Epilogue
Squashed on the back seat of the Ford Focus between Mrs Gregson and a highly amused Sandra, I’m the sliver of meat in a fragrant, excited, female sandwich, a position I never anticipated enjoying, but here we are.
All part of life’s messy patchwork quilt.
Another very hairy female, of the four-legged and far less fragrant variety, uses my lap as a doggy basket.
The two long legged man-spreaders—Gerald and Alan—travel in comfort in the front.
They’re rattling to each other non-stop, making up for lost time.
I’d be learning all sorts of interesting things about Gerald if only I didn’t have Mrs Gregson in one ear asking me if I’ve ever met a leather daddy (I’ve been fucked by two) and Sandra’s rundown of her last shift on the maternity ward (blood, gore, the usual high drama) in the other.
Psychologically gearing up herself for the tense day ahead, Elsa’s lightly snoring.
With Birmingham less than an hour away, we hit the dog show traffic and slow to a crawl.
It’s only nine in the morning. Before Gerald, I’d either be coming home from a night on the tiles about now or planning the next one, in which case I’d be shaving and waxing, douching and plucking, and stressing about fibre supplements, while lamenting the greasy hotdog I’d wolfed post nightshift two days earlier.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m still keeping everything silky smooth down there; Gerald loves it that way.
But, nah, if someone loves you just for you, then the rest is bollocks.
From the back of this cramped car, I have an unimpeachable view of my delicious boyfriend behind the wheel.
Every now and again, when we stop at traffic lights or a roundabout, he catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and waggles the slugbrows, before throwing me a cute, thrilling little smile.
It’s fucking adorable. Gerald himself is fucking adorable.
Over the last few days, he’s massively downplayed his chances of winning, almost as much as he downplays his personal role in his success so far, citing Elsa being a natural, lucking out on the day with a sympathetic judge, the inspired song choice, blah blah.
The list goes on. It’s crazy he thinks he’s the background music when he’s the whole fucking song.
If modesty was a category at Crufts, he’d storm away with the gold rosette.
Despite being terribly excited about the expedition, Mrs Gregson has never watched Crufts. “Is it like Britain’s Got Talent? I liked that young man who did seagull impressions last Saturday. He should have won. Are you going to be on that with my Elsa if you win?”
“One hundred percent he is,” I declare, stroking Elsa’s satiny, floppy ears.
She’s heavier than she looks. “And then a summer run at the Royal Palladium, winter at the Blackpool Tower Ballroom, and he’ll start Christmas with a bang by putting in a surprise guest appearance at the Royal Variety Show. ”
Predictably, Gerald shakes his head, giving me his long suffering, stern look through the rear-view mirror, which isn’t sexy at all. Even though I no longer have blood circulating in my thighs, my soul still feels hugged.
“I don’t suppose you could shift that way a tad, could you, Sandra?” My left calf is a clenched fist of pain. When we arrive, I might need helping out of the car.
“The Royal Variety’s not been the same since the Queen passed, God rest her soul.” Mrs Gregson makes the sign of the cross, nearly taking my eye out. “I might watch it on the telly, though, if my Elsa’s in it.”
“Win or lose today, this is mine and Elsa’s final outing,” Gerald announces to a chorus of gasps, though surprisingly, not from Alan. “Sorry to disappoint.”
What? Is he serious? Clearly, I was joking about BGT and Blackpool.
Gerald would rather be abducted by aliens who only communicate through the medium of interpretive mime than be edited into a bunch of three-minute segments of fake TV drama.
But…wow. No dog dancing at all? Isn’t that a waste of an awesome dancer?
Two awesome dancers? For all Big G has a lot of hidden layers, I did not see that coming.
“I’m hanging up my dog training shoes.” He eyes me uneasily before dropping his gaze back to the traffic. “I’ll still take Elsa for a walk every day,” he adds, “so no need to worry about that, Mrs Gregson.”
Alan, clearly in on it, gives Gerald’s muscly leg a reassuring pat. Which is exactly why I prefer sitting next to him in the front of the car.
“Oh…okay.”
So that’s disappointing. No more limbering up in the kitchen? No more topless planking in front of Question Time? OMG, no more blue satin shirt?
“Sorry,” he says, brown eyes twinkling. “Leave them wanting more, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” I respond like the super supportive boyfriend I’ve become. But I can’t deny inside I’m throwing the world’s tiniest hissy fit.
The eyes, however, are still twinkling as he indicates left to join the queue of cars edging into the arena carparks.
Gerald even sends me a wink through the rear-view mirror.
Hmm, something’s going on. His explanation is like a movie trailer– eye catching, vague, and hiding the crux of the story.
From the way Alan is smiling and Gerald is giving me his full on you’re going to be on your knees later look, I’m getting full on plot twist vibes.
But… if it’s a plot he doesn’t want to share with the rest of the car, then that’s fine too.
I’ll have to suck the truth out of him later.
Crowds of people stream into the National Exhibition Centre—owners, handlers, fans—and canines, of course, of every imaginable shape, size, and hairstyle.
As the queues diverge into competitors and non-competitors, we part ways with Alan and Sandra and Mrs Gregson.
The latter produces a small piece of dried sausage from fuck knows where for Elsa to snaffle from her hand.
So that explains the weird smell in the back of the car. Alan hugs his son.
“Sock it to them, love,” he says. “I’d tell you to go out there and make your mother proud, but you’ve done that so many times already.”
And then it’s just us. The warm unmistakable buzz of excitement hits me about the same time as Gerald, if his hand slipping into mine and giving it a hard squeeze is any indicator.
Tail up and chin up, Elsa trots nonchalantly at our feet.
She’s already decided she’s going to wipe the floor with the competition.
Once we approach the entry booth and Gerald fishes the tickets out of his pocket, I catch a glimpse of our reflections in a glass panel.
Me: slim, antsy, and forever shorter than I’d like, with one hand wrapped in Elsa’s lead, the other wrapped in Gerald’s, and our rucksack on my back.
Beside me, Gerald stands tall, broad, and calm, holding his wrist out for his competitor’s free entry armband.
“And now your partner,” says the man behind the counter. My ticket is free too. Elsa puts her paws up on the counter to deliver a tongue-lolling doggy grin. The guy flashes a smile. “Human, not dog.”
I step forward with a surge of pride. “That will be me. I’m his partner.” Not in dog dancing, maybe, but in everything else.
In whispered dreams, chaotic mornings, in big warm hands reaching out in the still of night.
In joy, in laughter bouncing off walls, in silent glances when no words are needed.
In disagreements, too, because pedantic Gerald likes things a certain way and, on occasion, I can be really fucking annoying.
In the small ordinary moments, like clearing up dinner, and also in all the whopping, extraordinary ones, like now.
My matching armband slides onto my wrist, and Gerald takes my hand again.
Together, we stroll into Crufts.
Partners. In everything.
GERALD–12 HOURS LATER…
Judging from the empty champagne bottle and an inability to locate my inhibitions—if anyone finds them, keep them—I may have drunk a fraction more than my liver is used to.
But I can let loose once in a while, can’t I? After all, it’s not every day you win first prize at the world’s biggest dog show.
The win and subsequent champagne may also explain why I’m naked, except for the navy satin shirt half hanging from my shoulders.
And also why I’m sashaying into the bedroom with a gold rosette tied in a bow around my erect knob.
At a sensible volume (I’m drunk, not a nuisance neighbour), the Scissor Sisters Ta-Dah album accompanies my impromptu X-rated performance.
My audience of eight million has narrowed down to a rapt audience of one.
Alaric, sprawled on the bed with a leg cocked and his thighs open, is also gloriously naked. His unadorned knob is in one hand, and a glass of champagne rests on his belly, loosely held in the other.
“Hello, shiny golden circle of glory.” Eyes on my dick, he licks his glossy lips. “Haven’t you found yourself a rather tasty display hook?”
My own gaze flicks down to where I’m proudly showing off my win. Tying it there was a massive turn on. Perhaps we should start experimenting with sex toys as well as spanking.
Alaric mock sighs. “Gonna miss seeing this body strutting its stuff now your dog dancing days are over. Which means I’m going to demand more of these private showings.”
“You’re welcome,” I answer, fondling myself. “But I didn’t say I’d stopped dancing.” As if to demonstrate, I suggestively roll my hips. I should drink champagne more often; letting go from time to time is fun. “And I’ll still be hiring Sutton Common Methodist Hall.”
“To dance on your own?”
“No. I’m going to start offering salsa classes. For beginners and intermediate. Like Mum used to.”
“Wow! That is so cool! I knew you were up to something.” He chews his lip.
“Teaching people, not dogs, yeah?” he checks. “And clothed?”