Petey and the Brains
What’s wrong with missionary? It’s the default for a reason.
If Arabella really wants to know, we had a step-by-step routine.
One of us would start getting touchy, we did a bit of foreplay, and then I’d get on top, and Mr Butters would stay on his back until he was done, and then I would roll onto my back, and he’d lie beside me in a post-orgasmic daze as I finished myself off.
We did that twice a week, and then once a week, and then once a month, until we stopped doing it altogether.
So, no, Arabella, not poor Mr Butters. Poor Miss Elman.
But I can’t worry about that now, I have a quiz to win.
Our arena is The Cock and Bull in Kennington, a humble pub that is longer than it is wide.
It smells of stale beer, vinegar and wee, and offers knobbly nuts and pints in murky glasses.
It’s not the pub I would choose to spend my Tuesday evenings in, but we’ve been on a winning streak here since December, so we can’t leave now.
I know we’re still in our twenties and shouldn’t be stuck in a pub quiz routine, but it’s our thing. Some couples run together, others dance, we do quizzes.
The other team members are Nina and Pete – Josh’s recruitment friend, who he met at golf. He is, on all counts, a bit of a dick, but surprisingly remarkable at trivia knowledge.
‘And the answer to number 30 is . . . true, the American President Jimmy Carter was indeed a peanut farmer,’ says Daz, the quiz master.
A 40-something man who likes his Carlsberg and makes the effort to wear a gold sequin blazer every week.
‘Swap your papers back, and let’s see if we can get a different winner this week.
’ I go to North London Invasion’s table to return their quiz.
‘You did better this time,’ I say encouragingly.
It’s 18/30. Embarrassing, but I admire their efforts.
‘You did well on the sports round. It’s just the history you guys need to improve on.
Nina, over there, is a history teacher, and I’m sure she’d be happy to recommend a few books.
’ They glare at me, and then one of them snatches the paper out of my hands. Rude.
Daz is back on the mic. ‘Did anyone get 30? . . . 29? . . . 28?’
‘We’ve got 28,’ Nina shouts out.
Daz visibly deflates. ‘Did anyone else get 28? Anyone?’ His long sigh crackles in the speaker. ‘Petey and the Brains win again. You know where the Prosecco is.’ He turns off the mic and slumps down onto the bar to get his Carlsberg. He was way more optimistic the first time we won.
‘Can I bring Tess to this shotgun wedding of yours?’ Pete says.
‘It’s not a shotgun wedding, so no,’ I say tightly. ‘And who’s Tess?’ I don’t know why I even bother entertaining the idea. I know Tess won’t be coming. It’s nothing personal towards this Tess girl. It’s just that Pete’s girls have as much lifespan as a loaf of bread.
‘Why not? She’s fucking hot,’ Pete says, pretending to be offended.
He takes out his phone and shows a photo of a stunning young (too young) woman in a yellow bikini.
The hardest my brain works on these nights is figuring out how Pete manages to pull these women.
‘Come on, Josh, you know you want her at your wedding.’
‘He doesn’t, Pete,’ I say with a smile, so everyone knows I’m half joking.
‘Oh, answering for him now, are we? Married life is already starting, Joshy,’ Pete says, nudging him. ‘Before you know it, there will be a mortgage, kids, and the sex will be a distant memory.’
The elephant bursts into The Cock and Bull and plonks itself between Josh and me, like it always does whenever sex is brought up in conversation or whenever a sex scene appears on TV.
This happens a lot because when you’re not getting any, sex is EVERYWHERE.
I’ve also developed a paranoia that people can sense that Josh and I haven’t had sex for 181 nights.
Of course, nobody can know. Neither of us would tell anybody.
I certainly wouldn’t breathe a word of it, and I’m sure Josh isn’t broadcasting it to his friends. After all, it’s humiliating.
‘Shall we get that bottle?’ I suggest.
‘You’re disgusting. These are our friends,’ Nina snaps at Pete. He has the skill of repulsing Nina every time he sees her. If it weren’t for their shared competitiveness over general knowledge, they wouldn’t spend a second with each other. Pete puts his hand on Nina’s arm.
‘I’m joking Nina. These guys will be having sex, even when they’re crumbly and old in a stinking care home with those scratchy yellow blankets.’ He’s the only one laughing.
‘I’ll get the bottle,’ Josh says. He goes to the bar, taking the elephant with him. Nina shakes her head at Pete.
‘You’re broken,’ she says to him. Pete puts his hands up like he’s under arrest, then laughs, and Nina laughs.
Peace is restored for now. I zone out and watch Josh, leaning on the bar, waiting for the bottle of Prosecco he won’t drink.
He’s frowning into the air, clearly in his head.
He catches me staring and gives me a goofy wave. I give him a goofy wave back.