Chapter 9
Dear Adam
I wanted to write to you after hearing a podcast recently by Parker Goldstein, the tech entrepreneur. He was talking about longevity and all the health and wellness stuff he does. If I’m honest, when I got to the bit about how he wakes up at four every morning, I almost switched off. But then he got on to sex. He reckons when he’s with a woman, he can last at least half an hour from first penetration to orgasm. I’m not gonna lie, I’m more a five minutes man myself. How do some dudes manage this, Adam? What should I do differently?
Finn, Leicester
‘So,’ Amelie tucked her foot up on the kitchen chair, resting her chin on her knee and pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands, ‘let’s take a look at these men, then.’
‘Men’s problems,’ I corrected. ‘There aren’t any actual men here. Thank God. Where’s Zack, anyway?’
‘Off manning. Playing squash, that is. He’s in some league and they’re near the top of it, and he hates losing. I mean, it is peak man, right? Plus he says he’s trying to stay in shape for the wedding. Not that a week will make any difference, but at least it gets him out of the house and leaves us in peace.’
I breathed a silent sigh of relief. When I’d asked Amelie if she was free to help me with some of the emails that had landed in Adam’s inbox, I’d expected her to say she couldn’t, given that her wedding was only days away. But she’d agreed enthusiastically, suggesting a ‘working brunch’ at hers – which had struck me as an excellent plan until I’d considered that Zack might be home. It wasn’t so much that I wouldn’t have welcomed his perspective – he was a man, after all – as that I suspected that whatever insight my sister might have given me would have been altered by his presence, diluted, her attention diverted whenever he wanted to talk about his own experiences, or have another coffee, or be kissed.
‘Mind if I have another croissant?’ I asked.
‘Knock yourself out.’ My sister hadn’t touched the pastries I’d brought – but then, I hadn’t exactly tackled the egg white omelette and sliced-up kiwi fruit with much enthusiasm.
‘Right,’ I began through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Where shall we start? Finn, twenty-four, from Leicester do you?’
‘Go on then.’
I propped my tablet more securely on its stand and scrolled through my emails. As soon as I’d seen Finn’s, I’d known that this was a problem I’d need my sister’s help with.
‘So here’s what he says.’ I cleared my throat. ‘It’s a bit cringe, sorry.’
I read out Finn’s letter.
‘Oh. My. God.’ Amelie rolled her eyes so hard I almost expected them to shoot out of her head. ‘That is literally the most tech bro thing I have ever heard. Has this Parker Whatsit ever actually met a woman? Does he seriously believe that we want to lie there while he stabs away like a bloody sewing machine, getting sorer and sorer and boreder and boreder? Just so he can show off about it on his wanky podcast? Jeez, I despair.’
Not for the first time, I felt acutely conscious of the huge gulf of inexperience that separated me from my sister.
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘You mean most women don’t – it’s not just me?’
‘Categorically, one hundred per cent not just you. I mean, I haven’t asked all women. Possibly there are some who like being pounded at like chicken thighs in cling film. But every woman I’ve ever asked about it says the same thing – men who are good in bed make sure the woman’s orgasm happens (or orgasms, plural, ideally) and then crack on with theirs and don’t take too long about it, so you can both have a nice cuddle and a pizza.’
‘So most men don’t… you know. Last ages?’
‘Only the ones who’ve spent so much time wanking over porn they need half an hour of death grip to get anywhere.’
‘So I can tell Finn he doesn’t need to worry?’
‘Exactly. So long as he’s not going from first kiss to blowing his load in two minutes, obviously. If he’s making sure his partner has a good time and not being a selfish dick, he’s golden.’
‘Um… gotcha.’ I typed a brief note in the Word document I had open, hoping Amelie hadn’t noticed me blushing.
How on earth, I wondered, was I going to translate her matter-of-fact advice into a reply that would appear online for thousands of men to read? And, worse, for my colleagues at work to read, knowing that I’d written it?
For a moment, my mind veered to Ross. What was he like in bed? Did he last ages, or no time at all? Did he know how to give a partner pleasure? Did he even care, or was he confident that there’d always be girls happy to go to bed with him, and if one didn’t enjoy it, another would be along soon enough?
And then I realised that, whatever answer Adam provided for Finn about what worked for women in bed, Ross would know that I’d written it. He wouldn’t know about Amelie’s involvement – he’d presume that I was speaking from my own experience, about my own preferences. The idea made me die a bit inside.
This was going to be even harder than I’d realised. Even harder than Parker Goldstein’s Duracell-bunny erection.
‘Right,’ Amelie interrupted my thoughts. ‘Who’s next?’
I ran my fingers down my screen, the email subject lines flickering and blurring. There were so many, and I had so little time with my sister.
Randomly, I clicked on an email and started reading.
‘“Dear Adam. I’m twenty-six and just out of a long relationship. I guess it’s so long since I’ve needed to put myself out there I’ve forgotten how it’s done, and I just need to get back in the game. But I’ve got one main question for you. How do you actually know if a woman fancies you? My confidence is at rock-bottom and I don’t want to get knocked back or friend-zoned. Is there any subtle body language I should look out for?”’
Amelie smiled. ‘Oh, the poor flower. He doesn’t want to actually get his big boy pants on and ask – he wants the women to do all the work. Still, he’s all bruised from his long relationship – wonder what happened there? – so we’ll cut him some slack, shall we?’
‘We’d better. If we tell him to grow a pair and Google ‘women’s body language’, Adam will soon be out a job.’
‘Fair enough. So if he were to Google – not that I’m suggesting that, mind – he’d find a whole load of stuff about touching her hair, looking at him sideways from under her eyelashes, leaning in to listen to him, and stuff.’
‘Wait, what? So you’re saying if I want a guy to know I fancy him I basically have to preen and gurn like I’m auditioning for Princess Diana in The Crown?’
‘Don’t be ridic—’ Amelie stopped abruptly, her hazel eyes fixed on me as intently as Astro’s when he wanted a game of pounce. ‘Lucy, are you saying you fancy someone?’
‘No! Of course not. It was just theoretical.’
‘Who is he?’
‘No one. I told you.’
‘And does he fancy you back?’
‘No. I mean, I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter – nothing’s going to happen. I don’t want to date anyone.’
Amelie took a quick breath like she was about to ask another question – or more likely begin a rapid-fire interrogation. But she appeared to change her mind.
‘Okay. Let’s not bother about him, then. Back to our boy with the tender ego. Tell him that when women like a man, they seek him out, try to spend time with him, laugh at his jokes and make jokes of their own. But mostly, tell him that the quickest way to find out if someone’s interested is not to play guessing games, but to crack on and ask. Do you – I mean, do you think he’ll get that?’
‘Uh, yeah. I’m sure he will.’ Partly relieved to have been let off the hook and, perversely, almost disappointed that Amelie hadn’t pressed me on my work crush (even though there was absolutely no way – even if she’d threatened to attack my cuticles with her special clippy tool – I’d have admitted that I felt anything for the man Bryony had spent the night with), I added hastily, ‘Shall we try another?’
‘Hit me with it.’
‘It’s another sex one, I’m afraid.’
‘More the merrier.’
I cleared my throat. ‘“Dear Adam. I’m thirty-four and obviously I’ve been sexually active for almost two decades now. But there’s one thing that’s always bothered me and I think I might not be alone here. You guessed it – the age-old question: Does size actually matter? I like to think I’m average or thereabouts and my partners have never complained, but when I look at some of the dudes in the gym locker room I’m like, woah. And then obviously there’s the guys you see on Pornhub and they’re in a different league entirely. But give it to me straight, Adam – what are the chances I’m under-equipped for the job?
Nathan, Maidenhead
‘Oh Nathan. Nathan, Nathan, Nathan.’ Amelie poured coffee from the cafetiere into our cups, the stream of liquid flowing slowly, as if her thoughts were, too. ‘Bless his cotton socks. Age-old question indeed. If I had a tenner for every man who’d ever asked me about that, let me tell you, I wouldn’t be – but anyway. Back to Nathan.’
‘Yeah. I mean, porn aside’ – I bit my lip, not wanting to admit that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually seen any – ‘I thought they were all about the same size, at least when they’re – you know, erect.’
‘Growers and showers, you mean?’
I giggled. ‘That’s what they told us in sex ed at school, anyway.’
Amelie snorted midway through a sip of coffee and choked.
When she’d finished spluttering and I’d poured her a glass of water, she said, ‘Well of course that’s what they’re going to tell a bunch of eleven-year-olds sat in a classroom. Of course they are! What’s the alternative? “Sorry lads, some of you are going to end up with five-inch tiddlers and some with ten-inch schlongs and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Now, moving on to sexually transmitted infections…”’
‘You mean it’s not true?’
‘Certainly not in my limited – okay, not that limited – experience, it’s not.’
‘Then why not just admit it? Women don’t expect to all have boobs the same size, do we?’
‘It’s the male ego again, Luce. Poor dears have been conditioned by centuries of patriarchy to believe that men with bigger penises will get more women, have more power and make more money. And we women haven’t helped, let’s be honest.’
‘Come on – surely this can’t be women’s fault?’
‘Not exactly. But think about it – when a woman’s been hurt by a guy, when she’s feeling powerless and broken, what do her mates say?’
‘“Have a gin and tonic?”’
‘Yeah, that. But only after they’ve said, “Tell him he’s shit in bed and he’s got a tiny cock.” It’s our Defcon One.’
‘So then there must be some truth in it.’
‘Of course there is. Some guys have big dicks, some have small ones. Some look like a dog’s been chewing it, most thankfully don’t. They’re all different, same as women’s bits.’
‘So what on earth do I say to this Nathan, then?’
‘Here’s the thing. Here’s what no one ever tells men. Size. Does. Not. Matter. It’s like I was saying earlier. If a woman climaxes – ideally before penetration – she literally couldn’t give two hoots how big the man’s willy is. And if she hasn’t, or isn’t ready, it’s more likely to hurt if the guy’s hung like a walrus. Not that I’ve ever seen a walrus’s one.’
‘A walrus’s what?’
I jumped. I hadn’t heard Zack come into the flat, but now the kitchen seemed full of his presence – the bag holding his squash racket landing with a thump on the kitchen table, making the teaspoons jingle on our saucers; the smell of his body, a mixture of deodorant, rain and sweat; the way Amelie’s foot instantly slid off the chair, her posture tensing before she jumped up to kiss him, Adam’s anonymous correspondent forgotten.
‘How was your match?’ she asked.
‘Shit. We lost in three games and we’ve got no chance in the league now.’
‘I guess it doesn’t matter that much, since you won’t be here,’ I said politely. ‘Are you planning to join a league when you’re in New York?’
Zack shrugged. ‘Maybe. Could be a good way to network with other expats – other citizens of nowhere.’
Amelie gazed up at him like he’d said something groundbreaking and profound. What was it about him, I wondered, that made her set aside all her cynicism about men, as if he was the first one she’d ever met?
Perhaps he was so gifted in the sex department that my sister had realised she’d never meet anyone as good again. But I’d never had the chance to ask her about that, and now that he was going to be my brother-in-law, I knew I never could.
‘I should go,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the breakfast, Am. And for all the – you know – help.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She walked me to the door and gave me a brief hug, but I could tell her mind was already elsewhere – on Zack, on their wedding, on whatever plans they’d make for the rest of the day now that he was unexpectedly home. ‘Don’t worry about the letter. You’ll work something out.’
‘Okay. Have a lovely day. I guess I’ll see you on Friday – wedding eve, hey?’
‘Wedding eve.’ She leaned into me and whispered, ‘Don’t tell anyone, but when I think about it I want to puke. That’s normal, right?’
Was it? I didn’t know. But I did know that the giddy happiness I’d seen in my sister when she and Zack were first engaged seemed to have faded now that the reality of marriage was actually upon her.
‘Am,’ I whispered back, conscious of Zack just a few feet away, ‘You know, if you’re not sure, it’s not too late to… you could always…’
But before she could answer, Zack called her name from inside and she turned away from me, the door closing behind her with a click that sounded like the most final click in the entire history of clicks.