The One - No one said it would be easy (7 page)

Number Five continued:

So – for me, Number Five was a stroke of luck. Our love life was perfect and very harmonious. We were crazy in love and we made each other really happy. Sadly, to start with, “perfect” wasn’t how one would have described my digestive system. Another one of those things! Without wanting to gross people out with details of digestive matters, having to go to the toilet is a nerve-wrecking event, especially at the beginning of a relationship, requiring MacGyver-like qualities. This was especially bad with Number Five, because I was so in love that my stomach was in a terrible state anyway. I was hardly able to eat and my entire stomach region was mightily a-grumble all the time. Naturally it wasn’t possible to engage in activities that would potentially relieve my bellyache while I was with him. This meant that I struggled with immense pain in belly and stomach and was always pleased to be back home alone, so that I could finally go to the toilet.

There can’t be anything more embarrassing than to fart in front of your beloved. This happened to me with Number Five, and immediately I jumped up, ran to the window, threw it open, yelled at my boyfriend to get out of the room, in my panic managed to swipe a picture off the wall and fled back under the blankets, face burning with shame. Number Five found the entire episode greatly amusing. I am also embarrassed by the sounds you hear from the bathroom. This is especially bad if the bathroom is right next to the bedroom. Meanwhile I have some tricks up my sleeve, like leaving the water run in washbasin or shower. And the best remedy for potential smells is still a blown-out match. What I absolutely cannot understand is those couples who have no shame with regard to digestive activities. Peeing with the door open, or, even worse, doing the other? Or doing any of that while your beloved is in the bathroom with you? That’s an absolute no-no for any relationship! Lock it away in the relationship poisons cabinet, with ten skulls and crossbones painted on the door! Wrapped in three extra strong iron chains, secured with a five-ways kryptonite lock. There are some things best done alone. Even within a relationship, there are rituals that ought to be kept in a secret singles locker. Amongst those things to be executed alone, on small islands of solitude, are: going to the toilet, cutting your toenails, trimming your beard, squeezing your spots, and any other unappetizing matters of personal hygiene.   

We spent our first holiday together on a sweltering Greek island that inspired us to all manner of liberties. We discovered this lonely almost deserted beach in a bay. There were very few people and nearly all of them were naked. So we did the same. To start with, we were a bit bashful – we weren’t exactly nudist freaks – but after a day or two we began to really enjoy the freedom. Spending the whole day sizzling in the hot sun, basking in the sand, clear cool water on your naked skin – that’s a grandiose feeling. Number Five wasn’t quite so able to enjoy himself as he had to fight with a permanent erection, which forced him to spend a great deal of time lying on his belly, thinking of letterboxes. Naturally, I thought that was most amusing and loved winding him up, for example by sitting in front of him, with my legs supposedly inadvertently spread apart, swimming in front of him or blubbering him one underwater. The beach, almost deserted, simply seduced you into being sexually unrestrained and silly. One time we tried to do it in the water. And failed miserably because saltwater entering a lady’s private parts is a thoroughly painful matter. Everyone who talks about screwing in the sea like it’s some kind of epiphany is lying! Instead we scheduled our sexual activities to the hours of sundown, when the beach really was deserted. Our only audience was a hermit living farther up the beach, and we didn’t mind him.

During this holiday we took a lot of photos. Number Five was a photography freak, which was OK by me. The constant snapping of photos was kind of annoying but I loved all those beautiful pictures of us. We had real photo sessions, during the hour of golden sunrise on the beach, for which we got up at four in the morning. And of course, there were the obligatory erotic photos, too, where you try to act like a Vogue model. Even though some of them weren’t all that bad, afterwards I was hugely ashamed of most of those kinds of pictures. It went like this: oh shit, you can see all my cellulite; on that one I look totally shriveled; what’s that dopey expression about that I have on this one; and oh my God, on that picture my breasts look positively mingy. Meantime, several years have gone by since I split up with Number Five, and he has all those photos. I sincerely hope he won’t at some stage blackmail me with them. I guess that, when a relationship comes to an end, one should insist on either completely destroying any compromising material while both parties are present, or locking them in a safe deposit box, the key of which is subsequently mixed in with the food for a gorilla at the zoo.  

Our most romantic holiday moments – unforgettable! There we were, sitting on our shabby hotel balcony, drinking ghastly Retsina and philosophizing about life, the universe and everything whilst gazing at the awe-inspiring starry sky above us. Then there were all these questions about what else there might be floating around in the universe, and whether there is a God, and stuff like that. And you always try to say such clever and wise things to impress your partner. Once, entirely caught up in the ecstasy of love-island-starry-skies-summer, we sank onto the bed in our hotel room and just gazed into each other’s eyes, for hours. Magic moments! You felt as though you could gaze into the other’s soul, while allowing the other access to your own soul. It was almost a little spooky. I’ve never experienced anything like this since.

But holiday ecstasies aside; even in our normal life we never missed an opportunity for having sex. At parties, we liked to disappear into another room and do it on the floor. We even did it in his band’s rehearsal room while waiting for his band to arrive. And one night we did it in his parked car, right in the centre of a medium-sized British city. People were passing the car constantly, but we obstinately carried on. During such a venture you have to be somewhat creative with regard to the disposal of potentially leaking bodily fluids. And nothing can beat sufficient supplies of paper tissues in a well organized and properly stocked ladies’ handbag. But even though one likes to boast about those outdoor sexual activities and assumes it’s just something one ought to have the courtesy to do, in actual fact there’s nothing better than being at home, in a comfy cuddly bed. No stress, nothing hectic, and everything you need is right there.

Regarding those spontaneous sexual activities, it was of utmost importance to me that there was as little hanky-panky as possible and that my hair wasn’t mussed up. I had no intention of walking back into the party looking like a freshly screwed squirrel. They say that after sex you look particularly fresh and rosy. Well, they’re lying! After sex, I always look like a burst pillow. Hair pointing every which way, mascara down to my chin, lips sore from all the kissing, all the make-up gone, leaving all those carefully plastered-over spots mercilessly exposed, and a nose like that of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Speaking of make-up. The first time you stand in front of your boyfriend without make-up is a truly momentous occasion. I once opened the front door to Number Five without make-up on and he immediately eyed me with concern. “Are you ill?” he asked. “No, I just haven’t put my make-up on,” I replied, slightly miffed.

One of the most memorable sexual experiences with Number Five was definitely the ice-cream affair. No idea how we even thought of it, but one day we found that we had a bed guest: a family-sized box of stracciatella ice-cream, which we proceeded to apply liberally all over our naked bodies. The coldness and the stickiness jolted our mutual arousal to fantastic new levels. We practically wallowed in the sticky gunk and we didn’t care how much mess we made. What turned me on especially was when Number Five scooped up a handful of ice-cream and spread it liberally all over my butt and in-between, as I was sitting on him. Having the ice melt and trickle down my butt crack was unbelievably exciting. Cleaning up this unholy mess afterwards wasn’t quite as exciting, but definitely worth the effort!

It was Number Five who got me to try dope. For me this was quite unimaginable, because I’ve always been completely opposed to smoking and anything drug related. But, with one thing and another, your surroundings tend to influence you more than you’d think or like. And when you are surrounded by nothing but dope heads and joints are passed around at every party, one day the whole thing becomes normal and all the scare stories no longer apply. Dear parents, let me tell you right now that you are more than justified in wanting to control with whom your kids hang out – too true! As I’d wanted to try dope for some time but really didn’t like the idea of smoking, we chose food as the medium. Marijuana is easily added to all kind of foods, sweet or savory. The result was always unpredictable. Nothing for hours, and then, suddenly, WHAM! Body and spirit were completely taken over, mercilessly for many hours.

It wasn’t until some years later, in my early twenties, when I (stupidly!) started smoking every now and again after all, that I tried an actual joint. Which turned out to be entirely harmless by comparison. The impact always starts to lessen after about half an hour, followed by nothing but tiredness and feeling like chucking up. But when you eat the stuff, you are practically caught in a state of intoxication and you have no idea how long it will last. Movies and music kind of suck you in and your awareness is a hundred percent more intense than when you are sober. This is when you experience the infamous hunger pangs known as the munchies. All of a sudden everything, and I mean, everything, tastes absolutely superb. Even a bog-standard cherry flavored yogurt provides an unparalleled magical sensory experience. It’s the same with being touched.

Doped-up sex is unbelievable. You have no inhibitions whatsoever and are flooded by wave after wave of arousal and horniness. You dare to do anything at all and say whatever comes into your head. You literally fuck your head off, you sweat, scream, moan regardless of the consequences. Doped-up sex is just excellent. But my brain kicked in and told me that this present to myself should be kept for rare and special occasions only. I didn’t want to get used to it, it would have reduced “ordinary” sex to something pale and insignificant. There was a time when I was so fixated on dope that I couldn’t have sex, couldn’t become aroused, without it. It took a lot of willpower, common sense and discipline to slowly get off this hyped-up dope-sex habit and back to practicing “regular” sex, and enjoying it.
 

With Number Five, I first discovered how sensitive a man’s anal region is. After all, during the course of one’s sex life, one slowly works one’s way across all kinds of approaches. Well, at least if one is of a halfway normal disposition and doesn’t stage one’s first time, aged fourteen, in a prefab with three gangsta-rappers, being squirted into each and every imaginable opening, while the whole thing is being filmed. Anal sex was still a taboo subject for me. Sure, one might get curious and maybe ask a girl friend whether she’s ever done it, and one might read about it. But for me personally, it wasn’t an option at all at that point in time. I didn’t doubt that it might conceivably be a pleasurable experience; it was mostly down to questions of hygiene that I rigorously blocked the idea. There was simply too much fear and shame of maybe something sticking to something.

All the same, I found out that it was actually quite arousing when somebody ran his finger up my butt crack and stimulated me back there. But it had to kindly stay nice and clean and entirely on the outside. Strictly no admittance to the inside! And so I thought, well great, if I like it so much, why not try it with Number Five? And what a discovery! Number Five went ballistic! And touching him between his butt cheeks totally turned me on too. This discovery fascinated Number Five to the point where he confessed, some time later, that he often used to stimulate himself anally. He even told me that he’d inserted little salami sausages into his butt. Wow – definitely too much information! That’s the kind of thing you should definitely keep to yourself! I have no problem watching my boyfriend giving himself DIY orgasms, or him telling me about it, in fact I find it really arousing. But some stuff is just too much. Especially when it involves salami!  

Apropos: A little discourse on the „joys“ of Brazilian waxing
  

While I was with Number Five, a new fashion slowly established itself: intimate shaving. Smooth little-girl slits and narrow landing strips suddenly were no longer regarded as obscene and the prerogative of rubber-boobed American porn stars. Which leaves you standing there with your little bush, asking yourself: “Should I really...?” Eventually, I decided to give it a go and felt terribly wicked. However – the challenge was, how on earth do you actually do it? How do you get shot of that bush down there, and how do you end up with a neat little strip? To start with, I tried shaving. The actual shaving procedure worked quite well and when I first looked at the end result, I felt like a porn star. The whole thing felt brilliant and I was proud as punch. My boyfriend also liked my new look very much! He’d never been faced with anything other than thick pubic tumbleweed before.

Sadly, the agonies of hell descended upon me the very next day. The itching, prickling and scratching was unbelievable. Simply unbearable. It was so bad it brought tears to my eyes. I was light years away from yesterday’s porn diva – my holiest of holy was covered in red spots and blotches. But – there was nothing for it, I had to grin and bear it. I read everything I could find on relevant Internet forums to see if anyone had any helpful advice or tricks with regard to intimate shaving. The thing is, once I’d started, I had no option but to carry on, because the stubble that appeared was just too awful and had to go. I tried baby powder, new blades, a special shaving technique. Panthenol cream. Nothing worked. I managed to get kind of used to the constant itching and irritation, which wasn’t quite as bad anymore, but none of it was really satisfactory.

Then I tried depilatory cream. Another elaborate undertaking, since the stuff is incredibly ferocious. And no fun when it comes in contact with your most sensitive mucosa – it burns like hell! To achieve the desired thin strip with this type of hair removal, I applied bog-standard Scotch Tape to the middle part. All around – even between my legs – I applied the stinky gunk, trying hard to miss the most sensitive places. Then: hold your breath for ten minutes while the stuff does its thing. You feel like a complete idiot, waddling around your flat stark naked, with that white mess between your legs. Ten minutes feel like an eternity during hair removal. Then, under the shower, wash it all away and simply rub off the hair. If you’re lucky, you have a nice straight strip and you’ve managed to miss your inner flora and fauna, so that you won’t be plagued for hours on end by the red-hot burning of a mis-application. A quick hair-cut for those bits of strip that stick out, and there you are – a sex goddess! Phew! What a palaver! To be repeated every week, because two days later, the first stubble reappears. This method does have a definitive advantage: the stubble is soft and doesn’t prickle and itch. I used this method for years. I hated it, but couldn’t think what else to do.

Then one day I came across intimate waxing. Ouch – you can’t be serious?! A visit to the gynecologist is unpleasant enough and the idea of some beautician going to work between my legs felt a lot more menacing than the pain that is the inescapable consequence of ripping out your body hair. But here, too, I had a change of heart. It started as incomprehensible and an absolute no-no. But then, the more women’s magazines and TV-papers wrote about it, the less menacing it appeared. That’s the power of marketing! Manipulation and brain washing par excellence! Just keep talking about the same thing again and again, and before you know it, the former impossible becomes the new normal.

And so, some years later – Number Five had long been and gone – I was so curious and no unnerved from the seemingly never-ending hair removal procedure at home that I found myself, legs apart, on a treatment couch in the neon-lit narrow cubicle of a waxing studio. Brain switched off and hoping that there weren’t any secret video cameras, because you couldn’t look more daffy if you tried! Especially when it’s your butt crack’s turn and you have to lie on your belly and hold your own butt cheeks apart so that th
e
depilador
a
can remove the hair from between the cheeks. The procedure itself wasn’t anywhere near as painful as I’d thought. My reward was truly and singularly smooth and soft skin. The first non-prickly stubble didn’t appear until some three weeks later. Since then, intimate waxing i
s
de rigueu
r
for my girlfriends and me. Provided we can afford it – it’s not cheap. I wonder what else we girls will be persuaded to accept as sexual must-haves in the future
!