out of my phone number would invariably and soon be followed by an actual intense physical encounter of the horizontal kind, I told myself that this would in no way endanger things with Number Ten. After all, you’re allowed to meet nice people, right? Right!
   

Naturally, the guy rang a few days later. He actually made me wait a few days. I’d kind of hoped he wouldn’t ring at all, thus avoiding the danger zone. Of course, I could have just sent him packing, like: “So sorry sweetie, I was drunk, forget it, you’re cute but I have a boyfriend and I think we’ll leave well alone.” But I just couldn’t. He asked to meet me and, like a hypnotized, drooling fool, I immediately said yes.

We met at my favorite club. I rang Number Ten and told him I was meeting up with my friends. First sure-fire sign that you’re up to no good: you lie to your boyfriend. Most suspect is a pointedly bored-sounding rendition of: “No, I don’t really have any plans, I’m just going to hang out with the girls.” I was excited as I waited for Number Eleven. Shit, I was early, so the great entrance would be his. Then, there he was. Self-confident and laid-back, he strode in through the door, tall, long dark coat, dark polo neck sweater and all of him so damn manly. When he stood in front of me, though, my first enchantment disappeared. Close up and without the influence of alcohol, he wasn’t all that ravishing. He’d gelled his hair in a funny way and his face looked decidedly boyish. What had happened to that hyper-cool guy dancing on his marble pedestal? Disappointment spread out inside of me – it’s not a good sign when the first thought during the first date is “Oh shit, what happened to his sex appeal?” instead of “Come here big boy, I want to gobble you right up!” But there we were, and I always thought that you should finish what you started. I’m sadly useless at pulling I-have-to-go-now stunts and so I keep ending up in these bad-girl situations. Number Eleven and I chatted amiably about this and that. There was some alcohol but nothing much, and eventually the evening began to be entertaining after all. In spite of the initial disappointment, naughty little thoughts started to dash through my head, wondering what it might be like with Number Eleven. Thoughts like that will of course add a certain spice to any conversation, however sober. And as a happily attached person I had of course no business thinking these thoughts at all. Why didn’t I just send them packing? No idea. Lust for adventure? Pushing to see how far I could and would go? Or did I simply want to do it, just for fun, regardless of the consequences?

Eventually we reached the point where my conversation subjects and I were exhausted. Despite all those dirty little desires, I just wanted to go home. Very sensible. Number Eleven, too, wasn’t heartbroken about ending our date. Ever the gentleman, he drove me home in his fabulous car. We chatted a little in the car before I scooted out: I said a perfectly matter-of-fact ‘bye and gave him no opportunity to even remotely consider a first kiss or the even worse obligatory should-I-come-up-for-a-coffee kerfuffle. He made no attempt to stop me. We didn’t raise the question of a possible next meeting. Back in my flat, I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, exhausted and proud of my resolve. What a lovely good girlie I am! Phew, nothing had happened. I rang my boyfriend, Number Ten, and wished him good night. The evening with the girls had been so-so, I told him. My conscience was clear.

As it was winter and I’d been freezing my butt off, I decided to take a hot bath. And lying there, immersed in hot bubbles, my thoughts wandered back to the young man I’d just left standing outside my door. He was kind of sweet, wasn’t he? I wonder what it would be like with him? And even though I’d just felt proud as anything for not getting into trouble, suddenly the Very Hungry Caterpillar was back in charge. I just couldn’t leave it alone. I grabbed my mobile and wrote a text message thanking him for the lovely evening and sending him best regards whilst enjoying a hot bath. He’d be imagining me naked in the bath, writing this text – that was my ice-cold scheming plan. Suddenly I didn’t want the evening to have ended this way. And so I went all out. I wanted him to turn around and come back for coffee. And even though there hadn’t been many sparks flying between us all evening, I suddenly wanted to know, come hell or high water, whether he would come back in the middle of the night if I sent him unmistakable signals – even though he was on his way home, even though I’d just left him out there? Man, I was such a bitch!

 

First giving him the cold shoulder and pretending to be so disinterested, then suddenly sending him steamy text messages from my bathtub. My mobile bleeped a few seconds later. His reply: “Hot bath? I’m just trying to imagine you lying naked in the hot foamy water...” And the fish was on the hook. How easy was that! The ever-reliable key signals... A few raunchy bathtub texts went back and forth and then he rang me. “Shit,” I thought. “Spirits that I’ve cited... If I take this call I won’t be able to get out of this anymore.” But my brain, softened by bathwater and dirty thoughts, made my hand pick up the phone and answer it. Not a chance – horny is horny and common sense doesn’t even get a look in! Number Eleven wanted to know whether I was still in the bath. To prove my location, I splashed about a little. Then I did it: I asked him, with scheming hesitancy and coyness, whether he might maybe like to come over, right now? He just said: “Oh my God, I thought you’d never ask, I really couldn’t have stood it for much longer. I’m on my way!” and put the phone down. “Shit – now I’m stuck with him!” was all I could think. Whilst sinking into the remaining bubbles, grinning about my little performance. I’d won. He was on his way. At half past two in the morning. Just because I’d done my little splashing Venus number.   

There followed the obligatory beauty check, the speedy version: legs shaved, steps taken to alleviate bikini area jungle, moisturizing lotion applied, face restored with the aid of the cosmetics industry’s most wonderful products, bathrobe on, wondering whether I shouldn’t better wear something underneath but no, that would wreck the entire stage production, after all I’ve just climbed out of the tub. And then there was the doorbell. In spite of all my scheming and manipulating, my heart was beating like crazy. I’d driven a perfect stranger so wild that he was about to jump me. “I hope he is good!” was all I could think of. Then I opened the door, wearing nothing but my bathrobe. The little angel on my shoulder said, taken aback: “What is wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night, you call some stranger to your home and open the door to him, dressed in nothing but a bit of toweling?” and disappeared for a few hours, appalled by what passed for my morals. And there he was, Number Eleven, neither of us said anything and right there, in the entrance, he grabbed me and kissed me. The kiss itself was perfectly good, no complaints, and kissing this stranger made me extremely randy. The entire scene was like something from a stereotypical B-movie: woman lolls lasciviously in the bath, purrs at guy down the phone, drives him nuts by providing bath-splashing fantasies, he rushes to her, she opens the door, her nakedness only just covered by fluffy bathrobe, and they jump each other, he fully clothed, she stark naked.

 

But even clichés can be very hot indeed. And it was extremely sexy how Number Eleven immediately took the bathrobe off me and held me, naked as I now was, tightly against his fully-clothed – coat, polo neck sweater, jeans, scarf, shoes - body. He was extremely aroused too, I could tell even through all his winter gear. I, naked, dragged him, fully clothed, across the flat to my bed. There’s something wildly thrilling about the contrast of being naked while the other person is still wearing all their clothes. You feel vulnerable and entirely at their mercy, which at times can be insanely hot, and at the same time you feel powerful and mighty because you can feel your own nakedness driving the other person out of their mind. But, in the interests of sexual equality, Number Eleven soon wasn’t wearing his winter gear anymore either.
 

BOOK: The One - No one said it would be easy
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