Chapter Seven
Jenna
Where do they teach twenty-four-year olds to talk like that?
Is there a school in Ireland where they go and learn how to flirt unapologetically in a way that is shockingly bold, teetering on cheesy, and yet so very, very effective?
And since when do twenty-four-year olds look like this?
All lean muscle, manly height and five o'clock shadow defining an arresting jawline.
Thirteen. Thirteen.
That is the number that pinballs around my head and has been ever since he told me his age. I'd been hoping he was twenty-nine or twenty-eight. I'd told myself I could be forgiven for twenty-seven, maybe twenty-six. But a thirteen-year age gap? That’s quite a difference.
Of course, it had to be thirteen; the unluckiest number there is. I know that this myth is superstition and confirmation bias at their most stubborn, but still, it feels ironic, or maybe like a premonition, a warning?
Not that I’m a superstitious person. I trust science and research and fact-based evidence too much. But even so, I still believe that there are things out there that don’t have clear explanations and yet still exist, love being top of that list.
But this isn’t love, I am quick to remind myself. This is lust.
As for the literature on lust, we don’t have a comprehensive or foolproof understanding of desire, but we do have some knowledge of what makes us feel it.
The hormones testosterone and oestrogen, in all genders, drive our ability to feel desire, and indeed do things to our bodies to make us more desirable to others, including the creation of pheromones.
The amygdala part of the brain, always hungry for new stimuli, upon meeting someone physically attractive and soaking up some pheromones, is quick to latch onto them or repel them, which is why attraction often comes on so quickly.
Once intrigued, there follows a series of powerful hormone rushes that make us feel good, rewarding and encouraging us to mate.
Those tiny but powerful hits of dopamine literally tease us about what’s to come after an orgasm, when they will also be accompanied by a warm hug of oxytocin.
Lust is a powerful thing because it has to be.
It drives us to do the most important things of all – survive, procreate, continue the human race.
It’s also powerful for other reasons. Lust doesn’t need as much luck as love.
Lust comes quicker and, in many ways, keener, readier, hungrier.
Lust is more visible and lighter to hold but is still strong and overpowering.
Lust is both a logical chemical reaction and a magical madness.
Lust comes, and it also goes. I know enough from personal and professional experience to know that it is real and worth enjoying for as long as it sticks around, but at the same time, it simply isn’t designed to last forever. And that’s okay. That’s a good thing.
A thirteen-year age gap doesn’t matter when it comes to lust, especially when I’m a divorced woman, on holiday on a Greek island and desperate to feel a man, this man, touch my body with his hands, his lips, his tongue, his mouth, his everything. If he’s willing...
That decided, I feel the last remnants of confusion and doubt slip into the sea with the sun. Now I know where this is going – and his flirtatious behaviour suggests he’s on board - I can shift all my attention to making it happen.
“So, Marty O'Martin.” I roll over to my side and look at him again. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Ooh, this sounds like a date now.” He sucks on his straw. “Or a job interview.”
“Honestly, I don't know what this is.” I move my drink around in the space between us. If that wasn’t the perfect opening for pursuing my goal, I don’t know what is. “What is this?”
“Two people who just met having a drink together? Two strangers getting to know each other as the sun goes down? Two humans who may or may not fancy each other?”
Despite the fireworks of delight that shoot off inside me, I simply nod at that. “I think I might fancy you,” I confess.
“I think I might fancy you too.” He smiles. “Does that mean I might get to kiss you?”
I'm torn when I hear the word kiss leave his lips.
On one hand, it feels like a flower blooming in the desolate pit of my stomach.
On the other hand, it's not a flower I love although it's undeniably pretty and fragrant.
Kiss is too small and tame for what I want.
Because what I really want to hear leave his mouth are different words, like lick, taste, suck, bite, fuck.
“I might need one more drink before that,” I say, not because it's true - another sugary mocktail isn't going to get me any more pliant than I already am - but just because I want to make this last, this part of the experience; the talking, the flirting, the looking at each other under the now purple and grey hues of a twilight sky.
Even if our destination is sex, I still want to enjoy the journey.
He jumps into action, launching his body upright and grabbing my glass. “On it like a car bonnet,” he says before looking down at me, pulling his brows forward. “Do you want cock... or mock?”
I clutch my chest and giggle like someone's tickling me. “Oh, I want cock, but I'll settle for a mock to keep you company.”
“Oh, Jenna.” He shakes his head, looking at the ground. “I'm sure there's an opening for an equally filthy reply but I am too flustered to find it.”
“I hope that's not a warning of what’s to come,” I say, with a deliberately appalled look. “Also, pretty sure that was already filthy enough. You did say ‘opening’, after all.”
“You're right. I sometimes don't know how good I am... And that, pretty lady, was your warning. Don't go anywhere.”
And I don't. I sit there, squeezing my legs together, doing more spontaneous squeezes of my pelvic floor muscles, and stretching my mouth into the widest grin that’s physically possible.
Suddenly self-conscious, I look around and see some of the other couples and groups have left, and I am relieved considering we’ve been sitting front and centre of them all.
I adjust my dress and my hair a few times and find my phone in my bag to check my reflection with the camera.
I wouldn't say I look my best. I'm make-up-free, my freckles are darker than ever in the dusky light, and my hair is still all tangled thanks to not brushing it since I swam in the sea earlier, but I also like what I see because I look relaxed and I look excited, two looks I haven’t seen much on my features recently.
Before I tuck my phone back in my bag, it buzzes.
It's a notification from a dating app.
“Please not a dick pic. Please not a dick pic. Please not a dick pic,” I whisper to myself as I open up the app.
There I see that someone has liked my profile, and after a quick glance at Marty at the bar, I look back down at Nathan, 38, from Surbiton, a Chartered Surveyor, Football Fanatic and Avid Skier.
Yes, with the words all capitalised. I swipe past the obligatory suited-and-booted-for-a-wedding photo to try and gauge what he really looks like in his other photos, but there’s only one more where I can actually see his full face and body.
And it's almost worse than a dick pic. It's a picture of him holding up a fish while topless.
I groan as I put my phone away. It's a horrible jolt from home and a reminder of what awaits me there.
It's also a reminder that whatever is happening with Marty, I need to grab it - and possibly him - by the balls.
I look up to see him getting closer as he walks back with two drinks that look different from our last.
“So, I figured it was time for a Blur Job.” He hands me another glass that has three layers of colour – rich brown at the bottom, a layer of an off-white liquid, and then some whipped cream on top.
“We have a shot of coffee instead of Baileys, a layer of coconut milk on top of that, and finally some whipped cream and of course, a cherry on top.
It's not going to be as good as the real thing but tastes delicious all the same.”
“Are you talking about the cocktail?” I ask, giggles eager to burst out of me.
“Or the cock?” he finishes.
“That was too easy.” I laugh as I take the glass.
“I generally am.” He winks.
I wave my hand around and try to slow my laughter. “Okay, I need the brakes back on. You move too fast for me.”
“Oh, I can go slow if you want, Jenna.” He sits back down and then lowers his voice as he leans toward me. “Really, really, really slow and really, really...”
“Hmm,” I cut him off. I close my eyes as a shiver runs down my whole body and a small moan leaves my lips.
Only as I open my eyes again do I realise that was a better response than any words because when I see how he’s looking at me - lips parted, eyes dark and wide - he looks like he finally ran out of words.
I revel in this small win that I suspect will only spur him on.
Even so, I’m taken aback by what he says next.
“You're a fucken work of art,” he says in that deep Irish drawl and from the expression he has, all crinkled eyebrows, matching dimples, and generous eyes, I almost believe that that's what he really thinks.
As if he’s just realised what he’s said, he turns away, muttering something under his breath that I don’t catch as he busies himself looking in his bag.
I don’t ask him to repeat himself but I wonder if it’s a quick apology.
Not that he needs to. He doesn’t need to be embarrassed for flirting so outrageously with me.
It’s all fun and games - fun and games that are going to lead me to get exactly what I want later, I hope.